Terminal Vendetta (A Diana Weick Thriller Book 3)

by Cate Clarke

  “Any officials?” Axtell asked. They both looked at her, standing with her hands behind her back, her uniform only slightly off-kilter after the assassination attempt.

  “Is that all that matters?” Diana snapped, sitting down next to Amber and taking a moment to wipe the sweat from the back of her neck and her forehead. The bowling alley was dark, blacklights illuminating the light wood floors and greasy fingerprints along shined bowling balls. Three lanes down, a group of middle-aged men were complaining about immigrants and throwing their personalized bowling balls right along the tiny black arrows. Two of them were staring over the back of their chairs, one of them with his eyes glued to Amber’s gun bag that was leaning against the ball return.

  When Axtell didn’t reply, Diana said, “We can’t stay here.”

  Almost on cue, three soldiers came through the glass doors at the bottom of the stairs. They were being led by Major General Hoagland who gave them all a nod as he came to stand in between the plastic chairs. With a flick of his hand, his soldier cronies started to evacuate the bowling alley, escorting the middle-aged men out with cheese dust and sticky beer still on their fingers.

  “You knew all that was going to go down, hey?” Hoagland said, looking right at Diana. “And you chose not to tell.”

  Diana pressed her lips together, staring up at his round red face and shaved head, part of her wishing the Readers had gotten their job done with him.

  “I could arrest you right now, Weick,” Hoagland whispered, bending down in front of her like he was a parent scolding his child. “You’re too pretty for prison.”

  Her fists moved up but Amber grabbed her, pinning her arms down from beside her and looking at her with a slight shake of her head. It would feel so good to break the bones in Hoagland’s nose. Diana yanked her arms out of Amber’s grip and wrapped her hands underneath her legs to try and keep control.

  “I guess that means you’re not going to arrest me,” Diana said. The smell of this place—nacho cheese and the spray that they used to clean the shoes. At least it wasn’t the smell of smoke and fire that had been so persistently following them everywhere they went.

  “You’re lucky you re-enlisted before Ratanake got himself shot,” Hoagland noted. “Technically, you’re still a SEAL. Technically, you work for me and I want to nail these bastards as much as you do.”

  “That just can’t be true,” Diana said.

  Hoagland smiled a little and said, “I know where Zabójca is headed.”

  At that, Amber not only stiffened but stood up entirely from the chair, circling around behind the soldiers. Diana tried to watch him from either side of Hoagland’s thick torso but he was like a wall of camouflage.

  “So you’re bringing me on to go after him?” Diana asked. “News flash, Hoagland. I’ve been after him for weeks.”

  “But you were rogue,” Hoagland replied. “Imagine what you could accomplish with the military at your back again.”

  She chewed on the inside of her cheek, considering. It would certainly make things easier. Maybe, for once, she could get ahead of Zabójca and the Readers. Amber had gotten less and less intel from his boss and Diana knew now, based on Taras’s files, that they shouldn’t trust her anyway.

  “Where’s he going?” Diana asked.

  “Ah ah.” Hoagland tutted, waving a chubby finger in her face. “I need you to sign off first. Just a bit of paperwork.”

  “Sell my soul?”

  “Haven’t you already?”

  Diana swallowed, thinking of Taras again, thinking of the spider. More information about Zabójca’s weaknesses meant more power. She didn’t yet have an antidote for his bite, but she certainly had a match to light next to the wounds that he left behind.

  Hoagland passed her a form just as Amber rejoined them, tapping Hoagland on the shoulder and guiding him away from the plastic chairs. They stood at the end of one of the lanes, Amber leaning into the major general, whispering something frantically, both of them nodding along.

  There was no point in wasting time. Diana signed the form. If it would get a bullet in Zabójca’s head, she would do whatever she needed to do. If not for her, then for Taras, for Ratanake, for Wesley, for Rex.

  This was desperation.

