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

by Rob Aspinall

  I picked up my rifle, resting with Nathan’s in the gargantuan footwell. I prepped it to fire. I unbuckled my belt and climbed out of my seat. “Try and keep it steady,” I said.

  “Why? What are you doing?”

  “These guys are starting to piss me off,” I said, moving into the back.

  Between the front seats and the benches in the rear, the truck had a circular hatch that opened out from inside, with a raised platform in the floor you could stand on. I reached up and wrestled the stiff handle clockwise. The lock clunked free. I pushed the inches-thick hatch open and stuck my head out behind my rifle sight.

  A couple of rounds fizzed by from the SWAT teams on the rear of two police pickups. I unleashed hell in the opposite direction, spraying both pickups with a firestorm of glowing red bullets.

  I hit two of the SWAT on the rear of the right pickup and must have caught the driver too, because it swerved off into the side of the building, out of the chase. The SWAT on the rear of the remaining pickup hit back with an onslaught of their own. I was already inside the hatch in the roof. As soon as the shooting stopped, I stuck my rifle out and fired back. Doing damage, but not enough to shake off the tail.

  As Nathan ran out of straight road, he was forced to slow and turn into a maze of tight streets, making it harder to spray my targets. So I switched to single shots. First, I pointed the rifle skywards. I waited for the police chopper to adjust its course and catch up overhead. As the sniper leaned out, I let off a round, hitting him in his right shoulder, blood splattering out and his rifle falling from his hands. It bounced on to the roof of the truck and slid away.

  I tried the same with the pickup, but there was too much flak coming the other way. I dropped through the hatch again.

  “Check the compartments,” Nathan shouted. “Underneath the seats in the back.”

  The seats were lined up in rows along the interior walls of the truck, I found a row of steel-mesh compartments beneath one of them, just like Nathan said.

  I opened it up and dragged out a black holdall. I unzipped the bag and found a jumble of clips and grenades. I picked out a couple of grenades and popped the pins as I rose out of the hatch.

  I threw both in quick succession. They bounced along the road, into the path of the lead pickup.

  BAM! BAM!

  A one-two punch in the undercarriage sent bodies flying and the pickup tumbling in a flaming wreck. I was about to close the hatch and return to my seat when we broke out into another main street. A long, asphalt road sweeping down into the lower end of the slums, fed by a slip road either side - a pickup on each one, merging in fast.

  These weren’t police pickups, either. They were white, carrying guys in t-shirts and jeans on the back. Tattoos. Bandanas tied over their faces. And a mishmash of deadly weapons.

  The pickups cut into the main road and bumped up against the armoured truck from the left and right. A La Firma member jumped off the back of each one, their feet thumping on the metal over my head.

  “You are taking the piss!” I shouted to the night, climbing out of the hatch to take them on.

  40

  Surrounded

  In the dark of night, it was hard to tell who was who. But frankly, who cared? I had to kill them before they killed me. That meant rolling out on to the roof and rising fast with an open palm to the chin of the first attacker.

  As he dropped unconscious, the next was in my face with a silver revolver. I manipulated his grip and reversed it on him as he fired. It took most of his face clean off. One of the worst things I’d ever seen.

  Well in the top twenty, at least.

  I used the man with no face as a human shield. He took a bullet meant for me, fired from the back of the right-hand pickup. I returned fire with the revolver and knocked the shooter off the back of the truck.

  Another La Firma jumped on from behind me. Oh yay, this one had a machete. As I spun and fired, he ducked and swung the machete. The guy I’d knocked out earlier struggled to his feet, only to have his head chopped off at the base of the neck, his body falling away on to the road behind. I lunged forward and shouldered Machete Guy off the roof. He fell backwards into the left-hand pickup, his blade coated in blood.

  In the meantime, Nathan was attempting to barge his way out of the stranglehold the pickups had on us. He slammed right to left, throwing me off my feet and another shooter in the right-hand pickup onto the road, his body tumbling away.

