Davic almost seemed to read her mind. “Nobody’s coming to rescue you, bitch. You Americans and your heroes.” He spat down on her. “They died out a long time ago, along with your last chance.”
The tails of the whip caressed her face gently.
*
Trent bounced inadvertently off a wall, but he managed to stabilize his fall and run even faster. He counted doors as he ran. The sequence wasn’t the same as down below. He smashed in one door and found himself inside a games room, complete with full-size pool table and TVs tuned to betting channels playing quietly to themselves. A maid sat in a daze, eyeliner smudged in black trails down her cheeks where she’d been crying. Trent told her it was almost over, then backed out of there and ran on. The white carpet sank like a sandy beach beneath his feet. The next room opened into a shadowy room, unlit, but the gentle lapping of disturbed waters betrayed its purpose.
The indoor pool.
Trent didn’t stop. He dived straight in.
40
Radford watched as Hadleigh unleashed the big weapons. RPGs and heavy-caliber rifles came into view. His heart tripped with worry.
“We still have people in there, Hadleigh.”
“I’m well aware of that,” Hadleigh rejoined, though it came out like aam well aware of thaaat. “Take the girl the hell away and get her to safety. We’re going in after Trent before the Frenchies arrive, but we ain’t takin’ no chances, boy.”
Radford backed off. Hadleigh unleashed the first RPG into the side of the house.
*
Collins felt reality slipping away and rolled on to her back so the pain would keep her lucid. The first thing she saw above her was the picture of Blanka Davic, the second the pool where it had been drawn.
Damn this psycho. If a man like this can live a life like this then the world is so lost.
Pain flooded her. Darkness swam before her eyes. She reached deep down, deep into that roiling black core that fuelled her. In there she was hard, as unbreakable as obsidian. In there she chewed up events and men like this and spat them back out.
Screaming.
Instantly, her face set. Her lips drew tight. She opened her eyes once more to see the pool right above her and the faces of guards and a psycho staring down at her.
“What did you say?” Davic’s voice.
Collins searched. Did I say anything? Davic’s face loomed as he leaned in closer. His other face—the inlaid one—stared over his shoulder. Damn, that’s freaky. Then she saw the shadow, the figure cutting through the watery gloom above, and saw him land on the bottom of the pool.
Saw Davic’s inlay get an extra eyebrow . . .
. . . and knew.
She repeated her words. “You’re going to hell, cocksucker.”
Davic unfurled the whips so that the tips landed on her stomach. “We’ll see who gets there first.”
Collins just smiled, prepared for anything.
The explosion shook the entire house. Davic’s men ducked down, faces suddenly terrified. Davic himself dived for the door, instincts on overdrive. The reason everyone ducked was because the explosion came from right overhead, from the strip-charge Trent had placed there. It took a further few seconds for cracks to begin to stitch their way across the pool’s glass bottom, from one side of the deranged mien to the other, then a few trickles of water, and then the ceiling gave way in a mighty deluge. Collins, full of adrenaline, rolled away from the main surge, barely feeling the agony lance through her back. Davic’s men collapsed beneath the inundation, totally flattened and helpless. Water cascaded down and flooded the room, gushing to every corner and lapping back again in heaving swells. Implements and pictures fell off the walls, joining the flood. Men floundered powerlessly. The water level rose since the inflow was higher than the outflow.
Collins struggled against the tide. Water rushed up her nose and into her mouth, making her cough and choke. A knife floated past her, its blade nicking the side of her head and drawing blood.
Figures.
The flood was now high enough to swim in. She kicked up with her legs, raising her head. Her eyes stung. A guard slammed into her by accident. She kicked him hard, making him spin. As she swirled she saw that the door to the corridor was slightly open, letting water escape. Had Davic made it out?
She sincerely hoped not. A guard was clawing at the edge of the door, riding the waves and trying to enlarge the opening. A second was holding the man’s feet. Surreal, considering what they’d been doing a few minutes ago. Then, on another rotation, she saw a figure splash down from above and knew exactly who it was.
