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

by Rob Aspinall

  Not your business, Lorn, I told myself.

  Plus, Danby was bleeding out fast. And I’d be joining him if we didn’t find a way out of the slums.

  I rounded the counter and jogged towards the door of the store. I was halfway through, the streets quiet, perfect for a sprint across the intersection, when I heard another scream. More distressed than ever. I stopped mid-stride and cursed.

  For once in my life, can one single thing actually go to fucking plan?

  The scream cut through me a knife. I backed into the store, closing the door behind me and turning the latch. Whatever waited for me inside that room, I didn’t want La Firma coming at me through the front.

  I trod quietly towards the back door, reaching out a hand and slowly, agonisingly, nudged it open.

  16

  Behind The Door

  As I opened the door, I saw a claustrophobic space lit by a buzzing tube light. It doubled as both a store room and a toilet, with a latrine in the far corner, where two large men with stomachs bigger than their sweated-into shirts held a teenage girl upside down over the bowl. She was rib-thin inside a pair of denim cut-offs and a baggy red vest; one battered white sandal on the floor. Another hanging off a big toe, as she fought to free herself.

  “Tell us where the money is,” said one of the guys, dressed in a dark-blue, short-sleeved shirt, more gorilla than man.

  He held a shotgun to the girl’s face as she cried.

  “There isn’t any,” the girl said.

  “We know your dad made money from the deal,” said the other man. He was six-two tall and dressed in an orange pattern shirt with a sweat patch creeping out over his back. He also had the most ridiculous bushy tash in the universe.

  “My dad’s dead,” the girl said. “The store’s all me and mum have.”

  “Maybe she could pay us another way,” Gorilla said to Tash.

  “Nah, she’s too skinny for me,” said Tash.

  “So if you’re not gonna pay us and we’re not gonna fuck you,” Gorilla said to the girl, “then that only leaves us one option.”

  I crept across the floor, unseen behind them. The girl closed her eyes and sobbed, her long, black pony tail dipping in and out of the toilet water.

  Gorilla cranked the shotgun and pushed it into her face. “Hold her lower, in the bowl” he said. “The flush will clean most of the blood.”

  The girl let out a whimper.

  “Do it already,” said Tash.

  “Hold her steady,” Gorilla said, curling a finger around the trigger.

  I cleared my throat. The two men turned and saw me advancing slowly.

  “Who the fuck are you?” asked Tash.

  “Fashion police,” I said in Spanish, “And I’m sorry, but that thing on your lip is a hanging offence.”

  “Fuck off,” Gorilla said. “This doesn’t concern you,”

  “Oh, this concerns me a great deal,” I said.

  Tash cracked a half-laugh. “And what the fuck are you gonna do about it?”

  I got in close enough and stopped. I pointed at Gorilla. “First I’m gonna take that Winchester from your friend here. Then I’m gonna use it to vastly improve his face. Then, if there’s more than one round loaded into that shotgun, I’ll blow that caterpillar right off your lip.”

  “And if there’s not?” Tash asked, with a smirk.

  “Well, as you’re reaching for that revolver tucked in the back of those dad pants, I’ll incapacitate you somehow. Either that, or I’ll just wing it. In which case, it’s probably worse for you, because then Philippe will be in charge. And when that happens, you’re pretty much fucked.”

  The men looked at each other and laughed. “Crazy meth-head bitch,” said Gorilla.

  “Okay blondie,” Tash said. “Now I’ll tell you what we’re gonna do. First we’ll spray that pretty little head of yours all over the walls. Then we’ll make Angelina here eat some of your brains before we kill her.”

  “Nasty,” Gorilla said, pulling a face.

  “Huh,” I said. “So, do you guys wanna go first, or should I?”

  The men looked at each other again. “We’ll go first,” said Tash, dropping the store girl in a heap next to the toilet bowl.

  Gorilla whirled around with the shotgun. I grabbed the barrel in both hands, twisted my body to one side and ripped it from his grip before he could pull the trigger.

