Trent struggled to his feet. “Well said—”
The gunshot came out of nowhere. Roth’s head exploded in a gory mass. The body slipped to the floor. Silk whirled.
Joe ‘Killyjoy’ Johnson lay cloaked in dirt, half out of the cell that Roth’s men had thrown him in after losing the earlier fight, bruised, battered and bloody, but still alert and with revenge on his mind.
“Nice shot,” Monika whispered.
But Johnson wasn’t finished. Silk could have winged him at that point, but the man didn’t focus the gun on anyone except Carnal.
“Fight this, scumbag.”
Johnson emptied the rest of the clip into the gigantic fighter. The body flinched with every impact, making no noise and finally toppling to the side in an ungainly heap.
“Now who’s the loser?”
Trent turned as boots hit the dirt behind him and men clad in black Kevlar poured into the dungeon.
The first man he saw was Vince Hadleigh.
“What the fuck are you doing here, asshole?”
27
Hadleigh was closely followed by four teammates, all of them bunching up around their leader. Silk and Radford brushed themselves off and made a point of limping over to stand behind Trent.
The room had gone quiet. Even Monika stared, sensing something.
“The Razor's Edge.” Hadleigh's southern drawl was exaggerated to irritation level. “Christ in a canoe. They don' tol' me you was still in the game. Didn' think you'd have the balls.”
Trent noted that the men's weapons were still aimed. “Stand down, Hadleigh. And tell your women.”
Hadleigh sucked on his teeth, another annoying habit. “Still chewin' on the ole saw, eh? What was it you guys called us – Girls Aloud?”
Radford sniggered. “Yeah. My suggestion. If you're interested – you're Cheryl.”
“Bad limp ya got there, Radford.” One of the other team members spoke up. “But then you tech ops were always slower than shit.”
“Hurt my finger too. Still kick your ass into next week.”
Hadleigh eyed Trent. “So what've you Destiny's Child boys gon' an' fucked up today?”
“They saved us.” Monika spoke up instantaneously, probably thinking the team were in trouble.
“An' we always have to come ridin' in to save them.” Hadleigh didn't even look toward the captives, just held Trent's gaze. “Ain't that right, Aaron?”
Trent ignored the taunts. “Not really.” He looked past the new team as more soldiers came down the stairs. Men fanned out immediately and moved toward the crying and groaning captives. Some removed first-aid kits from backpacks and started to administer to the wounded.
Trent waited for the real captain to reach the dungeon floor, ignoring Hadleigh whilst keeping a close eye on the man. Vince Hadleigh was the leader of another CIA spy team, only they were still active, having managed to avoid the fallout that followed Blanka Davic's attack on Emilia Miller's family. Hadleigh's unit had clashed with the Edge many times through the years, in countless countries, and always vied to be the better team no matter what the cost.
Case in point, Trent thought. Not heading directly to the civilians.
“How did you get this particular job, Cheryl?” Radford wondered. They all knew Doug would never call Hadleigh's team. When the Razor's Edge had earned their moniker, instantly accepted across the spy, federal and intelligence world, Hadleigh had tried to coin a nickname for his own team:
The Thrust of the Dagger.
Not surprisingly, the attempt had brought ridicule down on Hadleigh and the team. In the end, his five man unit became known as the Thrusters. So what started out as a little merriment soon grew into a bitter feud. Now, with the Edge disavowed, Hadleigh would be doing all he could to hype up his own team and downplay Trent's. Some bad blood just never ran clear.
“We were close by,” Hadleigh admitted at length. “And a backup unit couldn't hurt. 'Sides, we had poor intel. No one knew how many o' the bastards were down here. Guess that was your department, eh?”
At last the man in charge came down, eyes taking it all in. Trent stepped immediately to his side and leaned in.
“Got a few minutes, Captain?”
“You Trent? Doug and my boss both vouch for you guys. I heard of you too. We caught the bad guy tonight. Don't sweat it, you're good here.”
Trent walked toward Monika Sobieski, still talking to the captain. “Do you have a cell phone?”
