Terminal Vendetta (A Diana Weick Thriller Book 3)

by Cate Clarke

  These two had changed her life. They had saved her just as Diana Weick had and would do. When this led to the inevitable end of the Readers, when she prevented the deaths of all those higher-ups in America, they would not think she was so mad.

  The boy groaned, his chin coming down onto the back of the toilet, rubbing his cheek along the top so he could look at her.

  One flaky piece at a time, she fed him the pastry first. Not wanting to deal with the smell that the other one was giving off yet. But slowly, she helped them gather their strength, gave them water through a metal straw and checked on their wounds.

  Much to her mother and father’s disappointment, Amita was not a doctor anymore, but it did look to her as if the burned feet and ankles of the boy were almost healed.

  “You have to let us go,” the boy croaked.

  Rubbing some ointment on his feet, Amita replied, “I’ve told you. I am more than willing to let you go, but I need to know that you won’t go flying back to America as soon as I snip those zip ties.”

  “Why?” he cried.

  “You know why.”

  He kicked. Amita grabbed his ankle, and he winced with pain, holding it firmly in place as she slathered more of the ointment onto his feet. The other one just breathed laboriously as she rubbed his back with the same ointment, but his wounds didn’t look the same as the boy’s. The skin here was inflamed, white puss leaking out, yellowing patches of tissue stretching between it all.

  “He’s dying,” the boy said, coughing and leaning his head the other way against the back of the toilet.

  “We’re all dying, Wesley,” Amita replied, standing up, leaving the infection in the best shape she could manage. There was not much else she could do for him at this point. It wasn’t an option to let them go right now. If she let them go too early, Weick would not accomplish what she’d set out to do. Amita would never receive her true penance.

  “You’re killing him!” he shrieked.

  “Is that really what you think?” Amita asked as she cleaned her hands in the sink, washing them thoroughly. “I saved him. I saved you. Without me, you would be a box of ashes. Perhaps, consider a little gratefulness for all I’ve done to keep you alive.”

  Sensing this was going to be a restless night for him, she put his gag on, moving the white piece of fabric around his neck back over his mouth. They had gone a few days without it—no food meant quiet. These generous pastries meant strength and complaining.

  But the father—he didn’t need the gag to keep him quiet. All he could do was breathe, and that was all Amita needed him to do until his purpose was served.

  Chapter 10

  Wesley Tennison-Weick

  He’d never felt this type of anger before. There had been frustrating games of Call of Duty, the occasional baseball or soccer game that got him riled up, but never had Wesley been so absolutely furious with a person like he was with the woman keeping them here.

  It had been weeks.

  It started with firm hands, yanking him away from his mother and sister, clamping on to him and pulling him through mud and fire to shove him into the back of a car. He had been drugged and starved and in darkness for so long that he wasn’t sure he would ever be able to process anything outside of the tiled bathroom wall in front of him.

  At the beginning, he’d been so relieved and grateful for his dad’s presence, alongside him in this hellhole. But more painful than the burns and the anger was being forced to watch his father die like this.

  This lady had tried to explain herself on more than one occasion—that all of this was temporary, that she was going to let them go as soon as this was all taken care of—but Wesley didn’t trust her. He was going to get out of here.

  The Weicks had gotten into this terrible burning cycle of being hostages and captives while Mom went off shooting bad guys. It seemed like Amita Voss loved this cycle and that she was using it to her advantage.

  Wesley missed his mom. He missed his sister. Ratanake. Hell, he even missed Laird. He wondered sometimes what his friends at school must’ve thought of his life and if he would ever be able to graduate high school after all of this was over—if this ever ended.

  His wrists were rubbed raw, the zip ties forcing his skin together behind the toilet. She had brought them some food finally, and Wesley could feel that stirring strength he hadn’t had for a long time. He needed to take advantage of it.

