Quint sat at the head of his dining room table. He placed the triangular folded napkin in his lap and bowed his head for his pre-meal prayer.
"Dad, can you tell him to stop looking at me." His eight-year-old daughter whined. He looked up to see his ten-year-old son sticking his tongue out at his sister.
"Junior, stop that right now, young man." Quint's wife used her napkin and whacked Junior in the back of the head. Quint smirked. He loved his wife very much. She was ten years younger than him, Italian, and ferocious, "Say you're sorry to Andrea."
"Sorry, Annie." He said with a tone of voice that resulted in another napkin slap.
There was a knock on the door that caused the entire table to turn. Quint stood up from his seat and turned to the small cabinet directly behind the table. His hefty body blocked the view of the cabinet as he pulled open the top drawer and slid the pistol into his waistband. He buttoned his coat and slowly made his way to the door, hugging the wall just in case the person on the other side was watching through the peephole. The person wouldn't be able to see in, but he might be able to see changes in light to alert him someone was approaching.
Few individuals knew where Quint lived. He would've been notified if anyone from the company with a tracker was within ten miles of him, but that wouldn't stop an angry spouse or friend.
"What are you doing here?" Quint whispered through the slightly cracked door. The man was someone he trusted. Someone that had been with him close to the start of everything.
"Quint, we need to talk. You know I wouldn't be here if it wasn't important." The man adjusted his fedora. Quint looked over his shoulder at his family, who was waiting for him at the table. His kids strained their necks to see who he was talking to.
"Go ahead and eat without me, something came up at the shop. I'll be in the office."
Quint stepped to his porch and scanned the perimeter of his property. He led his friend to the side of the house then down a set of stairs to the locked basement.
It was a lovely estate, but not one you'd expect a man of his power to live in. Quint figured nobody would expect him to live here and that was why he did. A few years back a worker happened to move into the Palo Alto neighborhood next to his own. It was within the ten miles. After little thought, the worker was eliminated. To Quint's knowledge, the worker's family still lived there, utterly unaware of his existence.
"So tell me, what's so important you had to come in person? That you had to interrupt my family dinner?"
The man removed his cover and scratched his balding head. He slumped into his chair. "Quint, the operation went terribly wrong today."
Quint squinted his eyes, "So you're telling me he got away again?"
The man fidgeted, "He killed every single one of our agents on the scene." He took a sip of scotch, "Every single one of hem. This man is a professional."
"Obviously, a professional. We've known that. I told you this plan was reckless. Hold onto Michael until this man shows up to save him. We need to be better than this, we need to plan smarter…" He stopped abruptly noticing the man looking away. "What is it?"
"Quint, I've known you for a long time…"
"Just shoot straight."
"All of this, everything you're doing—Some of us are beginning to wonder…"
"Wonder what?"
"Is it worth it?"
Quint let out a small laugh, threw back the last bit of scotch, and slammed the glass down. "Look at me," Quint started. "I'm a family man. I have morals, and when I give my word, it means something."
"Yes, but that was twenty-some years ago."
"And all of those years, I was under the belief I had kept my word."
"People are dying. And for what? An adult man? He's old enough that he can make his own decisions now. This was his choice." The man was getting frustrated.
"I appreciate your concern," Quint lifted a hand to try to calm the situation. "I gave my word. I will continue. You must forget the sacrifice that came with that promise. He made one request and I owe every ounce of what I am today to him. I will see this through until the end."
The man stood placing his fedora back on his head, "Very well. Just see the big picture. All I'm asking is that you—"
"I'm seeing this through," Quint cut him off.
Quint watched as the man slowly ascended the stairwell. Who did he think he was? Am I the only person who has any sense of what's right anymore?
Quint fetched a burner phone from his liquor cabinet.
"Hello, is Detective Morris available?"
"I'm sorry he's gone for the day."
"This is Quint Morton."
"Sir, one moment."
"Hell—hello?" Detective Morris's voice was shaking.
"The shootings will not be relayed to the media. Do you understand?"
"Yessir, but there was a fire, I'm not sure if it's possible to completely--"
"The shooter. Were there any prints, markings, or surveillance footage that can identify him?"
"All the prints have been sent to our San Francisco lab for processing. If we get a print from anyone other than the victims, I will call you right away." Detective Morris said confidently.
"Perfect," Quint replied.
"Sir, I don't think we can keep this from the media."
"Certainly not, but I'll write the report myself and even give you a person to take the fall, what's the timeline?"
"Short, they're already asking," Morris replied.
"I'll have it to you in two hours."
"Thank you, sir."
"Thank you, Detective," Quint stated, then hung up the phone.
He'd been hesitant to put the local department in his pocket, but recently it'd been useful.
He stood from the sofa and made his way up the stairs. The whole operation was dragging on far too long, and people were getting restless. He needed to get Gary, or at least identify him.
Quint sat at the head of the empty dining room table. He placed the now crumpled napkin back onto his lap and bowed his head.
Michael was in their control. He was the key. They'd poorly utilized him so far, but that would change. If Michael died, so be it.
Quint spun the long pasta noodles onto his fork. He was done counting on others. Tomorrow he was taking over the operation.