  I twisted back into position in front of him, flipping the shotgun around. I pulled the trigger and blew him off his feet. He landed on the seat of his pants in the toilet bowl.

  I cranked the shotgun and clicked empty.

  Tash reached for his weapon, tucked between waistband and shirt. I moved faster than he could draw, aiming to drive the shotgun butt in his temple. He leaned out of the way and pulled out a revolver. I ditched the shotgun, trapped and broke his trigger hand, before throwing him over a shoulder to the floor.

  As he climbed to his feet, I double-tapped him in the chest at close range with the revolver. He fell like a tree in the forest, dead by the time he hit the concrete floor.

  I flipped out the chamber of the revolver. I’d just used up the last two bullets. Typical.

  I quickly arranged the crime scene to looks if the men had shot each other; wiping down gun handles and placing them in the right positions. I would have preferred longer with the scene to make 100% sure no one suspected the girl, but it was the best I could do.

  Angelina got to her feet, visibly shaken.

  “They shot each other,” I told her. “Fighting over money. Or you. Or your mum. Whichever plays best around here.”

  Angelina spat on Gorilla and Tash. “I know what to do,” she said, wiping a tear from her face.

  “I’ve paid for my stuff,” I said, picking up racquet and rucksack. “There’s two hundred pesos behind the counter. I don’t know if it’s enough.”

  “It’s plenty,” Angelina said, putting on a brave, smiley face.

  “I’ve gotta go,” I said, resting a hand on her shoulder. “Great store by the way. Totally random. I love it.”

  I stepped around Tash’s body and emerged from the back room, hurrying through the store and out onto the street.

  People had been drawn by the loud bangs of the Winchester and the Colt revolver. They looked like normal folk, rather than La Firma. But they gathered in small numbers on street corners and stared.

  And word would spread. The gang were sure to hear of it.

  Whichever way I looked at the situation, time was running out. For Danby. For me. For the mission.

  Hell, when wasn’t it running out?

  17

  The Procedure

  By the time I’d returned to our hiding spot, Agent Danby looked whiter than a ginger goth, with the defector making more indecipherable noise beneath his head.

  “I know., I know. I’ll take the hood off in a minute,” I said, opening the rucksack and emptying the contents onto the floor.

  I slapped Danby hard around the face and shook him by the shoulders. His clothing was soaked in blood.

  He came around.

  I cracked open a bottle of coke and ripped open the sugar and salt sachets. I forced them into his mouth. He groaned gagged at the taste. I forced him to wash it all down with a hit of cola, fizz spilling out over his lips.

  “Sugars and salts” I said. “Electrolytes to keep you awake.”

  Props to the Philippe Vasquez School for Assassins. If you were dehydrated and not at your best, electrolytes were just the thing to keep you ticking.

  With Danby back in the land of the living, I broke out the tequila miniatures. I made him drink an entire bottle, then tore the sticky film off the lemon wipes and pulled out a few. I unbuttoned Danby’s shirt and gently peeled it away from his skin. The bullet had made a mess of his washboard torso. I wiped away the bloody smears with the first of the wipes so I could see the wound. The bullet had lodged in his left-hand side. Of course, I had to remove the shrapnel first, which meant one thing. Yep,
finger and thumb, going in.

  About the procedure:

  I poured a little tequila over the wound.

  I cleaned my hands with a fresh lemon wipe and pushed the wooden handle of the table tennis bat in Danby’s mouth, the rubber ball hanging loose on the end of the string.

  I tried not to hurl as I reached into the gloopy, gooey wound - I dry heaved several times, but held it in.

  Danby tried not to scream too loud through the bat, as I located the bullet and removed it.

  I threw the bullet away and cleaned the wound with another anti-bacterial wipe.

  I told Danby he smelled nice and lemony fresh.

  He laughed through the bat and winced in pain.

  I told him that was the easy bit. The next part would be painful.

  I opened the sewing kit, took out the largest needle in the pack and let it soak in the remaining tequila.

