Quinn VI
Quinn's been expecting the call for awhile before it finally comes.
He's at Carrie's, cooking spaghetti, waiting for her to get home from work and he answers his phone without looking, sure she is about to tell him she's staying late for the third night in a row.
So it's more than a surprise to hear Adal's crisp voice on the other side.
"Peter," Adal says sharply. "I trust you've recovered."
Quinn pauses, still wrapping his head around talking to Adal. It's been awhile.
"Oh yeah, I'm great," he replies icily, knowing it's not true at all. He does feel a shit tonne better but he knows he's not anywhere near top form. Not even close to average.
"Good, " Adal responds. "You're due in at 0800 tomorrow for a briefing. Be ready to be deployed in short order."
And with that Adal hangs up, leaving Quinn staring blankly at his phone, wondering what the fuck is about to happen. He doesn't have a good feeling about this and an unfamiliar anxiety grips his chest thinking that he could be anywhere in the world at this time the next day.
"Fuck," he mutters. He wonders if Carrie knows anything about this, if Adal's gloated to her about shipping him off. He doubts it, thinks she would have at least mentioned something to him. But then again Carrie is a tough nut to crack, even after all this time.
And of course, with that thought his phone beeps with a text from Carrie telling him that she is staying late again. Quinn wonders if she's been avoiding him these last few nights, not wanting to discuss whatever bullshit Adal's about to send him into.
"Fuck," he says again, dumping the half-cooked pasta. He looks around and scowls. It's been strangely comfortable being there at Carrie's but they both knew it was coming to an end.
Quinn swears one more time under his breath and then goes upstairs, packs a bag, tidies up military style.
He tries not to think about where he's going to be sent, knows from the past that it's pointless to stress about it. But in the past he's only had himself to worry about. Now he has real concerns about being shipped off to another continent, most likely far away from Carrie. As far as Adal can separate them, he figures.
Quinn walks out the door with just one slow backwards glance, wonders if this is the last he will see of her place. He realizes with dawning distress that her parting words from the morning - "Fuck you too, Quinn" - might be the last he ever gets from her in person. In their lives anything could happen.
As he drives off to pack up his life Quinn thinks sardonically that at least their last interaction was exactly the type of moment he constantly has with Carrie, still so fucking confrontational, always walking the line between friendship and whatever their relationship was. But if he's sent off to his death tomorrow at least there's one person that might give a shit about it.
He can't tell if that's a hopeful or depressing thought; if it makes him feel better or not. Regardless, this is his life and he needs to figure his shit out. Back to reality where he doesn't live with Carrie, where their lives likely take them on different courses. Even if he does quit he can't just follow her around.
So I guess that's it, Quinn thinks as he pulls up to the emptiness of his latest residence. He considers calling Carrie later, at least telling her he's on the move but knows it won't happen. Even if he called he wouldn't be able to tell her any details and it would just be awkward. She's a soldier too, knows the drill.
He's on his own again, has to rely solely on himself, has to get Carrie out of his mind.
Good fucking luck, he thinks as he packs all of his possessions into one small bag.
Quinn knows he looks a touch disheveled when he walks into Langley the next day. He hadn't really slept and didn't have the mental energy to bother with looking sharp.
He walks up to Adal's office, trying not to appear like he's looking everywhere for a wisp of blonde hair. Not that anyone even notices him, but he does have some personal dignity to maintain.
Adal's office door is open and he waves Quinn in without taking his eyes off the photographs on his desk. He continues to study the photos for a long moment after Quinn sits then passes them over just as Quinn's getting testy.
"Your target," Adal says simply. "Abu Abdul Rahman al-Bilawi. Given name, Adnan Ismael Najm. Military chief of staff for the Islamic State. There will be a military raid tomorrow in Al-Khalidiya during which you will take out the target. All the pertinent information is in the file. You ship out in three hours."
Quinn sits and breathes, thinks that it's awful fucking risky to send him into the middle of a military raid when he hasn't fired a weapon in over a month, hasn't gone through any physicals to re-qualify him for the job. And he knows it's a test, of whether he will man up and suffer through silently like a proper soldier. Or he can try and quit now, leave this all behind.
In the end, Quinn can't say why he picks the file up before walking out the door. Muscle memory, habit, the intriguing idea of suicide by failed mission - all possibilities.
Not that he wants to die, but it certainly would simplify things.
