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

by Rob Aspinall

  Stan, the driver, was a black guy with dreads and cool wrap shades. “This is it,” he said in a Texan accent. “Bootstrap . . . The bar you want is at the end of the street.” He dropped his shades and looked at me over the rims. “You sure that’s the place you want?”

  “Yep,” I said, slipping him a ten dollar bill. “Bye, Stan.”

  “Take it easy now,” he said, as I hopped down off the coach.

  The Greyhound pulled away in a chug of diesel fumes. I looked both ways up the street. Nothing but a few small stores and swirls of dust. There was the odd cactus in the distance, and a long cracked road you could cook a steak on.

  All we were missing was a tumbleweed.

  I wore denim cut-offs and a thin, red high-neck top without sleeves I'd picked up at a mall. I admit I’d stolen some cash to pay for them, but only from an obnoxious guy who I found at a petrol station. He'd been having a go at the attendant for touching his Porsche convertible.

  I’d picked the guy's pockets, paid for my petrol and driven off before he’d finished shouting and bawling.

  Of course, I'd had to ditch the MI6 SUV soon after. It would have been all over CCTV. So instead of driving halfway across the state, I’d bought a few clothes from a mall and hopped on a Greyhound. And there I stood, in good ‘ole Bootstrap, southwest Texas.

  To go with the shorts and top, I'd bought a pair of white pumps, some fake Gucci’s, a caramel satchel and a few essentials. Pay-as-you-go mobile included.

  At the end of the street, I found the place I was looking for: The Hole Hog. I knew it from hundreds of hours of past internet research.

  It looked smaller than on the pictures. But it was the same ramshackle place built out of unbleached wooden boards. It also had a row of gleaming Harleys parked outside, wheels pointed to the road. And a picture of a pig riding a motorbike above the door.

  Walking into bars still made me a bit nervous. I was so used to getting ID’d. Seemed like such a silly thing, considering, but I guess it was programmed in.

  I took a deep breath and opened the door.

  It was cool and dark inside. One big, square room with ceiling fans spinning lazy overhead. There was an ancient jukebox playing quiet bluesy rock in a far corner. And between that and the bar, two American pool tables lined with maroon felt.

  I counted seven guys and one woman in the bar, including the barman. The music may as well have stopped as I walked in, because everyone else sure did. I nodded and smiled a weak smile, silently apologising for my own existence.

  The clientele were dressed head to toe in leather, denim and black t-shirts. A couple with bandanas and all with beards. Maybe even the woman. She was a big unit. They all were. Barman too, polishing a glass with a dirty-white cloth.

  I took a tall stool in front of the bar. The bikers went back to what they were doing. But I could tell they were keeping an eye on me.

  “Got any ID?” the barman asked in a voice deeper than a well. He was as big as a house and bald as the balls those bikers were knocking around the tables.

  I shook my head. “Left it at home. I only want a coke.”

  “Sorry, I can’t serve you,” he said. “You’ll have to leave.”

  I took my purse out of my bag. I picked out a twenty dollar bill and slid it across the bar. “You can keep the change.”

  The barman had a pierced bottom lip. A sleeveless Metallica t-shirt. He put the glass down, looked around and took the money. “You want a glass?”

  “Nah,” I said. “Glasses are for wimps, right?”

  The barman cracked a half-smile. He grabbed a glass bottle of Coke from a fridge behind him, flashing me a stack of bum cheeks. I looked away, caught the eye of a biker holding a pool cue. His beard was white and trimmed to a dagger point. He wore a bandana and had a Swastika tattoo peeping out of the sleeve of his Harley Davidson tee.

  Oookay then.

  I looked away. Back to the Coke bottle. The barman tore the metal top off with his teeth and spat it fast into a bin behind the bar. He slid the bottle in front of me. “One twenty dollar coke.”

  I grabbed the ice cold bottle and took a swig, feeling it go all the way down my body.

  Oh, sweet, beautiful sugar and additives. Just what I needed.

  “Where’s that accent from?” the barman asked me, back to drying his glass.

  “England,” I said. “Manchester.”

  “What are you doing all the way out here?”