  I grabbed the wire cutters and began clipping my way through the racquet strings.

  Danby watched on in horror.. “You got any other ideas?” I asked him.

  I took one of the strings, threaded it through the eye of the needle and tied it off.

  “Here we go,” I said wiping the sweat from my brow and bringing the needle in close to the wound.

  I felt another gag coming on, so I took another swig of cola.

  I looked at Danby. He nodded. I pierced the skin where the wound began. Danby growled.

  I carefully threaded the tennis racquet string through one flap of skin, piercing the next and repeating the trick.

  I threaded the needle diagonally, creating a zig-zag stitch across the wound, my sewing hand dripping in Danby’s blood, the needle getting slippy.

  I wiped my hand off on my trousers and went back to work, one thread at a time; Danby close to blacking out.

  At last, I finished, the wound closed and the string holding firm - just enough left to tie off the stitching at either end.

  I tossed the needle, cleaned the area around the wound and wiped my hands using the last of the lemon wipes.

  I emptied the sanitary towels out of a plastic wrapper and pulled out a stretch of tape. “Nearly done,” I said.

  But there was a problem. A real humdinger of a problem.

  I heard voices outside.

  “Hold on,” I said to Danby.

  I ran to the edge of the window and peered around the wall into the streets below. Two gang members talking to locals. Another two joining them. All four tooled up with one weapon or another, but none with guns.

  One of the locals, an old silver-haired skeleton dressed in rags pointed towards the abandoned apartment block. One of the gang members, only a kid, slipped him a coin.

  Information came cheap in Neza-Chalco-Izta.

  I darted over to Danby, grabbing a fistful of sanitary towel and the roll of parcel tape.

  “Can you stand up?” I asked him.

  “What’s happening out there?” he asked, forcing his weight up the wall.

  I helped him up to his feet. He was wobbly, but he could stand. He held the sanitary towel to his wound as I ran the parcel tape around his lower abdomen, until the improvised dressing held tight in place.

  I heard shouting on the lower floors. Feet rushing up the stairs.

  Too late. There was nowhere to go. Not with a wounded man and a guy in a hood.

  In fact, it was way, way too late. By the time made our way into the short, narrow corridor that led to the stairs, the four guys were waiting for us; weapons in hand. They can’t have been much older than me, but they were fit and in shape, a hungry glint in their eye, talking about us; thinking we didn’t understand.

  “How much you reckon we’ll get for them?”

  “At least five hundred each.”

  “Anyone know if they’re wanted dead or alive?”

  “Don’t remember. But it’s easier if we kill ‘em.”

  “I think there’s been a misunderstanding,” I said in their tongue. “You want the other girl, guy and hooded gimp. We’re just here on holiday.”

  The four of them ignored me and lined up in a row, the guy on the left slapping a bat in hand, the next one holding a large knife up to his tongue, the third guy along wrapping the end of his chain around his fist, while the one on the right, rapped the end of his metal pipe against the corridor wall.

  I sighed and waved the guys forward, narrowing the space they would have to fight in.

  “Okay One Direction,” I said. “Let’s get this over with.”

  18

  Ready To Rumble

  I took the lead, Danby backing me up and the defector hiding out of sight inside the room. The first two guys took the bait, meeting me halfway along the hall where I could control the fight.

  The guy with the knife was short and skinny. He came at me first, thrusting the blade at waist-height. I body-swerved at the last moment and planted an elbow on the inside of his left shoulder blade.

  The next one swung his pipe at my head. I ducked and punched him hard in his left floating rib. I saw the kind kid come back at me with the blade and redirected in into the stomach of the one swinging the bat; a stocky meathead with a purple mohawk.

  I elbow punched the kid with the knife straight-up in the nostrils, before throwing him in the way of the next swing of the metal pipe.

  Knife Kid dropped like a bag of spuds, but I suddenly felt a chain pulling tight around my neck.

