Well, her own situation, for one. Pushed into a corner, allowed to see Davic’s operation and his hideout, the faces of his men and privy to his future plans, she was under no illusion as to how her next few hours were going to end. But Collins was a fighter nowadays, always striving to keep at that famous nutbuster level; struggling and anxious and wound tight every hour of the day because, truth be told, it just wasn’t really her.
It was all a brave front, a face she showed to her bosses and the rest of the world. No one knew the truth. No one alive anyway. So she shouted them down, called them out, busted their nuts until they reddened into an embarrassing blush. She would get physical if she had to. Her effectiveness as an agent granted her a ton of leeway. She would humiliate them, twist their words into mush, tear their very flesh from their bones if she had to. She would bite and maim and kill. The hardness was now a part of her life. It enabled her to live. But she never revealed her true self.
Never tell.
Ten years ago it had all been different. Then, as a fresh-faced, somewhat dipsy agent, she had relied heavily on her old partner, Paul Vesting. The man had carried her, covered for her when she turned up for work more than a little tipsy or called in sick because she’d been out partying too hard the night before. He did this not because he was sweet on her—Vesting was happily married with two kids and a dog no bigger or better looking than a junkyard rat—it was because he saw something in her: She would become an asset to the agency—somewhere down the line.
If she’d known what it would take, the sacrifice, she’d have quit on the first day.
Now she fought for Vesting’s memory, trying to live up to the ideals he’d fought for, the faith he’d had in her, the trust and belief he’d shown. She did it so that if Vesting was out there somewhere, watching, maybe even laughing down at her, he might yet feel a sense of pride.
The partying stayed though. It was her only release from hard work and horrific memories. Vesting’s death and the events that surrounded it brought everything into plain focus and made her grow up almost overnight.
No pleasure without pain. The horrifying words of a killer.
Never tell.
And she never would. Now, as Davic stalked his halls and ranted at his men, Collins fought down her true self, packed it away in a small gold-plated box that existed deep inside, deeper than her heart and soul, and faced reality with an intimidating stare and a hard-hitting attitude. The Serb was threatening more than just herself and the Edge, even more than the cops; he’d become a terrorist, not caring who he hurt in order to get his revenge.
Davic finally seemed to notice her once again and marched across the carpet. “What to do with you,” he said. “What to do.”
“Let me go and I promise I won’t tell.” Collins gave him a nasty grin.
“The code.” He didn’t look amused. “Just give me the code. Save yourself some trouble.”
“Let me think. Hmm. Go fuck yourself.”
“I have the Radfords at gunpoint. I have you. I have Aaron Trent running around half of LA trying to save his son.” Davic leaned close to her ear. “Let me tell you a little secret—he won’t make it.” The Serb laughed softly. “I have your FBI and CIA on the run. And soon . . . so soon. Much more.”
“But you still don’t have the code do you? Does that hurt your little terrorist’s pride?”
“I have these.” Davic scattered photographs at her feet. “Pictures of the other CIA team. All dead. And your fresh-faced new partner. What was his name? Can you remember?”
Collins bit the inside of her mouth until she tasted blood. It was better than speaking to this insect.
“All right.” Davic smirked. “I’ve had my fun. Now it’s your turn.”
He bellowed at two of his men who came and hefted Collins to her feet. Then, without ceremony, they pretty much dragged her in his wake, following the mad crime boss along a corridor and past several luxuriously appointed rooms.
In the end they deposited her onto the hard concrete floor of the enormous parking garage. Several pristine, gleaming vehicles stood around. Davic took a stroll among them, waving his men away.
“All mine,” he said with pride. “Every one.”
Collins tried to lift her head up. “In a week? You’ve been a busy boy.”
“Hired,” Davic admitted. “But I could own every single one.”
“How nice for you.”
“It really is.” Davic stroked the sleek flank of a Corvette as if it were a tame racehorse. “I do find some peace in this type of beauty. It’s one of the reasons I stayed with America, you know? The Corvette. The Camaro. The Challenger. Not forgetting the Mustang, of course.” He shook his head with a respectful half-smile. “If only we could all be so . . . unspoiled. Unsullied. Untamed.”
He snapped his head up as if coming out of a trance. “But you, Agent Collins. Now it is all about you. Did you know there was a way—only one way—to make a car this beautiful even more so?”
“Do I even have to ask?”
Davic grunted. “No.” He motioned to his men. Within seconds Collins found herself bound on the hood of the Corvette, her arms in the crucifix position and tied to the wheels by long ropes on each side, her feet barely touching the concrete floor. Davic came to stand over her.
“Yes. Perfection at last.”
She glared up at him, saying nothing.
“The codes?”
Somehow, she managed to give him the finger despite the bonds. The small victory made her smile.
Davic stared speculatively at her as he dug around in his pocket for his cell. He tapped out a number and waited.
“Yes, yes,” he said when somebody answered. “The Currans. Are they comfortable?”
Collins, already feeling the strain in her outstretched arms and the burn of the rope, held in a brief tremor of fear.
“Good. Well, we need them no longer. Kill them all.”
Collins hissed through clenched teeth. “No! Bastard, he has kids.”
