Truly Deadly: The Complete Series: (YA Spy Thriller Books 1-5)

by Rob Aspinall

  “Gregg’s an internet entrepreneur,” Becki said, squeezing his right bicep, which looked too big for the rest of his body. He wrapped it python tight around her perfect ten frame.

  “So, Lana,” he said.

  “Lorna,” I corrected him.

  “So, Lorna, what do you do?” he said in a slick, yah-yah accent.

  “Are you at college with Becks?” he asked.

  “No,” I said, giving him the shark eyes. “Not exactly.”

  “Lorna’s, an, um – She dropped out. Now she works in …”

  Great, so I was a college dropout now too. Though, technically, that was true.

  Becki raised her eyebrows at me as if to say, Help me out here.

  “I’m an activist,” I said.

  “What’s that,” asked Gregg, “like, saving the planet?”

  “Something like that, yeah.”

  I couldn’t stand any more of their vom-inducing PDA.

  “Hey, we’re going out on the town for a few drinks,” said Becki. “You wanna join us?”

  “Yeah, you should definitely come with,” Greg said.

  Yah, definitely come with, I said, mocking his accent inside my head.

  “No, it’s okay,” I said, straining every fake sinew in my body. “I’ll leave you lovebirds to it.”

  I nearly gagged on the words. Becki snuggled deeper into Gregg’s moneyed, muscled clutches.

  “I’ll see you around, Becks,” I said.

  “See you, Lorn. Take care.”

  I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. It was the most humiliating, soul-crushing experience of my life.

  I stepped out into the rain, water fizzing off my burning cheeks. I stomped around the city in no particular direction until I found a dirty alley with a bunch of overflowing bins and a topless old man vomming up. I hid between the piss-stained bins and let the tears fall.

  I knew it was silly to think it could have gone any other way.

  It was even sillier to think there was a life to come back to.

  But I had to come back because I just had to know.

  Well, now I knew.

  I’d drop some flowers off at Auntie Claire’s grave. Then I’d disappear. For good.

  40

  Naughty Boy

  It was a short swim to the Naughty Boy luxury yacht, anchored a couple of miles from the crystal-clear waters of the Barbados coast, with its lazy white-sand beaches and swaying palm trees. The water was turquoise blue and warm as a bath. We glided silently underwater like a pair of sea ninjas, kitted out in black scuba gear.

  We split and swam either site of the hull, where the wavy figures of burly men dressed not so incognito in tropical shirts stood guard.

  I fired a dart from beneath the waterline. It hit my guy in the neck. He slapped it like it was a mosquito bite and dropped. I tucked the dart gun in my belt and switch to a grappling gun. It stuck to the boat and I walked up the side and onto the deck, all the recent core work paying off. I removed my breathing gear and goggles, squeezing the water out of my hair.

  The yacht was a real whopper, with smooth wooden decking and all the gold trimmings.

  I snuck around the back of the boat, where our target lay on a plush sunlounger, oily belly and man boobs cooking in the sun.

  A giggling blonde centrefold in a yellow string bikini perched herself on the sunlounger next to him, feeding him strawberries, young enough to be his granddaughter.

  Having taken care of the yacht’s captain, Philippe stepped down a set of ladders, quiet as a mouse. We skirted either side of a supersize hot tub, gentle steel-drum music from a wireless stereo system covering our tracks. Philippe grabbed the girl from behind and had her out for the count before she could squeal.

  The target opened his mouth, waiting for another fresh, juicy strawberry. Instead, I pushed the silencer barrel of my Glock pistol into his mouth.

  Senator Teddy Tucker slowly removed his shades and blinked into the light as Philippe and I stood over him.

  “Hey y’all,” I said. “I wish I could say the future looks bright for you, Senator Tucker. But it’s about to get real damn dark.”

  41

  Dear Jpac

  My name is Lorna Walker.

  And I had two choices.

  a) Run and hide.

  b) Live and fight.

  Well, I guess I chose.

  And, yeah, there are still more questions than answers.

