A kid? Really? Have we sunk so low?
The Moose had earned his reputation on hard ground. Famous ground. East Germany. Yugoslavia. Uganda. And later Afghanistan. Iraq. Many of his deeds had become legendary among the nastier forces in play around the globe, earning him the chance to take his craft on the road. Since becoming a killer for hire, the Moose had risen to the loftier heights of anonymity, available only to the select few.
Blanka Davic was a member of that group. Davic, Kovalenko, one or two others. And two shady organizations—a very old one and a brand new one so far untested. The Moose was normally happy to be at work, his tradecraft was taught in terrorist schools all over the Middle East, but today? Not so much.
The kid was eight years old. There were no human words for what the Moose was about to do to Michael Trent.
Observations had gone well. Several times, he could already have made the play. Game over. But Davic wanted it done at a precise time. Something about fitting in with his global plan.
It all sounded crazy to the Moose. But then Davic was at least three parts loon, one part psychotic maniac. The dark, warped plateaus of his mind would not be a pretty sight. The Moose remembered a time when he had thought he himself was going a little crazy. Not his best couple of years.
Thankfully he was over all that.
The gym had helped pull him through. The Moose loved it beyond comprehension, lived entirely for getting lost in that physical exertion; the popping sweat and straining tendons; the muscles that ached and jabbed with a red-hot energy all their own. Testing his limits. Breaking them. Destroying his body only to build it back up again, make it over with even harder muscle and strong sinew.
Satisfied that his plan for the kid met with Davic’s demands, the Moose now sought out a pay-as-you-train gym through an app on his Xperia. He tapped the new coordinates into his rental car’s satnav. The rest of the night was his and looked promising.
He hoped the kid enjoyed tonight too. There was no doubt it would be his last.
The Moose never failed.
6
Radford watched the bullet smash into the knee-high coffee table before him. It had been a warning shot, but with Amanda standing right here, fuck that. He leapt over the back of the couch, tackling the first man around the shoulders and bearing him hard to the ground. He yelled at Amanda to stay low and punched his adversary in the throat as he grappled for the heavy weapon, trapped between their bodies. A shot went off, the bullet flying over both their heads and into the kitchen cabinets.
Can the neighbors hear the racket?
Hard to say. Radford’s plot in the Hills was pretty secluded, purposely so. They hadn’t wanted any sightseers bothering them. Now, he’d buy even the paparazzi a Porsche if one showed up outside.
Radford rolled to one side. The weapon shifted. A second man kicked out. Radford rolled further, ending up on his back. He snatched the second man’s weapon away, stood up, and swiveled the barrel.
Five guns were trained on him.
Then, as he glanced over to check on Amanda, two of the guns also turned in her direction. The threat was clear. The odds hopeless.
Radford thought about the next step. If you can’t fight your way out, finesse it. If you can’t finesse it, get help.
On his own he might stand a chance. With Amanda the likelihood of a successful finesse dropped dramatically. To zero, he thought. Where the hell was his cellphone?
Too far to reach. Their only hope was Amanda’s. He knew she’d been using it a moment before the attack, just hoped she’d had the presence of mind to stash it close by. All of this ran through his mind in just a few seconds.
“Drop the weapon.” An attacker’s growl stole through the heavy silence.
Radford let the weapon fall to the floor.
“What happens next?” he asked, making a point of returning slowly to Amanda’s side, hands up.
“Now?” The talkative guard shrugged. “We wait.”
“For what? We haven’t done anything wrong.”
“We know you, Dan Radford. We know your two friends. Their addresses. We know your wife. Your . . . how do you say? Arrangement. We know Agent Collins. And the FBI. We know them too. Very soon, after the city explodes, they will know us.”
“So who the hell are you guys?”
“We work for Blanka Davic. Perhaps you’ve heard of him? He will be along shortly to talk to you. And your wife.”
7
Despite it being the only one available, Silk approved of the Beverly Hilton’s junior suite. It sure was a cut above the ones he’d been living out of whilst Julian Seager tracked him down. After that episode ended, Silk had decided to treat himself with a few weeks R&R at a nice four-star hotel.
He plonked himself down on the bed with a deep sigh. If only it were that simple. Jenny had left him. Taken the coast road to ‘Frisco, Highway 1 in fact, and hadn’t been in touch since. He’d stayed faithful to her for about three days. Then Susie Brewster, the cop who had saved his life and helped him track down the serial killer Seager, had made certain advances that he couldn’t rebut anymore.
Now?
She was on her way over. Shift done. “Time for some Silk,” she’d said. What could he say? I’m going to fight for my wife? The feelings that the last few weeks had stirred within him—the undying memories of Tanya Jazz and the girl with no name; the two women who had both changed, saved and shaped the early years of his time on the streets as a child thief—had finally dulled to a deep, treasured glow that inhabited the quieter corridors of his mind. He loved the fact that they resided there, forever, his most precious, cherished memories preserved for all time. At least there no one could hurt them. Not anymore.
But Silk had changed.