“Trent!” she screamed. “Here!”
*
Trent resurfaced and struck out hard for Collins. The FBI agent was struggling, probably exhausted and staving off the pain. A guard struck at him, bobbing in from the side, mindless of his own peril. Trent ducked under and acted instantly. This was no time to fuck around Razor’s Edge style; the gloves were well and truly off here. He stabbed the guard in the gut and moved on, jack-knifing toward the floor and toward what he hoped were Collins’ legs. When he got there he grabbed her and pushed up. She elbowed him in the face. He surfaced, spluttering.
“Hold on. It’s me.”
“Oh shit. It thought it was that barrel-prodder who wanted my pants.”
In the moment, Trent lost his reserve. “Well, I’m not a barrel-prodder at least.”
The sound of a gunshot exploded through the room. One of the guards had held on to his weapon. As Trent pinpointed him, another guard rolled into the man, sending him swirling. The problem now was going to be getting the hell out of here and staying in one piece.
Then a great explosion shook them. The house itself actually groaned and started to tilt.
Collins grabbed him around the neck. “Oh, fuck. What the hell’s that?”
Trent could guess.
*
Radford ducked as the RPG hit the side of the house, spewing mortar and pieces of brick every which way. Quickly, he ran to Hadleigh’s side.
“For God’s sake!” he cried. “It’s not just assholes in there. Davic has house staff too.”
“Fuck ‘em,” was the gung-ho reply. “That was an explosion I heard from inside. We’re going in on my terms. Not some Serb’s. This is how I roll. You and your Girl’s Aloud buddies never did quite match up.”
Radford cursed. He glanced back at Maisie. She nodded as if to say “do it”. She probably had friends in there too.
Hadleigh cried, “Give ‘em another one, boys!”
Another RPG burst against the foundation of the house, further igniting the explosive one of Hadleigh’s men had placed there. A line of detonations went off like a long firecracker. Radford ran toward the open garage door and the gleaming cars within. Hadleigh’s men were covering all exits, but so far no one had emerged.
Then the entire left-hand side of the house tilted, walls crumbling. Radford came to a sudden stop.
“God help them.”
He ran for the collapsing house at a dead sprint.
*
Trent and Collins fell as the door to the Belladonna Room was finally forced wide open. Water flooded toward the exit. Men tumbled in the surge. Trent grabbed another knife as it floated by and forced it into Collins’ hand.
“This is it,” he shouted in her ear. “Fight now, forget the pain and we might make it home.”
Through the door they shot, smashing into the far wall and floating further down the corridor. Trent scrambled to his knees with water pouring out of his clothes and off his body. A guard rolled up to him, completely disoriented. Trent smashed him over the bridge of the nose. Further down the corridor a guard was on his feet, feeling for a weapon. When he couldn’t find one he charged them. Collins rolled through the water, grunting as her back came into contact with the sodden carpet, hitting him like a bowling ball. Trent finished him before he bounced off the floor.
Collins rose, face twisted in a rictus, blood even now mixing with
the dripping water. “Let’s get the—”
Trent swiveled as she stopped talking. Another guard had fallen out of the room and was busy collecting himself. Collins climbed to her feet. “That’s him.”
The guard looked up, ferret eyes locking onto Trent’s and then Collins’. When he saw her his whole face lit up and his mouth curled viciously.
“Still here, bitch?” He coughed and water sprayed like a shower around him. “Boss says you’re going in the ground.”
“We’re right here.” Trent sloshed forward.
“Today.” The guard shrugged. “Or next week.” He ran at them then, head down, striking Trent and bouncing off his bulk into the nearby wall. Rebounding and sprawling in the water that flowed downhill at Collins’ feet.
The FBI agent smiled grimly as she knelt down, knees either side of his head, and pushed hard. “This where you wanted to be?” she hissed malevolently, pushing and forcing his head into the wet carpet, beneath the flow of water. “Men like you,” she rabbit-punched the back of his neck, “deserve worse, believe me.”
