Mark Vincent, who’s WBIS, and Quinton Mann, who’s CIA to the core, have been adversaries since the day they crossed paths while on assignment, and by rights, it should have been no problem for one to shoot the other. But for some reason, neither ever does, even when it causes problems at their agencies.
However, someone resents the respect they have for each other and sets out to teach Quinn a lesson, having him attacked one night on his own front lawn. Quinn is able to escape the situation, despite how badly beaten he is, but he needs a safe place to shelter in. He won’t endanger family or friends. Where does that leave him?
Mark answers his door one night to find Quinton barely able to stand, looking nothing like the suave spook he was used to crossing swords with. After he makes sure there’s no one lurking in the area, Mark brings Quinn into his apartment and calls a friend to take care of him. Mann might be a spook, but he’s Mark’s spook, and no one hurts him and goes scot-free.
While Quinn begins to recuperate, Mark goes after the director responsible for this situation. But will the man Mark assumes is behind the attack on Quinn be the right one? If he isn’t, will Mark be able to keep Quinn safe?
The tall man had gone through Mann’s townhouse with as fine a tooth comb as he could, given the amount of time he had, the men who took orders from him, and the man those two were working over out on the front lawn. He’d found nothing. No incriminating letters, no inappropriate gifts, no scandalous clothing ... nothing. He’d have to question Mann once he regained consciousness.
If he regained consciousness. Which would be a shame -- that wasn’t part of his orders, although he had the feeling the man who hired him wouldn’t mind one way or the other -- but Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee, the hired assholes he’d been saddled with just might be overzealous.
He took a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and observed it with frustration. It was a nasty habit, not only leaving his breath smelling like an ashtray but getting more expensive with every day; he fully intended to quit.
He shook out a cigarette as he went down to the first floor, tore a match from the matchbook, and struck it, considering the situation. The man he worked for had been insistent that --
The front door swung open, and he looked up from the tip of his cigarette as his two ... minions ... entered the townhouse. “What are you two doing in here?”
Tweedle Dum blinked, obviously confused. “We’re working.”
He sighed and shook his head. Then he blew out the match he was holding before it burned his fingers -- he had the feeling this might take some time. The quality of minions just wasn’t the same anymore. After this job, he’d have to find himself some decent quality employers who wouldn’t foist second-rate help on him. “Why isn’t one of you watching Mann?”
“He ain’t going nowhere, boss. He’s out like a light. The only thing that’ll wake him up is if his sprinklers go off.” Both men chuckled as if this was the most humorous thing in the world.
The tall man was tempted to roll his eyes, but he didn’t -- he was a professional, after all. Instead, he took the cigarette from his mouth, crushed it between his fingers, and put it into his pocket. He might be distracted by what these yoyos told him, but he’d never be distracted enough that he’d leave something with his DNA at a job scene. He was professional, goddammit.
He stalked out of the townhouse and down the steps to the walk that led to the street. He came to an abrupt halt. “All right. Where is he?”
“Huh? He’s right -- Oh, shit.”
There was no body on the lawn.
“But ... but we worked him over really good. There’s no way he could have --” said Tweedle Dum, the less smart of his minions.
“It must have been that friend of his.” Tweedle Dee offered. He might have a point ... he was the smarter of the two, not that that said much.
“Cooper?” Deuce shook his head and made a scoffing sound. “Cooper is with his ladies.” The lucky dog, although truthfully, Deuce would have preferred something male. “It’s not likely he’s leaving his place any time tonight, even for Mann.”
“Then how ... We worked Mann over too good, I’m telling you, boss. He couldn’t have left under his own steam. There’s no way.”
And a quick glance up and down the street revealed its deserted condition.
“Well, apparently, he found a way.” Deuce had to draw in a deep breath, otherwise he’d be tempted to slug the idiot. “Now, where the fuck would he go?”
This time it was Tweedle Dee, the smarter of his men, who blinked -- Deuce rarely swore, but God, he was tempted to. “Uh ... to his mother’s?”
He gave it some thought. “That is a possibility.” The clown had finally said something halfway intelligent. “All right. Go check it out. And see you don’t get killed.”
“Ha ha. She’s just a little old lady.”
“Yeah, but the man who works for her is FBI.”
“Was FBI. He’s her cook and chauffeur, now.”
And how the mighty had fallen.
“Doesn’t matter, boss. We’ll handle it.”
“Fine. Get going.” Deuce watched as they jumped into the beat-up, nondescript car they seemed to prefer, then scrubbed his face. Somehow, they’d lost Mann. The boss ... the big boss wasn’t gonna be happy about this, but the man had to know.