  Hoagland and Amber returned, boots and dress shoes thumping and clicking against the wood floors. With three swollen pink fingers, Hoagland snatched the paper from her hands, passing it to one of the soldiers behind him who immediately tucked it into his ACU jacket.

  “They’re headed back to London,” Hoagland said. “He’s with that younger one that goes by ‘Asher.’”

  And just from the location and the company, Diana knew who Zabójca was going to meet.

  He had left Cameron Snowman behind. They were draining the funds from the veteran pension and taking off, escaping without the man who was, clearly, the most impassioned by their cause. Cameron was going to be livid.

  “Sir!” somebody called from behind them, another way-too-young soldier. “They’re calling for you up above.”

  Hoagland asked, “What is it?”

  “The pension fund, sir,” the soldier squeaked. “They took it all.”

  “Fuck.”

  Diana wasn’t sure who said it, but they were all thinking it. That’s why Zabójca had taken off—because they’d accomplished what they needed to, and he wasn’t going to stick around in America to get arrested or shot. Cameron was a distraction of more needless destruction.

  As the soldiers began to filter out, Hoagland promised he’d email all the details.

  Diana stood next to Amber. He wrapped a supportive arm around her shoulder and she accepted it, leaning into him. Axtell took one final glance over her shoulder, nodding at Diana, a thank-you-for-saving-my-life type of nod. Diana bowed her head.

  “So we know where he’s going…” Diana muttered as soon as they were gone, turning to Amber.

  “Yup,” Amber said. “To the ex-wife.”

  “With the kid too.”

  “Family reunion.”

  Diana unhooked herself from his arm so she could stare up at him and say, “And Voss is going to kill him if we don’t do it first.”

  “Isn’t that a good thing?” Amber asked.

  “I don’t know…” Diana said. “There are a lot of people that want the satisfaction of killing Zabójca. And I’m sure Hoagland hired us so they could get the credit instead of MI6.”

  “MI6 wouldn’t take the credit anyway…” Amber replied. “Voss, though. She wanted you to take it.”

  “If she doesn’t kill him before we get there,” Diana said, “I’ll take it.”

  Chapter 25

  Rex Tennison

  London, England

  Alive. For now, he was alive. The pain had almost killed him, the infection in his blood had almost done the job and if not any of those, Amita Voss could have stepped up to the plate to finish him off. The funeral, the flight, the bathroom—they all felt like a really bad trip, multicolored hallucinations filled with blood and puss.

  Wesley was okay. But Diana and Kennedy? Did Voss have her hands on them? He couldn’t help but wonder about Taras as well. The most recent memories that he could pull were dinners and conversations with Taras Kushkin. Every time he tried to think of something else he was swarmed with the dry heat of the desert, the sweetness of freshly squeezed orange juice, his hands wrapped around Taras’s neck. But there was something different about it.

  Those few days ago when they’d restarted his heart, it had changed the look of Taras in his dreams and nightmares. He was just a shadow now, moving through his memories. That connection had been smudged or erased or broken entirely. And it hurt more than he expected.

  But he couldn’t tell Wesley this. He couldn’t tell anyone of the heartbreak he was feeling for a Russian terrorist. Not that Rex had been in love with Taras or anything even remotely close, but Taras had been right—there had been a bond between them. Just not anymore. Now he was waiting for death at the hands o
f this Amita Voss, who was out to accomplish some type of personal vendetta against the Readers or against Diana. He couldn’t be sure.

  The burn was finally starting to heal.

  With the fluids she was pumping into him, he could feel his strength returning by the hour. Rex had always been a quick healer, and when he was a kid, he liked to compare himself to Wolverine, the X-man not the animal.

  Rex had died. He had floated into the realm of death before those panels had electrocuted him back into this hellhole of an office. So maybe he was less of a Wolverine and more of a resurrection-style Jean Grey. Diana would laugh at him, comparing himself to the X-Men again, but he had a feeling she secretly liked that side of him.

  He missed her.

  They had a plan.

