The Disavowed Book 3 - Threat Level: Red

by David Leadbeater

  London turned to give her the eye. “Are you making that up?”

  Collins winced as she turned the wheel and felt another tug of discomfort along her spine. “I’m your boss. Stop questioning me.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “That’s better.”

  Christ, she thought. No, it wasn’t. It made her sound freakily ancient.

  The traffic shifted and Collins saw a gap. She shot through, ignoring the horns. The road opened up. Two more off-ramps and she shot off the interstate, heading further into a built-up district.

  “You really think Henry Curran will see us?”

  “We’re the FBI.” Collins shrugged. “That should go for something.”

  “With Curran?” London looked hopeful. “Nice. Let’s hope so.”

  Collins didn’t dissuade him of his hopes. She knew Curran had surrounded himself with a bevy of lawyers—the real smarmy ass-eating ones that tended to suck up to the rich and wealthy types—making it almost impossible for the authorities to get close, but after what she’d recently gone through in Monaco she had to at least try. Maisie Miller had been saved and rescued partly by Collins’ own hand. Her name should at least carry some weight with him.

  At least that was her hope. And the hopes of her bosses. And failure would cost them nothing.

  “So why no appointment?” London was still trying to get his head around some protocols.

  “Normally, we would. But when there’s a chance your mark might not want to see you, a surprise visit can do the trick, especially when he has an emotional tie to the subject.”

  “Mark?”

  Collins shrugged. “They’re all marks.”

  “Even after hours?” London raised an eyebrow at her.

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing. Um, I mean, just that there are . . . a few rumors about you. Around the office, I mean.”

  Collins saw the SolDyn building up ahead and flicked on the turn signal. “Screw the goddamn rumors and screw all the assholes spreading them. And screw you if you want to listen to them. I’m here to do the job. Are you?”

  London nodded hard and fast, almost striking the dash. Collins ignored him. If it were an older, more experienced agent she might have torn him to pieces. But Rich London? The kid was still learning. The intricacies involved in training a fresh agent should sometimes be a little more subtle.

  “I do remember being a fresh-faced, spacey, little operative,” she said acidly. “I remember that it didn’t last for long.”

  Ten years ago.

  Collins pulled a light leather jacket across her shoulders and entered the building, walking right up to reception. The lobby area was busy and huge. The vaulted ceiling ran all the way to the third floor, its extremities comprised entirely of glass, giving the whole area a relaxed, airy feeling. Only one masterwork of art graced the room, and it dominated it—a bubbling fountain in the center, its trickling water adding to the comforting ambience. It tried to make you accept the armed guards stationed at various ingress and egress points around the lobby. Collins fancied that most people actually did.

  “Nice place.” London sniffed. “Nice fountain.”

  Collins nudged him hard. “Look closer.”

  “I saw them,” the agent said indignantly. “How green d’ya think I am?”

  “I’ve seen more experienced virgins.”

  “In LA?” London blinked. “Who hasn’t?”

  Maybe there was hope for him after all.

  Collins flashed her badge. “FBI. We’d like to speak with Henry Curran please.”

  The secretary—a brunette with gold hair clips and flashing teeth—reached unobtrusively for a hidden button. “Do you have an appointment?” Her voice was sickly-sweet, the standardized tone used by so many insincere secretaries the world over, but thankfully not all.

  “I’ll just wait for the bigger dogs.” Collins returned her clearly false greeting. “You’re smile just ain’t cutting it today, lady.”

  The smile vanished along with the fake welcome. The hard eyes remained though, as they did for everybody.

  After a minute, Collins heard an elevator door chime. The man who walked toward her was dressed in an expensive suit and minced along as if he’d just wet himself. Collins sighed. London studied the scenario with interest.

  “Hello. I’m Jeffrey Hopkirk, Mr. Curran’s personal assistant. I’m sorry to tell you he’s been off sick for two days. Can anyone else help you?”

  Collins stared, momentarily stymied. She hadn’t expected that development.