Davic shut off the phone. “Had kids.” He laughed. “Believe me, Curran will be glad to die.”
“You’re a monster.”
“Next.” Davic raised an eyebrow at her. “The Radfords? Then Mikey? The kid’s in a steel box, being monitored by CCTV. With one call, one transmission, I could end it all for him. Now, give me the codes.”
At that moment another man put his head around the door, bald head flashing off the low garage floodlights. Even in this house, in LA, he wore a fur-lined coat.
“We should start preparing the next phase, sir.”
Davic glanced at him irritably. “Yes, yes, I know. The Currans are already dead or dying. But I want a bit more time to enjoy Agent Collins here. And the Moose has yet to complete his second part. Then we will leave. We will leave with a bang.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now.” Davic turned his full attention on Collins, running his gaze from her head to her toes. “Where were we?”
Collins prepared to close herself off, remembering a time before when she’d faced something similar with Paul Vesting. A serial killer had captured the two of them at a remote ranch. Collins had managed to escape, raised the alarm, and had then gone straight back to save Vesting, only to find her partner dead; bludgeoned to death in a violent rage.
Then the killer had caught her again.
The cops had arrived almost two hours later.
28
Trent burst through the narrowest of gaps between a bus and a delivery van, hearing the faintest of plinks from the passenger-side wing mirror. The noise only set his mouth into a grimmer line. Such a faint sound at this speed meant the cars had barely touched. Not even close. He trounced the gas pedal as space opened up, coming up quick against the rear fender of a Mercedes and swerving around it at the last moment.
Horns blared an angry cacophony in his wake.
Fuck them. Time wasn’t on his side. At this speed he was going to attract a cop or cause a pile-up before too
long, but what else was he meant to do? Doug the Trout was working hard for him. The Edge would soon join the fray. All Trent could do for Mikey was stay on target.
Trent jumped off I-5 onto I-10. Downtown and the financial district loomed to the left across the carriageways. When signs for Venice Boulevard appeared, Trent felt his heart leap. Now far now.
Toberman Street led to Toberman Park, then Trent dumped the protesting vehicle outside the entrance. He left the door open, the engine burbling angrily and the satnav arguing with itself.
A man stood right at the entrance. Basketball courts, trees and fields stood behind him, crammed with darting, leaping forms; ambling youngsters and entwined shapes laid out on the grass. Trent’s concentration never wavered once from the smug, slack-jowled youth who held a green-skinned cellphone in his hand, waving it mockingly.
“Now that was close,” a high-pitched voice rang out. “You were down to the last minute, bud.”
“Clue.” Trent breathed. “Destination. Now.”
The youth’s piggy eyes flashed. “Is that any way to talk to the man who just saved your little brat?”
Trent saw an instant flash of red and couldn’t help himself. One moment the pig-man was there, then came the intense flash and a crimson blur, and suddenly the bastard was scrabbling around on the floor, grunting and pawing through the stones, gravel and dirt.
“My phone. My goddamn phone. You’ll pay for hitting me, asshole.”
Trent dropped to his knees, reached around the man’s neck and pinched the rolls of fat as hard as he could. Then he twisted.
“Clue. Destination. Now.”
“Asshole. Next stop is Santa Monica. You have twenty fuckin’ minutes. No chance.”
Trent dug his nails in until the bastard squealed. “Clue.”
“CAXU 4316487.”
“That’s it?”
“Yeah. That’s it. I wrote it on this scrap of paper. Now get the fuck away from me, you goddamn prick.”
Trent scanned the clue. The first four letters were capitalized. The last number, 7, was printed inside a small square. It meant nothing to him. Quickly, he broke into a sprint, heading back to the car.
29
The Moose put the kid to one far corner of his mind and applied himself to his next task. The second of three. This particular task would have been easy to perform earlier but Davic wanted it all done . . . just so.
The Moose wondered how Aaron Trent was doing. If he’d beaten the clock so far he’d already have met the Rabbit and the Pig. If not—at least the kid wouldn’t feel it when he died. The Moose felt no emotion either way, not for Trent or the kid, but he was looking forward to the end of this risky mission.
If all the many parts and pieces fell into place the Moose would be out of all this very soon. Away, with the Angelino sunset firing up his rearview—the best place for it. He wouldn’t be back. Blanka Davic’s payment had made the Moose. Made his future. He wouldn’t need to take on another job for the rest of his life. As he drove he flexed his shoulder muscles. One of them felt tight, as if he’d tweaked a muscle last night on one of the pieces of equipment. A few extra hours later would ease that strain right out. The thought of exercise made his lips curl into a smile.
Soon.
The building was wonderfully easy to find, the address well known to the public. The Moose parked carefully, close to the exit doors, and strolled inside. He was one of many, all searching for something, many of them confused and asking for help. One of the by-products of Davic’s viciousness. He let himself be carried along with the flood, just one more soul in need of rescue.
