Doug shook his head, sloughing the melancholy away. Happiness and invincibility had been his for so long. Young men never thought about their own mortality. Even older men found it hard to face, at first. Doug was an innately happy man, always upbeat and the first to smile. He would go out with a damn grin on his face and Natasha at his side. He would go out with style.
He stared now at the computer screen and the silent phones. “The calm before the storm.”
Natasha pulled up a chair. “I’m here to help.”
Doug purposely cast his head around. “I think there’s a pile of ironing needs doing somewhere.”
She jabbed an elbow into his side. “Careful. We Russians—we are hot tempered and take unkindly to sarcasm. You should not provoke poor girl from Moscow.”
Doug draped an arm around her shoulders. “You’re not poor. You’re not a girl. And I really don’t think you’re from Moscow.”
“Ah? With deductive powers like that you really should be with CIA. I hear some of those dirty men have mistresses in my country. They toy with them and use them, and keep them hanging on forever.”
Doug laid his head on her shoulder. “I wanted you with me every day. Every minute. And you are here now.”
The silence between them spoke the words they would probably never say—about wasted years, wasted love, and two lifetimes of regret.
“This next six weeks,” Natasha finally said. “They will be the best of both our lives.”
Doug felt the familiar smile jump back onto his lips. “My thoughts exactly.”
31
Trent wasted no time jumping on the I-10 and aiming the Porsche toward the Pacific. The small dashboard clock situated under the windscreen ticked the minutes away at an alarming rate. Carving his way through the brake lights, Trent found himself muscling toward another imposing red light—that of the setting sun, which had just started to spread its fiery wings across the far horizon.
But the dusk would not set on this day. Not whilst Mikey was in harm’s way.
Trent flicked and coerced the vehicle with every ounce of his skill, coming within inches of causing several fender benders and twice clipping wing mirrors. A black Mercedes tried to block him, trying to impress him with its power, but Trent remained underwhelmed. Another minute ticked by, forever lost. He buried the gas pedal through the floor, and when the Mercedes slowed he simply tapped its rear. The driver panicked, swerving across three empty lanes and let Trent through. Obscene gestures filled his rearview, but his attention was focused on only one thing.
Santa Monica lay up ahead. Trent dropped down onto Olympic then threw the vehicle up Lincoln. He stamped on the brakes as a man carrying a briefcase and sipping from a takeaway coffee cup sauntered across the road without looking. Gray smoke billowed from the tires. To its credit the car didn’t swerve. The man didn’t even look up as burning smoke enveloped him. Trent squealed off again, throwing the car around a dawdler’s Chrysler and ignoring the prerequisite honk of disapproval.
Be safe, Mikey. Be safe, little man.
Trent eyed the clock. Colorado led straight to the Pier, where the Moose’s third man awaited. As he approached, Trent was suddenly grateful for the obvious eccentricities of the Moose’s go-betweens. This next one was clearly the Tiger. He was dressed, head to toe, in a rare tiger onesie, even to the hood with sewn-on teeth and pointy ears.
Trent aimed straight for him. The clock ticked. Two minutes left. One hundred and twenty seconds.
Tick, tick.
The Tiger fiddled with his phone, face eager. What is it with these people? Do they get some kind of bonus if they place the call?
Trent rounded a badly parked vehicle, his mind elsewhere. The clues so far were baffling, but he’d expected nothing less. A map of Los Angeles and a strangely coded number. What do they mean? What the hell will the Tiger contribute to the jumble?
The traffic was thick along Ocean. Trent forced his way through, using the Tiger’s orange and black onesie as a target, and came to a stop with the bastard’s protruding belly almost touching the front of the car, right at the entrance to the Pier. The enormous entrance arch towered over him, the dotted palm trees waving without a care in the world. The wide, calming expanse of the Pacific lay beyond that but Trent barely noticed. The Tiger leered at him. If he’d been able to staple those ridiculous ears to the front fender somehow he would have.
