Terminal Vendetta (A Diana Weick Thriller Book 3)

by Cate Clarke

  At least, there was one thing that Zabójca had left behind—David.

  Diana climbed her way back up the rocky outcrop, Amber joining her after checking the houses to no avail other than screaming residents. She flipped David over on his back, and he groaned with pain, a pool of blood making its way out of the hole in his spine and in his chest.

  With trained hands, they saved him. And Diana knew, this man was truly her enemy in every way, but it felt good to save someone. She hadn’t been able to prevent the deaths of so many of her loved ones. Maybe it was some type of cruel divine intervention—that she was only able to save her adversaries.

  They propped David up in the trunk of the rented car. They’d improvised, using seat belts and jumper cables to keep him tied up. Mountains on one side and an expansive field on the other, they were almost completely alone. It was possible that Zabójca and Asher were still around. The Jeep that had been parked ahead of them on the gravel road was gone, but the UCAV was fast and stealthy—it could drop down on them at any moment.

  “Hey.” Amber patted David on the cheek. “Don’t pass out.”

  He groaned, sunburnt freckled face lolling into his chest.

  “First question,” Amber started, standing at the edge of the open trunk with his arms crossed. “Why are you with the Readers if you’re a Scot?”

  Diana looked at him and asked, “That’s what you want to know?”

  “It’s dodgy.”

  Amber didn’t take his eyes off David, trying to adjust himself against the back of the car but his legs unable to move. The bullet in his spine had either temporarily or permanently paralyzed him. He had Zabójca to thank for that one.

  “I served in the United States military,” David mustered, coughing. “To get citizenship.”

  “A veteran nonetheless,” Diana said.

  His brown eyes flickered over to her as if realizing that she was there. A soft grin came across his face but fell quickly as he winced with pain.

  “I can’t sit like this,” David said. “My back.”

  “Yeah. You’re pretty much fucked,” Diana replied. “So you may as well tell us everything.”

  “I don’t have anything to hide from ya, hen.”

  “Why Hoagland?”

  “Because he’s a fucking arse.”

  “And?”

  His head dropped again, and Amber gave him another slap—this time with the back of his hand. Overhead, a hawk circled the field, searching for a lemming to snatch up. Its figure-eights were methodical and deadly, wings slicing through the clean air, paying them no mind unless they were to interrupt its meal.

  “And?” Diana repeated.

  David hacked out several coughs before saying, “Because he’s in line for the vacant position with the V—” More coughs. “VBA.”

  Amber looked at Diana, raising one eyebrow and scratching at his groomed stubble.

  “Veteran Benefits Administration,” Diana explained.

  Amber nodded.

  “Why don’t you want him in that position?” Diana asked, crossing her arms like Amber, leaning in closer to the back of the car.

  “I told ye…” David exhaled hard. “Because he’s an arse.”

  “That’s it?”

  “He makes things much more difficult for your friend…”

  “My friend?”

  “One with all the leather? Texas bloke?”

  “Laird?” Diana shook her head. “What the hell does he have to—”

  She stopped herself. Laird had been one of the few to survive Ratanake’s funeral. Had it been because he’d known about the attack? That he was working for the Readers all this time? Her fist and jaw clenched simultaneously. He had been with her son, her daughter, with Ratanake, moments before he’d been shot by that sniper at Vauxhall Court. Maybe, Laird had been the one to let Zabójca inside. Another member—the only remaining one—of her SEAL team turned to the Readers. There was some type of sick pattern forming that was causing Diana to doubt every person she’d ever worked with and trusted.

  She took half a step away from the car, walking back and forth along the gravel shoulder. Her eyes flashed up. The hawk was still circling.

  With one strong hand, Amber clamped his grip onto her arm, steering her farther down the shoulder and out of David’s earshot.

  “We gotta get him to a hospital,” Amber whispered.

  “Or we just kill him.”

  Sucking in on his cheek and clicking his tongue against his gums, Amber looked back at David who was now unconscious, bleeding out in the trunk.

