Quinn III
Quinn is sitting, sweating, and cursing. He's been driving around in hundred degree weather for over eight hours a day, three days running now, tailing his target in anticipation of a meet with his Iranian handler. He's also annoyed as shit, thought he was done with this crap, hates being away. And in Iran of all places - he's never been there before but still has a head full of Iran-related worries and memories.
But of all the fucking assignments, this is one he has to do, wants to do. Alain Bernard, Mossad double agent extraordinaire, fucker of Saul's wife. Trying to sell the CIA's secrets to the Iranians, secrets that may or may not include the identity of a certain top asset in the Iranian Guard and his blonde handler at the CIA.
By all indications, the meet should be soon, possibly even today. And now that Quinn has been following Bernard through a myriad of double backs and evasive maneuvers he thinks it's got to be now.
After what seems like hours of useless spy games Bernard finally stops in an industrial area. It's dark out by now and the area is deserted, warehouses and small factories closed for the night. Quinn radios in his location, hears that his backup team is behind by about thirty minutes.
Thirty minutes and the job will probably be done, he thinks to himself. And then he can get the fuck out of Iran and back to the States. This has never happened to him before, this uncontrollable itch to get the mission over with. He supposes it's because he's never had anything to return to before.
Not that he does now either - Carrie made that perfectly clear the last time he talked to her. Actually she'd been saying it all along, he had just been ignoring her until the last time. And truthfully, if he was still there he'd probably have already given in to his urge to see her, check on her. Which would have pissed her off to no end, he's sure. So maybe it is really best that he's here, on this shitty assignment, killing dickhead Bernard and his Iranian handler.
But here, he just thinks about Carrie's time in Iran, all the shit she suffered. Well at least I'm consistent, Quinn thinks. He can't get her out of his head, no matter where he is.
Bernard has left his vehicle finally and Quinn does the same, silently creeping out far from his target. The industrial nature of the area makes it easy to slip behind corners and Quinn thinks he should be able to line up his shots fairly easily, he just has to be patient.
Quinn nears the little yard between buildings where Bernard has stopped, sees another man coming towards the Mossad agent but doesn't have a good angle on either. So he backs up a bit to ensure he's not seen and goes to find a better spot.
As he makes his way towards a clearer angle Quinn finds his thoughts drifting back to his predicament with Carrie. She wants him out of her life and he is having a fucking hard time accepting this. He still watches from outside her place, sits thinking how he really just is a fucking stalker now.
Of all the shit he's dealt with in his life, this has never come up before. Quinn has never gotten so attached to anyone he couldn't let go.
He tries to shake Carrie out of his head, something he finds really fucking difficult. But he has the angle on the kill now and the timing is about right. He has other things to be thinking about but part of him is still preoccupied, has been since Carrie was the one in Iran, hell, since she was in the mental hospital.
Quinn takes his weapon out, gets ready for the shot. Tries to focus all of his mental faculties on the situation at hand. But when he takes a step, he doesn't notice an odd glint off a warehouse window. And by the time he sees the second reflection he ducks, even though he knows it's too late.
He fires two shots but hears four and suddenly he is on the ground, his body strangely numb. A sniper, Quinn thinks. A shitty one since he's still alive. No bullet to the brain. And he thinks he even hit his own targets with kill shots too.
But just because he is still alive, it doesn't mean it's going to stay that way. Cause apparently there's a big fucking target on his abdomen that keeps getting assholes to shoot there. And then there's the slightly alarming feeling that breathing is getting harder and harder.
Quinn recognizes as the adrenaline leaves his system and shock sets in. He reaches for his phone but the demands of his brain are not met by the parts of his body and all he can feel is blood everywhere.
Fuck. Looks like you got your wish, Carrie, he thinks just as he blacks out, unable to catch his breath.
Flashes of consciousness, hands on him, being dragged. Blood all over the floor of a van, pooling in the corners. Someone pressing hard on his chest, his gut; a lot of fucking pain. Enough that he passes out again wondering if this is it. You really fucked it up this time, he tells himself.
