The Disavowed Book 3 - Threat Level: Red

by David Leadbeater

  They bundled her into the second of two black SUVs. The convoy was small, necessarily so, as it peeled out into the LA traffic, but Blanka Davic still held everything together with an iron will, a radio and a satphone. Even Collins had to admit his plan was so far flawless.

  “Where are we going?” Collins managed. “Where are you taking me?”

  Davic shifted in his seat. “The Moose is en route?” he was saying. “Good. All this chaos will conceal our escape. People will die so that I may make a clean getaway. I like that kind of finality. Poetic, you might say. And justice? Of course. I have made it so. The idiots in Washington think I will be calling them back. They think I am waiting for them. They think the money and the little bitch Miller girls are what I want.” Now he spun and hissed at Collins.

  “But this is what I want. To strike and to escape. To start over. They have been taught a lesson they will always remember. Before they know what has happened I will be safely away.” He paused, smiling. “Correction. We will be safely away. What do you think of that, Agent Collins?”

  “Seriously,” she hissed through her rage and pain. “I think you are one severely twisted tool. Where are you taking me?”

  “On the road.” He laughed. “The road to nowhere. The road to the black planes. Do you like that? You think I, the man they call a drug-runner, can’t get out of America unseen?” He laughed yet again. Almost convulsively this time. Collins peered at him and hoped he would choke on his own tongue.

  Davic finally relented. “My day is almost done. Admittedly, it had some major fuck-ups, but essentially we won. We beat America and Europe, those three-letter bunch of baboons they call intelligence agencies.” He picked up the box of pills that rode next to him in the passenger seat and cuddled it into his chest. “And I have this. My future.”

  Collins sank back in her seat, taking the opportunity to rest her battered body and at least try to formulate a plan. As she sat now, she couldn’t see any white knights riding in to rescue her. How could they even know where she was? Poor Aaron had his own problems as, she presumed, so did the rest of the team. Her partner had been killed but she had no idea if anyone had even found his body yet. Henry Curran and his family were dead, but same scenario. So far, Davic and his goons hadn’t come close to slipping up. Not once had they left her alone. No chance of escape . . .

  Not ever.

  If that happened, she promised herself, she would take extreme measures. She couldn’t live as a slave, and in particular not as a slave to this man. If she couldn’t take action, look after herself, be the decision-maker and some kind of leader then she might as well be dead.

  A jail cell held too many bad memories. And time to think would bring them all flooding back with their blunt blades sharpened.

  Live, or die in forced captivity?

  No brainer.

  43

  Doug sped along the makeshift, narrow aisles at a reckless pace. Multi-colored stacked containers and gantry cranes stood everywhere, blocking his view of what lay ahead and to the side. If it weren’t for Natasha’s careful monitoring and harshly learned responsibility for the job at hand he’d have failed at the gates. Flashing blue lights pursued them. Any moment now Doug expected to see the way forward blocked. Trent was somewhere behind them, also speeding to Natasha’s nearest approximation of the container, but would any of them make it in time?

  Eight cars raced at breakneck speeds through the narrow Port aisles.

  Three minutes left!

  The Port was a snaking mass of looping roads and vast flat spaces. Each flat space was home to thousands of containers. Enormous ships stood at anchor and tied to the quays. Others moved slowly through the waterways, their great bows churning up a white froth.

  “That’s it!”

  Doug jumped physically as Natasha screamed. The orange container flashed by. He stood on the brakes, tramping them hard, and lurched forward so suddenly his forehead smacked the steering wheel. The car swerved around a one-eighty, actually lifting off the ground on two wheels for a brief heart-stopping second; then crashing back down to earth.

  Doug glanced at his watch.

  Two minutes left. One hundred and twenty seconds.

  The flashing cars approached fast. Another car screamed down a cross-aisle, coming hard. Trent! Still thirty seconds or so away, possibly too late. Doug flung the door wide, leaped out, then ran hard for the container with Natasha at his side. The pair never stopped, nor considered the danger they were running toward. They were soldiers, warriors, and no innocent would die on their watch. Not if they had anything to say about it. Doug stopped in front of the towering container, quickly grabbing at the handles.