  Pulling it against the toilet, the ceramic creaking against the tile, Wesley tried to work his mouth out of the gag. It was just a piece of spandex, though it had worked quite well at muffling any sounds that they had tried. And from what he could gather, they were high up somewhere on an isolated floor.

  What really drove him crazy was hearing her type and do business just on the other side of the door, pretending like this was just a regular thing, keeping hostages in your executive bathroom. Amita Voss was the worst type of unhinged because she was absolutely convinced that what she was doing was right and not completely insane.

  With a couple more juts of his lips and chin, Wesley was able to slide his mouth out of the gag. He would have to keep quiet so she didn’t know that he could get out so easily. She seemed to have a crapload of resources, and Wesley didn’t want to have to deal with a higher-grade gag over his mouth for days at a time. Besides, he had tried the screaming. He had tried banging his head against the wall.

  The only response he got was her barging in, scolding him and wrapping his mouth up with tape over the spandex if he didn’t comply.

  “Dad,” Wesley hissed, trying to get a glimpse of him over his shoulder. Dad was leaned forward, his wrists strained above his head, his back exposed and covered in ointment, but it was hard to tell the ointment from the puss of the infection.

  He groaned.

  “Dad,” Wesley tried again.

  “I can’t,” Dad said, groaning a second time.

  “Yes, you can,” Wesley said, spitting, his neck strained already from everything else. Every muscle was sore. He couldn’t imagine how his dad must have been feeling. “Can you just touch your forehead to your arm? Check for fever?”

  “No.”

  Dad’s head lolled forward again, slipping in and out of consciousness.

  What could Wesley do? He had finally enlisted as a soldier, and in the span of a few weeks, he had lost the man that was going to train him, almost been blown up by a terrorist attack and been taken hostage. He needed a plan. He needed to focus.

  Mom’s sharp advice came to mind—when you’re fighting an enemy bigger than you, use your environment.

  With the sugar and the carbs of the pastry giving him some strength, Wesley analyzed what was around him. Sink to his right and wall to his left. His father behind him, strung up to the metal towel ring that could probably be pulled out of the wall with enough effort, but Dad wasn’t strong enough for that. Under the sink, there was a cabinet, but he couldn’t reach the silver handles with his hands like this.

  The burns on his ankles and feet were at least healing. It wasn’t infected like Dad’s.

  He reached with his toes to the cabinet, trying to grasp at the handle with his feet. Cupping his body around the toilet, he managed to wedge his toe under the bottom of the cabinet door. He pulled. It opened slightly and then closed again, just out of his reach. Again. Toe under the door, pulling, yanking, and bouncing shut. Pull and shut.

  Wesley let out a frustrated grunt as the back of his ankle reminded him of the pain that had singed through him at Ratanake’s funeral.

  He wasn’t strong enough for this. Not yet. But a couple more pastries and Wesley could do it; he could get into the cabinet. Maybe, it wouldn’t help him. Maybe, there would be nothing useful under the sink, but he had to keep moving forward. He couldn’t give up and die like Dad was doing. Stay alive. That was the focus he needed—keep him and Dad alive for as long as he could. For now, that meant laying his head down on the back of the toilet and resting because he was tired from just extending his leg.
But tomorrow or the next day—or whatever made up the time between day and night, Wesley didn’t know anymore—he would make his move.

  Chapter 11

  Diana Weick

  Dawson City, Yukon

  The Jeep pulled off on a gravel road. Both Zabójca and David got out and continued their journey on foot, black bags on their back, one that looked like a particularly big and nasty piece of machinery. The Readers had way too many people working for them on the inside, distributing information and weapons like they were the royal gunned-up disciples of American military reform.

  They watched from their own rented SUV, keeping an eye with Amber’s monocular by passing it between the two of them. Taras was in the backseat, picking at a to-go container filled with french fries that were making the whole car smell like oil.

  “They’re going on foot,” Amber noted.

  “Over those mountains there.” Diana pointed to a low mountain range. “You guys ready for a hike?”

