22
Trent listened to the man with his finger on the trigger.
The Moose laid it out plain and simple. “We’re gonna play a game, you and I. One of my own devising. Now, if you knew me a little better you would know that I’m all about the exercise, Mr. Trent. You should look after your body. So we’ll see how well you you’ve been doing with yours. Little Mikey here—”
Trent interrupted the second he heard the word “here”. “Let me speak to him. Proof of life.”
“Is that a joke? If you know of me then you know I am a man of my word.”
“He’s my son.”
The Moose said nothing for a moment, then, “All right. I’ll give you this as a sign of faith. But you know the terms of our game, Mr. Trent. Remember them.”
Trent listened as Mikey spoke up, the little boy’s words crushing his heart.
“Are you coming for me like you promised? Dad? Daddy?”
Trent felt every emotion, sense and response that made him human choked to thick dust inside of him. His son was eight years old. There were no words and no warnings and no preparations in the world that equipped a parent to go through this kind of hell.
“Mikey—”
“Too late.” The Moose came back on the line. “Now, as I was saying, we’re gonna play a game. Little Mikey here is wired to some high explosive. And yep, he knows. I have five guys around town with mobiles in their pockets. Each one has instructions to ring a certain number at a certain time. If those calls connect, Mikey explodes. Daddy Trent has to reach each man before he makes the call. Get it?”
Trent walked further away from Victoria, scanning the neighborhood as he walked, already planning, already thinking ahead.
“I get it. But why?”
“Good. Each of the five men will give you a piece of the code as to where Mikey is. Can you crack the code, Aaron? Can you?”
“Yes.”
“Then go!”
Trent reacted instantly, running away from Victoria and toward the parked car he’d spotted at the last second. It was the perfect car for the job, a sign from above, a big powerful Porsche Panamera. It had enough horses to get him where he had to go fast, enough presence to intimidate and power through snarled-up traffic, and enough seats to accommodate the rest of the Edge and Susie Brewster who he fully expected to join him somewhere down the line. He drew his gun, pulled the unhappy driver out onto the street and roared away. Yes, the dude would report it stolen, but what else could he do?
Every second counted.
“I’m on my way. From Burbank. Where am I headed?”
The Moose gave him the first contact, a guy in Glendale. “I’d hurry if I were you. The Rabbit has itchy fingers. Always jumping the damn gun.”
Trent floored it.
23
Trent called Silk as he sped through traffic.
“Have you gotten them out yet?”
“Are you kidding? We were just about to make our move!”
“Then hurry. This madman has me driving to checkpoints around LA against the clock. Feels more like a way of keeping me busy and out of Davic’s business, but I need your help on this. Something tells me . . .”
Silk knew instinctively what he meant. “The deck’s gonna be stacked? Yeah, I’d say.”
“I have to do this for Mikey. You need to get to Dan, save him and meet me as soon as you can. Understood?”
“We’re on it.”
“Good.”
Trent threw the cellphone onto the passenger seat and looked for the car’s powerful ‘sport’ button.
24
Dan Radford charged the men with guns.
At first they laughed at him. Then he smashed into the one who had started pawing at Amanda, using his forehead to break the asshole’s nose, waiting for him to stagger, then shoulder-barging him to the floor. At that point the guy’s colleagues stopped laughing and moved fast. One of them quickly clubbed Radford across the head with the butt of a handgun.
Radford spun. Spittle flew from his lips, from between his bared teeth. He was livid. Enraged. No one treated Amanda this way. He kicked the man in the gut, watched him fold. The handgun hit the floor. Radford hoped for a miracle from his wife, but Amanda didn’t react at all.
Shit.
The rest waded in, bearing Radford to the floor. Several punches made him groan; a blow to the head made him see stars. They dragged him up and made him stand whilst one of their number drove a knee into his balls and another into his gut. Radford collapsed to his knees, heaving.
“Bastard’s tough,” one of them said. “Most o’ these fuckers we’re working with would’a passed out by now.”
