Chapter 14

Fourteen

“Yeah, I’m not feeling that answer either.” Remington pulled the plastic bag over the woman’s head again and tightened it. She went from stoicism to struggle in ten seconds.

McQuade leaned back in another chair, whittling wood or some shit. He’d brought some piece of wood in when we arrived and he’d been shaving the wood down ever since. Remington had been asking his prisoner questions for several minutes.

He’d been suffocating her for the last fifteen on and off though. Just as her struggling weakened and seemed to stop, he pulled the bag off her head and then took a step back. Like a bored man, he picked up his coffee and took a sip.

I’d half-expected something like bourbon or maybe something stupid expensive, instead, he just drank black coffee. Black instant coffee. But this cabin was hell and gone, with no one around for at least three miles. She could scream all she wanted and no one would hear her.

Aware of the clock ticking on the wall, I waited for the sixty seconds since he stripped the plastic bag to pass. Then she let out a cough and choked, pitching forward as she sucked in air.

“It’s funny,” Remington said in a tone that was anything but humorous. In fact, his accent had taken on a distinctly British lilt. Maybe Irish. More London than north country. It wasn’t specific and he waxed between it and sounding like a native American.

So what was that deal?

“Nothing about this is funny,” McQuade said, pausing in his carving to reach for his own drink. “Unless you have a bizarre sense of humor.”

“Bizarre sense of humor or not, I don’t see anything funny either.” Not that they’d asked me.

“Oh, I meant her.” Remington said, motioning to the woman currently glaring daggers at him. “Clearly you’re part of a group. Three female assassins? Not everyone runs women as a unit. So you were most likely all hired by the same client. You were all hitting at the same time, that says coordination.”

Still wasn’t hearing the humor, but I sipped water rather than coffee. My would-be assassin had ruined a perfectly good suit. She hadn’t survived the encounter. I apparently “lacked the skill” to incapacitate and not kill.

At least that was McQuade’s opinion. He had some ideas on body disposal. That was good, I didn’t want to have to pay more than I already would for a professional cleaning.

The fact he had his own would-be assassin had kind of sealed the deal. Remington warned us, so after cleaning up, we used the address he sent to get up here. Separate vehicles, of course. We hadn’t completely lost our minds yet.

“Yet, not only did you fail—you failed spectacularly.” Remington rubbed his jaw almost thoughtfully before taking a seat in the chair a couple of feet in front of the dark-haired woman with her dark eyes and sullen expression. She was pissed. “Not a single one of you got a target. Far as I know, you didn’t even get a scratch on a target. That’s—that’s pathetic. You could get your assassin’s card pulled for that.”

“You get cards?” I wasn’t entirely sure what his play was here, but I figured I’d join in.

“Bloody damn right we get cards,” Remington said with a roll of his eyes. “The more punches in the card, the more hits you’ve made. When the card is gone because of all the punches… you become a legend. How sad for you,” he continued, his whole focus on his target again, “that you targeted a legend.”

She spit, the glob of it flew through the air and landed against Remington’s cheek.

“So, not only an amateur,” he said, pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiping away the spittle. “But an uncouth one at that.”

“We’re really getting some miles out of this particular line of interrogation,” McQuade said, raising his knife. “Let me have a go. Skin shaves nicely and we can take her apart piece by piece… though you might need another plastic sheet for the floor.”

Game or not, the banter wasn’t having any effect on the target. She wasn’t afraid of pain or torture. That didn’t bode well for us. Whomever hired her wanted someone who wouldn’t break.

Made sense, I looked back at the equipment we’d stripped off the women. There were three phones, all burners, no GPS chips in them and the SIM cards were relatively blank save for one message “go” from another burner phone that was not one of these three.

If we had Patch, I could plug her in and she would give us the asshole’s shoe size in no time, not to mention where he was, what his favorite color was, and how long it would take us to get there.

Or maybe I was being a misogynist and it was a she. I didn’t really care, I just wanted to know who sent three assassins after us. Particularly right after we arrived where Patch had been taken and had actually been in her house.

Remington stood and dragged a hood over her head, then he put headphones on her before he pressed something on his laptop. She jerked, almost struggling in the chair more than she had been earlier. The hood was cloth and she wasn’t going to be suffocating.

“Thrash metal,” Remington explained to me when I lifted my eyebrows. “I don’t think they’ll talk and not because they are resistant to torture.”

“They don’t know,” McQuade said. “Amateurs. Probably first timers. Maybe a way to get them wet…”

“You don’t send an amateur after me.” Remington sounded positively insulted. I almost laughed because he was really offended. “I’ve been killing longer than she’s been alive.”

“Maybe if you started when you were eight,” I retorted. The girls were young. But not that young.

“Who says I didn’t?” The bland expression coupled with the deadpan delivery seemed to suggest he was serious. Yeah, I wasn’t going to focus on that part.

“So they send amateurs after us to what end?” I asked. “She didn’t have a chance in the hit on you. McQuade over there would probably have been fine. I’m pretty sure I would have made it—but likely wounded.”

I could be generous in my assessments, but I preferred honesty.

“Now, the chances of one of them surviving the hit exists.” I rubbed my chin. Hunger twisted my stomach. “No matter how minuscule, there’s always a chance. The fact that two of them did is a credit to you two, not their skills.”

I was the one who killed my would-be assassin. Mostly because when it comes down to a them or me situation, I always pick me.

Period.

“Your point?” Remington asked.

“Well, my point is, these assassins were not sent here to succeed.”

“Mother. Fucker.” McQuade’s growl punched through the room. “They were sent to be distractions.”