  Her eyes moved to Taras in the rear-view mirror as he looked himself up and down, brushing off any crumbs from his food, scratching at his beard. Diana wouldn’t say that he had “let himself go,” but he certainly started caring less about the way he presented himself. In all the other times she’d seen and fought him, he’d taken the utmost care to ensure his shirts were freshly pressed, his face was clean-shaven, and his hair was well-styled.

  “I could stay in the car, yes?” Taras asked, leaning forward.

  “No,” Diana and Amber said at the same time.

  The three of them followed the Readers up a black-stone trail, keeping a fair distance and their hoods and hats up despite the sun beating down overhead. Diana had expected cold, a chill, but the summer was relentless, a hot stifling day to stop another assassination attempt on a military official.

  At the edge of a cliff, Zabójca and David prepared their weapons, looking down over an expansive valley. There was a clear lake in the middle of a ring of expensive cabins. The water reflected so much of what was around it that it made it hard to discern where the edge of the lake really was. Along the road in, the community was lined with budding wildflowers, purple and pink lilies and delphiniums. Diana had once planted a garden at home with the same flowers and then had proceeded to forget about it and let it all die. It was nice to see what could have been in a setting like this one.

  “Oh Christ,” Amber muttered as he dropped the monocular and handed it over to Diana. “Check out that bloody monster.”

  AirTronic GS-777—lightweight rocket-launcher. Diana recognized it from a previous SEAL mission with Snowman and Laird, crawling across the flat tundra of Russia, overlooking one of Kushkin’s trafficking hubs. Diana went in for the hostages, gave her signal when they were safe, and Snowman blew a gaping hole in the side of the building to get them out with two rockets from 800 meters away. That was only a few weeks before they had gone back in to take down the rest of the operation by putting a bullet in Kushkin’s head.

  Taras was crouched next to her, and Diana tried not to show the memories of his father flashing across her face but Amber noticed, taking the monocular back and asking, “You okay?”

  Diana nodded, quickly relaying what she knew about the GS-777.

  “They are ensuring that they don’t miss,” Taras said, leaning back against a rock, stretching out his legs.

  “The safe house is secure but not set up to take shots from that thing,” Amber said.

  “Panic room?” Diana asked.

  Amber nodded.

  “Can we get them a message?”

  “Through a few different means but it would take too long,” Amber stated, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he analyzed the rear of the safe house along the edge of the lake.

  “I can buy us time,” Diana said. “Distraction.”

  “Risky.”

  “Or I go in from behind them and kill them right now,” Diana snapped.

  “I like that plan,” Taras piped up.

  “Okay, just pause for a second,” Amber said. “Let’s combine the two. I’m going to make a call—get Mr. Hoagland in there in the panic room. Taras is our distraction, and Diana, you go in from behind to see if you can get a shot. If you can’t get a shot, go for the rocket launcher. While I’m trying to get through, I’ll go around to the safe house and do it the old-fashioned way if necessary.”

  “Knock on the front door?” Diana asked.

  “I can’t wait around for Voss to get through.”

  “That’s even riskier,” Diana said. “If they blow the house before you get him in the room, you’re both dead. At least if you stay up here, it’ll only be him that’s dead.”

  They all looked at each other, realizing that none of them really cared whether Hoagland lived or died but were much more concerned with whether or not Zabójca walked away from this.

  “He’s always got an escape plan,” Diana said, looking around the mountain to see what Zabójca could possibly have up his sleeve to get him out of this one. The Jeep two miles behind them, maybe. They were surrounded by natural barriers like the valley below was their arena, the soft mat of a boxing ring, and the mountains around it the ring ropes. No place for him to go. He would not slip through her fingers this time.

  This man was responsible for the death of her son.

  She would break his legs if he tried to run.

  They did go with Amber’s plan because it was the only one they had, and they were running out of time. He was too focused on justice and saving “innocent” lives to sit at the top of the mountain on the phone, so both he and Taras slid their way down the black-stoned path, keeping low and quick and quiet.

