“Quinn?” Nate asked.

“What?”

“Peter wants to talk to you.”

The muscles in Quinn’s face tightened. “Fine. Put him through.”

While Nate transferred the call to the comm gear, the two cars on the road reached the point closest to the church, but neither slowed. Immediately the whine of their engines began to recede as they continued down the back road to Cork.

Static in Quinn’s ear, then, “… inn. Are you there? Can you hear me?”

“Yeah. I hear you, Peter,” Quinn said. “The gunman’s gone. A couple cars on the road spooked him.”

“You’ve got to find him.”

“Ah … no. I don’t. I already took a chance trying to take him here at the church. He’s out in the woods now. I don’t have any eyes out there.”

Peter said nothing for several seconds. When he did speak, there was a tremor in his voice. He was either scared or angry as hell. “You have to find him, Quinn. You have to stop him. Jesus, at least find a way to delay him until my men get there.”

Peter’s insistence surprised Quinn. “It’s too late, Peter. He’s already got a good lead on me. Plus he’s a marksman, and has at least two weapons on him … it’s too much of a risk. Sorry.”

Peter took a second before he spoke. “Our deal was no questions. That means you do what I need, right?”

Quinn could feel his own anger rising. The deal—made the previous year—was three jobs, no questions. It had been made when Quinn had been at a disadvantage and needed Peter’s help. It had taken Peter six months to finally invoke the first of the promised “no question” assignments. If the next two were similar, they would be the last Quinn ever worked for Peter and the Office. About the only good thing was that none of them were freebies. Quinn’s standard rate of thirty thousand a week with a two-week minimum still applied.

“You’re losing time,” Peter said.