Trent jumped out, leaving the car partly over the crosswalk and jutting out into the road so cars were forced to swerve around its rear end. People stopped and stared and voiced their complaints. He wasn’t in the mood. Several were raising mobiles, making calls and taking pictures. Trent took a handful of ‘tiger skin’ and pulled its wearer close.
“Clue. Destination. Now.”
The Tiger roared in his face, spittle flying from cracked, thin lips. The man’s eyes were glassy, a gleam fuelled by some drug or other. Trent was sure this dude wouldn’t know danger if it ran up and shot him through the gut.
Trent was ready to do that. He raised his fist. “Clue. Destination.”
The Tiger held up his phone threateningly. “Back off, man. Back off now! I use this, some fucker gets erased.”
Trent snaked a hand out faster than thought, enclosing a furry orange wrist in his grip with a force that made the Tiger’s eyes go wide. Trent crushed harder. The Tiger’s eyes started to water.
“I’ll fuckin’ break your arm in two,” the ex-CIA agent whispered. “I promise you that.”
“All right, all right.” The Tiger turned tail, almost dropping to his knees. “San Pedro is the clue,” the man moaned as Trent started to twist. “And . . . and Inglewood. Twenty minutes.” He stuttered out an address.
Trent wanted to stay. He wanted to teach this piece of human waste about pain, and about what happens if you mess with another man’s child. All in all, he wanted to grind him into the concrete.
As he paused, his face twisted into a terrible mask, the noise all around him intruded. It helped bring him back to the present—the hard, terrifying present where his son still stood in mortal danger. CCTV would later reveal these criminals and the Edge would deal with them at their leisure.
“I’ll see you again,” Trent said, then whirled and ran for the car. A concerned old man with nothing better to do was directing a cop his way. Trent waved him off and jumped in, hit the gas, and peeled away.
Twenty minutes to Inglewood?
Shit.
****
The call came thirty seconds later.
Silk’s voice was a shot of adrenalin. “We’re here! You see? The McDonalds.”
Trent saw them standing outside the white-painted fast-food joint and screamed to a stop. Radford and Amanda, Silk and Brewster jumped in and, before the last of them had even closed the door, Trent was burning rubber toward Inglewood. Quickly, he shouted out the latest clue.
“Inglewood?” Silk moaned. “Can’t get away from that friggin’ place.”
“You guys all right?” Trent said as he sailed around a double-parked obstruction.
Radford nodded carefully. “I think so. It was close though, man. Amanda got it worse.”
“I’m fine,” his wife said. “Seriously. I’ll be okay.”
Trent understood. The pair had been part of a highly-charged incident that had lasted almost a full day, ending with attempted rape and murder. Amanda would need a lot of help to see her through the aftermath.
And Dan was right there beside her. Holding her hand. Trying to cope with her trauma and Trent’s at the same time.
“What do we have, Aaron?”
“Liaise with Doug. He’s tracking the Moose, Mikey and Davic. I just needed to see you guys were okay. With all . . . all this.” He pushed on quickly. “Check on Victoria. She’s at UCLA. If Mikey’s really wired to a bomb I need a team on hand—” He breathed heavily. “But I don’t know where I need them. And find out what the hell else is going on. I’ve seen plumes of smoke everywhere today. Oh, and track down
Collins. We need her.”
He’d almost said, “I need her.” It was truer than he dared let on.
He raced onto the I-10 heading for the I-405 and Long Beach.
“Doug lives at Long Beach,” Silk said as the sign shot by.
“Not going that far,” Trent said. “I’m gonna drop you guys off at the next ramp. You need to stay somewhere central. We don’t know where you’re gonna be needed next. Find a base and use your phones. We need everything on this. Everyone. Call in everything we have.”
“Done.”
The next ramp loomed and Trent screeched to a halt for three seconds while everyone tumbled out. Without another word he mashed the pedal through the floor again and fired the Porsche like a two-ton bullet. The engine screamed, but not in protest, more a howl of adrenalin and riotous excitement. I-10 became I-405 and the passing of every single minute was an excruciating torture.