  Diana made her way up over jagged rocks to try and get on top of the cliff’s edge that Zabójca and David were hiding behind. Several outcrops kept almost their entire bodies hidden until Diana was right on top of them, thirty feet up, balancing on the edge of her own rock, staring down. David with the rocket launcher balanced on his shoulder and Zabójca with a sniper rifle on his.

  One wrong move and her cover would be blown. So she took a moment to breathe, to gain balance and to analyze their bodies for the kill shot.

  “Four minutes out,” Zabójca said.

  “Fuck,” David replied. “I hate riding on tha’ thing.”

  “That’s because it’s not what it’s for,” Zabójca replied. “It won’t be long.”

  “Do ye feel like ye have to use it because we wasted so much money on it?”

  Zabójca took his eye off the scope of the sniper rifle to give David a look.

  “I mean… it literally burned up in the desert.” David doubled-down.

  Shaking his head and muttering something that Diana couldn’t hear, Zabójca put his eye back against the scope.

  “Is tha’—” David started.

  “What is he doing here?” Zabójca asked in a tone that was surprisingly amused. He revelled in this.

  “Do we—”

  “Yes.”

  The sniper rifle let out two shots. Diana squinted out into the distance to see who and what they were shooting at, wishing for Amber’s monocular. As she leaned forward, her sneakers loosened two rocks from the mountainside, tumbling like pennies rolling down a train track, too loud and echoing off everything close by.

  As David began to turn, Diana dropped down on them from above. Dropping too fast and too close range for her pistol, she took out her dagger, plunging it into his chest, hearing the crack of his bones from her weight and the knife in his sternum.

  Zabójca was already on his feet, dropping the sniper and collecting the dropped GS-777, running down the side of the mountain to get out of Diana’s view and range. With the rocket launcher balancing in his one hand, he took out a pistol from his pocket with his other, layering the rock face with bullets. Most of them hit the mountain; stones and dust flying up, one wedged itself into David’s back. He cried out, more echoing off the valley.

  Ducking behind David’s body, with him squirming and blee
ding against her, Diana propped up the discarded sniper rifle on his torso, taking a quick frantic look through the scope and two shots at Zabójca. They both hit the ground, one behind him and one way to his left. He skittered through a collection of trees, Diana losing him amongst the pine, trying to readjust the scope.

  “Shit,” she growled and stood up to try and get a better shot. She walked toward him, rifle in hand, taking blind shots just to get him as far away from the scene as possible, not allowing him a shot of the safe house.

  But he was annoyingly evasive—sneaking between the trees, finding spots just outside of the scope behind the trunks or between the fans of pine needles.

  Quickly, she swept the scope over the house.

  Through the window, Amber was shoving a half-naked Hoagland out of his bedroom and down a set of partially covered stairs, going toward the panic room. A woman behind them, completely naked, sprinting ahead and screaming at Hoagland as she made her way downstairs.

  Another quick sweep. No Taras. But she didn’t have the time to look for him.

  She turned the scope back on the collection of trees, searching for Zabójca, still moving herself closer with the rifle propped on her shoulder.

  And she saw them both, but it was too late.

  Zabójca had the GS-777 loaded and was crouched between two trees, holding his finger to the trigger. With more trigger discipline, Taras was standing about thirty feet down the mountain from Zabójca, holding a silenced pistol up and pointing it at the Polish terrorist. Diana could only see his upper half, the rest of him covered by jagged rocks.

  Zabójca released the rocket as both Diana and Taras shot, whizzing through the air, echoing off every rock, muffled slightly by the dewy humidity seeping through the valley but still loud. Louder than Diana’s screaming at Amber, louder than Taras’s silenced shot, and louder than the gun shot behind her.

  Chapter 12

  Nehemias Laird

  Nowhere, Texas