I mimed a gun with my forefinger and thumb, then clicked my tongue as though firing it. “Exactly.”

Sadly, the amusement proved fleeting. Remington’s expression had drained of all animation. Even his eyes went dead. Only he wasn’t looking at us. No, he was staring at his hooded captive.

Yeah, I’d feel guilty about pointing this out but she had tried to kill him. Don’t ever start a fight you don’t want to finish.

“Three bodies is a pain,” Remington muttered.

“We’ll take care of it. Cut our losses, use their tech or what there is of it, but we need to move again. Especially if they are trackable in any way.” McQuade put away his whittling and rose. “Wrap it up with her, then we’ll deal with the other one and get them out of here.”

“We’re just—gonna off them?” I grimaced and earned two bland looks. Yes, I sounded like an idiot, sue me. However… “It’s one thing in a fight, it seems a little overkill, I guess, since they are prisoners.”

“Are you planning to stay here, babysitting them?” McQuade asked.

“Or sit on them until you have to let them go and let them come after us again?” Remington drained his coffee. “Because I’m not on either front.”

“Same,” McQuade said. “If you’re a little squeamish, go ahead and step out. But leaving them behind is leaving them to come after us again.”

Would the threat of death make them talk? I studied the hooded figure with the headphones placed over her ears.

“Pain wasn’t making her talk,” Remington said. “Death is a release, not a threat.”

Yeah.

“Okay, I’ll go make more coffee. We need to plan our next steps.” It wasn’t until I collected their cups and climbed up the stairs from the basement to the kitchen of the little cabin that I realized what I’d said.

We.

Weneeded to plan our next steps.

I guessed we were working together. The house had power thanks to a generator. There was also some tinned food in the pantry and other supplies that were designed to keep without power on. Made sense.

I used the first pot of hot water to put together an easy meal of rehydrated mashed potatoes, canned corn, and peas. Not my favorites, not even remotely gourmet. Apparently butter wasn’t something the place came with, but it was hot and it would be filling.

Second pot of water hit boiling about the time the pair ascended the steps—sans bodies. Not my circus or my monkeys. Body disposal could happen later. The temps up here were not going to do much more than freeze the bodies anyway.

All three of us made do with instant coffee, powdered creamer and some fake sugar shit. Whatever, it helped with the bitterness. Once we were seated at the rickety table, bowls of mashed potatoes and vegetables in front of each of us and with cups of coffee, I eyed them.

“Who starts?”

Maybe the putting our heads together thing came from me, but these two had something planned. Most likely individually. That said, I’d rather get a feel for it on all fronts before we launched into this. However, neither seemed willing to offer up the first morsel of data.

“Look,” I said, lowering my cup of coffee and looking from Remington to McQuade, then back to Remington again. “We don’t have to like each other or be buddies. We’re not all that likely to hold hands and skip. What we are, is very dangerous and each of us possesses skills the others may not. We all have a similar goal…”

“Patch,” McQuade said with a grunt. He didn’t like it, but he didn’t try to avoid mentioning it.

“Exactly.” I tapped my finger against the table. “She’s our switchboard. Someone took her. The longer we play games with each other, the more likely it is for them to keep getting away with it. When we went to her place, we got noticed. These distractions are to let them do what?—”

“Clean up behind them in case they forgot something.” Remington’s eyes narrowed.

“Might be too late for that.” McQuade pulled out a slip of pink paper. “Not sure fifteen digits is what they wanted but…I found this sticking out from behind her white board.”

“Could be nothing,” Remington commented.

“Could be everything. But from this point forward, we work together. I’ve got a setup that will let me do some research. I’m not Patch and I don’t pretend to be, but we can at least dig in deeper.”

“Or we can set up here and wait for the scratch off team,” McQuade mused. “They are going to want to know if their people were successful.”

“That’s just more grunts,” Remington said with a shake of his head. “I want the head of the snake, not the worms that slither below it.”

He had a point. I dug into my food as the two of them eyed each other with cold, distant expressions. Yeah, we were definitely not going to be the bestest of buddies.

Totally fine with that. I didn’t have to like them to use their help.

“If I had to guess,” McQuade said. “This is an account or wire number. If we can track it to a bank, we can figure out who it belongs to…”

Could still be nothing. I finished my food then pulled out my phone. When I beckoned for the slip of paper, he hesitated. I didn’t push or demand, I just waited.

Finally, he handed it over. I snapped a picture of it so I could keep it. Then I typed the numbers into a notepad. The signal up here was shit. “We need to move down the mountain again,” I said. “And deal with the bodies.”

“We’re not splitting up.” Remington rose, fingers pressed against the table. “We’re going to become very familiar with each other.”

“Can’t wait,” I said. “But I don’t do dead bodies kind of like I don’t do dishes. So I’ll stick close, but you two get to do the fun shit with the dead people.”

“Pussy,” McQuade commented.

“Pussies push out babies. They are a fuck ton stronger than any of us, so I’ll take the compliment.” I smirked and his dirty look was worth it. “But I suggest, gentlemen, that for brevity, we get a move on.”

“Brevity…” Remington shook his head, a smudge of disbelief on the word.

“It means a short time, keeping it concise.” I tucked my phone into my pocket before draining my coffee.

“I know what it means,” Remington said. “McQuade, back your truck up. You have more space in it. We’ll ride together. I can send someone up here to get the other rentals.”

Oh yay, I got to ride in the back with the dead people. “I’ll get my equipment.” Not that either of them were listening. Still, we had the beginnings of a plan.

Might not be much but I’d done more with less.