In his mind were the unsaid words that flowed silently between all three members of the Razor’s Edge and possibly Susie Brewster too.
Once I reach the fifth guy, one way or another, Mikey’s dead.
32
Collins knew better than to struggle against the bonds. The ropes holding her to the hood of the Corvette were impossibly tight and would only abrade her wrists and cause them to bleed. Nevertheless, the pressure on her feet and the way they slipped on the garage floor constantly tugged at the ropes; the way Blanka Davic jabbed her caused her to lose balance; the close proximity of his vile, grinning face made her twist away and bleed rather than stare into those evil eyes. She made no noise though, refusing to give him the satisfaction he clearly craved. The hood of the car was hard and ungiving against her spine and at her shoulder blades, the outstretched position painful.
She was finding it harder and harder to hold out.
“The code,” the Serbian mafia leader hissed up close. When she didn’t acknowledge the request he straightened and nodded to his man. “The kitchen,” he said. “Bring me something to make her talk.”
Collins glared, her face as hard as his own. Davic stared speculatively at her for a minute. “You know,” he finally said. “I don’t think you’re going to say a word, are you, Agent Collins? And I don’t think it has to do with your job or the FBI. I think you’re a stubborn bitch with issues. Am I right?”
Collins managed a shrug, confident that he couldn’t know. “I’m the strongest woman you’ll ever meet, Davic. You will never break me.”
“Even if I marked that pretty baby face, maybe burned that long black hair and put out those charming eyes. I bet you wouldn’t say one fucking word. Am I right?”
Collins spat viciously at him, the movement resulting in a fresh flow of blood from her wrists but worth every drop.
Davic’s man appeared in the doorway, laden down with implements. Davic waved him away. “I have a better idea. Untie her.”
Davic stepped away. The guard dumped his load of weapons and chopped her bonds away. Collins tried to stay upright but immediately slithered to the floor, the strain too much for her stretched muscles. She groaned, breathing heavily.
She felt her arms being grabbed and tried to shake the man off. Strength slowly began to return to her muscles. By the time she was on her feet she was able to spin away from the goon and face Davic.
“Whatever you do, you damn prick. You’ll get nothing from me.”
The quiet smile on the Serb’s face unnerved her. “We’ll see.”
He waved at the doorway. “Now, walk by yourself or get carried. I don’t care.”
Collins strode ahead, wondering if an opening might present itself. As she neared the pile of discarded kitchen knives and other implements she heard the sound of a gun being prepped at her back.
“Don’t stop, bitch.”
Whatever they had in store for her it couldn’t be worse than a bullet in the back. Collins lunged but felt a terrible pain flash through her skull. The bastard suddenly had hold of her hair and was dragging her through the door. With a harsh tug he threw her headlong into the corridor. Collins kept her mouth shut but gritted her teeth so hard she tasted blood.
Davic sounded unmoved. “Second door to the left. Go straight inside.”
Collins walked in silence, guarding her senses and her mind against anything that might be thrown at her. As she neared the room a faint noise reached her ears—the faint whirring of machinery and men talking into mobile communication devices with strident tones of authority. The aggressively serious words of mindless implacability.
Collins paused at the door. The scene inside the room was oddly bizarre, even for this part of Los Angeles. Three hastily erected monitors stood on an old desk, wires trailing away like a nest of snakes. Two of the black-and-white views showed roads and streets in real time as if the cameras feeding them were mounted on some kind of van. The third view showed what could be the van’s interior—two men sat up front with masks of concentration stretched across their severe faces. Behind them a wide-open hatch led through to the back of the vehicle where more men and many motorcycles sat waiting.
Collins stared. “Are you kiddin’ me? This is your Mobile Terror Command Post?” She used his words.
Davic stopped at her shoulder. “Cool, ain’t it? And that’s the truck.”
