Special Agent | ✓

Twenty-Two

TWENTY-TWO

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O'Reilly was currently envisioning herself as a tipsy Swiss cheese — riddled with holes and stumbling through the streets. She heard — or thought she heard — rapid footsteps behind her, and Quinn's heart hammered in trepidation as she imagined them chasing her down, emptying barrel after barrel of shots into her body.

Focus, Quinn!

She'd learned, thus far, that she much preferred her desk job. Other than that staggering, not-at-all surprising realization, Quinn had once more let the weight of what Ricci had said sink into her mind. It hadn't settled, not yet, but the knowledge lay like an oily sheet atop water — floating above, never mixing.

There was a mole in The Agency. Or, at least, someone at the Agency had received payoffs from the Paoluccis, who in turn were a vicious mafia family capable of crushing anyone and anything under their heel. It was almost certain by now, at least to Quinn, that this meant whoever had received the money probably hadn't received it as a token of goodwill.

No, most likely, someone had been fooling them. A terrifying turn of events, which made Quinn all the more focused on getting the hell away from where she'd crawled out of the water.

But where to go?

The address of the receiver had been the Knightsbridge HQ. It could be any number of people who were stationed there, who had offices within the building ... faces flashed past Quinn's mind, making her dizzy enough to puke. The shock of it, the pain still searing her shoulder, the revolting taste of the canals she'd swam through —

— Quinn stumbled into a nearby alleyway, and heaved her guts out until her convulsions turned painful, throat drying up. Tears pressed against the edges of her eyes, and though she told herself this was certainly not the right time, she couldn't help but feel overwhelmed. It was all just ... too much.

Her dress had been torn to pieces, and she was dripping wet. Some of the blood had been washed away, but new blood bubbled to the surface of her wounds, swiftly dripping down her arm and shoulder once more. She'd keep to the shadows, Quinn decided, then started moving again. Her brain appeared to have frozen temporarily, the normal logic having evaporated in favor of the emotions currently making her entire thought process go haywire.

At least she had the phone, though it was most likely ruined. Quinn turned it over in her hand, marvelling at the fact that she hadn't dropped it yet. Not that it was any point — it probably wouldn't work at all. Maybe a few functions would still operate, like the SIM card —

— which can be bloody tracked.

Quinn swore, violently. And then she swore again. And again. She had no tools to speak of, and short of smashing the phone to pieces ... if it still worked, the SIM card would be pinging off the nearest cell tower, effectively giving away her approximate location.

Bloody hell! Bloody, stinking, sodding hell.

She'd need to get rid of it. She'd need to get rid of the evidence, if she wanted any chance at all to properly get away from Ricci's men, who were most likely in pursuit at the moment. On the other hand, perhaps it meant that both Scott and Gavin could track her down, too.

Even though they're assholes, I'd prefer facing them rather than a million angry bodyguards. Apparently stabbing their employer in an artery isn't very appreciated around here.

But maybe — Quinn's eyes darted around the narrow road she'd stopped on, turning the phone over in her hands. Maybe, she could leave it somewhere it remained in plain sight. Somewhere she could survey, while catching her breath.