  Rather than fight the pull, I pushed against one wall and slammed the guy with the chain against the other. I reverse-butted him, then ducked as the kid with the pipe flew at me. He nailed the second of his mates in the chin with the pipe, before I whipped the chain from around my neck and slung it around his.

  I bent over double and flipped the guy over onto his back and choked him out with the chain. I looked around at Mohawk. On his bum, his head rolling groggy on his shoulders. A bloody Jackson Pollock all over his face.

  The guy with the knife in his stomach staggered to his feet. He cried as he pulled the blade.

  I pushed it back in and twisted. “Shush,” I said, easing him to the floor. “Well that hat was easy,” I said to Agent Danby, just as a stampede of extra guys came up the stairs.

  I breathed a sigh and looked at what we had.

  There were only eight more of them, all forming an un-orderly queue at the top of the stairs, where the corridor opened out. These guys were older, dressed in knock-off sportswear. I guessed they were local hoods by the fact that only two of them had guns.

  “Okay, who’s first?” I asked.

  They looked at the bodies surrounding me.

  They looked at each other; hesitant.

  I wasn’t about to wait for an answer.

  I slid in low on my knees, scooping up baseball bat and chain along the way. I whacked the legs out from the man in front, who carried a black pistol I guessed was a Beretta.

  Agent Danby picked up the gun as it fell to the floor and shot an attacker who ran at him with a flick-knife. I rose among the crowd and pushed another gun upwards, ploughing rounds into the ceiling; fragments of concrete falling on heads.

  The gun fell between the tangle of bodies and legs.

  I sensed a weapon thrusting at me before I saw it.

  A box cutter.

  I dropped the chain and rolled Mr Box Cutter’s wrist until it snapped, catching the weapon as it fell, only to be punched in the face and caught from behind by a chubby guy.

  He held me firm as the sucker-puncher threw a another left at my chin. I bobbed at the right time and Chubby Guy got a face full of fist. I then slashed the box-cutter across Mike Tyson’s midriff and took on the remaining five guys.

  Make that four; Danby cutting another down with a blast of that Beretta. He clicked empty as a guy in a red baseball cap came at me. I side-stepped him and drove his head into the wall. Another stooped for the gun dropped earlier in the melee. I kicked it away and as he picked up the baseball bat, I grabbed the chain and threw it out.

 
The chain caught around the end of the bat. I yanked if from the guy’s hand, caught it and hit a one-handed home run upside his head.

  That left two more guys in bodybuilder vests. One in red. One in green. They arrived at the top of the stairs a few seconds late to the fight. They were ogres, like off-duty Mexican wrestlers. Both skinheads, with faces meaner than Millie Beauchamp’s soul.

  The spare gun lay at their feet. One of them picked it up. He emptied the clip and tossed both parts away behind him. I guess it was a matter of pride for them; cracking their rather large knuckles, covered in brass knuckle dusters.

  Already tired and sweaty from the first two waves, I figured I’d probably have one swing of my bat and another of my chain.

  Better make them count, Lorn.

  The corridor was littered with bodies, with little room to move. So I squared up to the two vests near the top of the stairs, hulking frames hogging most of the light spilling in through a square hole missing a window.

  I swung the bat at the chin of Green Vest on the right, but my hand was slippy with sweat. It flew out of my grip; quickly swotted away.

  “Uh-oh,” said one of the men.

  I flung the end of the chain out as hard and fast as I could, hoping to score a KO on Red Vest’s chin. He caught the end of it. And one vicious jerk later, I was flying forwards, arm almost dislocated.

  Red Vest caught me by the throat and slammed me against the wall. He threw towards the top of the stairs, the chain now in his hands of Green Vest.

  “You grab her,” he said. “I’ll choke her.”

  Red Vest strode over and lifted me by the ponytail as Green Vest approached. Suddenly, he arched his back and cried out. Agent Danby stood behind him, brandishing the pipe. As Green Vest turned, Danby hit him again, a hollow metallic smack in the face.