  Rex and Wesley had talked about it all night. It had been so long since Rex had talked that much that his throat was sore by the time the sun started to rise over the River Thames outside the wall of glass. That was another avenue they’d considered—breaking and jumping out of the window. But they were high up without any proper equipment. They’d probably die. And Rex really wasn’t in the mood for dying again.

  It had been stupid of her to let them out of the bathroom. Rex figured she was trying to prove that she really wasn’t the “bad guy” in all of this—that all of this was for a reason and that made it all okay. Being out in the bathroom meant they could hear everything that was going down in the hall, including the ding of the elevator and the sound of her approaching boots.

  Voss unlocked the office door and came inside, giving both of them a nod as the morning sun cut across the carpet and into her sunken eyes.

  “Morning,” she said.

  “Good morning,” Rex replied.

  Voss looked at him, taking a quick glance at his condition. “You’re in good spirits.”

  “I feel better,” he said.

  “Don’t rush yourself,” she said and sat down at the desk, opening her laptop, not bothering with the zip ties yet, leaving them fixed to the chairs.

  Rex had a feeling she was lonely.

  Yesterday, she’d given them both some free time in the afternoon. Wesley had done a sweep of everything useful in the room—taking after his mother—scissors in her desk, a heavy ceramic knickknack of an elephant and a fire extinguisher in the back corner. They had planned for the freedom to happen again today, and if it didn’t, this would all be purposeless. It would be another day, more hours tied up, waiting for her to make another mistake. But she did. Maybe it was because she was trying to prove that she wasn’t the villain or because she wanted them to feel safer or maybe she was just feeling generous, but after she sat down with a warmed-up lunch of something that stank up the office with the smell of turmeric, she undid the zip ties.

  It had been later than they wanted. Fewer hours to work with.

  “I think these bandages need to be changed,” Rex groaned, leaning forward with the pain, the tube of the IV clanging against its pole.

  With a large forkful of curry in her mouth, Voss said, “Soon.”

  Wesley got up from his chair, stretching, doing a couple of lunges. The heels of his bare feet were finally scabbing over. Rex needed to save his strength; standing and running would already be a lot to put himself through.

  More wasted time.

  Large minimal clock ticking against the wall.

  The occasional person walked by in the hall beyond the frosted glass panel in the door, and whenever that happened, Voss tightened her grip around the handle of her pistol. Holding to that with one hand and shoveling curry into her mouth with the other.

  “No pastries today?” Rex asked.

  Voss put on a small smile and said, “I’ll bring some tomorrow.”

  “I like the ones with the chocolate,” Wesley said from next to the window.

  “Get away from there,” Voss said, waving her fork at him and using it to point to the chair. Wesley complied—giving Rex a quick look and plopping himself back down in the armchair.

  After she’d finished her lunch, Voss began to sort through her leather messenger bag, searching for clean bandages as they’d expected. Wesley got up from the chair again, watching her closely.

  “What is it?” she asked, snapping her eyes up to Wesley as she took out a fresh roll of bandages.

  Voss was perceptive. That didn’t bode well for them.

  “I’m just trying to see if I can learn to do it myself,” Wesley said. Quick on his feet, quick with a lie—unsure where he’d inherited that from, Rex or his mother.

  “Certainly you can,” she said. “It’s easy.”

  She unravelled the bandages in her hands and draped them over her arm. Taking out a small pair of medical scissors, snipping them into strips, but she kept her attention on both of them.

  Wesley moved closer.

  Then, he was on her, sprinting and tackling her to the ground with a hard thump against the carpet.

  Rex popped up from the chair, his body immediately protesting every movement, his back searing with pain as the IV teetered.

  There was a hiss of pain, and Rex turned to see the medical scissors sticking out of Wesley’s forearm. He was trying to wrap the bandages around her neck, pulling on them but unable to get the angle behind her. She was stocky and a trained field agent. Wesley didn’t win this fight so Rex had to act fast, despite the all-over pain.

  Hobbling over to the corner of the office, the IV dragging behind him, he grabbed the fire extinguisher off the wall, the weight of it almost taking him to the ground.