In spite of his recent victory over his past, Silk still believed he’d lost something irrevocable in the present. Trent and Radford, the other two members of the Razor’s Edge, had fought Davic almost on their own and they could have died. Silk knew he was being illogical when berating himself for not being with them—he couldn’t be in two places at once—but he still found it hard to shake the feeling that he’d somehow betrayed them—his team.
Now he struggled to find a way to apologize. To make it all up to them. Something will come up, he thought. It always does.
There was a knock at the hotel room door and he opened it without thinking. Susie Brewster stood there, hair down, doe-eyes flashing. After the Seager thing Brewster was in line for a promotion. The news had helped quell the vociferous ghosts of her most recent past, the split with her husband and the events that surrounded it, the sudden move to Los Angeles, and being paired with an inferior cop.
“Damn it’s been a rough one.” She pushed past him into the room. “Do I need a shower.” She started stripping out of her clothes right there in front of him, in the middle of the hotel room. “Wanna join me?”
Silk did, but he hesitated. He saw her reaching for the minibar. Bending down like that, and wearing only her shoes, she presented a fine sight. But still, he posed the question.
“How’s the drinking?”
“I’m working on it.” She wiggled her ass. “Can’t you see?”
“I’m serious. We should talk.”
“Now?” Brewster straightened and turned toward him, a miniature bottle of rum in her hand. “We can share it if you like.”
“Shit. I don’t know what to grab first.”
She pranced off in the direction of the shower. “First? You have to catch me.”
8
Aaron Trent walked out of the cinema feeling hugely satisfied. He couldn’t remember the name of the film. Hadn’t concentrated on more than a minute of it at any one stretch of time.
Sometimes, it’s the company, he thought. Actually, most times.
Mikey strolled along beside him, proffering a small hand. Trent accepted instantly, shocked but pleased; it had been a long time since his “grown-up” boy had wanted to hold his dad’s hand. He scanned the lot
and spied a few benches along the side of the cinema, next to the big windows where forthcoming films were advertised. The ex-spy and father in him checked for suspicious characters, lurkers, even out-of-place watchers at the edge of his vision, but noticed nothing unusual, at least not in the few seconds he looked. Although nothing had yet come of their last rousing mission in Monaco and Davic hadn’t been heard of since, he couldn’t help but think the Serb was going to be a problem at some point in the future.
“Shall we sit?”
“Yeah. I gotta finish my Twizzlers before Mom gets here.”
“I can always take them with me.” Trent cracked a smile. Something else he hadn’t done in a while.
“Ha. Nice try.” Mikey tucked the packet under an armpit. “Dad? Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“You and Mom, you fight all the time, right? Her boyfriend, Ricky, he’s cool but she wants me to call him Dad. But he says it just ain’t right. But not in front of her. Right? What do you think?”
Trent sifted through the eight-year-old’s thoughts. “Your mom and I split some time ago now, Mikey. That’s over. I think Ricky is right. You’ll only ever have one true dad. And, Mikey, I will never leave you.”
“She says you go away a lot. And that you might not always be around to protect me.”
Trent looked away, not wanting Mikey to see the hurt and anger flashing deep in his eyes. Victoria could be especially cruel.
“I’ll be there for you, Son. If you ever need me. I promise.”
Mikey leaned in. “Thanks, Dad. Ricky might be cool but you’re super-cool.”
Trent saw his face reflected in the cinema’s brightly lit windows. He was smiling again. “Thanks. You’re not so bad yourself.”
“But Mom says you never keep your promises.”
Trent sighed. In a soul-destroying way, Victoria was right. One of the reasons they’d split was because of the job. The CIA required their men to be on constant call, especially if a crisis arose. Trent had faced many such crises, and had missed many appointments, many dates, too many to be believed. The amount of times he’d broken promises to her couldn’t be measured on fingers and toes.
“To you I keep my promises,” he said with some emotion. “You are my son. Trust me, Mikey.”
“I do, Dad. I do.”
Just then, Vic pulled up in the Porsche, giving the engine an extra few revs for show. The top was down, her blond hair flowing. She gestured quickly toward her son.
“C’mon, bud. Ricky’s brought The Hobbit home. You can watch the first half tonight if you’re quick.”
Mikey leapt off the bench, remembering to give his dad a quick peck at the last second, then raced to the car. He didn’t stop to look when he crossed the road. He was too excited. Trent winced to watch it, waved as his ex-wife drove his son away.
That was Victoria. Always trying to outdo her ex-husband. Usually succeeding. His eyes fixed on the unfinished packet of Twizzlers that Mikey had dropped in his rush. The discarded packet was all that was left of their great night together.
Every time he saw his son they created a new emotional tie. A deep one. Every time Vic came to collect him she found a way to shatter it. Will watching my son walk away always be this heartbreaking?
Before he could torture himself some more by landing on the obvious answer, his phone rang.
****
“Trent?”
It was Doug’s voice. Deep and cheerful as ever.
“Hey, how’s it going?”
“Ah, are you alone, Aaron?”
Trent fixed on the spot where he could still see Vic’s car weaving away. “I am now.”
“I have something to tell you. Maybe you should sit down.”