  Like …

  Who am I?

  What am I?

  Activist?

  Assassin?

  Spy?

  Or just a crazy bitch in way over her head?

  Truth is, I’m kinda not sure.

  But I do know this.

  If you belong to the organisation known as JPAC, then I’m here to tell you … you picked on the wrong girl.

  A Type A.

  Fully trained. Totally motivated.

  Meaning wherever you go and whatever you do, I won’t be far behind.

  Oh, and I’ll be bringing a friend too.

  You may be familiar with his work.

  So, please, don’t worry about coming to get us.

  We’re coming to get you.

  BOOK 4: MADE OF FIRE

  Prologue

  DUBAI, UNITED ARAB EMIRATES

  The fifty-eighth floor penthouse of the JW Marriot Marquis was elegantly styled in warm fabrics and walnut furniture. As she straightened the jacket of her pebble-grey trouser suit, Nadia Mishra was ushered inside by a manicured, goateed assistant perfectly buttoned up in tailored royal blue.

  The far wall of the penthouse suite was made from solid glass, filled with six a.m. cloud drifting in off the sea. A tall man in a white suit and brown brogues stood in front of the window, his back to Nadia and a tasteful living area between the two of them.

  “Excuse me. Mr Mikkelsen,” the assistant said.

  Henrik Mikkelsen turned his head. “Thank you Akil. You can leave us now.”

  Akil ghosted out of the suite, closing the door gently behind him.

  Nadia strode across the penthouse carpet in black heels high enough to elevate her five-foot frame to a lofty five-three. Due to her slim, diminutive frame and youthful features, colleagues and associates forever underestimated her. Exactly how she liked it.

  “How was the flight?” Mikkelsen asked, his narrow grey eyes locked on the glass.

  Nadia had never spoken to the Chairman before. Very few had met him in person. His accent carried a light Danish undertone, but she knew nothing else about him. In fact, until their meeting, she hadn’t even known his name.

  “The forecast looks very uncertain,” he said, staring into the cloud, his sun-tanned brow furrowed under think, silver hair.

  Nadia looked out over the skyline. The upper floors of glass towers puncturing the cloud.

  “Where have you flown in from?” he asked.

  “Tokyo,” Nadia said.

  “You must be tired,” he said. “Come, sit.”

  Mikkelsen directed Nadia over to a pair of sofas facing each other in the middle of the room.

  “Can I interest you in some breakfast?” he asked, waving a hand over a platter of breads, meats and cheeses spread over a shin-high walnut coffee table.

  “No I’m fine,” Nadia said. “I had something on the plane.”

  “Do you know why I called here?” Mikkelsen asked.

  “No.” Nadia said, though she had her suspicions.

  Mikkelsen picked up a pink cardboard folder. He opened it and looked over Nadia’s personnel file. “Greek father, Indian mother. Recruited from Oxford. You speak eight languages?”

  “Nine, now sir.”

  “Well, you come highly recommended,” Mikkelsen said, leafing through Nadia’s file. “You’re an analyst. Correct?”

  “Yes, sir,” Nadia said.

  “Rising through the ranks quickly, I see,” Mikkelsen said. “Did you have any involvement in the Maelstrom project?” he asked.

  “No s
ir. Above my clearance level.”

  “Good … It’s time for some fresh ideas,” he said, spreading marmalade on a piece of French bread. “What is your analysis of our current situation, Ms Mishra?” he asked, taking a bite.

  Nadia shifted uncomfortably.

  “In your professional opinion,” Mikkelsen continued.

  Nadia paused a moment. “Well, I would say, sir, that bearing in mind the recent events in Alaska, coupled with the current operational schedule, the organisation is vulnerable to both internal and external attacks.”

  Mikkelsen chewed on the bread, glancing again at Nadia’s file, before closing it and relaxing into the sofa across from her. Nadia poured herself a tea as Mikkelsen ate. She leaned back against a pile of sumptuous velvet cushions and took a sip.

  “I take it that you’ve heard of our problems with one of our assets and his young associate?” Mikkelsen asked.

