The Disavowed Book 2 - In Harm's Way

by David Leadbeater

  I think . . .

  “No, I do,” he said aloud, hearing the alcohol talking.

  “I never said a word.”

  “No, I know.” Silk finally relented. “God. When did it get so fucking complicated?”

  “You’re a product of your past experiences,” Brewster said. “Get used to it.”

  “I am, I think.”

  “Nah, you’re still running. Still part of a team. And I bet your wife looks after you like a mother, yeah? Well, here’s a reality check. You’ll never move on until you face up. Look that evil monster right in the face and deal. Stop running, Silk.”

  He almost kissed her right then, but held back with an iron will. Jenny at least didn’t deserve this. But the way forward was crystal clear.

  Like it or not the killer had served up Silk’s past on a platter and was making him face up to it. At last.

  No more running.

  “Stand or die,” he said with half a smile.

  “Speaking of that,” Brewster pushed away from the table and rose unsteadily to her feet. “It’s time I hit the gym. See if I can sweat out a bottle of Jack before my shift.”

  Silk nodded and waved her off. It was time he went to see Jenny.

  20

  Jenny was asleep on the couch. The house smelled good to Silk. So homey, so full of the wonderful scents he loved. The aroma of fresh baking, of roasted garlic and spices. Coffee gone past its optimal brewing allotment. It was all they ever drank and the only way they drank it. The TV played softly to a sleeping audience, another episode of Banshee playing to itself and requiring a re-watch tomorrow. It was the way they lived: the sound, smell and timbre of their lives.

  Already he missed it.

  Silk walked through to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water to help counteract the whiskey. A darkness deeper than night clouded his brain and sent him out of the back door and onto the rear porch. Their house perched halfway up a hillside, so from there he could look down into some movie star’s private canyon—or so Jenny and he imagined. Stars did glitter down there tonight, but they were the lights of PIR motion sensors and private patrols; all artificial. Silk stared hard into the dark, recognizing an old friend, a soulmate. The never-changing constant before and in between the girl with no name, Tanya Jazz and the CIA. He crouched down, welcoming and remembering its embrace, then the door opened behind him.

  Jenny’s voice. “Were you going to say hello?”

  Silk patted the wooden deck next to him. “I’m right here.”

  “Are you ready to tell me what’s going on?”

  Silk breathed deeply, taking the dark into his body. “I can’t, Jenny. There’s a killer out there. I’m staying away to keep you safe.”

  Only part of that was true.

  “Are you in danger?”

  Silk turned to stare. “Of course I’m in danger. That’s my job.”

  “So maybe it’s time to get out.”

  Silk thought about how perceptive those words were. But not in the way she meant. He knew now that the only way to truly find himself was to lose himself. Lose it all in the past that had now collided with the present. Lose it all completely, immerse body and mind in his old life, and accept that from here on in everything was going to change.

  Everything.

  “I have to finish this,” he said to the night. “To make everything right by them. They deserve at least that.”

  21

  Inside that same darkness, the killer waited expectantly.

  He loved these older homes. Everything creaked, as if designed to mask the presence of an interloper. A tree-lined driveway with no gate led right around the back of the house. Trees grew right up against the windows. It was as if the builder had had the idea of a future forced entry in mind and covered all his options.

  The front lawn was flat bare scrub. Not a blade of grass in sight. A one-car garage clung to the side of the house. The place looked beat up, tired, in need of at least a paint job if not a total restart. Not a light shone through the white-framed windows, not a drape rustled open through the quiet neighborhood.

  Fantastic.

  The killer made his move. His body was toned, fit, perfect for the quick, lithe movements and minimum effort required to slip along the tree line and disappear around the back. Instantly a PIR came on, flooding the area with light. The killer had expected it. He had scouted this area several times already. The rear of the house was overlooked by . . . nothing. No one would see him on the outside. The only risk was that his intended victim might see the illumination through his drapes and be curious.

