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

by Rob Aspinall

  I could have hugged every one of those beautiful little kitties, but there wasn’t time. Philippe and the assassin were nowhere to be seen and the NYPD were running down the escalators, shouting for me to stop.

  What the hell, you only live once Lorn.

  I snatched a toy as I ran, hearing the tuts of Auntie Claire in my head, but doing it anyway. After all I’d done for the free world lately, I deserved a little freebie. And it was my birthday weekend.

  Better than a bloody poison stab watch, that’s for sure.

  I came out of the doors to the department store onto fifth avenue, ahead of the cops. I sprinted right, stuffing my new favourite toy inside my hoodie as I went. I rounded the corner and crossed the street.

  “Where the hell are you?” I asked Philippe. All I heard was crackle and heavy breathing in reply.

  By the time the NYPD came running up the street in pursuit, I was casually strolling along the opposite side of the road, staying on the inside of a couple of broad-shouldered suits talking stock prices.

  I held a finger to my ear and asked again. “Hey, where are you?”

  “I lost her,” Philippe said. “You got anything?”

  “No,” I said. “No sign- Hey, wait.”

  An electric-blue superbike cruised by, straddled by the assassin. She winked at me on the way past, before speeding off with a roar of the engine, her black pigs fluttering in the breeze as she weaved between yellow cabs and cut across a busy intersection full of criss-crossing traffic.

  Philippe appeared a hundred yards ahead of me at the end of the street. “Damn, she’s good,” he said again.

  “JPAC?” I asked, walking towards him. “Type A?”

  “Got to be,” Philippe said, staring past me. “Wait,” he said. “On your six.”

  Before I could check behind me, a black MPV with tinted windows cut across my path, bumping onto the pavement. A millisecond later, I felt a pinch in the side of my neck. A weakness in my legs. As I began to keel over, a door slid open on the nearside of the MPV. I was quickly bundled inside. The door slid shut and the MPV screeched away from the kerb, with an SUV bringing up the rear. I caught a glimpse of Philippe as we zoomed on by. I reached for the door handle, only to be restrained by a special forces type. He held me in a headlock. I was too weak to fight. Before long, the lights went out.

  8

  No Ties

  When the lights came back on, I was in a chair, in a living area, in an apartment. The drugs wore off quickly, meaning they mustn’t have stuck me with a big dose. I instinctively fought to free myself from my ties.

  Only, there were no ties. The chair wasn’t even the kind you could tie someone to. It was a dark-green leather armchair my bum had already sunk way into.

  I looked around the apartment for escape routes and saw the New York skyline through high-rising windows that appeared sealed shut.

  I looked over to the door to the main living space, which was locked. And bound to be guarded from the outside.

  I heard a quiet muttering behind me. An English accent. The posh, plum in cheek kind. I turned in my chair to see a short, plump man in his fifties on a phone; dressed smartly in a dark-blue suit, a mustard waistcoat and a red bow tie over a pressed white shirt. Small, head-masterly glasses rested on the bridge of his nose. He noticed me noticing him and said he’d call whoever it was back.

  “Miss Walker,” he said, tucking his phone away in a trouser pocket. “How do you feel?”

  “Okay,” I guess,” I said. “Listen, whatever you’re going to do to me, you can drop the nice guy act. I know that’s how you people operate.”

  “Oh, and how’s that?” he asked, seemingly amused.

  “You’ll act all BFF while you try and squeeze me for info, then you’ll put a bullet between my temples. So please, spare me the pretend best friend bullshit.”

  The ageing man, with his retreating hairline, walked past me to a mahogany table in the far corner of the room. It had the full fine-china laid out on top of a white crocheted tablecloth. He poured himself a cup of tea from a stainless teapot, adding a splash of milk and a lump of sugar. He turned to me, with cup and saucer in hand, his pinkie out, all tea with the Queen.

  “Who exactly do you think we are?” he asked; another smirking evil-doer.

  “JPAC, of course,” I said.

  “J-who?”