He already knows he shouldn't be there and it's only ten minutes into the job. Military units have surrounded the bunker where al-Bilawi is reported to be and now Quinn is part of a group barging into the dark cavernous space, seeing enemy targets scurry away in all directions.
Quinn knows it's time. They got him in and now he has fifteen minutes to find and kill al-Bilawi, the estimated amount of time they can hold the militants shut inside the bunker for him to get the kill. But as he runs, scanning faces, remembering the mental map he's made towards the innermost sanctum of the bunker, Quinn already feels the burn in his chest, the weakness in his body.
He forces the doubt aside, focuses on finding his target before he gets away. Turns a corner and knows he's found the place where their intelligence said al-Bilawi would be.
Quinn walks quietly up to the door, thinks it's too quiet considering what's going on outside. He is silently setting tiny explosives to blow open the door when all of sudden the door slams out at him, completely taking him by surprise.
Quinn is knocked to the ground with a swift kick to his chin and he thinks he feels a couple of loose teeth as he groans and grabs at the leg of his assailant, managing to take the other man down by yanking on his ankle. Then they are on the ground grappling, Quinn trying to figure out if it's his target between hits to his head that cause his vision to blur.
From what he can tell, he's fairly sure it's al-Bilawi but there's a solid chance Quinn's going to the one killed. He's lost his gun in their wrestling match already and he can feel consciousness swim away each time he takes a punch, his head still reeling from the initial kick.
al-Bilawi is all over him for a moment with a flurry of punches that leave both of them heaving, Quinn dazed on the ground. al-Bilawi stands up and dusts himself off regally, seeming to check himself for serious damage. Quinn forces himself to stay conscious, looks around for any last hopes, sees only smears of blood and shadows.
Done checking himself over, al-Bilawi leans over to sneer and spit in Quinn's face and finds himself face-to-face with his own weapon.
Quinn pulls the trigger with shaky hands, sees half of al-Bilawi's sneer blown away in a bloody instant. He thinks about fate, about the chances of finding a weapon in the shadows within his reach. It's then that he realizes his fifteen minutes must be up by now, that he's supposed to be out so the military guys can come clean up.
Quinn struggles to his feet, thankful for the adrenaline still pumping through his system, knowing it's all that's keeping him going. His head throbs and his vision tingles as he pushes himself towards the exit. Back through the commotion of militants trying to get out of the bunker, trying to stay on his feet as he struggles through the crowd. At least he can still remember his exit route, Quinn thinks - his instincts and training kicking in despite the fog in his head and the weakness in his body.
He's surprised to see the door unguarded and militants starting to stream out. Even if his fifteen minutes were up, he figured the military would give him a few minutes leeway - typically the time given for the job was stricter than necessary to ensure that the agent gets out as quickly as possible. So where the hell did the guards go? They had been keeping the militants in the building while Quinn completed his mission.
He hears his answer before he sees it, an approaching sonic wave that overwhelms his senses and gets his feet moving quicker than he believed possible. In the heat of the moment Quinn barely has time to be thankful for the special ops training ingrained in his reactions before he feels the blast of the incoming missile. And then he's caught in a giant ball of heat and concussive force, feels himself flying through the air, sees the blackened ground far beneath him.
Buzzing florescent lights, familiar antiseptic smells. His head feels like it may explode, throbs with glowing, growing intensity. His mouth tastes like dry ash, tongue shriveled and parched. But he can feel his legs, his arms, wiggle his fingers and toes so at least he's got that going for him, he thinks.
It takes him awhile before Quinn works up the energy to open his eyes and see where he's managed to land himself this time. But when he does, all he sees is another drab military hospital, the usual compliment of nurses and doctors walking by. He closes his eyes, tries to will someone into coming in there to give him some water and almost immediately hears footsteps turn into his room.
If only everything was that easy, he thinks to himself as he slowly opens his eyes again.
He can partially see someone at the sink, filling something with water, thinks someone's been reading his mind. Another fucking blonde, he thinks to himself irritably. Of course.
But when the blonde stands up, walks towards him, Quinn has to blink twice, and he still doesn't believe it.
"What the fuck are you doing here?" he wheezes through his arid throat.
Carrie responds with her own 'what the fuck' look before handing him the glass of water and letting him chug it down.