  But the killer worked fast. The rear window catch came away from its stay with the exertion of intense pressure. The killer had researched this old model and knew what would happen. When the tired old catch succumbed he quickly lifted the frame and slipped inside. By that time the PIR light had switched itself off.

  The killer crouched, listening. He would wait in that position for fifteen minutes and took a glance at his watch. Plenty of time. Whilst straining to listen with every fiber of his five senses he reflected over the past actions that had eventually brought him here. The knife was too good for these people. Too fast. The only comfort the killer allowed himself was to tell them why they were dying, give them a moment to remember, then lose himself in that sweet black moment of revenge.

  But it would never bring his family back. Mum. Dad. Sis. They were never going to walk through that door again, tread those streets as they once had.

  Like that day . . . when it happened.

  His mother’s metal pendant nestled in his pocket, its presence as clear to him as if it were a piece of hot volcanic rock. Everyone who had torn his family apart would die and there were only two men left.

  The killer didn’t take his eyes off the staircase ahead. If a pair of legs were to suddenly appear there he would be off like a sprinter, knife bared and plunging in for the kill. It was not new to him, not even before he had first committed murder. The Army had taught him how to kill for God and country. It had even offered him a new life, almost calmed the anger that burned like hellfire in his soul.

  Until they dismissed him. All for beating up that asshole officer. Bastard had always had it coming.

  That was the day he had decided to avenge the atrocities that had been done to his family by five members of a gang and a drug dealer. That was the day it had all clicked into place and the first nourishing heat of love in over two decades swelled out from his heart. It was the right thing to do. It was truth.

  The hands of his watch said it was almost time. His thoughts returned to the present, flicking over what Rosenthal and the other cops had been talking about these last few days. None of the task-force baboons had found Freddie Knott, but then the killer had had many months to search. Knott had been pinpointed from the beginning. This moment of glorious payback had been a long time coming.

  The killer stalked to the foot of the stairs, senses attuned. With utmost care he climbed the thirteen risers to the landing and paused. A soft snoring trickled out through the crack in the bedroom door. Still wary, the killer crept forward, shrouded in the dark. His right hand flexed on the grip of the heavy dagger, not sweating, not nervous, but assured. That was the hand and penance that bloody vengeance brought; sharp and solid, an agony of rightful retribution.

  He pushed open the bedroom door. Hinges creaked softly. A lump in the bed didn’t stir. The killer exhaled slowly. “Your time is up.”

  The killer flicked on the lights and leapt onto the bed. The figure barely stirred at first but then, feeling the weight atop him, began to struggle. The killer pulled back slightly, allowing him to turn and see his face.

  “Freddie Knott,” the killer whispered, bringing the blade up.

  “Who . . . who are you?”

  “Don’t recognize me? But then you wouldn’t, I guess. I was only a boy. A scared, happy boy with a loving family. It was my father that you might recognize. My father that you ruined.”


  The killer brought the knife down and pressed the sharpened edge to Knott’s throat. The sensation felt so good, so clean, so right, that his heart blossomed anew. The love filled his chest, taking him back to the days before Freddie Knott and his gang had blighted all their futures.

  “I don’t know you,” Knott whispered.

  “Where’s your knife, Freddie?” The killer leaned in, feeling his own blade part flesh, but only a little.

  “It’s . . . I don’t have—”

  “Try again.”

  The killer pressed a mite harder. He had been taught just how much weight he could bring to bear. Blood began to trickle down onto the bed sheets.

  “Pillow,” Knott blurted. “My pillow.”

  The killer grinned and nodded. “Of course. And how long have you slept with a knife under your pillow, Freddie?”

  “Since. The house.” Knott said it as if the killer wouldn’t understand but was quite wrong. The killer’s research had been thorough.

  “In case someone jumped you in the night?”

  Knott’s eyes flickered desperately.

  The killer took out the pendant and rammed it against Knott’s forehead. Once it was in place he punched it hard, seeing the metal distend and knowing he would spend an hour pulling it into shape again later. He was careful not to rip his thin gloves. And all the time he recounted past details to his victim.