  I put down the bottle of coke. Sucked up a burp, the fizz stinging my eyes. “I’m looking for something,” I said. “A commune.”

  “Commune?”

  “Yeah,” I heard there was a commune right around here. I came to sign up.”

  “Ain’t no commune around here,” a drawling voice said.

  I turned to see Pointy Beard walking over. Pool cue in hand.

  “Not what I heard,” I said, taking another drink, checking the inside of his leather waistcoat for signs of a weapon—the bar for an alternative exit.

  Pointy Beard wasn’t armed. That didn’t mean the place wasn’t loaded with guns.

  I put the bottle down.

  “And what did you hear?” Pointy Beard said, leaning his weight on the bar, inches from me. “Whisky,” he said to the barman.

  The barman nodded and went to work.

  “I heard this is where I could find New Horizon.”

  I watched the guy as I said it. He kept his cool. But micro-expressions rarely lied. Philippe taught me to read them. But to be honest, I kinda think the skill came with the heart.

  This guy had a rubbish poker face. His pupils dilated, despite there being enough light. It suggested anxiety. And that was in spite of the familiar surroundings and the alcohol in his system.

  I could tell the way the others acted around him that Pointy Beard was the leader. Yep, he was the guy to speak to. The head of the Texas Hell Riders. According to local articles online, the gang were Neo Nazi bikers with strong links to New Horizon. They had a thriving business running drugs up and down the state. The police wouldn’t touch them as they were bosom buds with the Mexican cartels. So I guessed at least a couple of them had to be carrying.

  Pointy Beard leaned into me with his honking chilli breath. The barman slid him a whisky. He caught it without looking and downed it in one. “Take my advice, girly. Drink up and git your skinny little butt out of Bootstrap. Ain't no one heard of no New Horizon.”

  “You’re not very polite, are you?” I said, finishing my drink. I put the bottle down. I closed my eyes and rode out a sharp pain in my nostrils. “Ever get the fizzes?” I asked him.

  He screwed up his fat, pig-pink face. “The what—?”

  I picked up the empty bottle by the neck and smashed it over the guy’s head.

  4

  Blood & Beer

  The barman reached out to grab me. I pushed off the bar with both feet. As the stool fell backwards, I escaped the barman’s clutches. I let the momentum take me. I back-flipped off the stool, kicking an on-rushing biker in the chest with the soles of my pumps. I landed on my feet as he fell away. Still in one move, I caught the falling stool and swung it to my right.

  Pointy Beard took an instant nap on the floor. A cut above the eye where the stool connected.

  I swung the stool again. An ogre with a black beard and a ponytail smashed it in two with a forearm. He swung a fist the size of a boulder. I ducked underneath and took a running jump. I used his shoulders to swing myself around the back of him and crack the barman in the jaw with a kick.

  I came down around the other side. Grabbed the big guy’s pony tail. Yanked his head and cracked the back of his skull on the edge of the bar top.

  That was three down. Four left. One of them the woman, pulling a silver Magnum revolver from inside a leather jacket. I moved fast into a roll between pool tables. Bullets blowing beer bottles off the cushions. She clicked empty after four shots. I rose and threw the eight ball flush in her face. Her nose exploded with blood as sh
e collapsed onto a table.

  Meanwhile, a biker had found a twelve gauge from somewhere. As he pumped the forend of the shotgun at the far end of the pool table, I swung the heavy wooden light shade. It hit him hard in the mush. As another guy grabbed at me from behind, I ducked and let the light shade swing back the other way. It smacked him in the forehead. I picked up three pool balls and threw them in quick succession. Each one a bullseye hit on Twelve Gauge’s nut.

  That left one man and two walking wounded. Unarmed except for pool cues. They circled me. I picked up a cue of my own and backed away from the tables. The first one swung. The other two with him. I blocked all three attacks with my cue. Knocked a guy dizzy with the fat end. The other two came at me again. I blocked one, ducked another and caught the swinger between the legs. I spun the cue one-eighty and slammed him in the eye. I whirled the cue around baseball style and knocked the remaining guy into the jukebox. His head left a smear of blood on the glass.