  “Does he have second-in-command?”

  “Of course. Mr. Walker. The assistant CEO. Could I ask what this is about?”

  “I’m Special Agent Claire Collins.” She gave him her whole name in the hope of being recognized. “And this is Agent London. We have a few questions relating to the Miller case. It won’t take but a few minutes.”

  “We know who you are, Agent Collins. And I’m apprised of the Miller case. I don’t see its link to our company.”

  She noted he had chosen his words rather carefully, not saying to our CEO. “It won’t take long.”

  “Mr. Walker will have a lawyer present the whole time. It’s policy.”

  Collins barely refrained from shaking her head. “Mr. Hopkirk. You may be surprised to hear this, but I’ve met drug-dealers who say exactly the same.”

  Hopkirk didn’t look surprised. Instead, he glared. “I’m not sure I like the inference. But, Agent Collins, because of the work you have recently done, SolDyn extends you every courtesy. We watch the news. We share your victory. You have our deepest gratitude.”

  Collins shifted a bit uncomfortably, feeling the twinges in her back. No one could truly share her victory. The nightmares of being alone and vulnerable with Davic and his men still woke her several times a night.

  For ten years she hadn’t felt that kind of vulnerable.

  She inclined her head with gratitude. “That’s very kind of you, Mr. Hopkirk. A quick chat with Mr. Walker will be fine.”

  The man indicated an open elevator. “This way.”

  They made the ride up in silence. Hopkirk showed them to a room in which two older men resided, one seated and one standing. The seated man rose and came around a desk that gleamed deeply enough to conceal a treasure chest full of secrets, and held out a hand.

  “John Walker, assistant CEO of SolDyn. Happy to meet you.”

  The guy sounded genuine. Collins quickly went through the introductions as Hopkirk closed the door, leaving the four of them alone. Walker didn’t introduce his lawyer, which Collins appreciated.

  “My questions were mainly for Mr. Curran,” Collins admitted. “But I’m hoping you can help too, sir. This is Los Angeles and the world HQ of SolDyn is in Washington DC. I’m surprised that the company CEO and his assistant both work out of here.”

  Walker shrugged slightly. “The HQ in DC is a bureaucratic icon,” he said. “A symbolic building where the paper-pushers and little rule-makers are stationed. The money men. But this is the lab. It’s in this building where all the real advances are made.”

  Collins nodded. It made sense. “Can I ask what is wrong with Mr. Curran?”

  The lawyer leaned in, a little predictably. Walker waved him away.

  “Honestly, I don’t know. Henry called in the first day and said he didn’t know when he’d be back. I mean, everyone gets ill sometimes, but we have a doctor on site. We employ several, in fact.”

  “Maybe it’s contagious,” London put in.

  Walker stared at him. “Let’s hope not.”

  Collins bit to the core of her visit. “Without inferring or accusing or entrapping or surmising anything in particular—” she rolled her eyes helplessly toward the unnamed lawyer and elicited a smile from Walker, “—in regards to the Miller case. Washington’s top brass are riding a wave with Maisie’s rescue. The SolDyn involvement has been made public to a small degree and washed over, citing duress as
the overriding factor. Which is fundamentally true. The spin doctors are doing their job, sir. As of now everyone involved is cautiously optimistic. Senators, top bankers and . . . expensive lawyers . . .” she grunted, “are feeling more relaxed. My God, even the politicians are happy.”

  Walker flashed another smile. This time he listened as the lawyer leaned in. “Your point?”

  “A simple one, which I’m sure Henry Curran and SolDyn have already considered. Prepare to be attacked.”

  Walker frowned. Even London gasped a little.

  “What?”

  “Through the press, I mean. And through other public outlets. Your enemies, none of them squeaky clean, will have an angle. Phase two of this spin could be ugly, after the happy furor wears off. I know the bureaucrats are prepared for a long spin, many phases, years of struggle. Mr. Curran should be too. SolDyn should be. Despite their failings, enormous companies such as this help form the foundations of the First World’s economy. We can’t afford a SolDyn to collapse.”