  “We can just drop him off at the front entrance,” he suggested.

  “Or we just kill him,” Diana growled. “He’s dying anyway. You know what this guy is responsible for, Amber?”

  “Yes. Yes, I bloody well know, Diana,” he snapped. “You’re really muddying the lines here, love.”

  “No.” Diana watched the hawk dive, snatching something from between grains of budding wheat. It V’ed back up, something small and brown in its mouth.

  The lines were muddy. It was all gray. David deserved to die for the things he’d done, for the people he’d killed, for the cause he supported. But was Diana the one responsible for bringing that down on him? She didn’t have to report to Ratanake, to MI6, but she was far from a justice-serving vigilante. At this point though, she was closer to a vigilante than she was a SEAL. It wasn’t process. It wasn’t orders. It wasn’t a decree.

  It was nature.

  She stepped forward, the trunk of the SUV casting her face half in shadow and half in the bright afternoon sun. Smoke billowed on the other side of the mountains, finally turning from black to white, almost mistaken for clouds at a cursory glance. Diana lifted Taras’s silenced pistol and shot David, once in the chest and once in his head.

  Chapter 15

  Wesley Tennison-Weick

  London, England

  If they didn’t move for long periods of time, the lights flicked off. In the darkness, he could only feel the cool ceramic of the toilet and the pain of his zip-tied wrists behind the tank. But he could hear so much. The pipes adjusting and settling into another night. The ticking of a clock on the other side of the wall. The labored breathing of his dad behind him. The darkness was not only an indicator of their lack of movement but everybody else’s as well. It meant she was gone. For now.

  Relying on his remaining veggie burger-induced strength, Wesley stretched out his foot once again, opening up the bathroom cabinet with his bare toes. That was one benefit they’d had over the last few days, more food and more strength. Though Dad seemed to be getting worse, each day that she brought them something with more sustenance, the more convinced Wesley was that there had to be something useful under the sink. There had to be. It was literally his only hope, and the only thing in between these square-tiled walls that gave him the will to keep trying.

  It pulled open and immediately slammed back shut.

  Dad gave a light snore and groan of pain. His burns had just continuously gotten worse, maybe spread to other parts of him. Wesley regretted never signing up for the free first-aid sessions at school for student council members. Maybe, he wouldn’t be able to stop him from dying, but maybe he could’ve helped with some of the pain. The groaning. The sound of the wet tissue moving when he grimaced. The soft crying that he didn’t think Wesley could hear. Those were the sounds that stopped him from sleeping, that drove him to stick his toes under the bathroom cabinet again and again until finally he pulled it open with enough force to keep it that way.

  Digging around with his foot, he knocked over a bottle and then another, plastic containers bonking against one another as the bathroom light sensed his motion and flickered back on.

  Dad gave another cry of protest, burying his head into his shoulder, fever dripping off of him in globes of sweat.

  Wesley persisted. This would be his last and only chance.

  One of the bottles from underneath the cabinet rolled toward the door, the labe
l for bleach face up toward the humming fluorescent lights. A Q-tip brushed against his big toe and the texture of it reminded him so much of a mouse that he yanked his foot back, banging it on the separator in the middle of the cabinet.

  He hissed through his teeth.

  “Wes,” Dad grumbled. “What are you doing?”

  Wesley shushed him, his toes landing on something that felt like a rubber stick. He squeezed his foot, landing the stick between his toes and carrying it—slowly—toward the toilet. Okay, so maybe skipping out on the first-aid classes had turned out all right because he’d spent that time climbing up the forty-foot rope in the gym instead. The veins in his foot flexed.

  From his peripherals, he caught a glimpse at what he’d picked up.

  A men’s disposable razor.

  His foot cramped up, and it dropped to the ground with a dull ping.

  “Wes,” his dad said again, this time louder and more annoyed.

  “I’m getting us out of here!” Wesley replied, also annoyed. Angry.