  I lured the two still standing either side of me. They swung. I dropped to my knees. They struck each other out with their own cues. I rose and finished the job. A spin-hit putting both on their backs.

  I twirled my cue as I walked to the bar. The big guy with the ponytail was struggling to his feet. I let him have it. He collapsed to his bum, the pool cue snapping in two over his head.

  I kept hold of the fat, splintered end. Pointy Beard clung to the bar, face caked in blood.

  “Where can I find New Horizon?” I asked him.

  “Fuck you,” he said.

  I rammed the sharp end of the broken cue in the guy’s shoulder. He screamed in pain. “Don't make me ask again,” I said.

  Pointy Beard got his breath. “Feds were onto ‘em,” he said. “They relocated.”

  I worked the cue inside the wound. “Where?”

  “Bay area. San Fran.”

  I noticed a skull keychain on his belt. I ripped it off. “Thank you for your cooperation,” I said with a smile. I grabbed my satchel off the bar. Pointy Beard slid to the floorboards as I walked out of the door.

  The sun hit me hard as I came out. I slipped on my fake Gucci's and strolled along the row of hogs. The Harley on the far end had the same metal skull between the handlebars as the key chain. I straddled the bike, slid the key in the ignition and turned.

  The bike roared into life. I revved the engine, knocked the kickstand back and tore off along the highway.

  5

  Piece Of Cake

  Back in school again. A shorter, smarter head of black hair. Legs and feet in grey trousers and shiny black shoes. Everything else in a white shirt, green tie and matching jumper. The classroom is clean as a whistle. It’s bright and airy. The ceiling high and the room big. The smell of white paint still on the walls.

  Me and the other kids sit upright in our chairs. Twenty boys and girls in the same uniforms, around the same age. All the races under the sun.

  Every desk and chair is grey and brand new.

  The teacher stands to front of the class. She’s a slim, prim woman in her forties. She wears a frilly white blouse and maroon pencil skirt. She’s blonde with her hair pinned perfect to her head.

  “The sun often shines in Peru,” she says in English.

  We repeat the phrase after her as a class.

  Then we say it in German.

  “Die Sonne scheint oft in Peru.”

  Then in Spanish.

  “El sol brilla a menudo en Perú.”

  In French.

  “Le soleil brille souvent au Pérou.”

  Russian, Chinese, Arabic . . . The list goes on, before I bounce into another classroom. Now it's advanced maths and geometry. A beardy teacher who reminds me of Mr Herd draws chalk angles on a board with a giant set square.

  Soon after, we’re stood around a plastic man without his skin, studying the human anatomy.

  Then stood at a lab counter with a ticking-down stopwatch attached to a lump of blue plasticine. A mess of wires sprout out of the top. I fiddle with the mess as the clock runs down. A human lizard with curly black hair strolls along a line of other kids all doing the same.

  Somehow I know his name is Herr Franzen. And that he's evil.

  He strolls up and down in his white lab coat.

  As I struggle with the wires, the stopwatch flashes and beeps 00:00.

  “Bang!” Herr Franzen shouts in my ear. He speaks English, but in a thick accent I place as Austrian.

  I crap my little grey school pants.

  “You’re a pile of dust,” he says with a quiet smile. “Do it again.”

  Next, I’m looking through big, boxy safety glasses. Orange ear defenders strapped on my head and a SIG Sauer P220 in my hands. I shoot at a target at the far end of the range. A white outline of a head and shoulders with a bullseye in the centre.

  We let rip. We’re good considering how young we are. The teacher is built like Arnie. Ex-special forces type with a navy-blue cap and a whistle round his neck.

  He pulls my paper target off its hook as it comes to a stop in front of me.

  I’ve nailed Target Guy twice in the head and three times in the heart.

  The instructor nods in approval, hands it to me and opens a black notebook. He peels a gold star off a small sheet of stickers and presses it onto my chest.

  Then we’re sat in rows in the canteen. Kids of different ages. Big metal fans spinning overhead. Metal trays and tables, too. A bowl of chunky Swiss muesli, a plate of broccoli and a square of cod with not a hint of taste. God, I’ve not eaten like this since the recovery after heart surgery. But that’s not the most boring thing on the menu.

