“Give us fifteen and then send in whatever guards you have left,” she said to Walker. “Let’s go.”
****
Before heading directly for the stairs, Collins teased the security override code out of Walker. His personal code, not the blanket one. That may be compromised, she thought. Having Walker’s code should give them a small edge.
Which they badly needed, since they were just two against a force of at least twenty.
Collins raced down the stairs carefully, gun drawn and pointed ahead. At intervals she leaned over the handrail, checking the stairwell. “We can’t let these people get away with something potentially dangerous,” she whispered to London. “Understood?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Collins stopped; breathing deeply. “I’ve changed my mind about calling me ma’am. Next time I’ll shoot you in the leg. Understood?”
“Yes . . . boss.”
“That’s much better.”
They continued.
Collins stopped at the bottom of the stairs, noticing a security door to the left that was marked basement level. The thing looked sturdy and was keypad locked. Quickly, she keyed in Walker’s code and heard a muffled click.
“C’mon.”
Together they inched through the door, finding themselves in a windowless anteroom whose sole purpose it seemed was to serve as the entrance to a warren. Six doors stood facing them, all closed.
“Reception,” London read the signs aloud. “Lab One. Lab Two. Security. Lab—”
“I can read,” Collins hissed. “The elevator probably sends people to the room of their choice whilst the stairs lead here. Quick. Check them all.”
She ran to the door that led to Lab Two, dialed in the code, and inched it open. All was quiet on the other side and she saw lab technicians staring back at her in fear. London reappeared at her side.
“Nothing.”
They moved on. Collins unsealed the door to Lab Four and heard it straight away. With a click of her fingers she signaled London over. She pointed silently to the door. “You ready?”
He took a breath. “Sure.”
Collins dropped to a crouch, thinking they would have to work on his enthusiasm in combat situations. Or maybe he was saving it for the fight. Either way, the next few minutes would tell her a lot about the man within the boy. Carefully, she duck-walked forward, staying below the level of the cubicle’s Plexiglas within the room. Each station was three-quarter surrounded by a curve of brushed steel, three foot high. When she came to an open station she pulled London inside.
Hard voices filled the room.
“DR579 should be behind this door, sir, if what Curran told us is correct. We should be quick though. The cops are already on their way.”
Another voice cut in harshly. “But they will meet with some unexpected obstructions when they arrive.”
Harsh laughter rang out. Collins readied herself to take a quick peek through the Plexiglas. As she started to move another voice boomed out, strident and authoritative, one that sent an irrational sliver of fear slicing through her guts and to her spine.
She recognized the voice of Blanka Davic.
“Do it now. And kill everything you see.”
Collins froze. She sank back down to her knees. Blanka Davic! Here? What the hell is he up to now?
London made faces at her, clearly confused. She paused, trying to adjust, to adapt to this new development. The man who’d tortured her less than two weeks ago was standing not ten feet from the barrel of her eager Glock. But what was he doing in LA? Something to do with Henry Curran for sure.
And what’s DR579?
She took a deep breath, determined not to let Davic’s presence upset her resolve. The underlying facts of their situation remained the same. It was up to them to stop this attack.
“FBI!” she shouted, standing straight up with the Glock poised. “Stop what you’re doing!”
She had known Davic’s men would be grouped together. The layout of the room made it impossible to spread out too far. London rose beside her and she motioned him away, spreading their own target. Six faces flew toward her, weapons swiveling fast. Another stared at her from in front of a huge round tube, something like a clear gigantic test tube that ran vertically from the floor to the ceiling of the lab.
The last turned very slowly, and the grin on his face only grew as he shifted.
“Special Agent Collins?” he said, a touch of surprise lifting his deep tones. “What a very pleasant coincidence.”
“Pleasure’s all mine, asshole.”
“Not for long, I assure you. I did mean to make your acquaintance during this trip but not quite this soon.” He blew carefully on his fingers and hands.