  “Deathstalker and RunRabbit?”

  “Yes,” Mikkelsen said.

  Everyone she knew was talking about it. Vasquez and the girl with the scar were quickly becoming an urban legend everyone feared. They’d strike when you least expected, leaving projects in tatters and bodies in their wake. One of her colleagues had even joked that if you said the girl’s name five times in a mirror, she’d appear and cut you from sternum to abdomen.

  Personally, she found most of the conjecture ridiculous. And she wasn’t about to share it with the Chairman.

  “I’m making them our priority one situation,” Mikkelsen continued, dabbing the corners of his mouth with a cappuccino napkin.

  Nadia sipped on her tea, nodding along.

  “The pair of them are a virus,“ Mikkelsen said. “I can see them infecting us from within. Committee members getting cold feet. A senior leadership team who couldn’t run a warm bath. And to compound the issue; more rogue assets.”

  Nadia set her cup of tea down on the coffee table. “Would you like me to run a report, sir?”

  “I’d like you to take over our global operations,” Mikkelsen said, dusting breadcrumbs off his fingers.

  Nadia was relieved she’d put down her teacup, or she felt sure she would have spilled it over her suit in shock. She was fiercely ambitious and didn’t put any limits on herself, yet this was huge and completely out of the blue.

  “If you think you’re up to the job, that is?” Mikkelsen asked.

  “Of course,” Nadia said. “Who do I report to?”

  “Directly to me,” Mikkelsen said. “As of this morning, the senior team has been disbanded. And all operational heads have been instructed to report to you. There’s too much regional governance within the committee. Too many mavericks. Too much complacency. It’s time to tighten the apron strings; at least until we fix the leaks and flush out the infection.”

  “Will it affect the current schedule?” Nadia asked.

  “I’m putting a hold on things until I can guarantee the integrity of the committee,” Mikkelsen said. “No one is beyond suspicion, understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Nadia.

  “And we have another problem. A very British one.”

  “I’m aware of it,” said Nadia. “I’ve seen the communication.”

  “Can I trust you to take care of matters?” Mikkelsen asked.

  “I already have a solution in mind,” Nadia said.

  “For which problem?” Mikkelsen asked. “We have so many.”

  “All your problems, sir.”

  “Excellent,” Mikkelsen said, rising to his feet. “Then I will make the necessary arrangements.”

  Nadia followed suit and shook his hand. “Thank you for the opportunity, sir.”

  “Can I expect a strategy plan by tomorrow?” Mikkelsen asked.

  “You can expect one by lunch,” Nadia said.

  Mikkelsen breathed a heavy sigh and looked out of the window, to where the sun was rising and burning through the thick carpet of cloud. “Things are looking clearer already.”

  Nadia made her way out of the suite, stopping and turning by the door. “Regarding your first priority, sir,” she said, as Mikkelsen returned to his breakfast. “Do we have any idea where they are now?”

  1

  Electricity

  JIZZAKH REGION, UZBEKISTAN

  “I thought we had a rule about singing on missions,” Philippe said in my ear as I bombed it through a pine-fresh, fir-tree forest.

  “Singing what?” I asked. “This? Get you baby, gonna get you baby, yeah … ”

  I couldn’t help laughing as I sped out of the forest on a blue and white dirt bike, across a field of wild, lime green grass rising steadily to a peak in the distance.

  “It’s in my ear. I’m trying to concentrate,” Philippe said.

  “I can’t help it,” I said, revving the bike harder to make the climb. “It’s this song on the radio. Can’t get it out of my head.”

  “It sounds like a cat dying,” Philippe said through the earpiece; the sound so crystal-clear it was like standing next to him while he talked. Way better than the old ones we used to use. And all thanks to the JPAC technology depot we’d raided three weeks earlier.

  I brought the bike to a sudden stop at the top of a ridge. My motorbike skills were a damn sight better than my first lesson, when I steered a moped straight into a canal. The cellular muscle memories were doing their stuff and I could pretty much handle anything on two wheels. Though Philippe insisted I wasn’t ready for a 1000cc just yet; the canal memory scarring him a lot more than me.