  By the time I got to my feet, the truck sandwich was back in place and this time I had four guys jumping onto the roof at the same time; two from either pickup.

  They wanted in that hatch. And I was in the way.

  In the white circle of the helicopter searchlight cast over the roof, I sized all four men up in a split-second. Each one had a gun. This was gonna be tricky.

  As I always found, people’s reaction times were slightly different. One always went a beat before the others. This time, it was the guy on the left of me.

  By the time he’d squeezed his trigger, I’d spun into him and swung his shooting arm in the direction of his psycho bestie on the far right. I then spun around the back of him as the next one fired, letting him take the bullet, before squeezing my finger on the human shield’s limp trigger digit.

  That put three down, with only one left on the roof.

  He was a little slow and a little late. He took a round in the head and fell between truck and pickup, getting crushed to bits under the wheels.

  I ripped the handgun from my human shield and pushed his semi-alive body off the rear of the truck. I spun and clicked empty as Machete Guy jumped on to the roof for another swing.

  Suddenly, Nathan hung a hard right. The pickups had to do the same as the road snaked in a giant S around a collapsed apartment block. I staggered backwards across the roof and tripped over the guard rail, falling into the right-hand pickup and a nest of La Firma vipers.

  Maybe a little dramatic, considering there were only two of them left. But as they fought to hold me down, another from the front passenger seat climbed out and around the back.

  Yep, and here came Machete Guy. Leaping off the roof of the armoured truck like a wrestler off the top rope.

  Yours Truly due for the chop.

  Except Yours Truly had other plans for her limbs. And it didn’t involve watching them roll around the pickup squirting blood.

  As Machete Guy landed, I used the arms of the men holding me back as leverage. I raised my knees and double-kicked him in the ribs before he had chance to wield the first blow. He hit the rim of the truck with a thunk, his spine cracking against the metal. He dropped the machete and collapsed to the floor, a bone sticking the wrong way out of his back.

  I fought the urge to gag and wrestled my left arm free. I threw the guy on my right over my shoulder and drove the point of my elbow into the throat of the one to my left. I judo-threw the one climbing out of the passenger door across the floor of the pickup. I then picked up a loose 22 calibre pistol and double-tapped anything that moved.

  I slipped inside the front of the cabin and put the pistol to the temple of the driver.

  “Slow down easy,” I said.

  He applied the brakes and we dropped behind the armoured truck.

  “Now get out,” I said.

  He looked at me like he really didn’t want to. I dug the gun deeper into his temple and counted. “One … two …”

  The driver jacked the door open and bailed. I slid into the driver’s seat and wound down the window to let air blow through the cabin and cool me down. I caught my breath for a moment, took a sip on a fast-food coke left in a cupholder on the central console, buckled my belt across and stepped on the accelerator.

  I caught up to the armoured truck and stuck on its tail as Nathan jockeyed with the remaining pickup on the right.

  I checked my birthday watch.

  It was three a.m. Only two hours until wheels up.

  I swung out and drove fast behind the La Firma pickup. I was get
ting us both out of that place, if it was the last thing I fucking did.

  41

  Time To Die

  Through the windscreen of the pickup, I saw two more La Firma members preparing to leap on to passenger side of the armoured truck, no doubt going for that hatch in the roof.

  And I recognised them too.

  It was Pepe and Louis. Forced to get their hands dirty as they ran out of gang members to send into battle.

  I stamped on the accelerator pedal and rammed my front bumper into the rear of the remaining La Firma truck, shunting it on and throwing the guys in the back off-balance. A gunman on the back with an automatic rifle unloaded on my pickup. I ducked behind the wheel as the windscreen smashed, stepping on the brake and sliding back behind the armoured truck. With half the windscreen hanging off, I accelerated and lined my window up with Nathan’s. He double-took in my direction and opened his window.

  “Brake hard when I say!” I shouted.

  “Why?”

  “Just do it!” I shouted, in no mood to debate tactics.