  “You can’t.” Dad shook his head, his bare arms squeaking against the wall, his skin rubbed entirely raw on his wrists and right arm.

  “Yes,” Wesley snapped. “I can.”

  “Wes… I think that—” Dad started. “This is it, champ.”

  “Don’t!” Wesley spat, tears spilling out of his eyes like a switch had been turned on, a handle pulled, gushing out of him. It broke in his throat too, a crack that went straight through him.

  They’d been left in this bathroom to die. She was using them. Wesley didn’t know for what but he knew that what was happening wasn’t fair. And he knew that kinda thinking was childish. He was eighteen now. A full adult. But still not one part of this was fucking fair.

  They’d escaped an explosion, been dragged from it, just to be tied up in this executive’s bathroom and left to rot underneath plastic zip ties.

  Wesley couldn’t stand it. He understood why the Readers stood for what they did now. They felt the same way—that they weren’t being treated fairly as soldiers, as American citizens.

  “You’re not doing that,” Wesley said, between his ruptured sobs. “Because you’re not dying.”

  For the first time in two days, Rex lifted his head.

  Over his shoulder, Wesley looked at him, sure that his face was as red as his father’s now. It was swollen too, like his dad had drunk nothing but beer for three days straight. His blue eyes were faded to a washed gray, and the whites of them were turning yellow.

  Holding his exhausted stare, Wesley stated with emphasis on every word, “I will not let you die.”

  He picked up the razor for a second time, moving a bit quicker this time. Lifting his leg, his thigh muscles wanted to immediately give up after not being used for so long, but he managed to wrap himself around the toilet, passing the razor between his foot and his hand. He held it between his palms, feeling every groove of it with his fingers, even along the blade, making sure it was sharp. It caught on the dry pads of his fingers.

  With quick controlled movements, he began to saw at the zip ties. It didn’t come as easily as he’d hoped due to the unnatural angle and the way the razor blades were sitting. Plus the soreness of his wrists being forced to rub against one another made him start to bleed, drops of it trickling down his middle finger.

  He couldn’t see the type of mess he was making, his face pressed hard against the cool tank of the toilet.

  It took a long time, close to an hour or two of sawing and bleeding to get his wrists out.

  He tried to stand up and immediately fell against the wall behind him, clipping his head on the way down. The entire bathroom was spinning. His wrists—finally free, but covered in red—floated in front of his eyes like the hands of a devil reaching out for a hit, stretching his fingers as his vision blurred.

  “Wesley.”

  His dad’s voice brought him back into his own head.

  Wesley blinked hard.

  Using the toilet to help himself to his feet, Wesley moved to saw at the zip ties on his dad’s wrist, but gave up after realizing there were several blisters on the inside of his hand, threatening to pop and pull with every rip of the razor. He dropped the razor, grabbed the shower ring on the wall and yanked as hard as he could.

  That, at least, was easier than he’d thought.

  The ring ripped right out of the drywall, his hand still screaming at him. But Wesley figured that if he was going to be in that much pain that he might as well make it short and extreme instead of drawn out and consistent. Over the night, Wesley did manage to carve his way through the zip ties around his dad’s wrist with regular breaks and room to freak out in between. His anxiety was at an all-time high. But he had to stay brave. Eyes forward. All he had to do now was wait.

  Chapter 16

  Kennedy Tennison-Weick

  Seattle, Washington

  The bedroom was a mess, and it was starting to smell a bit too. Mom had always made sure she kept it clean but without her here, things had gone downhill in Seattle. Aunt Christina and Uncle Rob weren’t very tidy people, and Kennedy knew they let her get away with too much. They let her have ice cream for dinner and stay out late with her friends. Like the hotel in London, it had been fun at first—being alone and having all that freedom, especially after being a hostage—but the fun wore off.

  The envelope was on the windowsill, the edge of it fluttering in the cooled air coming through a vent. Next to it, there was an open John Green book, the spine worn from reading it too many times. Twenty-One Pilots pumped out from her laptop as she stared at the envelope and chewed on the side of her finger.