Collins motioned at his men. “Put down your weapons.”
“You’re outgunned, bitch,” one of them grated.
“More guards are on the way.” Collins smiled with more confidence than she felt. “The police will be along shortly. Oh, and the FBI. This building’s hardwired to Wilshire too. Of course, you wouldn’t know that.”
Davic gave her a demonic grin. “The FBI on Wilshire? Don’t count on them turning up anytime soon.”
Collins hid a lurch of trepidation. What did that mean? “What are you up to, Davic? Is this your revenge? Breaking into SolDyn?”
“Maybe. Oh, excuse my manners, I forgot to ask, how’s the back?”
She ignored him. “Put the guns on the floor. Now.”
A quick glance toward London assured her that the kid was holding up well. His appointment as her partner had come from above her pay grade, a little reminder that despite her recent successes the ass-licking bureaucrats could still make you dance to their petty tunes, but young Billy was working out okay.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw a small square of light flash. It was the elevator call button, signaling that it was on its way.
“Someone is coming.” Davic caught her eye. “But who knows who?” Quickly he spoke into a wrist mic. “The moment the elevator door opens start shooting.”
Collins almost fired right then. If it wasn’t for the proximity of London she would have. Now the tension stretched tighter than a high wire. The elevator button flashed and clicked to itself. Who knew if guards or mercenaries were inside?
No one.
Collins felt the moment of action approaching. Law and pure morality dictated she couldn’t fire first, but she was confident of her reactions. She would . . .
Then she saw it.
Davic wasn’t wearing a wrist mic!
His words had been directed at the men standing around him.
The elevator announced its arrival, a chime of doom. Even before she could open her mouth the shooting started. Death filled the air. Collins squeezed a shot off, seeing her bullet hit the man to Davic’s left before throwing herself to the floor. Instantly, she crawled forward, flat out like Spiderman climbing a wall. She hugged the curve of the steel barrier. Bullets tore it apart, flashing through and ripping at it until it peeled away from its moorings in a shredded mess.
London hit the ground in front of her. His face was calm, his eyes met hers. Together, they counted a beat as they heard the guards in the elevator start shouting and firing. Again bullets smashed the lab apart. The heavy thud of shells bouncing off bulletproof glass reassured her that nothing nasty would be easily released.
London heard it too. “At least all we have to worry about is the group of gun-toting mercs!” he cried.
Collins signaled. They surged up together, already firing. The mercs had backed away as far as they could. Collins shuddered to see the building’s guards being decimated even before they escaped the steel cage of the elevator. Only two got out, diving down among the bodies of their dead comrades. Collins dropped one merc with a head shot. Her next bullet skimmed another’s armored chest, knocking him off balance.
Davic had the audacity to have turned his back on her. He was concentrating on the big glass test tube and something i
nside. DR579 had to be in there; his prize. If Davic wanted it this badly then letting him walk away with it was not a good idea.
“Cover me!”
Collins ran for it, leaping over the decimated barrier that surrounded her cubicle and then skidding across a desk. A merc shot at her but the bullet missed her by at least two feet, not even close. She dipped her head as she ran, still shooting. Another merc twisted and fell, knocking back into one of his colleagues. Automatic fire smashed into the roof, bringing tubing, pipes and metal framing crashing down. Collins flung her body into a feet-first skid, smashing the knees of the only merc in front of her as she slid. He wailed, high-pitched, as if she’d broken bones, and hit the floor harder than a heavy-duty jackhammer. Still not finished, she came up on to one knee.
Davic whirled toward her, so close she could smell the evil on him, and backhanded her across the face. A lucky blow, but one that sent her head-first into a chair. Collins lost her grip on the Glock, saw it spin away beneath another desk. Beyond Davic, his men were bringing something out of the test-tube room, something they held carefully in an open metal box the size of a small laptop. The lid was up, its contents displayed for Davic to see.
Urgency jabbed at her. She had to get to that box!
