The Disavowed Book 2 - In Harm's Way

by David Leadbeater

  Trent’s jaw dropped. He couldn’t ever remember being so shocked. “What? Doug, we saw the bodies.”

  “You saw bodies. Did you check fingerprints? Christ, did you even check their faces or did you just see the general build, the hair color, the clothes . . .”

  Trent trawled through the past. He remembered utter panic, then cold professionalism setting in. After long minutes of trying to reset the CCTV room feed he remembered sprinting for the house, getting there first, and seeing the Millers lying in pools of blood. Hair matted. Features distorted . . .

  “They were all shot in the face or in the back of the head.”

  “I know. Big barrel weapons too. You see, Aaron, this was all one huge cover up.”

  “By the government?” Trent was aghast.

  Doug grunted. “You’re kidding? They didn’t set this up. They didn’t have a clue. Too busy lobbying for votes and backhanders. Davic set it up alright, through SolDyn.”

  “Wait,” Trent made a slow-down motion with both hands. “Wait. Before we get to that let’s go back a step. How the hell did this black-ops crew get four live people past not only us but also the FBI and WITSEC, and leave a single member of the family behind?”

  “Emilia always thought her family had been murdered,” Radford added dubiously.

  “First—they were prepared. And close by. Substitute bodies at the ready and fully prepped, undoubtedly still alive for now and brutally restrained. They figured out an infiltration point. Then they took down the comms. Sorry, Radford, but you weren’t aware of the kind of sophisticated operation being mounted against you and didn’t build enough redundancy into your systems. They got through.”

  “Black-ops tech,” Radford admitted, “beats everything.”

  Doug nodded. “These details are straight from my analyst, Alex Black, who took them straight off a top secret government report into the incident. These things have recently come to light because of a major, random, game-changing event—which I’ll get to in a minute. So, the black-ops crew get in. Half the team subdues the Millers. The other half lay out the bodies and fire the ‘kill’ shots. All done within minutes. And then they’re out. Gone . . .” Doug whistled quietly. “Ghosts.”

  Trent considered it. A world-class crew could pull it off. Black ops were masters of misdirection, the art of smoke and mirrors. If something looked accurate, and your brain was being fried in a hundred different ways in the worst moment of your life, then you tended to accept it.

  But why? And where are the Millers now? Why the silence? “And Emilia Miller?” he asked.

  “That we don’t know. Bad information maybe—the black-ops crew might have been told four people, instead of five. Time constraint perhaps. You got there pretty quick, Aaron. Mistake? Doubtful, but I’ll not discount it. And poor old Emilia—” Doug stopped as emotion choked his voice.

  “All she heard was gunshots and screaming,” Trent whispered. “Before I dragged her out. Shit.”

  Doug nodded. “One crew member to each Miller. Instant muzzling followed by knockout. There could have been no warning, no knowledge even of what was happening.”

  Radford sat back hard, a man in a daze. Now he said, “You say Davic took the Millers. Why? What happened to them?”

  “Why?” Doug repeated in a faraway tone. “Why? You mean why didn’t he just have them killed on the spot? How should I know? You’re asking me to read the mind of a screwed-up Serbian terrorist. Maybe those new-fangled profilers at Langley could help you.”

  “Revenge. Suffering. Examples,” Trent said. “Self-satisfaction. Davic is an animal. What happened to the Millers, Doug?”

  “Dead,” Doug said. “That’s all I know. Except—”

  “Maisie,” Trent said, remembering Doug’s statement that Maisie Miller, believed deceased, had been spotted alive several weeks ago.

  “Alive and well. Best guess is that Davic took the Millers somewhere private. Did what he had to do and then couldn’t bear to kill Maisie. So he kept her alive.”

  Trent felt like crying. “All this time?”

  “Looks that way, brother. Looks that way.”

  Radford tapped the back of Doug’s seat. “You mentioned that Davic used SolDyn to carry out the contract. Last I heard they were a big business company. Not a bunch of mercenaries.”

