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?

Doesnt matter.

Damn. Came out of nowhere.

The man sucked in a wet breath.

Whats your name? Quinn asked.

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

You can call me Jonathan, Quinn told him. He didnt 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 didnt really matter.

Jonathan, Eric said, as if confirming the offer. Iahguess Im lucky youwere 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 Erics wound. Like his left, it was covered with a surgical glove. He knew the pressure wasnt doing much more than cutting down on the external bleeding, but it would make the guy feel like he wasnt alone.

How you doing? Quinn asked.

Tired, Eric said. Hurts like a son ofa bitch, you know? A wave of pain washed across the mans face. Once it was gone, he looked at Quinn again. Youever been shot before?

Quinn shook his head. Close a couple of times. But its something I try to avoid.

Good plansecondtime for methe first time was in the legright through the meat of my thighthat hurt like hell, toobutnot quitelike 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.

Youlive around here? Eric asked.

Quinn couldnt 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 didnt 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 Quinns 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?

Quinns 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. Ill do another check around, he said. When Im done, we got to go.

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

There isnt going to beany 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 didnt answer. How do you tell someone you were there to clean up and dispose of his body once he was dead? That was Quinns job, after all. Its what Durrie had trained him to do. When an operation needed to be covered up, thats when Quinn and Durrie came in.

Quinn, of course, had known Erics name for days. He knew Eric wasnt the guys first name, but his middle. Phillip Eric Maleeny. According to the report Quinn had seen, hed been going by Eric since attending college at UC Berkeley, where he obtained a bachelors degree in electrical engineering and a masters in computer science.

Naturally, hed 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 hed been receiving for his work.

Hed 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 hadnt 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 buyers body was already in the van. Now they were just waiting for Eric to join him.

Im a little cold, Eric said.

Thats natural, Quinn said.

Im going todie, arent I?

A pause. Im sorry.

Why did this happento me?

I think you know why.

I dont get what the big deal is, Eric said, getting the full sentence out without having to pause. OkayI made some money Ishouldnt haveIm sorrybut the guy who was buying waswith the NavyIll give themoney backbut whatswrong withsharing 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 wasnt Navy.

What do you- Eric paused. Whatwho was he?

A hired front, Quinn said.

For who?

Does it really matter? Quinn asked. He didnt 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 Im 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 Durries 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 didnt stay conscious long enough to hear the answer.

After several seconds, Quinn put a finger to the mans 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 Durries initial assessment of Erics condition had been wrong? What if the bullet the man had taken hadnt done as much internal damage as Durrie had thought?