  I waited for the road to narrow and an opportunity to present itself. And to the right of the road, wrapped in a pink ribbon bow, was exactly what we needed.

  “Now!” I shouted.

  Suddenly, Nathan and the armoured truck disappeared from view. I pulled the wheel to the right as the road bent left, scything across the front of the armoured truck and ramming the other pickup as hard. It crashed into a steel girder supporting an unfinished building site, sending the men in the back flying off in different directions.

  As the road straightened out, I reached an arm out of the window and lined up a shot. I fired at the police chopper overhead; the first two rounds sparking off the undercarriage. The third scored a direct hit.

  With fuel spraying out of the rear of the helicopter, I fired until the clip was empty, forcing it to pull away and seek an emergency landing.

  I glanced in the wing mirror. No chasing pack. Up ahead - no blockade.

  Phew. That’s that.

  Just as I relaxed behind the wheel of the pickup, I glanced in my mirrors and noticed Pepe and Louis, hanging off the side of the armoured truck.

  They must have jumped off the pickup before I’d rammed it off the road. One clung on to the right-hand side of the truck, while another pulled himself on to the roof.

  I steered to the right so the truck was in my near wing mirror, shoved open the driver-side door and hit the brakes.

  The front of the armoured truck obliterated the driver-side door, leaving me with a clean exit. I kept the pickup steady alongside, picking the right moment.

  This is moron level stuff, my inner devil said, even by your low standards.

  I know, but what else was I gonna do?

  I left my right toe on the accelerator pedal for as long as I could and jumped.

  I caught hold of two bars over a narrow window above the rear wheel arch.

  The toes of my pumps kicked against the tyres of the truck, and for a moment, scuffed against the dirt road. I heaved my weight up and grabbed hold of the guard rail overhead. Louis had fought his way up, joining Pepe on the roof.

  He crawled to the rear of the truck, took a knife from his belt and stabbed at my hands, as they held on to the rail. I moved one hand out of the way as the blade came down, hearing the ching of clashing steel.

  The same again as he went for the other hand.

  With my fingers around the rail tiring, I lost my grip with one hand.

  Louis came for the remaining hand. I fumbled around my jumble of a mind for a way out.

  Nathan slowed the pace and steered the truck through a narrow street; buildings only a few feet either side.

  Guess it could work …

  Holding on by one hand, I twisted my body to the left and used the nearest wall like a treadmill, sprinting sideways, up and over the guard rail on to the roof. I landed on my front. Hands ready to push myself up.

  But I held still for a moment. Louis swished his blade side to side as he walked towards me across the roof. He smiled and laughed.

  Bang.

  He was caught by the first of a long series of clothing lines criss-crossing low between buildings. He disappeared with the washing overhead, hung out to dry.

  “Didn’t see that coming, did you?” I couldn’t help saying, spinning myself around on my front and crawling low towards the hatch, sheets and clothes and smalls and, euw, socks, slapping me in the face.

  I peeped over the hatch. Pepe had a gun held to the back of Nathan’s skull, screaming at him to stop the truck.

  Nathan was a rabbit in the headlights. Frozen. Hands fused with the wheel. Right foot glued to the accelerator.

  Pepe screamed a final warning in his whiney, high-pitched voice, a finger on the trigger, itching to paint the windscreen with Nathan’s brains, whatever the consequences. “You think I’m fucking with you, motherfucker?” he said, veins bulging in his neck. “Stop or I fucking shoot you. Fuck it, I shoot you right fucking now-“

  He paused. Frothed at the mouth and turned purple.

  Hanging upside down, halfway through the hatch, I removed the phenol spike from his neck. He dropped to the floor, blood frothing out of his mouth and eyes rolling back in his skull.

  I pushed the red button on the side of the watch and retracted the spike.

  Best. Gift. Ever!

  Nathan looked over his shoulder at me; the world’s biggest sigh of relief.

  “Are we there yet?” I asked.