“We’ll see how tough he is with a bullet through the brain.”
Radford heard the click as the gun was prepped. He swiveled his head left and saw Amanda watching him from near the table. Her face was awash with tears, her eyes red.
“Wait,” another voice said urgently. “Boss wants her to die first. And he has to watch.”
“Davic will never know.”
You kiddin’ me, fool? You seen this bunch o’ fuckups we’re stuck with? One of ‘em will squeal.”
“All right. All right. We do the bitch first. Quit yer whining.”
Radford struggled to his feet; heaving, panting. He thought he had enough strength for one more charge. One last chance. He would never let them touch Amanda. Not whilst strength still existed in his body.
“What the fuck is it with you, dude? You like the pain?”
“Do not . . . touch . . . her.” He swayed.
“I guess he wants some more.” A Chinese youth squared up to him. “Get me some practice. We’ll start with jab, cross, hook, uppercut. That okay with you, dude?”
“Wait.” The other man spoke again, the one who had told them that Amanda should die first. “Why do you care about this bitch so much, man? She’s nothin’ more’n a dickhound. Cheated on you a hundred times.”
Radford made an effort to focus on the speaker. He was surprised to see an older man, a strong, lined face beneath a baseball cap inscribed with the legend Mighty Ducks. A thick beard. Hard eyes. A gaze that said he’d seen more death than the Devil and would welcome a one-way ride down to Hell.
“I love her,” he said evenly. “I want her back in my life.”
Radford had always been a playboy, the ladies’ man, happy to help out any girl who found him attractive. He lured them in with his good looks, surprised them with his intelligent conversation and boyish charm, and sealed the deal with a bit of gentle, humorous persuasion. Before they knew it they were peeling down their panties with a happy grin on their faces and the belief that this man knew what he was doing in all areas. Marrying Amanda had barely changed all that. The first six months had been different, special, but then she’d started to live the single life with him, even learn from it. Their relationship had changed, they’d grown apart physically but closer mentally. It was the oddest sensation, the exception to the rule. Like minds attracted. And in a wholly unique way.
But time, death and hardship had changed Dan Radford. It had worn him down, stretched him thin. His vitality began to ebb away, to be slowly replaced with an unspoken longing. It took some time but at last he recognized just what it was.
He needed to settle down.
The shock of realization sent him out into the arms of willing women again. At least for a little while. To accept his new longing was to die, or that’s what he’d told himself. He was the consummate playboy, the ageless Casanova. Did this happen to every man?
Eventually he spoke to Trent, and then came to the same conclusion as the Edge’s unofficial leader. Tell her.
Tell her how you feel.
Radford looked away from the eyes of his merciless assailant and straight into the eyes of his wife. She gazed intently at him. What the hell does that mean?
“Fool.” The older guy floored him with a gut punch. Radford went down to his knees again, already struggling to climb back
up.
“Finish her.”
“Wait.” Amanda’s voice, clear and strong cut through the malaise of lively viciousness that hung like a row of guillotines inside the room.
“No one said you could speak, bitch.”
“You want me? I’ll take you all on. Right now. C’mon, six guys is nothing new to me. I’ve been there before.” Amanda took a breath. “How about it?”
Radford’s admiration for her rose beyond comprehension. There she stood, his amazing wife, terrified out of her mind yet sensing the nearness of their execution and fighting hard to give them even an extra few minutes, a final chance by offering herself to this group of pitiless killers. Even now he watched for an opportunity, kept his mind inventorying the location of every single weapon.
But their chances were lessening with every passing moment.
The bad men gathered around the table, Amanda in their midst. One of them stayed behind to cover Radford; the youngest. And maybe the one who was having the most trouble going through with all this. Something for Radford to exploit.
Fast, Dan, do it fast.
The men grabbed at his wife.
