Just Another Job (2 page)

“He’s a traitor, Johnny,” Durrie said. “He was selling secrets. In my book, that puts him pretty damn close to the bottom rung of humanity.”

“But it’s not our job to kill anyone. It’s just to clean up the mess.”

Durrie continued to stare. “Did you learn nothing when you were studying under me? Our job is to do what’s necessary. Sometimes it’s a little more involved than others.”

“Leave him be,” Quinn said.

There was a moment of tense silence,
then
Durrie leaned back. “Finish up. I’m going to wait in the van.” He turned, started walking away,
then
stopped. “You’ve got a soft spot inside, Johnny. Someday that’s going to get you killed.”

Once Durrie was inside the van, Quinn got back to work. He tossed the bag of towels into the cargo hold, then went over and loosened the lid on the five-gallon bucket of paint.

Before he took the lid all the way off, he examined the scene again. He had to do this part just right, make it look natural so that no one would suspect anything.

Once he was satisfied, he removed the lid, picked up the bucket, and positioned himself at the appropriate angle to the bloodstained asphalt. He first lifted the bucket chest high,
then
heaved it forward, tilting it so that the open end was falling toward his intended target.

There was the initial splat of paint hitting the ground. It was followed almost immediately by the thud of the bucket doing the same. Quinn jumped back to avoid being hit by stray splashes of paint.

Cleaning 101: cover up and misdirection. Sometimes you could clean an operation zone so well no one would suspect anything had ever happened there, but that was more exception than rule. More often, some evidence couldn’t be completely eradicated, things like bloodstains on asphalt. In those cases, it was misdirection that took the lead.

After Quinn’s little foray into modern art, almost the entire stain was covered in a thick layer of paint. There were one or two small areas still exposed, plus the spots Quinn had pointed out to Durrie earlier.
But all in all, a good job.

Quinn walked quickly back to the van and fetched a small, quart-size can. Inside was more of the brown paint. He levered off the top with a screwdriver then returned to the scene. He poured paint over the remaining spots until there was no sign any blood had ever been spilt there.

He stepped several feet away to take a critical look at his work. When he was satisfied, he returned the quart of paint to the van and secured the lid back on top.

In the morning, when early arrivers spotted the mess, they would assume the bucket of paint had fallen off the back of someone’s truck. No one would ever consider that it was done intentionally to cover up something else.

“Let’s go,” Durrie said from the driver’s seat of the van.

Quinn nodded, then walked over to where Eric
lay
waiting.

“I smell…something,” Eric said, his eyes still closed, voice weak.

“It’s paint,” Quinn said.

“Paint?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

Quinn got his arms under the man and lifted him. Eric moaned as Quinn carried him toward the van.

“What happens...now?” Eric asked.

“We get you to someone who can help you.”

“I thought you said I...was going to die.”

As Quinn maneuvered Eric into the van, he realized the man had gone unconscious again. Quinn laid him out on the plastic-covered floor, stepped away to close the door, then paused. There was something strange in the way Eric was
lying
.

Leaning back in, Quinn placed two fingers against the man’s neck, then moved them around in a circle, stopping at various points.

“He’s dead, isn’t he?” Durrie asked. He was looking at Quinn from the front passenger seat of the van.

Quinn straightened up and shut the side doors. For a moment he was alone in the night, surrounded by the smells of paint and a hint of fertilizer.

And now death.

But that was the job. And he was good at it, whether Durrie would admit it or not.

And he hadn’t killed Eric Maleeny.
That was something, wasn’t it?

“Come on. Let’s go,” Durrie said, sounding distant inside the van.

Quinn looked back at the spilt paint, then nodded to himself.

There was still work to do.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Brett Battles lives in Los Angeles and is the Barry Award winning author of four novels in the acclaimed Jonathan Quinn series. He is one of the founding members of Killer Year, and a member of International Thriller Writers, and Mystery Writers of America. More info available at
www.brettbattles.com