  Then he pressed down hard on the knife.

  “Go rot in Hell, Freddie Knott.”

  22

  Trent slept fitfully and rose with the dawn. Doug’s crazy revelations had more than unnerved him, they had rocked the foundation of his life like never before. All these years they’d been part of a great lie. A cover up that even the US Government hadn’t been aware of. All these years poor Emilia and, even worse, the abducted Maisie Miller, had labored through their lives under an illusion.

  Maybe not Maisie, Trent thought. Would there even be anything left of the real Maisie? Admittedly it had only been a few years, but they had been years of constant contact with her enemy, Davic, and the opportunity for ceaseless brainwashing. Any road back from that would be almost . . .

  Trent slammed the thought aside. It will be worth it.

  He showered and prepared a pot of coffee. Before the first sip of the strong, hot brew reached his lips Doug was on the phone.

  “What we talked about?” he said without greeting. “I have news, brother.”

  “Go on.” Trent was more anxious for the future of the still-living Millers than anything.

  “First, more detail. The sighting of Maisie was an event of pure chance. And, ironically enough, it came inside a casino. The CIA have been watching Davic for years as you know. Well, he must have relaxed Maisie’s leash. Because she was photographed in the background of a picture of Davic and his crew. The surveillance guys were simply trying to get an update on his crew members.”

  “So Davic let Maisie out for the night,” Trent said. “Is he unaware of the surveillance?”

  “No way. He’s . . .” Doug sighed. “A criminal. A millionaire. A terrorist. His family have skipped over every investigation they’ve ever been a part of. He’s a twisted, confident son of a bitch and might just have made his second big mistake.”

  Trent nodded to the empty apartment, not having to ask what the first had been. It had led to the Edge’s disavowing. He sat down heavily. “I just can’t believe all this, Doug. I got in this business to help people. And now . . . now . . .”

  “I get it, brother.” Trent was relaxed around Doug when it came to revealing the events of his past. Doug knew them all, even back to the horrendous bullying he had been on the receiving end of as a child, the schoolyard verbal beatings that had almost caused him to end his life. Doug had read Trent’s psych evaluation a hundred times. The leader of the Edge had been bullied as a child and had grown up tough and hard, with a determined, unshakeable will and a need to help those who couldn’t help themselves.

  No shocks there.

  Now, Trent reached for his coffee. “So what’s the verdict?”

  “As I said.” Doug sounded pleased. “They want to sugarcoat this coming shitstorm as much as they can. They want the Edge to go rescue Maisie. It’s all Hollywood, man, but I can’t say as I disagree. The alternative wouldn’t benefit this country one iota.”

  “And they want deniability,” Trent said softly. “In case it all goes wrong. They want a disavowed unit taking the blame.”

  “Goes without saying.”

  “All right.”

  “Good. You hear from Silk yet?”

  “Nothing.” Trent checked his cell again but saw no missed calls or messages. “And Doug, if it’s just the two of us I want a better team backing us up than the Thrusters.”

  Doug was quiet for a few seconds and then sighed. “As usual it’s fucking political. Is there anyone else you can find to be a third man?”

  Trent narrowed his eyes. A thought had just crossed his mind, brighter than the trail of a blazing comet.

  “You know something,” he smiled into his empty cup, “there just might be.”

  23

  Silk woke with good intentions. He would cook breakfast, or at least push the button on the coffee machine and butter a couple of bagels. He would spend a little more time with Jenny and at least try to put Susie Brewster out of his mind. He would contact Trent and try to explain—if only a little—why he didn’t want the team involved.

  He crept into the kitchen sometime shortly after 06:00, careful not to wake Jenny, and reached for a folded down bag of coffee. Some kind of Christmas blend, he noticed. Why the hell are we still drinking Christmas blend?

  Then his phone rang, loud in the dawn silence, making him drop the bag on the floor. He didn’t even stoop down to pick it up. He saw the caller ID. Brewster. At this time? Can’t be good news.