She punched again and again, twisting her bottom so that his face was crushed hard below. The water began to dissipate now, but still ran up to the guard’s ear. Collins leaned as hard as she could, tears in her eyes, until Trent laid a gentle hand atop her shoulder.
“You got him, Claire. It’s done.”
The use of her name pierced the bloody mist. She looked up, hopeful. Trent’s eyes went wide as the ceiling sagged above them. Walls cracked down the middle with a sound like an earthquake. Plaster and chunks of wood rained down. Trent hauled her up and stumbled on. A joist speared down beside him, glancing off his shoulder, forcing an involuntary scream. The beam of wood splashed in their wake. Debris dropped onto them. At the end of the corridor Trent could make out the winding staircase, now physically twisting back and forth, creating the world’s weirdest optical illusion. Beyond that was the open door to the parking garage, but it was all so far away. The ceiling slumped again, now inches above their heads. Collins stumbled, but forced herself on. Trent ducked as the ceiling dipped even lower. Parts of it began to crack apart, revealing large holes. Items from the upstairs rooms started to slide through, some getting stuck, others tumbling headlong. The dead body of a guard almost crushed them, splashing down only inches in their wake. Unbelievably, in the midst of all this chaos, two successive gunshots rang out. A guard was shooting at them. Bullets slammed past Trent’s head, but he didn’t even slow down. The parking garage was getting closer but they just weren’t moving fast enough.
Not gonna make it!
Then, above the shake and groan of the house, the collapse of lintels and joists, a great animal-like roar of power reverberated. Trent saw the flash of red through the door ahead and knew instantly what it meant.
Radford. Had to be.
With a last desperate effort, using every ounce of his remaining strength, he half carried, half dragged Collins through the bedlam. In the end he threw her over his shoulder firefighter-style despite her throaty bleats of complaint and the blows that rained down on his spine. He raced headlong past the twisted staircase just as compression smashed it into thousands of splinters. Shards pricked his skin, some penetrating, some staying put. Collins squealed out loud, hitting him again.
Trent set himself and hurled them through the door. The flash of red he’d seen earlier was indeed the Ferrari V12 with Radford at the wheel. The Edge man didn’t need to speak, the play was obvious. No finesse here. Trent threw himself through the open door, twisting as he landed in the passenger seat with Collins on his lap. Then Radford gunned the engine and the spectacular roar and scream of powerful Ferrari engineering filled the world. Trent was knocked back into the depths of his seat. Collins’ head smashed back into his jaw. The car took off like a missile as wreckage plummeted all around it, even in front of it, but the bright red nose plowed through. As the garage collapsed and the entire left-hand side of the house finally gave way, the vehicle sped through. Radford jammed on the brakes when they were clear, feeling the big tail twitch, and they came to a stop alongside Hadleigh’s dirt-stained, bland workers’ van.
The CIA team leader was shaking his head. “You’re an asshole, Radford. Speeding around like that. And you, Trent.” He snorted. “Always have to be first in last out.”
Trent breathed slowly.
Radford gunned the engine, happy to see Hadleigh covering his ears as he radioed his men.
Collins leaned forward. “I am not staying in this position, Trent. I ain’t the kind of girl who sits on a guy’s lap in a Ferrari, no matter what the situation. Are we clear?”
Trent didn’t smile. He could see the wounds crisscrossing her back, the hanging flesh, the bloody holes. “You should lean forward,” he said. “We’ll get you straight to a hospital.”
“And tell them what?”
He shrugged. “We’ll let the guys back home worry about that. Dan, where’s Maisie?”
“Hadleigh secured her in his van.”
“That asshole. Still . . . it’s a team effort, I guess.”
Radford aimed the car toward the gate, not surprised to see flashing lights gathering outside. “Oh, oh.”
Trent leaned his head back. “I guess Davic got away?”
“I think so,” Collins said. “I never saw him after you blew the pool. Oh, and by the way, thanks for the rescue.”
“Any time.”