Another flash, he's on his back, fizzy florescent lighting above. Lots of yelling, noise. Less pain though, enough so he tries to sit up. Which is a fucking mistake. Searing pain, a flash of a needle. Then nothing.
Adal's face, irritated, disgusted. Peering down on him, a stark white room. Tubes everywhere, surrounded by beeping. Adal sneers, Quinn closes his eyes, drifts away.
Awake again. Alive. No flickering lights but stale familiar air, movement. Aching everywhere, nauseous gut, difficult breaths. A plane, he thinks before he goes back to the other side of consciousness.
Bright lights again, antiseptic smell. Straps, tubes, immobility. Locked inside, claustrophobic in his body. Sorry Carrie, not dead yet, he thinks. But teetering on the brink.
Same lights, same slightly deathy smell. Quinn comes to coughing, a horrible pain in his chest. Each cough rattles through him like an earthquake until he is almost dry heaving, desperately short of air. A nurse comes running in, sticks a breathing mask on him and he doesn't even fight it.
He stays conscious this time, takes the breathing mask off after a few minutes. Tries to talk but his voice won't come.
"We had to intubate you and we just pulled the tube so don't try to talk right now," the nurse says. "We pulled the chest tube too even though both could have stayed in a few more days."
Well that's good news at least, Quinn thinks. He hates hospitals, the idea of being incapacitated, having to be taken care of. It's humiliating. He wonders what the fuck happened but has a pretty good idea based on how he is feeling. Worse than getting gut shot in fucking Gettysburg by a long shot.
His expression must betray his thoughts because the nurse looks at him and says, "You're at the Landstuhl military hospital in Germany. You were shot. Twice. Once in the abdomen and once in the chest. Your ribs took the brunt of the chest shot, six broken ones and you suffered a collapsed left lung, that's why the tube was in there. Slightly luckier with the one to the abdomen, missed the artery but there was a lot of bleeding. You did need surgical repair for some damage to your stomach and small intestine so you will need to be on antibiotics for awhile to make sure infection doesn't set in."
Quinn frowns, thinks that's why he feels so fucking shitty. Wonders how long he is going to have to suffer the indignity of the hospital.
"How long?" he croaks.
"You've been here for three days now after you arrived from Iran," the nurse replies. "They did emergency surgery there and then some follow up work done here. We would like to keep you another few days but apparently you are being sent back to the US today. You need to be checked into a hospital when you arrive and make sure they take a good look at your records. You're doing better but you're not out of the woods yet, Mr. Quinn."
Quinn tries to nod, thinks it's highly unlikely he's getting checked into a hospital at home. What would be the point? He would just leave at his first opportunity anyways. The hospital has done it's job, he thinks. He can suffer his way through like last time.
The nurse smiles and leaves. His eyes follow her blonde bob out the door and he suddenly thinks of Carrie. He's been in this place for three days, in Iran for at least four days before that, hadn't talked to her for three days before he left. Not that he's counting.
He wonders how she is now that she finally got him out of her life, if she's gotten away from the depression. He hopes she's happy, then thinks how unlikely that is.
But even just thinking of her helps. He was distracted and he fucked up. By all rights Quinn should be dead. But he's not. So he will get back, get better, make sure she's alright. Maybe she won't even be pissed off at him now that he's unintentionally given her some space.
Unlikely, but a hell of a lot better than remembering her telling him to leave time and time again, he thinks as he passes out again.
Two grunts come for him with a wheelchair but Quinn pushes himself out of bed, makes himself stand on wobbly legs. He tries to put one foot in front of the other but his body doesn't want to move, probably due to the massive amount of painkillers they've pumped into him for his trip. And even through the painkillers he can feel the ache all throughout his chest, his gut.
He still balks though until one of them pushes him unceremoniously into the wheelchair. Quinn lands with a wince, grits his teeth to stop from shouting out in pain. He is suddenly thankful for the chair, feels he might pass out at any time.
The grunts throw him into a company vehicle and he lays down in the back seat, unable to manage a sitting position.
"You must have really fucked up," grunt #1 says. "Adal's pissed."