  “Yes?”

  “They found Freddie Knott, Adam.”

  The tone of her voice made his heart sink down to the level of the bag of coffee. “Is he . . .?”

  “Dead? Yes. Murdered? Yes. Thoughtless? Yeah.”

  “Missed out on the gym, huh?”

  “You got it.”

  Silk knew he shouldn’t ask, but couldn’t help himself. “Hangover?”

  Brewster gave a joyless laugh. “Stopped getting ‘em months ago. Or maybe one just rolls on into another. It’s all the same.”

  “I’ll make an unscheduled appearance. What’s the address?”

  Brewster reeled it off. “Hey, Rosenthal’s here. I didn’t call you to make an appearance. I called you to warn you.”

  “I know, I know. Five down one to go. I get it.” And here he was, preparing to serve breakfast in bed to his oblivious wife.

  What the hell were you thinking?

  Silk picked up the coffee. “I’ll see you later.”

  He put the cell down on top of the counter, immediately checked all the doors and windows and made sure the CCTV was up and running. Jenny still slept and seeing her there so vulnerable firmed up his resolve. He couldn’t stay here.

  Did the killer have his identity? He seemed to know the whereabouts of all his other victims, even when the task-force did not. Silk wondered for the first time if the guy was an insider, a cop. Rosenthal? No, he didn’t have the balls or the smarts to pull this off. Same problem with old Lemmy and most of the gang. Of course, men could change over time. Just look at me.

  Silk left the house without saying goodbye or leaving a note. Anything he said now would either be a lie or just make everything worse. The drive to Sun Valley was actually refreshing, the roads relatively empty at this time of day. As the sunrise deepened and became a mix of mottled red, gold and shadow he stopped off at a Denny’s to grab food and some ready cash from the ATM outside. He wanted to be fluid now, fast and always ready to move. He killed time with a delicious helping of Moons Over My Hammy; anything to take the attention away from Brewster in case that sneaky bastard Rosenthal had seen her on the phone. Ab
out an hour later he rolled up to the crime scene and parked by the curb. The area was a loud mess of conversation between cops, flashing blue lights, police cars and at least one coroner’s van.

  Silk took a deep breath and climbed out of the car. He had no right to be here. But right and wrong had never gotten in his way before.

  He walked right up to the youngest cop he could see. “What happened here?”

  Flat eyes gave nothing away. “And you are?”

  “A friend.” Silk almost said “of Freddie’s” but stopped himself in time. Knott would have been living under a different name.

  “You knew the deceased?”

  “He’s dead?” Silk assumed a shocked expression. “How?”

  The cop looked bored and almost eager to talk. There was now a splash of sympathy in that even expression, and Silk had been trained to recognize and extract every ounce of it.

  Then Rosenthal appeared, shoving a rookie cop out of the way as he exited the house, eyes locking onto Silk’s as if they were heat seekers.

  “Silk! What the fuck are you doing here?”

  Silk made a face. “Goddam it.”

  The cop looked a little hurt. “So you don’t know the victim?”

  Silk shrugged. “Yeah. I knew him. We were old friends.”

  By that time Rosenthal had blundered over. “Didn’t you hear me, asshole? I said—”

  “I heard you,” Silk murmured. “I chose not to answer you.”

  Rosenthal stared, flabby cheeks turning red. He seemed about to explode, so much so that the young cop moved back a few paces, but then a crafty gleam entered his eyes. “Don’t matter how you got here, asshole. Your ole cohort in there, your partner in crime, he’s lying in a great thick pool of blood. A piece of meat ready for the slab.” Rosenthal paused then said, “Guess who’s next?” with enough venom in his voice to take down a charging bull.

  Silk saw Brewster coming up behind the big cop. The faint shake of her head told him that the task force hadn’t yet found any leads. “Who knows?” Silk said. “In a way, you were connected to the gang, Reggie. Maybe it’ll be you.”