Collins flung the chair at the Serb’s legs, then rose and vaulted another desk. Her feet scattered a box of pens; a ream of white paper soared then split apart like oversized confetti, filling the air. She hit Davic hard, pushing him aside, and barreled into another man. The one with the box tried to balance it in one hand whilst bringing a weapon to bear. Collins staggered.
Davic brought his own gun around and placed the barrel against her temple.
“Not so fast.”
“Stop!”
Another shout, this one from the vocal chords of her partner, Rich London. Davic might have a gun pressed to her head, but London also had a gun pressed to the Serb’s.
Time stopped.
Collins caught her breath. They didn’t have long. Davic’s men would be regrouping behind London even now.
“A roll of the dice?” Davic’s hiss crawled with gleeful malice, the tones of a madman in his element.
Collins knew exactly what she had to do.
She sent up a silent prayer for her young partner.
And leapt . . .
17
Collins hit the man carrying the box at chest height and bore him to the ground. Behind her a shot was fired. She had no time to wonder who did what to whom before her opponent swung a right hook into her ribs, driving the air from her body. She complained quietly, not giving him the satisfaction of a cry, and attacked his vulnerabilities. A headbutt to the nose made his eyes water, a jab to the throat made him choke, a knee to the balls curled him up. After that, she wrenched the box out of his hand and cast a quick glance over its contents.
Little blue pills? That’s what Davic was after?
A foam inlay held hundreds of the pills inside several round cavities covered by hard plastic. Collins saw her adversary stir out of the corner of her eye, didn’t dare risk a glance behind her, and quickly slammed the box shut, taking a quick look at the digital security keypad. It was simple enough. Walker’s code was eight digits long.
She flashed a grim smile.
And changed the access code.
Fuck you, Davic.
The box was sturdy, secure, and would not be easy to break. Probably even had some failsafes. Whatever the outcome, she had just gained them some valuable time. She hurled the closed box at her adversary’s head and then swiveled.
Davic, on his knees, bloody, stared at her with pure hatred. “You’ll regret that, Agent Collins.”
“Yeah? Whatcha gonna do, asshole? Die?”
“Not me.” Davic’s face twisted. “Him.”
A gush of fresh blood suddenly splashed her hands where they rested on the floor. She jerked back in shock, then looked up, her eyes cringing away from a vision of sheer Hell. Davic’s men had caught Rich London. They’d stood him up on the desk above her and she hadn’t even noticed.
They’d slit his throat.
London grunted and choked as his life’s blood flowed free. His face became distorted. One of the men pushed his lifeless body off the table. Collins caught it as best she could.
“Rich? I’m sorry. So sorry.”
His face was empty; his hopes and dreams all gone.
Davic came at her. Collins crawled to the side. His fingers brushed her leg, sending a spasm of disgust shooting through her every nerve. She came up against a desk but there was nowhere to go. A loud crossfire told her the guards and the mercs were exchanging deadly metal parcels. The noise intensified as one side suddenly found a top gear. Metal bombarded from wall to wall.
Then the lab was quiet. All the shooting had stopped. With a terrible anticipation almost making her choke she met the eyes of her tormentor.
Blanka Davic grinned pitilessly. “Take her.”
18
Blanka Davic reveled in victory. How could he not? So far, every one of his carefully hatched plans had succeeded with style. The US was suffering for what had been done to him, and very soon so would the world.
Terror didn’t have to be all about huge explosions and stunning events. A man could cause more real, deep-rooted terror in a wholly different way. Davic’s way. He’d barely started and already the authorities and the people were reeling. Time to notch it up a bit.