“They have one upstairs.”
“Good. Because this woman needs to make a very important call. Captain, let me explain a few things.”
28
That Monday evening, as the red hot molten sphere of the sun floated gently towards the west, the people of Los Angeles began to melt away from the bright beaches, the shaded parks and the air conditioned indoor malls, heading instead for the backyard pools, the early night or the family barbecues. The twisting snake that was Mulholland started to cool off, the hillsides practically sighing with relief, the atmosphere dialled down its almost palpable danger level, losing its wicked buzz to be replaced by the soothing coolness that was nature’s Aloe Vera.
Trent stared into the flames.
“Burgers are done.” Silk’s voice interrupted his reverie. “Steak’s up next.”
Trent passed. He would wait for the good stuff, the steak. His lounger creaked as he sat back, sunglasses shutting out the remaining glare from the great bowl of the Californian sky. He heard Radford pass him, plates clinking together, heading over to grab a cheeseburger and a side of fried onions for himself and Amanda. The sound of her voice telling him to hurry and his own complaints about the broken finger made Trent smile.
At least inside.
The job was done and the criminals were being questioned. The debrief was over, the warnings about operating outside the law listened to and filed away. Most of all, the clients were happy – Anna and her son, Monika and Artur had been reunited in Las Vegas – the raw, emotional moment touching Trent deep inside. Monika had spent over a week believing she would never see her son again, not knowing what had happened to him, and agonizing over how he would grow up. Artur had spent days in confused agony. To see them reunited made Trent believe all was well with the world again, at least for a little while.
That was why they did it. That was why they risked their lives and their freedom, ignored the comforts of wealth, and stepped up to help the people who fell into the deep end of life’s obstacle pool.
Trent and his two friends gave them the chance to tread water.
Now he sat up. Silk’s half grassed and half paved garden was flat and surrounded by a high wooden fence. The small pool lay in the centre, invitingly blue like the Angelino sky. The pleasant noises of laughter and conversation drifted from nearby gardens, the neighbourhood drinking in the balmy evening and the agreeable company of friends and family.
Radford walked carefully over to his wife, balancing plates, face plastered with a stupid grin. Amanda’s expression was equally as inane, perhaps hoping he would trip, or maybe looking forward to later when they would go home and curl up on the couch together and watch a fun, mind-numbing movie. Something moved in Amanda’s expression, Trent thought, something deep. He wondered if Dan saw it. He wondered if Dan was stranded too deep in his anxiety and adjustments to recognize it. Maybe one night, maybe soon, they would talk, but Trent wouldn’t bet on it.
Doug the Trout lingered around the black, smoking barbeque, perhaps hoping for scraps. The man ate like his namesake, mouth always open ready to accept nibbles, and talked like a man recently released from ten years in solitary. It didn’t matter if you missed Doug’s first rocket blasts of dialogue, he would revisit them several times before the night ended. Doug had managed the fallout, greased some wheels, but above all he had ensured Anna and Monika were safe and could start to heal, moving on with their lives in Miami. It didn’t take a lot to vastly improve a normal person’s life, and Doug had access to a lot.
; For this one, perfect night, they would not mention the word disavowed. That was tomorrow’s issue.
As if to prove his point, Trent heard the doorbell chime. No one moved, but every pair of eyes swivelled towards him.
To catch him smiling. Just once.
“At last.” Silk smiled with him, and Radford too.
Trent answered the door, letting the thickly polished mahogany swing until it reflected his body, straight, taut, uncharacteristically nervous.
Victoria stood outside, wearing a short black skirt, a leather jacket with silver tassels that sported the logo Gucci, and a drab, multicoloured scarf. Her black hair was tied up in a bun, speared through with two crisscrossed, stainless steel hair needles.
“Victoria.”
Mikey stood staring up at him expectantly, one hand clasped within his mother’s, the other gripping a bottle of red wine. He held it out.
“I brought this for Uncle Adam and Aunty Jenny.”