  Doug nodded. “Well, they are. A big business that is. Very big. In fact, probably one of the largest in existence. Fortune 500. Board of directors comprised of some of the richest men in America. SolDyn, short for Solution Dynamics, lead the pack of America’s commercial and corporate charge to dominate the world through trade and industry. With fingers in every kind of pie, SolDyn are world leaders in commercialism.”

  Trent let out a deep breath. “I don’t get the connection.”

  “Neither did anyone else, my friend. That’s part of the reason why Capitol Hill’s about to smash through the stratosphere. Only one man doesn’t have dirt on his hands with this shitstorm—President Coburn.”

  Radford snorted. “Makes a change.”

  “Coburn’s a good man,” Doug spoke up. “Didn’t you hear how he fought with the SPEAR team in Washington? Shit, I’d have him alongside me. But I digress. Let me go on. I still haven’t reached the craziest part.”

  Trent checked his phone, just in case he’d missed Silk’s call among all the madness. Still nothing. “Go on.”

  “SolDyn, this vanguard company, are so huge that they do business with everyone. And you know what that means?”

  Trent shook his head. “Davic.”

  “Among others, yes. Whether knowingly or not, it doesn’t matter now. But Henry Curran, the CEO of SolDyn, at one time conducted business with Blanka Davic. Now I realize all of this sounds sudden, but the government set up a special committee to use any means to check into and probe all this over the last several months. We’re talking highly sensitive blowback here and I’ll tell you why. The Vice President, the Speaker of the House, almost every senator, chief, and respected businessman have dealings with SolDyn. This company backs many a senator’s campaign, they publically endorse politicians, they give handouts. They even have links to certain global charities, for God’s sake. Now down at say, our level,” Doug indicated himself, “that means jack-shit. But at their level. The senators, the generals, the VP? We’re now talking some very nasty shit potentially sticking to some very shaky hands.”

  “Guilty by association?” Trent guessed.

  “The press would love it. The public would lap it up. If not handled correctly a great number of important heads will roll.”

  “Will?” Radford picked up on the word immediately.

  “Oh, it’s coming out. Every bit of it,” Doug said softly. “It would be beyond criminal to suppress this. You see, at the moment the American government aren’t even to blame. What are we guilty of? Being hoodwinked. Incompetency. But not criminality.”

  “Unless they suppressed it,” Trent agreed. “And it got out. My first thoughts are—what about Maisie and Emilia?”

  “I knew they would be,” Doug smiled for the first time, “but you haven’t heard how SolDyn are really involved yet. Henry Curran, the CEO, wasn’t unused to the odd unsavory dealing, shall we say. He worked his way up the ladder, so I guess sooner or later these things do crop up. Davic had some kind of hold over him. He couldn’t be seen to order the Miller hit himself, so he went to Curran. Ordered him to do it, and suggested the crew to use.”

  “Curran ordered the hit?”

  “Under duress. Davic threatened to reveal his dealings with Curran and SolDyn. And, for good measure, they also threatened the man’s family.”

  “How did all this start?” Radford wondered.

  “The usual.” Doug chuckled a little. “Some mook spots someone who’s supposed to be dead and reports it. His boss sees a chance of grabbing the limelight and takes it higher. From there the big dogs get a hold of it and everything starts to unravel. Actually, it’s the sighting of Maisie where this all l
eads back to. Do you know why?”

  “Tell me.”

  “Poetic credence. Maisie, the supposedly dead daughter of the Miller family, is being held by the madman, Blanka Davic, and surrounded by a veritable army. The big dogs want you—the Razor’s Edge, the spy team burned for failing the Millers whilst at the same time acting as scapegoats for the US Government—to saddle up, strap on every gun you can handle, and go in there and rescue her.”

  Trent gawped.

  Doug grinned. “Poetically speaking, of course.”

  17

  Doug half turned in his seat.

  “Alright, I admit. That’s my call. I haven’t floated it to the committee yet. Just wanted to get your view. What do you think?”

  “You’re suggesting we go in and get Maisie ourselves?”

  “Publicity hounds would love it. Spin doctors could use it. The SolDyn angle would be lost beneath the elation of victory.”

  Trent knew there had to be a downside, but he couldn’t see it offhand. “Where’s Maisie being held?”

