34
Trent turned the van around and parked so that its nose pointed towards freedom. He couldn’t tell if the gates were reinforced, but the slender wrought iron looked more decorative than purpose-made and, if all went to plan, it wouldn’t matter anyway.
More guards milled around the area. Trent wandered around to the back of the van, waiting for Radford and Collins to take a cursory look at the pool. It was the staple way to start the day for a builder, to assess the job at hand. Trent surveyed the area.
To the side of the van lay the work in progress: the new infinity pool. The hole was dug, the plumbing complete. The light niche was in place, though Radford could be heard grumbling about a shoddy job. Collins wandered over to the mountain side of the pool to inspect the pump and filter. As expected, her movement drew away all the guards.
Trent glided around the blind side of the van, next to the house. Up ahead sat the kitchen entrance, door open and a guard straining his eyes to see what was going on. Trent prepared himself. This was going to go down noisy, so it might as well start now.
From the other side of the pool voices drifted.
Collins: “Won’t take long to hang the liner. And no, I don’t date men. Not often anyway.”
Guard: “I’d be worth the exception.”
Collins: “Really? My girlfriend’s not the easiest to get along with.”
Radford: “Careful, gentlemen. This one’s a ballbuster.”
Collins: “And that one’s dickless. Or so it seems lately.”
Laughter, most of it mocking.
Guard: “How old are you? Twenty five? Twenty six?”
Collins: “Oh man, you are coming home with me.”
The kitchen guard now stepped into the open, his back to Trent. Knife in hand, hidden behind his wrist with the point aiming toward his elbow, he darted in, slitting the man from ear to ear in one smooth movement. Gurgles erupted. Trent let the man fall then shoved his body underneath the van, into the middle so it wouldn’t obstruct the wheels.
The kitchen door stood open. Trent clicked the ear bud carefully concealed beneath their Sanstone-inscribed builder’s caps.
“Let’s roll.”
Instant mayhem erupted across the garden. Collins pulled out her handgun and fired. Three guards went down in a second, clutching their legs and screaming. Radford was among them in an instant, kicking their weapons away and rolling them into the deep, concrete-lined pool. There would be no way back up the sheer sides, not quickly. The other two guards were quicker but fared no better. One got a shot off, but his bullet flew way high. Collins hit the floor, firing back prone. The guard collapsed, moaning. The last man had actually frozen in shock, eyes wide, but now collected himself and took a second to line Collins up in his sights. That was his mistake. Radford, eyes everywhere, saw the danger and grabbed the man’s gun hand, twisting back and down and dislocating it. The gun clattered away. Radford hefted the body and threw him over the side of the pool. Screams resounded from wall to wall before a crunch stopped them.
Trent beckoned. “Hurry.”
He slipped inside the door frame, flicking his gaze around and evaluating everything. A double row of worktops split the kitchen area in half; cupboards and hanging pots and pans lined the walls. At least three ovens stood at ground level and two American-style fridge-freezers. An older woman in a chef’s hat stared at him across the worktops. She had a cleaver raised high in her right hand but Trent didn’t think it was aimed toward him.
More at the already dead joint of beef on the surface.
He put a finger to his lips and moved inside. “Speak English?” he asked. “French?”
She spouted a bunch of babble that could have been Hungarian for all he knew. Of course, the workers in Davic’s house could be from any part of the world.
“Maisie?” he tried. “Maisie Miller? Do you know where?” He spread his arms out and shrugged.
The woman shook her head, looking scared. She had every right to be. The girl who was Maisie Miller undoubtedly went under a different name now and Davic’s ‘help’ would be forbidden to talk. Not only that, the sound of pursuit was coming through the kitchen door.
Trent dived headlong, already knowing Collins and Radford were behind him and blocking his firing line. He scrambled beneath the worktops, grabbed the chef’s legs and pulled them out from under her as bullets whizzed through the air. She landed hard but alive, and started swinging her cleaver at his head.