25
Silk ran hard, head down, with Brewster at his back. The enemy were distracted at the moment and a good job too. Radford’s house would have been almost impossible to breach if Davic had actually employed a capable set of mercenaries instead of this ragtag bunch of street thugs. Even so, Silk had serious doubts as to the outcome.
Brewster spoke fast. “Does Radford keep any guns in the house?”
“Yeah.”
She made a noise. “So spill. Where the hell does he keep ‘em?”
“Not in the garage.”
Silk stopped at the corner. “Relax. Combat isn’t all about guns. I have other skills.”
Brewster grunted. “Oh yeah? Not that I’ve seen.”
“Not the best thing to say to a guy you were just in bed with.”
“What? You’re gonna screw ‘em all into submission?”
“Only if I have to.” Silk slipped around the corner, then ran for it. This side of the house was blind, the only window being at the back. He ran across the grass, upended the one phony stone among dozens of real ones, and broke the false bottom. A key fell into his palm.
Brewster sniffed. “Well, at least it wasn’t a garden gnome.”
“You panting there, Susie?” Silk gave her a sly grin as he darted past. “Thought you worked out.”
“Every day. Helps to channel my aggression.” Brewster’s ex had left her with many issues.
Silk slotted home the key. “The next few minutes should help then.”
He pushed. They found themselves in a dim, almost-empty garage, walled with metal shelves. Silk saw a toolbox and helped himself to a screwdriver and a nail gun. Brewster stared.
“You thinking of putting up some drywall?”
“Funny.”
The door leading into the house had been fitted with a narrow vision panel. Silk glanced through. Nothing moved immediately beyond the door, but loud sounds filtered through: Amanda protesting loudly whilst the thugs cheered and Radford railed at them. Silk knew by the tone of Amanda’s cries that he could wait no longer. The assault was getting serious. He opened the door, stayed low, and ran through the house. Brewster passed him on the outside, her gun trained and steady.
They came through into front room unnoticed. Several thugs were gathered around Amanda, two with their pants down and none holding a firearm. Radford’s wife struggled as another tried to tie her hands behind her back. As the dark wave of her hair fell across her face she suddenly locked eyes with Silk.
“Help!”
Damn, Silk thought as all eyes turned to him. Brewster shouted at the thugs, ordered them to stay put, but that was never going to happen. As one, they lunged for the weapons they had set aside. Brewster opened fire. Three thugs screamed and fell before they knew what hit them. Silk leapt for the nearest, burying the screwdriver through his gut. The man dropped instantly. Silk whirled and tackled the youth holding Radford before the wide-eyed hood thought to fight back. The kid was fresh, green, and looked like this might well be his first home invasion.
Silk made sure it was his last.
Radford spun. Silk chopped at his bonds with the bloody screwdriver, keeping an eye on Brewster as she shot more desperate thugs. Only the next to last held his hands in the air, and when he saw Brewster relax he quickly shifted and ducked behind Amanda.
Grabbed her by the throat.
“I got a knife in her back. Back off, lady, or she gets stuck.”
The last thug came at Silk. Arms high and swinging, his face twisted in disbelief to find a screwdriver suddenly embedded in his sternum. He grunted, hit the floor hard and didn’t move again. Silk drifted to the side wall with the nail gun held pointed toward the final thug. Radford stared at his wife, eyes wide with anxiety. Silk had never seen such emotion in Dan’s eyes and suddenly knew what had happened tonight.
Radford tried to settle down. Poor Dan. And just as I’m doing the opposite.
Their lives were never going to get tedious, that was for damn sure.
The hoodlum holding Amanda tracked Silk’s drift with his eyes. “What you doin’ man? A fuckin’ nail gun?”
“Believe me.” Silk murmured. “You deserve much worse.”
Amanda’s eyes suddenly widened. The youth grunted into her shoulder. “One more step, fucker, and she gets it.”
Silk gauged his eyes. The goon was dumb enough to do it, despite facing the gun Brewster had already used on several of his friends. Half the trouble with criminals, he mused briefly, is that they lack the imagination to follow certain scenarios through to the inevitable end.