  “The Joint Peace Alliance Committee,” I said. “Don’t pretend like you don’t know that I know, because I do know. And I know that you know that I know that you know.”

  “That’s quite a mouthful,” the man said, sipping delicately on his tea. “What did you say it was called, J-?”

  “PAC,” I said. “JPAC.

  “Hm, so that’s what they’re called,” he said.

  I took in more of the room. Traditional furnishings scattered around a polished, hardwood floor, but no supporting cast. We were definitely alone in there. And the more I thought about it, the less it seemed like JPAC style. It was all too loosey-goosey. The pseudo-friendliness always came with wrist ties and a pistol to the head. They’d also laid on cake. A large, round one on the coffee table covered in white icing sugar.

  “So if you’re not JPAC like you say,” I said. “ Who are you?”

  “We’ll get to that in a moment,” the man said. “In the meantime, can I get you a drink?”

  “Actually, I could do with a brew,” I said, peeling myself out of the armchair and finding my feet again.

  “Tea or coffee?” he asked returning to the drinks table.

  “Tea, with milk,” I said. “But no sugar.”

  “My name’s Peter, by the way,” he said, pouring another cup of steaming hot tea. “Please help yourself to cake,” he said, handing me a cup and saucer. “You’ve just turned seventeen, haven’t you?”

  I nodded, remembering the Hello Kitty toy stuffed inside my hoodie. I looked down and saw its head popping out of the zipper. A little embarrassing.

  “I had my assistant get a carrot cake,” Peter continued. “I believe you’re a fan.”

  “How would you know?” I said, roaming around the almost-empty apartment.

  “We know a lot about you, Lorna. Though I must admit, it’s pretty easy these days, what with Facebook and the like. Please, help yourself. We’re just waiting for one more. He shan’t be long.”

  I sipped on my tea and sat down on one of two, weathered red Chesterfield sofas either side of a stocky mahogany coffee table with bow-legs.

  I set the tea down and removed my new toy from inside my hoodie. I picked a cake knife off the table and thought about using it on Peter for a moment. It wouldn’t be too difficult to hold him at knifepoint and walk my way out of there.

  But I was curious.

  And there was cake.

  So it seemed like a good idea to let whatever the hell this was play out. I cut myself a large slice and brought it up to my mouth, ready to take a big bite.

  At that very moment, the door to the living area opened and in stepped … Gregg? Evil Gregg, as I called him in my mind. Becki’s internet millionaire boyfriend. I put the cake down without taking a bite.

  Say whaaaaat?

  9

  Afternoon Tea

  Gregg stood tall in the doorway, dressed in jeans and a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled halfway up a pair of hairy forearms.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” I asked him.

  Before Gregg could explain, Peter introduced us. “Lorna, I’d like you to meet Agent Danby.”

  “We’ve met before,” Danby said, in an accent much like Peter’s. A world away from the Essex-boy twang he spoke with in the Manchester cafe.

  “So your name’s not Gregg?” I asked.

  “It’s Charlie,” he said.

  “And you’re not an internet geezer?”

  “Not exactly,” Danby said.

  “Agent Danby was assigned to check up on you and your friends,” Peter said. “After the incidents in Manchester and Berlin, we s
tarted to do some digging.”

  “Took us a little while to catch up,” Danby said.

  “But once we did,” said Peter. “We discovered this so-called JPAC of yours.”

  “Don’t lump me in with that lot,” I said.

  Peter held up a hand in apology as Danby made himself a brew.

  “So that’s why you brought me here,” I said. “You want all the JPAC deets.”

  “That’s one way of putting it,” said Danby.

  “And you dating Becki …” I said to him. “Is that …”

  “Part of my cover,” Danby said. “I needed some intel. We thought you’d get in touch at some point.”

  “We’ve been following the breadcrumbs ever since,” Peter said. “Some fine work,” he continued, cutting into the cake. A slice for him. A slice for Agent Danby.