Trent ducked, swearing. The cleaver tore a strip from his builder’s jacket. It could have been his arm. He caught her wrist on the next blow and disarmed her, then pointed back at the worktops.
“Hide.”
Collins hammered the door with bullets. One guard fell through, unable to pull up, and went down hard, spraying the door with his blood. Radford dropped to his knees and fired at an angle, giving their enemy two hostile areas to worry about. Trent headed for the kitchen door that led deeper into the house.
Collins’ voice came through their comms. “Reload.”
He whirled and let loose a few bullets, covering for her. Radford astutely chose to wait for her then reloaded himself when she was back in the game. Trent helped cover for them both.
Back to the kitchen door. The plans showed a wide corridor leading to something like a dining room, then a living area and another big room, all situated on the front side of the house. To the rear, doors led into smaller rooms unknown, marked on the plans only as ‘Living one-four’. After that a wide, stunning set of winding stairs led to the second floor. Trent kicked open doors on both sides as he went. He took a moment to gauge the scene through the sprawling glass windows at the front of the house, but the garden and driveway seemed empty.
Maybe all the guards were converging on the kitchen. Or maybe they were lying in wait ahead.
Trent slowed, took a breath and waited for Collins to catch up. Radford stayed at the kitchen door for now, stopping pursuit.
“I’m not used to taking direction, Aaron,” Collins muttered. “What are you waiting for now?”
“The distraction.”
Trent counted under his breath.
Four . . . three . . . two . . . one . . .
An explosion rocked the house. Through the open door to his left he saw Blanka Davic’s high outer wall burst inwards. Debris blasted everywhere, some even spattering against the glass windows like hard rain. One cracked, splitting from side to side. Now Davic would think he was under attack both from within and from the front. He would be forced to split his army of guards.
“Well done, Radford,” Collins said. “Least he’s good for something.”
Trent shuffled away, rose and proceeded down the corridor. “Keep watch ahead. There’s a small hall and a staircase at that end.”
“I know. I’m not an idiot, Trent.”
Ignoring her, he opened another door, revealing the Davic’s living area. A woman dressed as a maid stood in the far corner, terrified. A man stood behind a vacuum cleaner, frozen. Trent scanned the room. Nowhere for anyone to hide. Still he lingered a moment, taking it all in. This was Davic’s lair, his headquarters, the belly of the beast. This was where all his criminal plans were hatched, surrounded by exquisite leather and expensive lace, dozens of hundred-dollar bottles of scotch and likely stolen works of art, a memory sofa, 4K 50” TV and what appeared to be liquid crystal glass which, when activated, changed from transparent to translucent in the blink of an eye.
“The glass,” Trent told the maid. “Switch the glass.” It would help keep them safe and further distract Davic’s men.
“You know,” Collins said as he reappeared. “One thing we never considered. What about all the other captives Davic has here?”
Trent set his face hard. “One goddamn thing at a time.”
He saw movement ahead. Collins aimed but didn’t fire. An almost nude man dressed as half a zebra exploded from a room up ahead, on the side by the mountain, and raced off toward the far hallway.
“It’s a zebra.”
“Har, har. Only the top half. The bottom half’s naked.”
“I wouldn’t know. Can we focus now?”
“By all means.” Collins waved him on. “Just keep an eye open for his other half. The worrying thing is—I wasn’t shocked or even surprised seeing that.”
Trent made a face. “The clubs you frequent, it doesn’t surprise me.”
“You’re saying I’m jaded?”
Trent slowed as they reached the ‘zebra’s’ door. Behind them Radford continued to guard the kitchen door.
“Oh dear, we’ll have to continue another time,” Trent said. “You ready?”
“For anything.”
Trent kicked the door then let it slam back against its hinges. The room beyond was a psychiatrist’s dream, a mix of costumes ranging from animals to pirates and knights and even a cardinal, to fixed racks, whips, chains and leather outfits. From a writhing white python in a tank to a terrifying anaconda. Images from porn to pictures of Paris in the spring and the image of a hunted white tiger ranged alongside each other across the walls. More evil-looking weapons hung from tiny hooks on the far side of the room, their edges gleaming.