Trent stared at Victoria, lost for words, eyes searching for a reason, a sign, anything that would explain such an abrupt change.
“Thank you,” he said.
“You were right,” she said, looking away. “About the other day at the pier. You were right, if anything had happened . . . if . . .” she couldn’t complete the sentence, eyes suddenly wet. “I . . . I couldn’t live with it.”
Trent swallowed heavily. “Me neither.”
“Literally,” Victoria said quietly, then ruffled Mikey’s hair. She spoke up, “He may be a little pain sometimes, but he’s still the best way to my ex’s wallet.”
Trent cringed. Jesus Christ, Vic—
“Two hours.” Victoria had slipped back seamlessly into the superbitch. “Not a minute later. You owe me for this, Aaron. And do I have a list . . .”
She spun on the spot and stalked away, clicking the remote to her Porsche and waiting for the two high beeps before climbing inside. Gravel churned, dust stirred, and she was gone.
Trent took Mikey’s hand. “Good to see you, Son. How about you give that bottle to Uncle Adam? He’d love that.”
They joined the barbecue. Trent saw that the steaks were ready and asked Silk to finesse him one from under Doug’s watchful gaze.
“Thought you might be the best man for the job.” Trent laughed.
“Very funny. You want A1 with that?”
“Always. Steak ain’t steak without the sauce.”
The group rose to their feet. Trent put an arm around Mikey’s shoulders and hugged him to his side. Radford proposed a toast. 'To the Razor’s Edge'. Doug seconded it, adding 'to the future'. Silk told a joke and everyone laughed, but no one remembered it five minutes later. Jenny shouted out her own recipe for Philly Cheese Steak, and the words were branded in everyone’s memory deeper than the black grill lines seared into their meat. Amanda hugged Dan close, promising loyalty with her eyes and a night at the AMC Cineplex with her mouth. Radford drank too much. Doug talked about nothing, whilst constantly speaking, bringing out the grins. Trent sat down beside Mikey and talked about Nintendo and pop culture and super heroes. He had missed his son.
There was nowhere he would rather be.
He wondered if he had changed, if this experience had made him a better man. He wondered what was to come, and if the looming future would test their limits as he expected it too. More important than his own plight was finding out what had really happened to Emilia Miller and her family.
This might be the City of Angels. But devils were coming.
The sun went down, the light diminishing in the way that all brightness does, darkness first finding the deepest canyons and forming deep puddles, creeping up the sharp rock edges a moment at a time. Twilight drew in, the air went still and quiet, and then the night arrived, taking the last vestiges of a breathtaking sunset under its shadowy wing.
Trent held on to it as long as he could. The great heart of the city had stilled by the time he dropped Mikey off and wound his way back home. A million lives passed him by, secure in their tiny homes, running with the night, tapping out the meaningful beat of their time on this earth whilst they had the chance.
He arrived home at ten.
She had sent him the text message by ten past.
29
Trent was rarely surprised these days, but the sight of Claire Collins rooted him to the spot. He was early. Her text had said to meet outside Requiem, ‘dressed real nice so they could go right on inside’. The request had annoyed and confused him. The timing was atrocious – designed to test, irritate and disconcert. The meeting place was downright peculiar.
Trent had to admit that, despite everything, his interest was piqued.
The request was for all three of them. Trent hadn’t even tried Radford. Let the man have his night with his wife. Silk too, they deserved a little R and R. So Trent headed out on his own, following a glaring metal-jammed freeway for five painstaking miles before heading into Hollywood and working his way up Sunset. He parked close by and headed for the entrance to the club. Bouncers eyed him warily. Middle-aged disco fanboys lined up outside and around the corner. The bouncy strains of music Trent remembered loathing in his early teens blasted out of the door, back for one night only. A huge, matt-black painted truck roared up Sunset, closely followed by a purple Camaro with blue under body lighting and a stretch limo.
Trent waited a little short of the line. Maybe Collins would change her mind when she saw how long it was.
“Trent.”