  I wanted to Gingham Style it across the room. Even if I was just her mate, this meant ‘Gregg’ wasn’t her man. Ha, he wasn’t even real—I mean, oh, poor Becki.

  I know, I was a bad friend. The worst. But come on, small mercies.

  I tried to switch back to business mode; push my feelings aside. Not that I even knew what the feelings meant anymore. The last few weeks and months, things hadn’t been so clear cut. I mean, I’d kind of forgotten about the whole Becki-love thing. Like it was wearing off. I think I still had a bit of a thing for her … but it no longer ruled me.

  “I don’t get it,” I said. If you’ve been spying on me and Philippe, then you should know all about JPAC by now.”

  “The Berlin bomb. The Alaskan HAARP. Yes,” said Danby. “We know an organisation is operating between the lines.”

  “We also gather they have access to a multi-trillion dollar slush fund,” said Peter.

  “We just didn’t have a name,” said Danby. “Until now.”

  “You haven’t even told me who you lot are yet,” I said. “MI6? CIA pretending to be posh?”

  “We’re a clandestine unit,” Danby said. “You might say an off-shoot of MI6.”

  “We’re slush-funded too,” said Peter. “Initially set up to counter a suspected mole in MI5,” Peter said. “But she disappeared around the time your colleague was shot.”

  “Ah, the pregnant PA,” I said, taking a first bite of my cake. It was utterly nom. A moist filling with a lemony frosting. At last, I had my birthday cake. “So what’s the deal?” I asked chewing a mouthful, looking around the room again. “Two-man team on every door? Sniper on the roof? Retinal entry scan?”

  “More or less,” Peter said, glancing at Danby, clearly impressed.

  “We’re prepared for anything you might try,” said Danby. “We know you’re deadlier than you look.”

  “Oh, it’s not me you need to be worried about,” I said, checking my watch. “I give it a minute. Maybe less.”

  “How do you figure that?” Danby asked.

  “I’m linked to my associate through a nano-tracker app.” I tapped my right ear. “For when the comms are down.”

  Almost on cue, Danby held a finger to an ear of his own. He looked at Peter. “Front door breached,” he said.

  I checked my watch again. “Yep, that’ll be him,” I said. “Mr Anally Punctual.”

  “Team one down,” Danby said to Peter. He paused a second as we heard the faint sound of gunfire. “Team two down,” Danby continued, as the gunfire grew louder, closer.

  Danby turned towards the door. “It sounds like he’s outside the—“

  I watched the door to the living area of the apartment, obviously modified to act as an additional security door.

  I heard muffled shouts outside. A couple of heavy thuds. The electronic lock on the door fizzed and popped.

  Philippe burst through the door and slid across the polished floor into the centre of the room, a pistol in either hand, two men unconscious in the open doorway.

  He held one gun on Agent Danby; the other on Peter. He looked at me, a mouthful of cake and icing sugar around my lips.

  I stopped mid-chew.

  Peter held up his fine china cup. “Tea?” he asked Philippe.

  Philippe paused as he assessed the situation, breathing heavy from the fight. “Coffee,” he said. “Black.”

  10

  The Mexico Job

  Philippe perched himself on the Chesterfield next to me, like it was some weird afternoon tea party; a coffee in one hand, a plate in another with a slice of cake. All terribly British.

  Agent Danby shut the internal door to the living area of the apartment, shoving waking-up bodies out of the way and fastening the back-up security system, aka, the latch.

  He joined the party on the opposing sofa, as Peter clicked a remote. A giant modern art painting slid upwards, revealing a large flatscreen, lighting up with a map of the world.

  “We hoped you’d come after Lorna,” Peter said to Philippe. “Forgive us if we didn’t fancy snatching you off the street. We didn’t quite know who we were tracking. Our guess was that Lorna here would be easier.”

  “Oh, none taken,” I said.

  Peter ignored my quip and continued his speech. “I think myself and Agent Danby will both agree it’s proof that you’re right for the job. Both of you.”

  “What job?” I asked, finishing off my cake and resting the plate on the table.