  Nathan turned his attention back to the road and steered us out of the narrow street into an open area where giant piles of rubbish lined the fronts of abandoned building projects.

  “We can’t be too far off,” Nathan said, as I dropped into the truck and closed the hatch. I looked at Pepe, lying purple between my feet. I picked up his handgun and holstered it, before retrieving my rifle from the rear floor of the truck.

  I climbed in the passenger seat and wiped the sweat from my face with a sleeve.

  “How about you give those friends of yours a call?” Nathan said.

  I pulled the phone from my pocket. Still in one piece but low on battery and signal.

  “It’s giving me nothing,” I said, jabbing at the phone. “What kind of shitty plan was Danby on?”

  I looked up as Nathan slowed down. He brought the truck to a stop in the middle of the road.

  “Why are you stopping?” I asked.

  Nathan ignored me and stared into the distance. I followed his line of sight to the end of the street. The first signs of light were easing into the sky, tinging everything in a gloomy, hazy blue-grey feel, like an Instagram filter.

  At the end of the street, I could make out a chunky, boxy shape rolling slowly towards us.

  “Hey,” I said. “Is that a tank?”

  42

  Ka-Boom

  First came a deep thud, an orange spark and a puff of smoke.

  Then came the hit.

  Bloody fucking hell.

  Nathan reversed the truck too late to avoid the tank shell completely. It boomed into the road in front of us, shaking the armoured truck so violently, I cut the top of my head on the door frame, even with my belt on holding me in the seat.

  When the dust settled, I could see the front end of the truck was all mangled metal, tyres and bonnet fused with the world’s biggest pothole.

  Smoke filled the cabin of the truck, built to sustain the attack of high-powered rifles, RPGs and IEDs, but I’m guessing not tank ammo.

  Nathan told me we had to get out.

  “Um, what gave you that idea?” I asked, unbuckling my belt and coughing out a lungful of soot.

  We made our way to the back of the truck and pushed the rear door open, rifles in hand. We jumped three-feet to the floor, the rear wheels of the truck still spinning in the air.

  As we hit the dirt, I heard another of those deep, thudding booms.

  After the shortest of sprints away from the armoured truck, the next shell tore
through the sky and landed a direct hit.

  The shockwave from the blast threw us ten feet forward and six feet up in the air.

  I felt the explosion in my bones.

  The ground felt it too; still shaking when I landed hard, front-first on the asphalt, my ears ringing and the breath knocked out of me. I hauled myself up onto wobbly legs, like a boxer getting up off the canvas.

  Operating on sheer instinct, I helped a dazed Nathan to his feet, our rifles shaking in our hands. I steadied mine, and then his, looking behind me at what remained of the truck. A blazing wreck split wide open, like Godzilla had torn it in two.

  The drifting cloud and smoke and dust that engulfed the street would clear before long. We had to move while visibility was low. Blinking the grit out of my eyes, I pointed towards the nearest point of cover.

  “Come on,” I said, barely able to hear my own voice.

  Nathan pulled himself together and raised his rifle. We ran in tandem across the street, my legs wanting to collapse, my mind refusing to give in.

  We reached an unfinished building project rising several stories high. A concrete and steel skeleton with only patches of flesh on its bones.

  I felt the deep rumble of tank tracks through the ground beneath my feet, followed by the crack of automatic gunfire from enemies we couldn’t see.

  We took refuge behind a concrete wall on the outside of the building. I swung my rifle around and returned fire, cutting down a Mexican man dressed like a cowboy.

  Nathan took over as I reloaded. I tapped him on the shoulder and continued the gun battle, as Nathan jammed another clip in his rifle.

  He tapped me on the shoulder. “We need to move.”

  The tank was rumbling in closer, it’s barrel rotating our way. A police tank. Black, with white writing on the side. The cops had tanks now? Jesus.

  We ran deeper into the abandoned structure. The early morning was getting lighter by the minute as we ran through the building, pausing behind steel girders to return fire. Bullets whizzed, pinged and sparked off metal.