  Natasha, three steps behind, screamed, “Wait!”

  He didn’t. If the damn thing was booby-trapped they were all fucked anyway. There was no time to check around and try to defuse anything. His watch, staring him in the face, as he gripped the handle hard cried out to him—

  Sixty seconds!

  Trent arrived in a screech of rubber, his own car fishtailing and striking Doug’s. Natasha ran toward the other container handle. Doug grabbed her arm and jerked it hard.

  “No!”

  “What? You need—”

  “No. Not you. Get behind me.” He pulled harder as she struggled. “Not you, Natasha. Not now.” He managed an accepting smile. “This is my job.”

  Everything happened at once. Doug flung Natasha forcefully away, making sure she was behind him and then opening door, blocking his ears to her sharp cry. Trent was stumbling out of his car, trying to catch his balance and sprint for the doors.

  Doug’s watch timer started to bleep.

  Thirty seconds counted down to zero.

  Staring up at the skies one last time he wrenched open the door.

  44

  The explosion smashed a plume of searing fire through the opening. The force of the blast punched the door like a deadly hurricane, blowing Doug off his feet and sending him flying backward through the air.

  His body burst into flame, wreathed in fire.

  Natasha screamed and ran toward him, then abruptly pulled up. Doug had done this for a reason and Natasha was close enough to the container to hear that reason crying out for rescue. The firestorm around the open doors spat, blazed, flared and licked around the metal edges.

  Natasha turned and leapt into the inferno.

  ****

  Trent felt himself pushed back by the explosion, pushed back even though he strained with every fiber of his being to thrust onward. Supercharged heat bathed his face, his arms and legs. Tiny fragments stung his flesh. A small piece of metal rocketed past like a bullet, deadly, not even registering in his brain.

  Mikey.

  When Doug had pulled open those doors, Trent’s whole world had come to an end. Sheer horror—undiluted fear—whooshed up from the pit of his stomach, threatening to render him immobile. But that was why he ran harder.

  Because that’s what heroes, and fathers and mothers, did for their children.

  They sacrificed everything.

  Doug’s body smashed to the ground just a few feet from Trent’s car. He landed, still blazing, not moving. Trent swallowed his grief as he saw Natasha jump headlong into the conflagration.

  “Mikey!”

  He plunged ahead. Saw shadows moving among the flames. Heard the screams. If Mikey had actually been wired to the C4 he wouldn’t be talking or walking right now. A figure stumbled in the container doorway as flames licked up at the night.

  Trent saw Natasha.

  “Where is he?”

  The Russian; the strong, hard, implacable Special-Forces-turned-undercover operative couldn’t speak. She couldn’t speak because of the tears that ran from her eyes and the emotion that choked her throat. She stood upright, her clothes ablaze, and cried for all that she had lost.

  And from behind her rose a figure. Her hands caught hold of his jacket; and she threw Mikey through the firestorm and out into the night.

&nb
sp; Trent’s son landed with a grunt, but as he rolled his face turned up to the stars and he was clearly alive, essentially unharmed. Sooty, dirty, charred, but alive.

  Trent turned back to Natasha. Doug’s Natasha. “Oh no,” he said with violent emotion. “Oh no, you fucking don’t go out that way!”

  He lunged with all his might, with the speed of a predator striking at escaping prey; he lunged for Doug’s memory and greatest sacrifice. He lunged for what Doug and Natasha had done for Mikey.

  And caught Natasha, gripped her hard, and hauled her out onto the concrete. Cars screeched to a halt all around them. A paramedic shouted his presence. A cop called for backup. More men ran toward Doug and Mikey.

  Trent killed the flames dancing around Natasha’s form and made sure she was comfortable. The damage he could see was superficial. She would be fine.

  Then he turned, almost crawling, and made his way over to his son.