  It was addressed to her mom. Her mom wasn’t going to be able to read it anytime soon and the return address—the name on it was one that Kennedy recognized. It was from the guy that had protected her from the sniper that had killed Mrs. Babich and that big soldier, Ratanake. He had held her while she cried into his chest.

  Wesley was always the one to take the initiative. He was the one that had reached out to Laird in the first place.

  Kennedy was going to open the letter regardless, but she was fighting between asking for permission and asking for forgiveness. Her mom was hard enough to get a hold of nowadays anyway. Potentially, it could be one call to ask and then another call to explain what it said so she decided on begging for forgiveness.

  With two fingers and then with her teeth, Kennedy ripped open the envelope, spreading out the letter over her desk, shoving her laptop back so she could have more space. She read it quickly, trying to understand what was going on and to decipher Laird’s handwriting. She snapped a picture, Kennedy’s thumbs moving quickly across the screen.

  Somebody knocked on the door.

  “Kennedy?” Aunt Christina called.

  “Just a sec,” Kennedy said. Now, of all times, her aunt wanted to talk to her. It was clear they felt awkward being here because of the whole divorce thing and because Kennedy’s dad was dead. The thought hurt her. It caused her stomach to twist into knots. Unable to get the picture clear because her fingers were trembling, Kennedy let out a frustrated groan, hearing her mother in it for a second as she went to grab the handle of the door.

  “What?” Kennedy hissed.

  Christina was her dad’s younger sister, with mousy brown hair and wide blue eyes. She was chubby and often wore loose-fitting T-shirts and dresses to keep her body under wraps.

  “Uh, well...” Christina cleared her throat, trying to glance over Kennedy’s shoulder at what she was doing. Kennedy stepped in front of her, staring at her, bringing her gaze back down. “Your uncle and I are going to the movies. Just thought I’d let you know.”

  “You could have just sent a text,” Kennedy muttered.

  “Yeah, but I hadn’t seen you all day and…” Christina pointed to the desk. “What’s that there?”

  Kennedy replied, “Homework.”

  Pursing her lips and raising her eyebrows, Christina said, “Look, honey. I know you’ve been thro
ugh a lot. Maybe you should come with us to the movies? You can just relax and not think about any of this stuff for a little while.”

  “What movie?” Kennedy furrowed her brow, tapping her socked feet against the carpet.

  “That new John Krasinki one…. The guy from The Office.”

  “Seen it,” Kennedy said.

  “What?”

  “Saw it last week with my friends.” There was a small awkward pause before Kennedy added, “Is that it? Sorry, I got a lot of schoolwork to do.”

  Christina raised her hand like she was about to touch Kennedy, something she rarely did. She seemed to decide against it, lowering it and making it into a stiff thumbs-up instead. Without waiting for another reply or attempt to talk about their problems, Kennedy softly closed the door.

  “Bye!” Christina called from the other side.

  “See ya,” Kennedy replied, immediately going back to the letter.

  Christina was trying. That was new. None of this was her fault. After getting back from London and recovering from the explosion at the funeral, Kennedy had isolated herself. She had just gone back to school a couple of days ago, and the return had been absolutely terrible. Everyone, teachers included, looked at her like she was either about to suddenly burst into tears or strangle them. It was so annoying.

  So annoying that Kennedy had skipped class yesterday just to avoid those looks. And when she’d gotten the letter, it had just given her another justification for it.

  Pulling her phone out of her pocket, Kennedy called the emergency number. The last time she’d used it was right before Ratanake and Mrs. Babich had been killed.

  “Kennedy,” Mom answered from the other side of the phone. “You okay?”

  “Yup.”

  “Did you—” There was a mumbled pause. “What’s up, honey?”

  “You got a letter,” Kennedy said, putting the phone on speaker so she could send the picture of it through. She couldn’t be sure if she had all the details right because of how slanted and messy the writing was.