Lights flashed all around. People ran every which way. The hustle and bustle worked nicely for him. A metal trolley clattered past at high speed, its attendants struggling to hold on. Someone was paged over the public address system. The Moose wound his way through the complex, confident with the bewildering layout. Bad girls with bright lipstick and the day’s makeup mortared across their faces stood in a huddle, awaiting some test or other. Other men and women watched them from underneath lidded eyes: curious, angry, pitying. A small group stood huddled around a man with a cross, full of hope. The Moose strode past them all. He found the station he was looking for and noted that tonight it was manned by only two nurses. Good. The uproar Davic had created throughout the city was helpful even here.
As he watched he saw the second nurse take off in a rush. That left just one. He approached the chest-high counter.
“Victoria Trent,” the Moose said. “Could I have her room number please?”
The nurse looked at him enquiringly, staying silent.
The Moose flashed an embarrassed grin and made a show of digging through his pockets. “Sorry.” He flashed the gold badge. “FBI.”
The nurse squinted so he pushed it closer. No matter. The badge was genuine. Its rear was flecked with dry blood, maybe even some brains, but she didn’t need to see that.
“Down the hall. Room 201.”
“Thank you.”
He passed on, a shadow among the faceless ones, just another unremarkable character, hiding in plain sight. When they finally got around to checking the CCTV from this night he would be harder to find than God, His Son and the Devil.
The door was closed. The Moose checked his surroundings. Victoria Trent would recognize him the moment she saw his face. This wasn’t the time for slip-ups. Pretending to check his email, the Moose waited until all was clear—the corridor quiet for one brief moment in time.
Then he turned the handle.
Her eyes darted, her features twisting with fear. In the brief moment it took for her to open her mouth to scream, the Moose had leapt across the space separating them. He smashed a fist into her nose, utilizing the muscles gained from sweaty nights pumping heavy weights, and broke it with an audible snap. Then he reached into another pocket and pulled out a small syringe.
Held it in the air and let the lights glint off its clear contents.
“Do you want to die, Victoria? More importantly do you want little Mikey to die?”
Though fear and pain had turned her face and eyes into a blasted landscape she managed a vigorous shake of her head.
“Then you will do as I say, and we will leave this hospital together. Am I understood?”
Victoria Trent nodded.
“Where are your clothes?”
She pointed. He threw them at her. “Put them on. And quickly. We have very little time, Victoria. And Mikey? He has even less.”
Happily, Victoria Trent wasted no time getting dressed. The Moose actually averted his eyes slightly. He had no interest in female flesh, nor the more baser human passions like longing and lust. He was a machine; his body and mind a spotless, sparkling shrine to fitness and training.
Already, he began to focus ahead. He would take Victoria to Davic and then the final portion of his part in the Serb’s plan would begin. The big bang. It would facilitate all their escapes. It would sever him from all past and present ties and take him to where the rest of his life would begin.
The woman was ready.
The future was bright.
“Hurry,” he said. “Let’s get this over with.”
30
Doug the Trout was calling in all debts. His house in Alamitos Beach, Long Beach, fizzed forcefully to the sound of cajoling, bullying, threats and final promises. This was everything. He was calling it all in.
And Doug was a very influential and well-connected man.
Everyone listened. From the lowliest snitch to the highest senator, from the most arrogant banker to the most devious attorney. Doug the Trout was activating every favor he had ever earned. For most that meant more than paying him back—it meant finally getting off a very long, very barbed hook.
To a man they leapt into action.
More shrewd business was conducted during those short phone calls than in a full day on Wall Street. Doug fired pictures of the Moose, captured from CCTV cameras, to every agency in the world. All avenues
were opened.
A boy’s life is at stake. One of ours.
It should only have taken those few words. But instead it took a lifetime of obligations. How dark has the world become since I joined the agency? he wondered. Am I really sad to be leaving it all behind?
Not so much.
Then, the single object of his regret put a toned arm across his shoulders. With the other she deposited a steaming mug of coffee next to his laboring desktop.
“You are sweating. Even your hands are shiny.”
“I’m worried about Mikey. And Aaron. And all the rest of them.”
Natasha; his forbidden, lost Russian love of over twenty years, buried her face into his neck. “And I worry about you, my love.”
Doug nodded. “I’m fine.”
“Ah. Well. It is all okay then.”
Natasha stood back, her sculpted Russian features unreadable. Features that could, in one second, simply smile and light up the room, or frown and bring everything crashing down. They were that classic, that natural, that striking.
Doug caught the tone of her voice. “I’m sorry. But I can’t rest and drift away and die. This actually helps, you know. The pain fades. The thought of leaving here fades. So if it’s okay with you,” he turned his head slightly, “I’ll rest and I’ll sleep when I’m in the ground.”
“Have it your way.” Her Russian fire made her sound harsh, but Doug knew her well enough to know it was nothing but an outpouring of love. He sipped carefully from his mug of coffee, feeling the hot smooth cup in his hands and thinking about all the things people took for granted every single day.
Like waking up, for instance, and living their lives. Some did it with a commendable perkiness, some with grudging acceptance, but not one healthy person jumped out of bed in the morning and thought, if this is my last day . . . what would I do? What will I do? If I had the chance what would I do in my last twenty four hours to make it all worthwhile?
The Disavowed Book 3 - Threat Level: Red Page 9