Quinn groans. "They're dead aren't they?" he rasps, realizing he doesn't know if he took down his targets before getting nailed himself.
"Yeah but it was a fucking clusterfuck getting you fixed up and out of there," the grunt replies.
"Fuck him," Quinn says with his last useful breath. He starts coughing again as his sore lungs and ribs scream. He tells himself he's being a pussy but the fit brings tears to his eyes and he wishes he would just black out.
The grunts ignore him, leave him swimming in his body of pain. He feels the car start up and drive a short distance before stopping again. Quinn's thankful as he thinks he might puke and would like to at least hang his head out the vehicle while doing so. But before he gets the chance the door is opened and grunt #2 hauls him up by the under his arms.
Quinn sees they're at a private airfield and there's a company plane waiting for them.
"Get your hands off me," he rasps coldly, doing his best to stand on his own. He's shaky but managing. The stairs up to the plane will be a challenge but he's a fucking soldier.
The grunt lets him go, gives him a look of distaste. "Just trying to help your sorry ass," he grumbles.
But Quinn knows it's bullshit. These guys work for Adal and were clearly told to give him the rough treatment. He knows how it goes, this is what happens when you fuck up and make things 'difficult' for your boss.
He gets up the stairs by hunching over and staring at his feet, willing them up one stair at a time. By the end he's in a cold sweat and collapses into the first seat he sees. Effort means breathing and breathing means pain.
Quinn hazily sees the grunts getting on as he shudders in his seat, the chill of the recycled air hitting his already cold sweat. He knows it will be a shit plane ride, realizes the grunts never gave him any meds. His only hope is to pass out but the pain is just starting to really come through now, his last dose of painkillers quickly wearing off.
Thirteen hours later he still hasn't managed unconsciousness, is just a quivering mess. He feels so shitty on every level he thinks it's possible he could cry due to sheer pain. Which is something he hasn't done probably since the age of five. But the combination of extremely painful breathing and a mangled torso combined with nausea and what feels like a fever is pushing him to the edge.
It's a minor relief when the plane finally lands and he stumbles off at the other side into another company car, grunts leading the way.
"Adal wants to know if you want to go to the hospital," grunt #1 says, implying of course that this need would be held against him, noted as a deficiency.
Right now Quinn doesn't give a fuck about Adal, about the Agency. But he hates hospitals, does not want anyone looking after him, washing his invalid ass in a sponge bath.
"No, just take me home," Quinn mutters. "Give me the fucking pills though."
A bag of meds come flying at him and he dry swallows two pain ones, tries to keep calm and not breathe while they kick in.
Thankfully the grunts are happy to just argue with each other about football while he lies slightly delirious in the back. When they stop he just manages to figure out that they're at the latest of his temporary residences. Just another soulless low cost bed on the floor.
Quinn stumbles out or the car, pushes his way through the door and falls onto the mattress. The pain pills are finally kicking in and he can feel his consciousness start to drift away.
He stays like this for days, unsure of exactly how long. In and out of consciousness, mostly unable to move from the bed. Thankfully the pain pills are close enough to dry swallow but they're already running low. There's another few prescriptions in the bag that he's been thinking of getting filled but the capabilities needed for that are a distant possibility. Even if he had someone to call Quinn can't find his phone. He assumes it's in the house, he thinks he's heard it ringing when he's closer to consciousness. But what's real and what's not is not terribly clear to him at the moment.
There are moments Quinn comes to and thinks he might be dying, probably is. He hasn't eaten in days and only drinks water on the rare occasions he has the energy to get up. He's running a solid fever too, enough to make him delirious sometimes - he's seen people at the house, ghosts of Julia, their kid, Carrie. He almost wants Carrie to be there but she's not exactly the nursing type. She'd probably just be pissed off and, besides, she wanted him to leave her alone.
In a rare moment of clarity Quinn notices he's bleeding through his bandages, thinks he should change them and then laughs to himself at the impossibility of that act. This is a shitty way to die, he thinks. He doesn't particularly want to die but maybe hasn't the physical energy to prevent it, he thinks. Pathetic but deserved, a lonely death for a lonely life.