  Doug coughed. “Monaco.”

  “What?”

  “Monaco.”

  Radford leaned forward. “Really?” The glint of trouble danced in his eyes. “Monaco?”

  “Know anyone there?”

  “Not yet.”

  Trent gauged him to see if it was all a show. “Stay sharp. If they go for this it’ll be the biggest finesse of our lives.”

  “And maybe the last,” Radford murmured. “Just saying.”

  Doug gripped the steering wheel as if he’d decided to drive hard into the future. “That’s settled, then. I’ll float the idea. See what feedback we get.”

  “What about Silk?” Radford put in.

  “Is Silk gonna be a problem?” Doug asked.

  “Won’t lie, Doug. He might be. If it were anything else I’d say Silk’s problem came first. But this . . . it needs finishing.”

  “Sure it does. I’ll be in touch.”

  Trent and Radford climbed out, the dry heat striking them immediately. Down toward the basin, the foundations of LA shimmered. When the sound of Doug’s sedan faded, a heavy silence descended, broken only by the faraway hum of interstate traffic.

  “We should go home,” Trent said, “and evaluate what we learned. I don’t know about you, Dan, but I haven’t come anywhere near to terms with what I just heard.”

  “Head’s spinning. I wish Amanda were here.”

  “You two any closer?”

  “No. Half a country away. Literally, mentally and physically.”

  “Take a chance. She can’t assess what she doesn’t know.”

  Radford nodded. “I don’t want this to sound callous, but this thing with Maisie Miller, if all goes well, might just be the turning point we need. At least it’ll give us an excuse to sit down and talk.”

  Trent headed for the car. “I wish I could say the same.”

  18

  Silk left the little red Camaro in an underground parking garage and walked the short journey to Jenny’s favorite café. His wife was already there, confectionary and mug to hand. She hadn’t ordered for Silk.

  “Hey.”

  He sat down, trying to meet her eyes.

  “Jenny?”

  “Are you staying this time? Maybe you should go and order.”

  Silk rose without another word and moved over to the counter. His wife was hurt, he knew, but he still couldn’t shake the fact that she was slowing him down. To explain the full story would take too long, and besides, it was something he wasn’t ready to do.

  He ordered a latte and took the steaming cup back to the table. “I’m sorry,” he said. “This is one of the hardest cases of my life.”

  “The house feels lonely without you.”

  Silk gauged her words. What’s she really thinking? He’d been on jobs countless times before, most of them lasting for weeks. What had she picked up on this time? The force driving him stemmed directly from the very years that had made him the man he was now. He couldn’t ignore the power of it any more than he could change his past.

  “It won’t be for much longer.”

  “Who is she?”

  He almost said, “Just a cop”, before realizing Jenny was referring to Tanya Jassman. The question couldn’t be answered in a café on the streets of LA. He shook his head. “Someone who deserves some justice.”

  “Can you tell me anything?”

  “Why this one?” Silk asked. “Why now?”

  “We’ve been through this already. I saw your reaction. I saw the way you bolted. I’ve never see you that way before, not even when Aaron and Dan have been in trouble.”

  “This isn’t a team case. They’re not involved.”

  “Only because you don’t want them to be. You’re excluding them as you’re excluding me. Dammit, Adam, don’t get yourself killed for this.”

  Silk thought about who might be next on the killer’s list. “I won’t.”

  Jenny tried a smile. At that moment the front door of the coffee shop burst open and a force of nature swept through. Silk was on his feet in an instant, face set, body language stiff and hostile.

  Reggie ‘the Rhino’ Rosenthal was on a mission. He spotted Silk and aimed his bulk toward him: an unstoppable arrow. Even an empty table was roughly swept aside, its edges catching a nearby occupied seat and causing its tenant to lurch forward as the big cop closed the gap.

  Silk waited.

  Rosenthal puffed to a stop. Tiny eyes shone within his pudgy face; hard with hate, yet glinting with glee.

  “Adam Silk. You need to come with me. We’ve got some questions for you.”

  Jenny was staring between the two of them, mouth open. Silk didn’t want to cause a scene here and nodded. “No problem.”