  “Not in this economic climate,” Walker said, repeating the words of every politician from the east to the west of the world in recent years.

  “Sure.” Collins looked to the door to indicate her speech was over, then glanced back at Walker as if just remembering something.

  “I guess the only people who aren’t surfing the win-win wave right now are the Millers. Living and dead.”

  Walker rubbed tired eyes. “Is that what you really came here to say? Did you want to say that to Henry as you looked him in the eye?”

  Collins headed for the door. “We’re done here. Thanks for your time.”

  “Henry cried when he heard about Maisie,” Walker said suddenly, stopping her in her tracks. “He cried. I was there. He said she reminded him of his own daughter. And what might have happened. I’ve never seen him cry before.”

  “The CEO of SolDyn has a heart? Who’d have guessed?”

  “We’re not monsters, Agent Collins. Not all of us, anyway.”

  Collins turned back with a hint of respect in her eyes. That was the closest a powerful CEO had ever come to telling her the truth.

  “Thank you.”

  Walker nodded. London was staring at her with a mixture of admiration and fire in his eyes. Dumb kid probably wanted to waterboard them. But when the meeting was clearly over Collins always preferred to leave first. She thought it helped confirm her authority.

  She placed her hand on the door handle, turned it, and walked out into the hallway.

  The walls shook and the deep sound of an explosion shook the building. Through an open elevator to her right she thought she heard the sound of gunfire.

  London placed a hand on her shoulder. “Ah, Collins, is this normal?”

  10

  Trent, still in a daze, headed over to the FBI building to see if he could talk with Claire Collins. The hard-headed, baby-faced nutbuster had checked herself right out of hospital less than a day after being admitted. The scars on her back were healing, yes, but Trent knew from experience that they’d be painful for weeks. A few days on a painkilling drip and some R&R would work wonders toward her quick recovery. It was Trent’s duty to make her see that.

  At least Collins’ recovery, unlike Doug’s, offered some chance of success.

  Trent felt they’d made a deep connection in Monaco. Something he could build on. And not just when he’d saved her life. He knew there was much more to Collins than met the eye, more than anyone knew, and he almost felt that he was the man who wanted to hear more. The indications she had given almost made him believe she felt that way too.

  Tricky.

  But what day of his life wasn’t? Right now, the simple act of driving should at least be giving him some relief. But his crappy old Chrysler was playing up at low speeds, his mind was frayed, his concentration yawing between Doug, Mikey and Collins. There was also Silk to think of. The Edge man needed to sit down and talk over all that had happened to him recently, all the things that related to his past. And, of course, there was Radford. The other kid in the group. Dan had decided that last night was the night. Trent hadn’t heard from him since. He hoped Amanda had agreed to give it a go. Maybe no news was good news.

  Shit. It’s a plain old battlefield.

  The Chrysler groaned. Trent saw the FBI building looming ahead on Wilshire, its concrete surrounds and heights nothing if they weren’t intimidating. A trickle of anticipation ran through his body, something that had been sorely lacking for years. He parked up, even here constantly checking for CCTV cameras and areas that may be vulnerable. There didn’t seem to be many, but Trent knew as well as anyone that a determined adversary was almost impossible to stop.

  The Californian sunshine flooded down and he allowed himself a moment to bathe in its heat before stepping into the shadow of the building. The stark white walls glared back at him, causing momentary blindness. When he stepped through the doors and into the lobby he paused for a second, blinking.

  The air-con was nice. He waited for a window to come free and then advanced. He could have called her, even now, but felt the quiet approach might work best. Besides, his feelings were so muddled he wasn’t quite sure what to say.

  “Special Agent Claire Collins,” he said to the impassive cop behind the screen. “Please tell her Aaron Trent is here.”

  The cop tapped his keyboard for a few seconds. “ID?”