Trent blinked. The Trout’s voice had changed. It never usually conveyed distress. Not even during the highly saddening times when the Millers had ‘died’, or when the Edge were disavowed. Not even when good operatives lost their lives. The Trout always saw the best in bad times and tried to overcome. If there was nothing good he replayed the best of the past, lifting spirits, warming souls. It was a cold day in Hell when the Trout rang with anguish in his voice.
“Doug? What is it?”
“You ever get nostalgic, Aaron? Wanting to reinvent the good old times. The bad old times. You ever miss the younger, better days?”
Trent brushed popcorn off his trousers. “I guess. Sometimes.”
“I never did. Not until now.”
“Are you okay?”
“Time was, I could compete with the best of them. Run. Jump. Fight. They couldn’t beat me. I took down some major motherfuckers. Made the world safer for a while. The sorry thing is—there are always more.”
Trent watched his reflection in the cinema window, even now studying the people passing by in front and behind. His job never stopped.
“A toss of the dice,” Doug said. “That’s all it took.”
Trent reverted to form, his gritty nature taking over. “If you have something to say, just say it.”
“I think they call it cancer, Aaron. They call it cancer.”
Trent’s world reeled. Not even the light from the big glass window before him could penetrate the dark.
“Doug?”
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, man.”
“Got the word today. Doc took me in, shut the door, gave me the look. That’s the moment you know for sure. When you get the look. But me, I knew before that. His body language. The way his eyes shifted away from mine. Even the feeling in the goddamn room, the mood. It all said—you got six weeks, bud.”
Trent took a deep, heavy breath to help stay grounded. All this unreality made him feel like he was floating away. Six weeks? How could anyone cope with such a terrible, sudden reality? “We’ll organize you the greatest send-off on earth,” he said. “The best ever seen.”
“Too right you will. And not a tear in the house.”
Trent found his throat dry. “For sure.”
“I wanted to do this face to face, buddy, but, well, you know . . .”
Trent knew very well. Bad news could be delivered in many ways. Devastating news had to come only one way—in a manner best effective for the worst affected.
“Does Natasha know?”
Doug hesitated. Only Trent knew that Doug, long ago whilst still a young operative, had become smitten by a Russian agent—Natasha—and had pursued an “occasional” relationship ever since. The occasional part meant whenever they were within a few hundred miles of each other. Lately, the Trout had found that harder to manage, being retired and all, so Natasha had made several trips to the States. Their love was an old one, born in war, and had lasted longer than most marriages. Natasha was the only person Doug would want by his side in his final days.
“She’s on her way here, brother. Right now. In fact, I’m about to head out and collect her at the airport.”
“Glad to hear it. Now, stay safe. I’ll be in touch.”
“Stay safe, brother.” It was something they’d said to each other a thousand times. Now, the words felt a little hollow.
Trent pocketed his phone, staring into the lights once more, but seeing only the bright glare. The world passed him by. The faces blended into one. A person never knew when their time was up. That was his thinking, always had been. But this? Trent wished it was an enemy, an overlord threatening a coup or a kingpin making a play. At least with that you could fight back. Something for the Edge to finesse their way through or simply take out with all the subtleness of an RPG, Vince Hadleigh style.
But this?
The silent killers were always the worst. They crept up on you whilst you slept. Lurked in the shadows like cowards until you let your guard down. Then, they pounced. Stealing all you held dear. Nothing more than a runaway adversary with death on his mind, murder in his heart, and lacking the bravery for a real face-to-face confrontation.
It made Trent feel especially helpless. The training assured you th
at you could do anything, save anyone, if you carried out your mission to the best of your abilities. It told you there was always a way. Never back down. Never surrender.
It didn’t teach you that sometimes, even with warning, there were some things you just couldn’t beat.
9
Claire Collins drove the car despite the constant throbbing in her back. She could have eased it by sitting in the passenger seat, but taking such a luxury wasn’t her style. The wounds caused by Davic and his men were healing well, but still stung every goddamn minute of the day.
No pleasure without pain, right?
She blocked out the words, knowing everyone associated her with them, her hard-earned motto as it were, but also that they had terrible foundation in those events of ten years ago, the events that had made her, changed her forever.
Hard on the outside, bitch on the interior. Tough as nails. A fighter to the end, sometimes unapproachable, but after dark . . . if the music and the mood and the party was right?
Well, that was another story. Her way of blowing off steam.
Now, the assholes on high had decided to pair her up with a freshman. At least that’s how she thought of him. Rich London was full of fire, eagerness, and seemed somewhat bullish. Collins had found herself constantly reining him in, turning into a bit of a dominant. Truth be told, she was enjoying it a little too much.
“Can’t you just sit still?” she asked, the late morning traffic hemming them in for miles around.
“I am sitting still. Jeez, you make me sound about ten years old.”
“You seem ten years old to me. Not because I’m old, mind you. It’s that fresh face. Do you shave?”
“I’m twenty five.”
“Still, you didn’t answer the question. Some men, lacking maturity, don’t start shaving until they hit their thirties.”
The Disavowed Book 3 - Threat Level: Red Page 3