He recognized the voice of course, but when he turned he found it hard to believe the woman matched it. Claire Collins had a found baby face, full red lips and eyes that ran deeper than the depths of the ocean. Her jet black hair was slightly curled and fell to either side of her cheekbones. She wore cut-off jeans, a Metallica t-shirt, black pumps and an imitation leather jacket.
“You okay, Trent? You’re staring.”
“Collins? This isn’t what I expected.”
“Fuckit right? Work is work and I am what I need to be. At night, I’m simply me. I just wanna dance.” She lifted up a foot, showing off the black pumps. “Hence, the footwear.”
Trent was at a loss. “I thought you wanted a meeting.”
“At 11:00 pm on Sunset? Where the hell did you think we were gonna go?”
Trent had assumed a quiet bar, a dark corner, not disco inferno. “So why are we here?”
“Damn, Aaron, I just told you. First observation – we’re gonna get on much better if you listen.”
“Well, we won’t get in there. The lines half a mile long, three dudes deep.”
Collins shook her head, shiny black hair catching his eye. “Now you got me handling you, Aaron, get used to the wild side.”
She took his hand and walked right up to the bouncers. Trent flowed in her wake, mouth full of words he was unable to spill. Her charisma surrounded him.
“Hey boys. Jack, how’s the little one? Kevin, how’s that basement coming on?” She smiled and nodded as she walked by them, straight into the club, no wait, no cover fee. A short slowly-rotating tunnel, complete with flashing lights and drifting dry ice, led them past a cloakroom desk where Collins deposited her jacket after chatting with the staff.
“I take it you come here a lot.” Trent gave them his jacket in return for a scrap of paper.
“Often enough. Plus they know I’m a cop. These people, they think like we do. You never know when you’re gonna need that extra help.”
Trent blinked in surprise and stared sideways at her. He was about to speak when they stepped into the club’s heart. Pounding disco beats bounced from wall to wall. Kaleidoscopes of colour strafed the walls. The stage was full of dancers, the bar four-deep with bartenders handing out drinks like Walmart coupons. Trent caught a glimpse of a multitude of personalities and styles, from the candidly dressed to the stylishly chic, from the girls and boys with flair to the basically smart and the ‘don’t give a damn’ anti-fashion wannabes. Most of the people who looked at them nodded furtively to Coll
ins. Trent assumed they weren’t agents, but people, Collins had ‘helped’. Maybe she wasn’t so bad after all.
Collins led him to the dance floor, walking as she flowed with the rhythm. He couldn’t hear her speak, but he could read her lips.
“Dance, Trent.”
“First, a drink.”
He bought them vodka shots and used the alcohol to loosen up. He watched her dance and tried to move around her. He bought them vodka jello, bright green stuff that tasted like God's bubblegum candy. He slackened off a little when Summer of ’69 was played, one of his favourite oldies. He even sang along.
Collins watched him and danced through the night. Trent found himself intrigued by her duel personality. When a slower, quieter number came on he moved in close, having lost count of the jello shots by now, placed hands on either side of her hips, feeling the rough fabric of her shorts and the curve of her body. She turned round, swaying her ass and stepped into him, then turned again.
She leaned in close, lips brushing the lobe of his ear. “You ain’t getting within three inches of the good stuff, Aaron. I’m in control here.”
Trent took a step back, realization dawning. He hadn’t meant to telegraph anything. He didn’t want anything from her, couldn’t risk or tempt the wrath it might induce in Victoria. “I don’t want to.”
“You sure? I’m here for the dance, Trent, nothin’ else. You feel that heat? It’s electric. Charges me up for another shitty day. And tomorrow – well, that’s another me. Tomorrow, you’re on my shit list again, especially the two assholes who didn’t show up tonight. You’ll get used to it.”
“Understood.” He sighed. “The relationship with my ex-wife – it’s so fucking complicated.”
“She controls you through your son.” Collins’ eyes drank him in, close enough to drown in. “How long is it since you had another relationship?”
“I haven’t,” he said, not sure why he was letting her in so easily. “Not since Victoria.”
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