During the drive back to his hideaway, Davic reviewed the plan. His ingenious concept was to employ a Mobile Terror Command Center. Essentially a small, ordinary truck full of motorcycles packed with explosives, it would be driven non-stop around the city, its route entirely random. Several ‘delivery boys’ would meet it at a prearranged points, activated by burner cell only after Davic sent an order, to make the plan more fluid, then a bike would be dropped off and the ‘boy’ would be sent on a short journey, driving into a predetermined target and setting off the explosives by remote as he ran away. An almost untrackable and unstoppable terrorist attack, until the authorities actually caught on to what was happening. And by then, it would be way too late.
Davic pushed back into the soft leather seat. He noticed they had entered the Bel Air area of Los Angeles and knew they were near his Control Lair. He loved all these titles, these self-aggrandizing descriptions. He worked the car phone and ordered his field captain to send off another bike, this one in the direction of a local CIA safe house. These targets were perfect foils. The public didn’t know what was happening and the authorities weren’t eager to tell them. Ergo—more terror.
And more than that—it satisfied his need for revenge against all the famous three-letter acronyms, the Edge and others, whilst at the same time concealing the true intent behind his visit to California. What could be better?
A hard thump came from the trunk of the big black Escalade. Ah, he thought. Yes, now it is even better. The reacquisition of Agent Collins hadn’t been in the meat of the plan but was a welcome twist. He had so much painful unfinished business with that self-assured, arrogant FBI bitch. He would soon see how she criticized, retorted and argued back at him with her tongue nailed to the floor.
A past memory drifted up through the fog of his lost sanity then, a fond one. The day his father had first introduced him to the pleasures of torture. Davor Davic’s “thing”, his most notorious practice, was to nail the tongues of his enemies to a desk, a table or a floor and then ask them questions. As they struggled to answer, as they tried not to black out from the pain, he evaluated their answer and, in most cases, quickly finished the job, ending their pain. Blanka Davic was not so merciful. The first time he saw a man tortured was the first real day of his life. The pleasure it instilled within him, the power, was like nothing he would ever experience.
A craving was born. A hunger that required almost constant satiation.
The property came up on the right, interrupting his precious memories. Davic waited until the vehicle had stopped and his men
had exited and surrounded him before climbing out and heading up the marble-lined steps to enter the sumptuous house. Collins was dragged in behind him, a bag over her head, and thrown at his feet.
Davic reached down and snatched the bag off, taking care to grab some of her hair in the grip. The FBI bitch stared wildly up at him as if she wanted to rip his heart out and eat it. Get in line. But don’t hold your breath.
“I want the code to that box.”
“Fuck off.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, are you okay?” he asked, sudden sincerity in his voice, the switch instant and eerie. “Need anything? Beer? Sandwich? New partner?”
Collins spat at him. Davic laughed.
“You’ll never get away with this!” she cried. “They’ll catch you and I’ll be there laughing when they throw the fuckin’ switch.”
“Catch me? They don’t even know I’m in the country.”
She kicked out, catching him a painful blow across the shins. “All right.” He backed away. “That’s enough. I’m going to enjoy teaching you the dozen different ways you can scream, Agent Collins, but for now . . .” he gave her the sly smile of a creeping predator, “I have bombs to explode. Kids to hurt. And CIA rejects to kill. A self-made terrorist’s work is just never done.”
He headed deeper into the house, ignoring Collins’ rants at his stiff back. She would regret them soon enough.
19
Trent reached Victoria within ten minutes, despite the complaining old car. He drove up the curb twice, smashed aside a garbage can, and almost leveled an idiot on a bicycle who sailed right through a red stoplight, but he reached his wife fast, and before the cops.
Victoria sat with her legs hanging out of the open car door. When Trent approached her he tried to hide feelings of shock and concern at the sight of her face.
“I hit the bastard.” She sobbed. “I fought him. But . . . but I couldn’t—”
And Victoria was in his arms for the first time in years. He felt her tears soaking his debris-covered shirt, oddly reminding him of the years they’d spent together, dueling night after night and then making up; screaming and crying about the demands of his job; realizing that their time as a couple was coming to an end.
The Disavowed Book 3 - Threat Level: Red Page 6