“Now,” Collins whispered. “Now I’m shocked.”
“You are?”
“Aren’t you?”
“I don’t think so. I feel . . . no different.”
“Shit. The FBI’s gonna set a shrink on your ass when you get outta here, bro.”
“You think I need a shrink?” Trent shook his head. “Check out the goddamn ceiling.”
He backed out, leaving Collins staring upward. Her muffled cry didn’t surprise him. The ceiling was see-through and formed the bottom of the rooftop pool. That meant the denizens of the bizarre room could spy on the swimmers above. Odd, controlling, but not too unsettling. The real weirdness came in the form of the visage etched on the bottom of the pool—Blanka Davic’s smiling face staring down over all.
“He thinks he’s a king,” Collins said as she came out. “All these wealthy kingpins are the same. Serbian. Polish. Russian. Kings are like that.”
“They are?”
“Well, some of them at least.”
Trent flattened himself against the wall as the door opened ahead and a bald man poked his head out. In his hands he held a pistol and a knife. When he saw Trent he yelled and surged forward. Trent stepped up to meet him, blocking the knife strike and turning the man around by the neck. He acted as a shield when the second guard emerged, firing blindly. Bullets struck the first man, making him dance and shake. Collins hovered behind him.
Trent held the first man upright as a third emerged. Collins was staring back down the corridor.
“Are you joining us, Radford, or just planning on staying there all day?”
The ex-MIT man’s voice floated back instantly. “Just. Waiting.” He fired a shot. “My. Chance.”
The kitchen exploded, flames licking out of the doors. Radford staggered back. The chef flew out after him. Radford scrambled over to her, patting out the tiny flames that danced across her back.
“Shot the cooker connection off,” he said. “Waited. Blew the sucker.”
Trent threw the dead body at the third man, then followed with a leap. A bullet zinged under his arm, again shredding the roomy builder’s jacket. These things should be standard issue. They gave the illusion of a larger target. He landed with a forehead butt right on the third man’s nose. Blood gushed and a heavy crunch signified unconsciousness a second before he slumped to the ground.
Trent shook his head, groggy. Collins sidled up to his back. “Stay back now. I’ll take point.”
He knew it was useless to argue. Pressing both hands to his temple he followed in her wake, hearing a cautious Radford coming up at his six. Trent looked back at the chef.
“Risky.”
“She ran at me.” Radford shrugged. “It’s a charisma thing.”
Collins snorted. By now they were passing the door that the guards had jumped out from. Nothing else moved in there, but Collins whispered that it was a comms room.
“Keep moving,” Trent said. “The longer we take the harder this is going to be.”
Collins clearly agreed, for she moved faster, gaining the end of the corridor and peering between the wide, angled rungs of the winding staircase. It disappeared up through a hole on the floor. They could discern nothing above them.
“What I wouldn’t give now for a heat-sig device,” she breathed, mainly into her comms.
Howe came back. “You and me both.”
Then Jones’ voice spoke up. “Be advised. Second team is in position. Their team leader seems to think you’re blowing the op.”
Trent slapped at his ear bud so hard his grogginess returned. “Tell Hadleigh to stand down. The op is proceeding as expected. A third of Davic’s guards are down. Three civilians unharmed. We’re heading upstairs.”
“Don’t forget the parking garage.”
Trent hesitated, left foot already on the first stair. The double garage was attached to the far wall, accessible through an inner door. It also had an upstairs. Trent knew the choices were stacked either way, there was no right decision here.
“Damn. Split up. Collins and Radford take the stairs. I’ll clear the garage and meet you up top.”
Trent scrambled off before they could stop him. Collins immediately started to abuse Radford as they ascended the stairs. Trent clicked open the door to the inner garage and stepped through. Immediately he was blinded.