  Next up is chess class. I’m playing a ginger kid. Good for developing strategy? I dunno. But I’m relieved when the memory switches to a sports hall and dark-grey gym mats. I see Kung Fu Master. He’s the small Chinese man with the white beard who popped into my head in Mexico. He stands in his yellow PJs next to his massive and not very glamorous assistant, Jeremy.

  I’m called forward to fight a bigger boy. A pan-faced blonde kid who takes an instant dislike to me. We bow in our black PJs. He goes for a cheap shot early while I’m mid-bow. A hard kick to the chest. I stagger back on my heels. The instructors let it go. The lad comes at me, arms and legs whirling in a war cry.

  I hold my ground. Spin low and sweep the kid's standing ankle. He hits the deck. Flips back onto his feet. Straightens out and throws a flat-handed punch. I catch his forearm, roll his weight over my shoulder and slam him onto the mat. I hold his arm and let out a Kung Fu cry of my own—a flat-hand tap to his chest.

  I look across the mats and see a pretty young blonde chick around my age. She wins her fight too, against a much bigger black girl. We catch each other’s eye. She smiles. I smile back.

  Kung Fu Master leads the applause.“ And we have our winners,” he says, as Jeremy hands him a pair of cakes in clear plastic wraps. Kung Fu Master calls us forward and passes the cakes on to us. We bow and step back into the assembled crowd.

  As a bell rings, the class ends. Suddenly I’m in a long corridor lined with black lockers. Back in my uniform, cake in hand and satchel on my back.

  Two older boys appear in front of me. The blonde one I put on the mat appears behind. I stop as they close in, towering over me.

  “Give me the cake,” the blonde one says. I shake my head. He shoves me against the lockers. “Give me your cake or we’ll take it from you.”

  “No,” I say. “I won it.”

  “You stole it,” the blonde one says. “I want what belongs to me.”

  I try to walk away. I take a punch to the left cheek. Another to the stomach. I hold onto the cake as they try and wrestle it from me. I fight back, but I’m outnumbered. One pulls my arms behind my back. Another pounds me in the guts again and knocks the wind out of me. The blonde lad is about to lay one on my jaw, when a flying kick comes out of nowhere and lands plum in his ribs.

  The kick is from the blonde girl from the Kung Fu class. The other winner. We doub
le team the three of them. With both hands free, I punch one in the stomach and judo throw the blonde lad all over again onto the floor. The girl has the remaining boy in an arm-lock. He cries in pain.

  “What are you doing?” A voice shouts. It’s Kung Fu Master and he's angry. He storms down the corridor towards us.

  We freeze and let the lads go. They scramble off around the corner with my cake. Kung Fu Master stops in front of us. We’re about to get the hair dryer.

  “Haven’t I taught you anything?” he says. He thrusts a pointed hand towards my sternum. Stops a gnat’s eyelid from the bone. “Go for here first,” he says. “Or here,” moving his hand up to my throat. “You're trying to stop him breathing, not digesting his food.”

  “Yes master,” I say, as me and the girl bow.

  The instructor strides away. “Get to your dorms,” he says. “Curfew in one hour.”

  I pick up my satchel and rub my left cheek. “Thanks,” I say to the girl. “What’s your name?”

  “Lina Juska,” she says. “What’s yours?”

  “Ricardo Antonio Alonso,” I say. “Where are you from?”

  “Lithuania. You?”

  “Catalonia.”

  “Here,” Lina says, opening her own satchel. She takes out her cake, tears the wrapper open and splits it in half.

  It’s a hard sponge cake the size of a muffin. Dark-brown and dusted with sugar on the outside and light and fluffy on the inside, with apple in the centre. It smells of cinnamon. She hands me half the cake. We smile at each other as we chew.

  Man, that tastes good.

  6

  Ladies That Laundry

  I moved into the courtyard, keeping my head down. The sun was out. Gulls crying overhead. Like the others, I was dressed in magnolia. A flowing cotton dress down to my feet, where the toes of my pumps peeped out.

  The courtyard was sheltered by high white walls topped with terracotta tiles. I saw a small bell tower in the far right corner.