Free The Deceived by Brett Battles Page B

in.
    “Agriculture. South Building.”
    The cabby huffed a little at the shorter distance and grumbled to himself for the rest of the trip. But a few minutes later, when Quinn double-tipped him as he got out, the man’s frown disappeared.
    Quinn took a few steps toward the entrance, casually looking around as he did so. He knew he was being overcautious, but after the near miss in Houston, he wasn’t going to take anything for granted.
    Once he was satisfied that he was alone, he turned again and made his way across Independence Avenue.
    Ahead was the Mall. Monument Row, Durrie had once called it. Even the old son of a bitch had a certain amount of respect for the place.
    It stretched almost two miles east and west, with the domed Capitol building at the east end and the memorial to Abraham Lincoln at the west. Between were fields of grass and paths of dirt and memorials of stone.
    Even in his focused state, Quinn couldn’t help but feel the importance of what surrounded him. It was enough to make even the most jaded person crack a little.
    As usual, the Mall was packed with visitors. Most were wearing shorts and T-shirts. The smart ones also had on hats. The crowd’s pace was slow, lethargic—the heat and humidity draining whatever excess energy they’d had when the day began. Several people were holding ice cream cones, kids mostly, but some adults, too. All seemed to be in a constant battle to lick up as much as possible before it melted onto their hands. Few were winning.
    Quinn worked his way through the throngs, making sure his own pace was not much faster than that of those around him. He was just another tourist soaking up the history.
    Just before Madison Drive, he turned right down one of the wide dirt paths traversing the Mall. Two minutes later, he spotted a man and a woman walking away from him. The man was holding a fancy, twine-handled paper bag like those found in a gift shop, while the woman carried a large purse. They stood out from the rest of the crowd because they were dressed for work, not a day of exploring.
    The man was shorter than Quinn by several inches, no taller than five foot six. The woman’s heels raised her an inch above the man’s bald pate.
    Quinn had never seen her before, but he knew the man. Though they’d only met in person once, Quinn recognized Peter immediately. He reminded Quinn of a hair- and height-challenged Charles Bronson. Maybe it was the mustache, dark like Bronson’s, or perhaps it was his permanent squint, as if he was constantly sizing everyone up. Maybe it was both.
    Peter was the head of an organization known as the Office. For years, the Office had been Quinn’s sole client. Though Peter had made attempts to hire him full-time, Quinn always refused, preferring the independence of his perceived freelance status. But after the incident in Berlin the previous January, things had changed. Peter had been less than forthcoming then, holding back information that would have aided Quinn. Thankfully, despite Peter’s reluctance, Quinn had been able to stop Durrie and that psycho Borko before they had been able to complete their plan. But Quinn knew things would have gone considerably easier if Peter had been up-front with him.
    Because of that, he decided it was time he diversified his clientele. Besides, relying on a single income source had been profitable but foolish for the long run. He’d decided to remove himself from Peter’s active roster. The head of the Office hadn’t been happy about it, but he had also done nothing to stop Quinn.
    So it wasn’t without a bit of irony that Quinn approached his former employer in search of help.
    “You couldn’t have picked a place a little more...I don’t know, inside ?” Peter said as soon as he noticed Quinn walking next to him. “Where it might be cool?”
    “Sweat’s good for your skin,” Quinn said. “It’ll help smooth out some of those wrinkles.”
    “I’ll keep that in mind.”
    “Who’s your