  “Adam?” Jenny sounded anxious. “Do you want me to—”

  “Do nothing,” Silk said. “This is bullshit. Ole Reggie here’s chasing a dream he’s too stupid to realize vanished years ago.”

  Rosenthal didn’t even look at Jenny. He only had eyes for Silk. “Get in the car.”

  “You don’t have to go,” Jenny said. “Not without—”

  “It’s fine.” Silk stared down at her sadly. Here he was, trying to make some kind of amends and walking out on her again. “I’ll call you later.”

  Rosenthal waved Silk through, breathing down the smaller man’s neck all the way through the café and out into the street. Silk could hear his low panting, the creak of his belt, and the faint jangle of his cuffs. The sounds took him back in time.

  Rosenthal drove carefully after easing his bulk into the car. The two men didn’t speak until they were facing each other across a desk. Silk was happy to see Detective Susie Brewster in the next cubicle. Within half a second she had moved to Reggie’s side.

  “What we doing, boss?”

  “We’re grilling this asshole. For all we know he cut her throat. Old lovers weren’t you?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  Rosenthal shrugged in a non-committed manner. “We’ll see. When a task force gets involved all the old shit comes out. You ready for that, Mr. Hotshot? Ready to go back to the streets?”

  Silk’s gaze never wavered. “Sometimes it feels like I never left.”

  Brewster was making sorry eyes over Reggie’s shoulder. Silk almost smiled. The big cop saw it and mistook it for sarcasm.

  “That directed at me? Is it?”

  “What?”

  “Because I never left. That what you mean, asshole?”

  “Look.” Silk half rose. “If you have a pertinent question to ask then ask it. Otherwise I’m outta here.”

  “Sit down. I got a few questions for ya. I want to know about all the jobs you pulled, the five of you little bastards together. With four people already dead—three of them from your gang—I’d say that’s a pretty fucking pertinent question.”

  Silk wavered. “I guess so. Trouble is we weren’t exactly master criminals, Reggie. What we did was of lit
tle consequence.”

  “Well, it sure mattered to someone. And the name’s Detective Rosenthal.”

  “Maybe we pissed someone off,” Silk acknowledged. “Maybe it’s someone who no longer belongs to the gang. Don’t you guys have anything?”

  Rosenthal didn’t answer, just tapped the desk with his finger. “Alright. How about this. Jimmy Hansson. What do you know about him?”

  “I don’t know him.”

  “Dammit, Silk—”

  “Seriously.” Silk spread his hands. “I’m not lying, Detective Rosenthal. I never heard of a Jimmy Hansson.”

  “Well, dude was killed the same way as your ex and her two friends.” The cop flashed an evil little grin. “From here,” he swiped a thumb across his neck. “To here.”

  Silk remained quiet, though his fists curled hard. The one thing holding him back wasn’t the cop, it was Brewster’s eyes. They held him in place as she came around the desk. The other plus was that she clearly hadn’t told Reggie he’d already revisited the gang. Good for her.

  “So to recap,” Rosenthal went on. “You know nothing. You never kept in touch with Rydell Price, Glenn Finch, Tanya Jassman or Freddie Knott. And you didn’t know Jimmy Hansson. Am I right?”

  “Has to happen at least once in a person’s life.”

  “Cute. Now get out, you’re done. Oh, and if you think someone’s following you,” Reggie smirked. “Don’t call a cop.”

  Silk rose, ignoring the quiet guffaws. He’d known from the start that this interview was bullshit. Merely a way for Rosenthal to exert some power and extract a little petty payback. More precious time had been lost in the search for Tanya’s killer and Rosenthal knew how Silk would see it.

  He turned on his heel and walked out. The air outside was deeply refreshing after being sat across from Rosenthal for half an hour. The streets that bypassed the station were noisy, busy and full of traffic. The hubbub stalled Silk’s mind for a second. Suddenly, standing in the middle of LA, with his past in one hand and his future in the other, his inspiration ran dry. What the hell could he do now? Every one of the passers-by, it seemed, sneaked an evil little glance at him. Even the brick wall at his back couldn’t be trusted. He bowed his head, feeling empty, lost, and alone.