Brett Battles

Just Another Job

“Just came out of nowhere, you know?”

“Yeah, I know,” Jonathan Quinn said.

“Did you see him? I mean, where the hell was he?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Damn. Came out of nowhere.”

The man sucked in a wet breath.

“What’s your name?” Quinn asked.

Even in his current condition, the man hesitated, then said, “Eric.”

“You can call me Jonathan,” Quinn told him. He didn’t use his first name often, but this was one of those times that seemed right. Of course, it was only his professional name, so it didn’t really matter.

“Jonathan,” Eric said, as if confirming the offer. “I…ah…guess I’m lucky you…were here.”

Quinn smiled to hide his own hesitation. “Yeah. Lucky.”

Another ragged breath.

“You want to lie down?” Quinn asked.

“No,” Eric said. “This is fine.”

Quinn pressed his right hand a little harder against Eric’s wound. Like his left, it was covered with a surgical glove. He knew the pressure wasn’t doing much more than cutting down on the external bleeding, but it would make the guy feel like he wasn’t alone.

“How you doing?” Quinn asked.

“Tired,” Eric said. “Hurts like a son of…a bitch, you know?” A wave of pain washed across the man’s face. Once it was gone, he looked at Quinn again. “You…ever been shot before?”

Quinn shook his head. “Close a couple of times. But it’s something I try to avoid.”

“Good plan…second…time for me…the first time was in the leg…right through the meat of my thigh…that hurt like hell, too…but…not quite…like this.” A pause for air. “Ambulance coming?”

“On its way,” Quinn lied. No ambulance would have been able to make it in time. That was if calling one had even been an option.

“You…live around here?” Eric asked.

Quinn couldn’t help but glance around. They were surrounded by look-alike, one-story buildings. Cinder-block walls, limited windows, tin roofs. And surrounding them, black asphalt, resealed sometime in the last several months. It was an industrial park on the outskirts of Fresno, California. A little bit of business nestled at the edge of farm country. Even though the closest field was a couple miles away, Quinn could smell the fertilizer, tangy and fresh.

“No,” Quinn said. “Not from around here.”

“Then what were you-” Eric stopped himself, pain once again demanding his full attention.

There was the sound of footsteps about fifty feet away, coming around the corner of the building Eric was propped against. Quinn didn’t even look up. He recognized the pattern.

“Dammit. Is he still alive?” the new arrival said, obviously annoyed.

It was Durrie. For several years he had been Quinn’s mentor, but the internship had finished two years before and now Quinn was a full-fledged cleaner, too. They were working this particular assignment together as partners though Durrie still had the habit of treating Quinn like an apprentice.

Durrie approached quickly, stopping just a few feet short of the wounded man. He was holding several large cotton towels in one hand and a five-gallon bucket in the other.

Under the sealed lid Quinn knew the container was filled with dark brown paint. He was the one who purchased it at a store over an hour away in Bakersfield.

“I got everything else wrapped up,” Durrie said as he set the container on the ground and placed the towels on top of it. He looked down at the dying man. “How much longer?”

Quinn’s eyes narrowed. “Take a walk for a few minutes, all right?”

Durrie stared at his former apprentice, his look clearly conveying the message that he thought Quinn was being soft. But after a moment, he started walking away. “I’ll do another check around,” he said. “When I’m done, we got to go.”

Once he had disappeared around the other end of the building, Quinn turned back to Eric.

“There isn’t going to be…any ambulance, is there?” Eric asked.

“No,” Quinn said.

“Who are you?”

Quinn remained silent.

“Are you working with that guy who shot me?”

Quinn shook his head. “No.”

“Then why are you here?”

Once again, Quinn didn’t answer. How do you tell someone you were there to clean up and dispose of his body once he was dead? That was Quinn’s job, after all. It’s what Durrie had trained him to do. When an operation needed to be covered up, that’s when Quinn and Durrie came in.

Quinn, of course, had known Eric’s name for days. He knew Eric wasn’t the guy’s first name, but his middle. Phillip Eric Maleeny. According to the report Quinn had seen, he’d been going by Eric since attending college at UC Berkeley, where he obtained a bachelor’s degree in electrical engineering and a master’s in computer science.

Naturally, he’d been snapped up by one of the firms in Silicon Valley before he had a chance to go for an even higher degree. He bounced around a bit, did some time at Apple, and even a half-year stint up in Washington state at Microsoft. But it was his latest job that had caused the problem.

He was working for a small software company called Shelbycom. It had only one client-the U.S. Air Force. In conjunction with several other companies scattered around the country, Shelbycom was working on the next generation of flight instrumentation. Its portion of the project was to develop the software programming for a virtual control panel.

Most other details had been redacted from the report Quinn had read. Still, the amount of prep information he and Durrie had been given was considerably more than they usually got.

The only other thing Quinn knew was Eric Maleeny was in charge of creating a critical interface program. Unfortunately, Eric was not satisfied with the compensation he’d been receiving for his work.

He’d been selling company secrets on the side, and when you were dealing with a company that was dealing only with the U.S. Defense Department, you were either off your meds or had a death wish. Apparently, Eric Maleeny had the latter.

Quinn and Durrie had been part of an operation set to catch Eric in the act and to apprehend those buying the info. But things hadn’t exactly gone as planned-the buyer had put up a fight. When it was over, the buyer was dead and Eric was on his way, hit by a bullet not meant for him.

The buyer’s body was already in the van. Now they were just waiting for Eric to join him.

“I’m a little cold,” Eric said.

“That’s natural,” Quinn said.