  “Mikey.”

  “Dad!”

  The world disappeared. Trent felt tears of emotion overwhelm him. His body heaved as he pulled Mikey near and brought his son into the closest form of protection a parent can give. Enfolded arms that would never let go. Sheer love. Sheer relief. Sheer gratitude.

  And the night burned.

  45

  A huge sense of relief settled over Trent as Mikey came up for air. But that relief was tempered by a thousand other difficulties. With the release of his son came countless questions.

  Where the hell was Collins? Dan and Adam? How was Victoria? What about Davic and the Moose and all the other attacks in LA today? What the hell was he supposed to do first?

  An ambulance threaded its way through the cars. More paramedics weaved their way over, bags in hand. Trent stood up, still holding Mikey’s shoulders. Trent had already checked him for suspicious packages—carefully so as not to add to his trauma. Now he let the medics take hold of him and begin their checks. It was all he could do to let go.

  And now, one more sorrowful job. Doug’s form had been covered over with jackets and a blanket. It no longer smoldered. Trent stared at his old friend, unable to believe he was gone. The history between them was rich, full, and remarkable. Doug was a major figure in many people’s lives and his death would bring hundreds to their knees. It didn’t matter one bit that the cancer would have taken him in a month or two. This was the way he had chosen to go out.

  Long live Doug.

  Trent looked over to Natasha. She sat where she’d fallen, near the burning container with a blanket across her shoulders, black hair hanging all the way down her back. The flames lit her skin and eyes, turning her radiant against the darkness all around. But the visage she presented was downcast, lost. She’d waited over two decades to reach her greatest love only to find she was losing him in six weeks; and then she’d lost him the very next day. Her story was among the saddest.

  Trent allowed himself to breathe. The tension eased a little, bringing the new and present conundrum into clearer focus. The Edge should be his first port of call. Of course, as always. He retrieved his phone from the seat of the car and rang Silk.

  “Hello? Adam?”

  The first questions were about Mikey, the follow-ups all about Doug and Natasha. Trent spent five minutes explaining everything to a silent audience, then felt his friends try to physically pull themselves together. These times were always the hardest. It actually helped to do something physical, like raise a glass and down a drink or two. The point wasn’t to get drunk it was to do something real and tangible, introduce a sense of grieving and make it genuine. Original. The send-off was the last true memory, so make it worthy.

  Silk started to speak, but then Trent’s eyes flashed to the side as he saw a youth approaching. The youth wore a tight t-shirt and jeans and sported a crew-cut, but it was the determination stretched across his lips that hooked Trent’s attention.

  He lowered the phone, making ready. The youth came fast. Trent couldn’t sort through the jumbled hash in his head to remember where he’d left the gun. It was all happening too fast. The assembled cops suddenly noticed the youth and started running.

  Trent quickly closed the gap, walking right up to the new danger. “What is it? What do you want?”

  Surprise widened unfocused eyes. “Hey, man, chill. I just wanna say that your bitch ex-wife is dead and at this address.” He held out a scrap of paper. “Have a good one.”

  The youth turned away, slow and shambling like a member of the walking dead. Trent grabbed his neck and hauled him around. The cops arrived noisily, shouting and drawing their guns.

  “Hold it right there,” Trent cried. “Who the hell are you?”

  He bunched a fist. His heart jumped into his mouth. Mikey was right behind them and had heard every word.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Hey, hey,” the youth held up both hands. “Don’t get all Van Damme on me, man. Some guy paid me. He gave me this—” a photo of Trent appeared in his hands, “—and said, ‘If that guy survives. If you see him alive, give him the message.’ That’s it. That’s all, man.”

  Trent stared in disbelief, in pure shock. This day was as crazy as it got. It was purgatory. It was Hell.

  And it was far from over.