“Do you want to die?” he asked.
“Fuck you.”
Silk let his head hang. All right then. Without pause for thought he fired the nail gun as fast as he could. Report after report rang out, each one sending a ninety millimeter shank of sharpened steel into the thug’s right thigh. The man’s screams didn’t stop him. He walked forward as his prey immediately forgot all about Amanda and switched his attention to the sudden, agonizing pain in his legs. When he grabbed his thigh the backs of his hands and wrists sprouted nails, like a metal hedgehog. The knife clattered away somewhere. Blood flowed freely as the would-be rapist bit his own tongue. The pain intensified so much he couldn’t even scream, and strings of drool slipped from between his lips.
Silk stood over him. “There’s a four-letter word for people like you,” he said and fired the final nail, point blank, into the man’s skull.
“Dead.”
Amanda staggered away into Radford’s arms. Shock turned her legs weak and it was all Dan could do to support her. Silk turned to Brewster.
“Now the hard part.”
She nodded. “Trent.”
Radford’s eyes locked on both of them. “What happened to Aaron?”
26
Trent powered the big Porsche through the streets, hitting South First Street and South Front Street then slamming the vehicle at an alarming angle through the loop that took him onto the Golden State Freeway. He blasted onto the freeway hard, still accelerating, almost standing on the pedal, his thoughts full of Mikey and the boy’s future. The car’s engine screamed. Sheer, highly-engineered power coursed through the PDK gearbox, delivered from an eight cylinder turbocharged engine with over five hundred horsepower. Even with his goal in sight it was all Trent could do to keep the car under control. It felt alive, hungry, feral; a beast needing to be unleashed.
A Home Depot flashed by to the left. Horns blared and drivers swerved into his path as they saw him coming. Were they that crazy? Trying to get in the way of a clearly determined and possibly deranged driver. Trent maneuvered past them with inches to spare, always aware of the next gap and the one beyond that, running the location he’d been given through his mind and going over the best approach.
Griffith Park opened up as he swung around a righ
t-hander and headed toward a sharper turn. At last into Glendale he slipped onto Colorado and headed straight for the Glendale Galleria and the big Nordstroms that jutted out aggressively toward the road. He brought the Panamera to a screeching stop right outside, ducking his head and searching for his target.
Called the Rabbit. Trent saw a man with a mobile poised in his hand standing right outside the entrance to Nordstroms. The man’s eyes were fixed on Trent, mouth curling into a hard grin. The fingers hovered over the phone’s keypad, dipping in slow-motion. Trent saw he’d made the drive in twelve minutes and flung open the door.
“Stop!”
Horns blared. Cars and an enormous Mack truck barreled past, not even slowing as he stepped around the front of the car. People stopped on the sidewalk to stare. Trent ran at the Rabbit, screaming.
“Do not make that call! Do not!”
“Too late, Daddyo.”
“No!”
Trent ran right up to the Rabbit, slapping the phone aside. A snarl was the only response as the Rabbit quickly stooped down.
“Twelve minutes,” Trent breathed. “I made it in twelve.”
“Pissed me off,” the Rabbit complained, dusting off his cell. “Goddamn hundred bucks I lost right there. Thought I was gonna be the one that got to lay down the hammer.” An evil smirk turned his face into a satanic mask. “Boom!”
Trent almost killed him then. His right hand was already moving, fingers stiffened, but somehow he managed to freeze the blow. Teeth gritted hard he said, “The clue. The next address. Now.”
The Rabbit fished out a creased map. It bore the title Los Angeles. He handed it over to Trent, speaking softly.
“Toberman Park. And you’d better hurry. Twenty minutes.”
27
Claire Collins watched as Blanka Davic gloated and swaggered and generally got his rocks off. She imagined this was the only way he knew how. A debased, rich-kid gangster with a God complex, and one who was currently winning his own war of terror. What could be worse?
The Disavowed Book 3 - Threat Level: Red Page 8