  Trent handed over his credentials.

  The cop tapped some more. “Sorry, sir, she’s currently out of the office. I can leave a message?”

  Trent exhaled. “It’s okay. I should have called ahead.”

  He turned away, debating whether to call her anyway. Where the hell is she? Surely not involved in another assignment already. As he looked up, a flash of light reflected through the glass window from the street outside.

  An object whizzed past, then clattered into the building. Hard. Wheels still turning, making the object skid on its own axis.

  Shit. Someone just fell off their bike—was the first thing that shot through his mind.

  Then it exploded, and the force of the blast sent Trent diving into the glass cubicle at his back. The windows withheld the force of the explosion, but panic and mayhem erupted outside.

  The alarms shrilled.

  The FBI, Los Angeles, was under attack.

  11

  The Moose exited the gym, freshly showered and prepared for one of the nastiest jobs of even his extensively malicious career. The exertion helped; the sweat of physical exercise made everything worthwhile. Lately he’d gotten around to thinking that he should use this latest job to finally get out. Leave this life while his legs still functioned and his muscles still worked. Davic had even suggested it. Age, he knew, was a silent killer that crept up on you from behind. It knew the Moose’s tricks, it knew his wily ways, but just didn’t care. It would take him and his body whenever it fancied.

  Frustration made him clench his jaw. His love of life only diminished during the short span of time when he dealt in death. A day at most. Then he was back in the saddle, loving it.

  But the kid?

  Never mind. Put it aside. It was time to deal.

  The Moose swung his gym bag into the trunk of his rental and quickly checked his gear. He’d packed it carefully this morning, reviewed the plan yet again, and left everything in place. Now all that was required was to set things in motion.

  Right now.

  Keeping to Davic’s schedule, the Moose started the car and began to drive. He took the quieter roads, already close to his destination. Before his heart had even stopped pounding from the recent exercise, he was in place. He reached over to the passenger side and withdrew a map of Los Angeles, already sure of his route but never failing to take advantage of a refresher.

  The luscious park ahead was quiet, but it would soon get much busier. It didn’t interest him. The road behind was where he concentrated his attention, awaiting the passing of the red sports car. After a moment he saw it, along with
the woman at the wheel and the kid tucked in beside her. The Moose pulled out into the flow of traffic, keeping a careful tail.

  Ten minutes passed.

  The roads grew quieter, the neighborhood more exclusive. The Moose had three spots picked out where he could make his move. Spot number one was compromised; three school-moms stood around talking whilst their noisy offspring played up and down the road and ran across gardens. Spot number two approached fast.

  The Moose saw his chance and didn’t hesitate.

  This was business after all.

  12

  The Moose stepped on the gas, swerving around the woman’s red sports car and forcing it to a juddering halt. Good thing they put special brakes on those things. It would save his rental deposit, at least. Porsche fitted their cars with brakes that can bring the car down from sixty or one hundred just as fast as it can accelerate to sixty or to one hundred, the Moose reflected as he leapt around the low front. A fact he knew because a not dissimilar vehicle sat on his own driveway back home. Funny how things worked. And, looking at Victoria Trent as she bounced out of the driver’s side, all fire and confidence, he thought she might even be an exercise freak too. Probably hit the gym several times a week.

  In another world they might have talked, maybe even become lovers.

  Today, she was to be made an example of.

  The Moose mentally shrugged. Oh well. The woman swore into his face, something about bad driving—jabber, jabber, jabber, whilst the kid looked on. Poor Michael looked like he’d seen and heard it all before. The Moose took a final look around, satisfied there were no immediate onlookers, then punched her hard in the face.

  Victoria flew sideways, her head swinging fast, blood spattering the front of the car. She landed on the hood and slid to the floor before she even knew what had happened. The Moose yanked open the passenger door and grabbed Mikey. The lad, to his credit, swung a few haymakers and screamed, but the Moose quickly ended all those shenanigans with a long-practiced chokehold.