  “The Mexico job.” Peter said, zooming in on a satellite image of a never-ending sprawl of concrete jungle.

  Philippe slugged half his coffee down in one go. He stuffed half the cake into his mouth like it was a scoffing contest, crumbs breaking off onto his lap.

  God, he was a messy eater.

  And loud too.

  You know the sound an old person makes when they’re eating sandwiches and breathing through their nose?

  Yeah, that sound.

  And after three months of sharing planes, trains, safe houses and all sorts of other confined spaces with the man, I can tell you, it grated. Big fucking time. Even if he was breathing heavy because of his recent rescue attempt.

  I mean, you should have heard him chomping through celery. Jesus! Like a T-Rex eating a tree trunk. No wonder he’d never had a steady relationship.

  Anyway, while I was tutting and ranting inside the four walls of my own head, Peter proceeded to explain what he meant by the Mexico job. “Mexico City, to be precise,” he said.

  “Mm, good cake,” Philippe said, gulping a mouthful down. “What’s in Mexico City? And what makes you think we’re interested?”

  “I assume you’re interested in curtailing the activities of your enemies,” Peter said.

  Philippe nodded, ramming the leftovers of the cake into his mouth.

  “Then you’ll be interested in this,” Danby said.

  Peter took over the story. “As I mentioned earlier to Lorna, Agent Danby and I work for a clandestine unit.”

  “Off-book MI6,” said Philippe. “I get it.”

  “It’s become apparent that a shadow organisation is operating under the radar of the intelligence community,” Peter said.

  “You told them about JPAC?” Philippe asked me.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Obvs.”

  “Hence our interest,” said Peter, zooming in on the map of Mexico City. “Until now, we’ve been feeding on scraps.”

  “And breadcrumbs,” I said.

  “Yes, and breadcrumbs,” Peter said, humouring me.

  “No surprise really,” I said quietly to Philippe, “the mess you leave behind when you eat.”

  Philippe sighed. “Try listening to yourself eat soup sometime.”

  Peter waited patiently for us to stop.

  “Sorry, carry on,” I said, sipping my tea and taking extra care not to slurp.

  “Last week, we intercepted a transmission intended for our London HQ,” said Agent Danby.

  “We don’t know who from, only that he said he wanted to defect to our side,” Peter said.

  “We hijacked the message and entered into a third-party dialogue,” said Danby. “Our man had senior-le
vel clearance within the organisation. He wants immunity and protection, in return for the keys to the castle.”

  “How do you know he’s JPAC?” I asked. “You didn’t even know who JPAC were until five minutes ago.”

  “Amongst other things,” he had information on the pair of you,” said Peter, clicking us through to a split-screen of grainy CCTV images. “He’s communicating through the Rosales cartel, one of Mexico’s largest exponents of kidnapping, laundering, drug and human trafficking.”

  “Nice people, then,” I said.

  “The man on the left is Emilio Rosales,” Peter continued, talking about a guy with a grey beard and shades “the head of the Rosales cartel. The man on the right-“

  “Rodrigo, his deputy,” said Agent Danby, of a younger guy with long black hair in a tragic pony.

  “Our defector is under the personal protection of Emilio,” said Peter.

  “Why would a Mexican cartel protect an intelligence defector?” I asked.

  “Because they’re demanding a million dollars for the exchange.”

  “And you want us to make the extraction,” Philippe said.

  Peter shook his head. “You’ll merely be acting as an escort for Agent Danby. We expect the exchange will be handled by the cartel’s street-gang division, La Firma, run by Emilio’s nephews.”

  “They do a lot of the cartel’s dirty work in the barrios,” Danby said. “They’re not as well trained as the cartel itself, but no less dangerous.”

  “Why can’t you do it yourselves?” I asked, finishing my tea.

  “We’re operating in the CIA’s backyard,” said Danby. “We can’t afford to be exposed. To JPAC or any other agency.”

  “We need to outsource security on this one,” said Peter.

  “To distance yourselves,” said Philippe. “Plausible deniability.”