  Voss kicked Wesley off of her, and he rolled into Rex’s armchair, a line of blood trailing down his arm.

  Bounding to her feet, Voss was coming for him.

  Rex lifted the fire extinguisher above his head.

  Wesley yanked the scissors out of his arm and hurled them at Voss.

  Voss made for Rex, the scissors sticking her in the thigh, not even slowing her down.

  The fire extinguisher smashed through the frosted glass panel of the office door. An alarm went off, blaring and filling the whole floor. The extinguisher rolled against the opposite side of the hall as Voss reached him, jumping on top of him. His back hit the floor, and everything went black for a moment, the pain shutting off his brain entirely.

  “Dad!” Wesley screamed. “Help! Help us!”

  But he got up. Using the last of everything he had—adrenaline, strength, grief—Rex shoved Voss off of him with both of his hands grasping against her and tossing her across the room. She rolled against the desk. Immediately, Wesley was next to him, letting him lean his weight on him as he lifted him to his feet and limped them through the broken glass of the door. It cut against their arms and their clothes as they walked through, but they couldn’t turn back now. There were no other options but forward.

  As soon as they were out in the hall, Wesley ducked down, pulling Rex with him. His son had become a real soldier in a short amount of time.

  A gunshot whizzed over their heads.

  Voss was on the ground on the other side of the broken door, breathing heavily, the pistol stretched in front of her—her eyes wide and strained. The bullet wedged itself into the wall behind them, and Wesley dragged them out of her line of sight.

  “Help!” Wesley screamed again. The alarm was ringing overhead, bouncing off the walls and the elevator up ahead. There was another office at the end of the hall. It was empty. There was a silver plate outside that said “Reina Lee”—Voss’s assistant that had been turning a blind eye to all that had been happening in the office a few feet from her for the past few weeks. She had to have noticed something. Whether it was the groans of Rex’s pain or the constant cancelling of Voss’s appointments, there was no way that this Reina Lee was that ignorant. Maybe, it was just another kid scared of their boss—an anxiety that was about to get them killed.

  Wesley jammed his thumb against the elevator button, pressing it several times and then carrying Rex into Reina’s open office so they were out of th
e line of another gunshot.

  “Lockdown procedure initiated,” a voice stated smoothly through unseen speakers.

  Voss tumbled out of her office, more glass cutting at every side of her, a rip tearing through her suit pants. The pistol was held out in front of her, waving back and forth. Rex and Wesley peered through the narrow window of glass that looked out the hall from the assistant’s office, waiting for the elevator to open, waiting for their chance to escape for good.

  Voss said nothing but quietly stepped down the hallway, her eyes flashing through every corner until they landed on Reina’s open office door. Rex pulled Wesley back and away from the window, pressing them both against the wall.

  His heart was in his ears. The pain in his back had subsided to a dull walloping, though each movement brought another sting. The sweat running down the back of his neck was seeping into his wounds, cutting through him like a river through sand, each new fork with a new flow of pain. He breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth, trying to keep quiet but knowing he was exhaling too loud.

  The elevator dinged.

  Wesley peeked out.

  Another gunshot rang out, hitting the edge of the office door and splintering the wood into pieces. Rex grabbed the back of Wesley’s collar, trying to pull him back again, but he resisted.

  “We gotta go now,” Wesley hissed. “The elevator—”

  They ran from the office. But as the elevator doors slid open, they were forced to a stop. Rex put both of his hands on Wesley’s shoulders, putting him behind him and backing up away from the elevator even though it was putting them right in the line of Voss’s shot.

  She didn’t shoot them, just walked toward them, one snakeskin boot at a time, holding the pistol up and keeping her face completely placid. They were cornered. Voss on one end, and on the other, stepping out of the elevator, the Readers—Zabójca and Asher—pointing guns to their heads. They were trapped between two terrorists with nowhere to go in the locked-down headquarters of MI6.

  Chapter 26