  46

  The Moose was ready for his final part, the true terrorist strike into the heart of the enemy, and looking forward to finally embarking on his eternal getaway. This particular part had been Davic’s idea and a damn good one. It was an attention grabber, and one they would never forget. Something that would always make them worry. The Moose thought there was a kind of justice in that. A certain retribution for atrocities wrought in his own country throughout the years. He didn’t blame the citizens of the States; he blamed their power-hungry leaders. The faces changed, but apart from an occasional fresh, briefly encouraging interloper the countries of the West rarely changed their ambitions.

  But the people would pay. Just as in his own country, the weak and the innocent took the brunt of the damage whilst the warmongers watched and evaluated, refining their strategies.

  The Moose wondered briefly how young Michael Trent had fared, and how his mother had died. It had always been Davic’s plan to kill the woman, not so the boy. An odd sentiment, thought the Moose. But then Blanka Davic was clearly unhinged and never prone to have the same thought with the same outcome twice. Life must be hell for a man like that. But assessed from another angle, the Moose thought, it could also be heaven.

  But not the Moose. His own life was fully regimented, fulfilling and unwavering. The gym and the training kept him at the top of his game, despite his age, and the new flood of money assured him of a wonderful retirement. He intended to take it easy—perhaps for a few months, maybe even a year—and then expand into something else. Maybe serial killing. Maybe assassination. Whatever, the world was about to become his oyster.

  He left Sepulveda and joined World Way, ignoring the plethora of signs and wondering if even the designers of this place could take positive direction from so much information blasted at a moving vehicle all at once. Taxis and minivans flew past, of course, well acquainted with their route and not caring one iota that most of the other drivers were struggling. He entered a short stay parking garage and paid for an hour. He should actually need no more than half that.

  He waited three minutes to better achieve the optimum time, then exited the car and walked toward the arrivals hall. LAX was bustling, he noted, as it usually was. All well and good. The more casualties the better. Maybe Davic would even send him a bonus package. The crazy ass kid had done it before. The Moose crossed a wide road by the black-and-white crossing at a prearranged time, passed closely by a man on the other side who wore a dark-blue employee’s jacket, and palmed the offered ID badge. The airport employee then walked away, far richer. It was as simple as that.

  Bribe a man. Threaten his family. Take his identity and his money through his computer, plant something ghastly on the hard drive, and the process had begun. Consolida
te it with some kind of show of force. Finish it with a final vile threat. Job done. Infiltrating Secure Places Of Interest For Dummies. Terrorism 101. The Moose should write a book.

  Not always that easy, he cautioned himself. Of course not. You just had to be ruthless and hard and fast enough to recognize and take advantage of each new situation.

  The Moose took a quick look at the ID badge. It wouldn’t gain him access to the entire building, nor any of its sensitive areas, but it would grant him access enough. Again Davic had been right when he explained that you didn’t have to strike the exact target you wanted. All you had to do was get close. Clever man, that. Clever but certifiable. Damn shame.

  Not like his father. The Moose thought back to the old days as he approached the airport doors. Davor had been a genius, a merciless tyrant with the mind of a scholar, able to extract victory from the direst of situations and at the same time gently coax information from the most vulnerable of targets.

  Genius. Gone now.

  The Moose recalled when his commander and friend had died, at the hands of some coalition crew led by the Englishman, Matt Drake. The Moose had kept up on Drake’s exploits since then, ready to act if a situation presented itself, but the damn man always seemed to be getting himself into trouble. Barely a week passed before he was off again, gallivanting across the world and embroiled in yet another undertaking. Recently Drake and his SPEAR team had thwarted the great Dmitry Kovalenko.

  Bastard.

  The Moose had never met the Blood King—and now never would—but greatly admired the model he’d created. The legend would never die. His death would call others to the cause. It would never end.

  Thinking of Drake, the Moose reflected on the invite he’d received via several third parties to attend the man’s death—some sort of killing spree and battle arena arranged by the almost mythical Coyote over in the UK. Last Man Standing, she’d called it, the recorded voice as syrupy sweet as he remembered. Sounded fun. But Davic had already paid for the Moose’s time and expertise. He was here now, and then he was done.