“Well. Let’s hope you never have to do it again.”
But in her heart, in her soul, and in her brain Claire Collins knew what kind of man Blanka Davic was. For years he’d enslaved the daughter of the man and woman he’d killed. He’d employed deep resources, showing black tentacles that snaked deep inside the government. He was a master of death, torment and bloody destruction.
“Davic,” she said. “That maniac mentioned he was coming to America. He seemed . . . sure . . . that he’d get some kind of revenge against the FBI and CIA.”
“A madman’s delusion,” Trent said as the flashing lights grew closer. “That ambulance there looks good. Stop, Dan. Just stop.”
“He’s crazy. More than just a mafia boss.”
Trent frowned. Radford exited the car and called to the paramedics as the French police closed in. His mind went not to his new dilemma or to the machinations of Blanka Davic, not even to Collins as she was carefully extracted from the car, but to Adam Silk and to the welfare of his old friend.
A shiver had just vibrated through his entire body, and not due to the cold water soaking his clothing. It was a shiver of fearful anticipation, as if someone had just walked across his grave.
Only the face that came to mind wasn’t his own—it was Silk’s.
41
Silk listened as Brewster explained her findings. After a moment he zoned out and wandered over to the window. The darkness outside was illuminated only by the inadequate streetlights and the occasional passing car. He studied the road in the wash of new headlights but saw nothing unusual.
Getting complacent, he thought. As part of the Edge he’d have been out there crawling through the hedgerows. But the thing was, this case had reverted him, sent him back in time to that young man with some of the best friends he’d ever had. Tanya, and before her the girl with no name. This was his homage to those days and to them, his tribute. He turned away from the darkness and his cell rang.
Jenny.
“Hi,” he answered immediately, seeing a light at the end of the case but not the tunnel. “You okay?”
“Another night, Adam? Really? Another goddamn night?”
“I’m sorry. I checked in at a hotel. Please, Jenny, it’s safer for you this way.” At least that part was the truth.
“I’m so sick of hearing you say that.”
“Look, we caught a break. Well actually it was through hard work, but we’re close to cracking this thing now. I’ll be home soon.”
His wife sighed, accepting it. “Promise?”
“I prom—�
�
His words were interrupted as Brewster ran back into the room, phone held high, shouting: “The burger van’s shut! Closed. Has been all day!”
Silk blinked hard. Shit. That means . . .
Jenny whispered, “Who’s that, Adam?”
“Don’t worry. It’s just—”
“Don’t worry! I’ll show you how fucking worried I can be.”
Jenny hung up. Hard. Silk stared at Brewster.
“If Seager shut down the burger van that means he’s finished.”
“It also means he knows who you are.”
Silk stared back at the bare, murky windows. “And maybe you.”
The kitchen door crashed off its hinges.
42
The next few moments passed in slow motion, each moment frozen in time and memory, a living, breathing sluggish nightmare.
Silk launched himself at Brewster, tackling her around the waist and forcing her over the back of the big leather sofa. The phone went flying. Her eyes went wild. A figure took shape in the doorway: tall, waving a gun, and brandishing a knife.
Julian Seager or Jason Toft. Ex-army. Ex-son. Strong, capable and furious as all hell. Brimming with craziness, he leapt into the room and his eyes were like the pits of hell, full of fire, and spitting with venom; his face a rictus of uncontrolled hate. The gun bucked in his hand and bullets flew. Two struck the seat back. Silk bent low over Brewster, shielding her body. A third bullet thudded into the wall above, dislodging a picture that smashed over the back of his head. Hastily, he scrambled on his knees right to the edge of the sofa and peered round. He saw a pair of legs.
Too far away to reach and tackle before he was shot.
Silk pulled his head back just as a bullet flew by. Another impacted against the wall. By the sound of it Seager was using a standard Glock. The fact that he’d already fired five rounds meant very little. There were plenty more in the mag. Brewster’s hiss made him turn.
The Disavowed Book 2 - In Harm's Way Page 18