The rectangular space was lit almost to the point that made his eyes ache by spotlights embedded into the ceiling. Three sparkling newly washed cars added to the brightness: a white Ferrari F12 Berlinetta, a yellow Porsche 911 Turbo S, and a crazy looking Pagani. Trent paused for a second and almost paid the price. A blond-haired giant pounded around the front of the Porsche, head down, and barreled straight into Trent before he could get his gun arm up. The blow to the forehead no doubt added to the lapse in his reactions, but it hurt no less when he landed on the base of his spine, the blond giant stomping down toward his stomach. Trent twisted fast, but the huge boot still scraped down his back, sending shards of pain shooting through his body. He rolled, coming up almost against the low front bumper of the Porsche, its big wide bulk filling his vision. Again he didn’t react fast enough as the man grabbed him by the jacket, lifted, and threw him onto the hood.
The builder’s jacket ripped, the zip whizzing up fast. The giant unbalanced and fell alongside Trent on the hood of the car. Trent smashed an elbow into his neck. The man’s face dented the car, caving in the metal. Trent smashed again, slamming his opponent’s face even further into the yellow body.
“Now it’s original.” Trent struck for a third time. “Comes with your very own face print.” He slithered to the ground. The man stayed in position, held atop the car simply because his head was buried in it. His left leg was twitching a little, but Trent put it down to excitement. Quickly, he scouted the rest of the space, gathered up the car keys to hinder or help any escape, and slipped into a back room. A discreet cheap-and-nasty staircase led to the second floor; no doubt intended for the staff. Trent sprinted to the top, two steps at a time, and burst out into the higher room.
Three men stared back at him. They lay in makeshift beds on the floor, wrapped in sheets. All looked like they’d recently woken and had no real idea where they were. Trent held his hand palm out to them.
“Stay low. Stay here. Don’t move a muscle.”
He shrugged out of the builder’s jacket a little reluctantly, left it in a sorry pile on the floor, then glanced into the upstairs hallway. Collins and Radford were just ahead, moving slowly as they approached the first door. Trent made a deliberate whistling sound, then waved when they turned to look at him.
“All clear.”
“Good. We—”
From up ahead a dozen men suddenly burst into the corridor. Three abrea
st they sprang forward, firing their weapons on full auto.
Collins dived straight for the stairwell, striking the wood and clumping down a few steps. Trent fell backwards into the room he’d just vacated. Radford leapt to his left, straight through the nearest door they’d been about to investigate.
Bullets shredded the walls.
But more importantly, through his comms, Trent heard Radford say, “Maisie?”
And finally, in Trent’s ear and relayed from the ops center, Howe’s voice. “Shit. They’ve been running you through some kind of recognition software system. Davic just went nuts. They know it’s you, Trent. The fucker’s practically foaming at the mouth!”
35
Silk waited impatiently for Brewster’s call. The more he sat there and thought about the Seager family the more he felt in danger. Knott had hurt that poor family, somehow, in some unforeseen, tragic way, and the past had finally caught up to seek recompense.
In the form of a serial killer.
Shit. Talk about your hard luck life.
Silk paced the hotel room, then drove out to Brewster’s station house and bought a burger and fried onions, again complimenting the guy on their taste. He kept one careful eye out for Rosenthal, expecting this place to be a regular haunt of the overweight cop’s, and a second eye out for his would-be murderer.
When Brewster called he wiped onion from his lips and ducked into a nearby alley.
“Yes? Did you get anything?”
“Man, I should say. Get this. The Seagers never filed a complaint. Then, about two months after you say the incident occurred, a Tony Seager was admitted for alcoholism. Knott slashed him, made him cry in front of his family, right? Seems like he couldn’t cope with the humiliation and took to drinking. Two months after that . . .” Brewster paused, sighing. “Tony Seager died at the wheel of a car. Crashed and burned. He was three times over the limit. After that—”
“Family fell apart?” Silk spoke only to help quell the guilt eating like a nest of rats at his heart.
The Disavowed Book 2 - In Harm's Way Page 15