“I’m going to…die, aren’t I?”

A pause. “I’m sorry.”

“Why did this happen…to me?”

“I think you know why.”

“I don’t get what the big deal is,” Eric said, getting the full sentence out without having to pause. “Okay…I made some money I…shouldn’t have…I’m sorry…but the guy who was buying was…with the Navy…I’ll give the…money back…but what’s…wrong with…sharing with ourselves?”

The casual spy was the worst kind of spy. Ignorance and naivete were common.

“The man you were meeting with,” Quinn said, “he wasn’t Navy.”

“What do you-” Eric paused. “What…who was he?”

“A hired front,” Quinn said.

“For who?”

“Does it really matter?” Quinn asked. He didn’t know the answer himself. That was part of the information that had been blacked out in the report.

Eric was silent for a moment, then said, “So I’m just supposed to die?”

Maybe if they had called an ambulance immediately, Eric might have had at least a small chance of living. But that would have compromised the operation. The industrial park would have been flooded with local law enforcement. And worse, the media would have gotten a hold of it.

Quinn and Durrie’s instructions had been clear: Keep a lid on everything.

Quinn gave Eric a half-hearted smile but said nothing.

“Who are you?” Eric said. But he didn’t stay conscious long enough to hear the answer.

After several seconds, Quinn put a finger to the man’s neck. There was still a pulse, weak but steady. Eric Maleeny was apparently a fighter and he was going to hang on as long as he could.

Quinn remained kneeling next to the man as he considered his options. What if Durrie’s initial assessment of Eric’s condition had been wrong? What if the bullet the man had taken hadn’t done as much internal damage as Durrie had thought?

If that were true, then Quinn held Eric’s life in his hands. More specifically, in his right hand that was pressed against the injured man’s torso. Quinn knew if he removed it, Eric would probably die quickly. But what if pressure was maintained? Could they keep him going long enough to get medical help?

There were horrible things in Quinn’s job that had to be done, but an actual killing hadn’t been one of those things yet. That didn’t mean he couldn’t kill. He had just always assumed that if he had to, it would be out of self-preservation.

Killing Eric would not be self-preservation. Eric was not even the intended target. When the operations team had confronted Eric and his buyer, it was the buyer who had put up a fight so it was him the bullets were meant for. Somehow one had found its way into Eric’s gut.

If it had been the buyer Quinn had been kneeling next to, he would have had no problem standing up and walking away. And while Eric was not an innocent, Quinn couldn’t bring himself to be the man’s ultimate executioner.

He came to a decision. Quickly, he moved his hand, pulled off the guy’s shirt, ripped it into a long strip then wrapped it around the man’s torso and tied it off as tightly as he could. As soon as he was finished, the blood flow once more slowed to a trickle.

Quinn rose to his feet just as his mentor reappeared at the end of the building.

“We done yet?” Durrie asked.

“Bring the van over.”

Quinn’s answer seemed to satisfy Durrie. The senior cleaner turned and walked off toward where they had left the van.

Quinn squatted down and worked his arms under Eric’s body. With a grunt, he lifted the man and moved him several feet away from where he had been resting, then set him back down.

The ground under where Eric had been was covered in blood. Quinn grabbed a couple of the towels Durrie had brought over and placed them over the mess.

As the blood soaked into the towels, he removed the rubber gloves he’d been wearing and pulled on a fresh pair. From his pocket, he retrieved a powerful palm-size flashlight and began a detailed scan of the immediate area. He needed to see everywhere there was blood or signs of the traumatic event that had occurred there. Not surprisingly, most of what he found was confined to a couple of feet around the section of parking lot where Eric had collapsed.

An engine started not too far away. A few moments later the van came around the corner and headed in Quinn’s direction, lights off.

Quinn slipped the flashlight back into his pocket. As soon as Durrie pulled to a stop a few feet away, Quinn opened the side doors. The cargo space was covered with several thick plastic sheets. Near the back was the body of the man who had met with Eric. Durrie had already wrapped him loosely in his own plastic cocoon. There were several items just inside the door. Quinn reached in and grabbed a large plastic garbage bag, the heavy-duty-strength kind.

In it went the two blood-soaked towels. What was left on the asphalt now was more a damp stain than anything else.

Durrie got out of the cab and came around the front, pulling on his own set of rubber gloves.

“Most of the blood is contained right here,” Quinn said, motioning to the area Eric had been in. “There are a few spots off to the left and one three feet, straight out.”

“Why’d you move the body?” Durrie asked. “Now you got extra stains to deal with.”

“It’s fine,” Quinn said. “There’ll only be a few spots there.”

“It’s going to look odd.”

“It’ll be fine.”

“Why’s his shirt off?” Durrie took a couple steps toward Eric. “Is that a bandage? Son of a bitch, he’s not dead?”

Quinn picked up the towel-filled garbage bag, intending to toss it in the van. “No.”

“Then finish it.”

“No,” Quinn said, his voice more strident than even he’d anticipated.

“Fine. I’ll do it.”

As Durrie took a step toward Eric, Quinn dropped the bag and quickly moved to intercept his mentor. He got there just before Durrie reached the unconscious man and put himself between them.

“Let him be,” Quinn said.

Durrie starred at his former apprentice. “What are we going to do with him, then? Take him home and order a pizza?”

“The operational goal was to take him alive. He’s alive, so we’ll take him in.” The goal was to take Eric Maleeny alive if possible, but it wasn’t priority number one. And any apprehending would have been the responsibility of the recently departed ops team, not Durrie and Quinn.

“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.

Content

Brett Battles
Just Another Job