"I was in Iran to meet Javadi," she replies finally. "What the fuck are you doing here? You aren't in any fucking condition to be running ops!"
Quinn grimaces, knows she's at least right on that point.
"Carrie, you're eight months pregnant! You can't be fucking flying across the world!" he responds instead. With Carrie the best defense was usually offense.
"You don't think I fucking know that?" she asks incredulously. "I didn't have a choice, he would only deal with me in person. You know how Javadi works."
"You have a fucking choice, Carrie. You can say no, I won't endanger the life of my fucking child to deal with a murderous psychopath!" he fires back.
"Fuck you, Quinn. Like you said no, I won't fucking go on this suicide mission? You and I both know the fact you're alive right now is a fucking fluke. Adal meant for you to die in there!" Carrie returns with equal heat.
And hell is he ever spitting mad, mostly because she's fucking right. For a moment he wonders how she knows anything about his mission at all, but of course she probably knows everything, more than him. Carrie, if nothing else, is a damned good spy.
When he doesn't reply she glares at him like she's ready to kill him herself, finish Adal's job. Carrie huffs a breath and he can see she's internally steaming, thinks to himself how this much stress can't be good for either her or the baby.
"And to top it all off, you didn't even call to tell me you've run off to die," she says, still obviously fuming. "I was just going to find out on a fucking interoffice memo or when they put your fucking star up on the wall?"
And Quinn has nothing to say to that, thinks that's exactly how he saw it playing out. But he figured that by then she'd barely give a shit - that he'd be just another footnote in her story, just another dead co-worker she doesn't bother to think about.
So he just raises his eyebrows in silent defeat, lets out a deep sigh.
"So is there anything actually wrong with me?" he finally asks. "I think I'm fine, just a headache. Is that possible?"
Carrie gives him a scowl, looks annoyed. "Apparently you have a fucking guardian angel. You do seem to be fine. A few burns, cuts - they want to test you for a concussion."
Well, that would be pointless, Quinn thinks. It's pretty obvious to him he's got a good-sized concussion going but that's something he'd rather keep to himself at the moment. He'd really just rather leave with Carrie, follow her back to the States, make sure she makes it alright. But that would be impossible, he thinks. Adal already thinks there's something between them, clearly they can't fly home together in a company jet. Still, she could probably spring him and get him on a commercial flight.
"Can't you just get me out of here?" he asks. "I'm fine, I just need to get on a plane and get the fuck out of here."
Carrie frowns again, gives him a studied look. "Your pupils are huge Quinn, you can barely keep your eyes open. I bet your head feels like shit."
He doesn't disagree, thinks it's payback for the time he couldn't get her out from the mental hospital.
"But you can't stay here. Fucking Adal," she continues. "Give me a minute."
Carrie takes out her phone and dials, waits for a moment and seems to be put through to voicemail.
"It's Carrie," she says tersely. "You won't believe who I found here in Iraq. I'm bringing him back to the US with me, he needs to see a fucking neurologist. We're leaving now, we'll be in transit and out of contact until we're in the air."
With that she hangs up and looks at him with a shrug.
"Done, " she says, throwing him a bag. "Put some clothes on."
Quinn blinks, momentarily stunned. Finally he gets up, drops his hospital gown and dons the clothes in the bag, thinks she must have planned to spring him all along.
She smirks when he disrobes in front of her, doesn't bother to be offended this time, seems to expect it in fact. He realizes he's covered in gauze, small burns, cuts and huge bruises everywhere on his body and he sees her looking him over, biting her lower lip.
"Adal's going to lose his shit when he hears that," he says, trying to dress quickly now.
As if on cue, her phone begins to ring. Carrie takes a look at the number and turns it off.
"Well we can fucking deal with that when we get back. But I'm not leaving here without you and the plane leaves in an hour," she replies testily.
Quinn puts up his hands in mock defense. "I'm not arguing here," he says. "Just stating the obvious."
Carrie nods, seems to calm down. "I'm glad you're not dead, Quinn. But that was a fucking stupid thing to do," she says.
This time he doesn't bother arguing, knows he will lose. Instead he just shrugs, thinks that Carrie, of all people, knows what it's like to be dis-enamored with life to the point of taking unnecessary risks. "I'm full of stupid things," he finally replies.
Carrie gives him another look of concern, then turns to walk out of the room.
"Come on Quinn," she says with a tired sigh. "We have a plane to catch."