  “Okay, I’m at checkpoint one.”

  “Tell me what you see,” Philippe said.

  I took a pair of digital binoculars from the pocket of a small, black rucksack strapped to my back. I moved them right to left across a sweeping, grassy valley below, with snow-capped mountains rising behind rolling green hills and a tarmac road winding its way up to a metallic, hexagonal building . The building itself was surrounded by a forty-metre fence we knew was electrocuted.

  “I see a man in a van,” I said watching Philippe drive a red delivery truck towards the front gate of the complex.

  “What about the perimeter guards?” he asked. “Did you take care of them?”

  “Chill,” I said. “One down. One to go. The first was sleeping on the job. Didn’t even see me.”

  “Copy that. I’ll meet you in the middle,” Philippe said. “Don’t be late.”

  “When am I ever?” I asked. “Wait, don’t answer that.”

  I tucked the binoculars away and pulled on the accelerator handle of the bike. I zipped along the top of the ravine, watching Philippe’s tiny speck of a van arrive at the front gate, where he’d be greeted by a pair of grey-suited security guards who’d search the truck and him, before accepting delivery of the package we’d prepared earlier.

  And if I sound like a know-all, it’s because we went through the plan in mind-crushing detail on the plane ride over.

  A half mile further on, I came across another patrol. A four-by-four sprayed camouflage to blend in, with a dark, wiry man behind the wheel. He was dozing too; eyes closed and mouth catching flies, with the window open and the radio playing naff music quietly in the background. He was dressed like the other man I’d passed by on the way into the forest; a green short-sleeved uniform and a peaked cap on his head; a Russian-made rifle propped up on the passenger seat and a pair of binoculars around his neck.

  Another one asleep. Was this my lucky day, or what?

  I left him to his snooze, preferring not to kill or injure if at all possible. Philippe wasn’t so particular when it came to moral chew-overs, but I’d managed to talk him into being a little less trigger, stab and strangle happy in our few months together running missions.

  When I’d made it far enough along the ravine, I skidded into a righthand turn and rolled down a steep hill at ridiculous speed. I levelled off and rode towards a section of fencing running around the rear of the complex.

  They didn’t have guard towers around the building. Didn’
t need them. There were cameras everywhere. And the place was almost impossible to break into.

  Almost.

  I brought the bike to a stop a few feet from the fence and killed the engine so I could hear the hum of the fence. To the guards inside, I hopefully looked like a curious teenage biker checking out a remote private facility.

  I unstrapped my rucksack, zipped it open and took out a lightweight grappling gun with a fat magnetic pad on the end, rather than a hook or spike. I checked my watch and waited for 08:00.

  Bingo. The high-pitched hum of the fence dropped off. The pulse-fire weapon inside the package delivered by Philippe must have worked.

  I had twelve seconds to get up and over the fence before the emergency generators kicked in and the fence charged back up to a bazillion volts.

  Already down to nineteen seconds, I fired the end go the gun at a seventy degree angle. It stuck to the building. I clipped it to my belt and went for it, four seconds in already.

  Five.

  Six.

  Seven.

  2

  Tight Spaces

  Eight.

  Nine.

  Ten.

  I ran up the side of the fence horizontal to the ground. When I reached the rolls of barbed wire at the top, I pushed off with both feet.

  Eleven.

  Twelve.

  The wire sucked me up and over as the fence re-charged. I swung across the gap between fence and building, holding tight to the end of the wire. I touched against the reflective aluminium wall of the building with both feet; a figure in black mission gear hanging over a fire exit door, my hair tied securely out of the way in a braided ponytail: my style of choice when attacking JPAC compounds.

  Right on cue, a pair of security guards emerged from the door, responding in line with their emergency drills. I descended the wire fast, smooth and silent, clobbering both on the top of the head with the soles of my boots. They fell to the floor of the concrete yard, out like a light.