“Davic. The pit they will throw you in could never be deep enough for what you deserve.”
“Knew you would appreciate it. Now,” he nudged her forward, “see the map there? He’s currently heading down Franklin, yes?”
Collins didn’t answer.
“Give me the code now or I will order him to stop at random and release a bike and a rider.”
Collins gave him heavy eyes. “Fuck off.”
Davic strode past her, gesturing assertively. Forceful, destructive instructions flew from his lips. Collins heard one of the computer operators relay an order and suddenly knew the Serb was deadly serious. He would send a bomb into a crowd of civilians just to get what he wanted.
“Davic,” she said.
Flat-lidded, he stared expectantly at the screens.
“Davic?”
One of his men turned around, cellphone to his ear. “I have Patriot Six on the line. He’s waiting on the corner of Franklin and Vine. The truck is less than three minutes away.”
Davic nodded. “Good.”
“Davic!”
Collins screamed to get the madman’s attention then, as he whirled, realized what a desperate, giant mistake she’d made. Davic wanted to do this. Getting the code from her wasn’t the intent, it was the excuse. The man’s eyes were feral, almost red-flecked with insane desire, with sick approval. The skin stretched over his skull like a death mask, shining under the harsh lights as if diseased. His fingers shook as he pointed at her.
“You will see,” he stammered. “You will see.”
Collins stepped forward. A guard strode out of nowhere and rammed the point of his weapon into her ribs. Collins felt the pain flame inside her but ignored it.
“Can’t you see?” she cried. “Can’t you see your boss is fucking insane?”
Davic ran at her, teeth gnashing, spittle flying from his lips. His fist connected solidly with her skull, knocking her to her knees. When he bent down to whisper into her ear she felt saliva drip onto her face.
“You don’t fuck with the Serbian Mafia, lady. It is about time the United States and Europe understood their place in this world.”
She twisted away, desperately trying to keep an eye on the TV monitor. Davic spun too, half-running back to the screen and leaning over as if he wanted to step right through. When the van stopped and a motorcycle was unloaded he cheered. When Patriot Six mounted the saddle he clenched both fists.
“He’s asking for a target,” the operator said.
“Anywhere,” Davic grunted. “Tell him goddamn anywhere so long as it’s in the next three minutes.”
Collins bit back a dozen taunts. It would do her no good. This wasn’t a man you could criticize or reason wi
th, nor a man who could forgive. Such actions took a measure of sanity, and within Blanka Davic there was none.
“Please,” she said anyway. “I’ll tell you the code.”
“Fuck you.” Davic struck her with her own words, but then hung his head. He let out a deep breath, as if suddenly realizing this might be his only chance to get the code out of her.
Collins opened her mouth to speak the numbers.
Davic swiveled back to the monitor. “Fuck it,” he said with a grin in his voice. “Tell Patriot Six to detonate.”
****
Collins blinked back the tears as Davic’s men hauled her back to the garage. Pain filled her head, her brain, but it wasn’t physical. It was pure mental anguish. Seeing that bomb detonate across a busy road, in a crowded doorway, then hearing Davic’s evil little laugh and seeing the devil dance with giddy joy—that was an image that tore strips off her soul and would remain with her forever.
Davic led the way back to the garage, stopping near the Corvette. “Might as well string her up,” he said matter-of-factly. “Bitch will be talking soon.”
Collins was now more determined than ever to keep her mouth shut. But what if he threatens another bomb? Another street? Jesus, a play park?
It didn’t matter what he threatened, she knew. He would do it anyway, without remorse. She barely felt her hands tied before her and then pulled up above her head as the length of rope was thrown over a ceiling rafter. The guard pulled until she was standing on her tiptoes, uncomfortable without actually swaying in mid-air. Her muscles bunched against the bindings, but she knew her captors would offer her no respite.
Davic sat on the hood of the Ferrari, watching her. “So now we wait.”
She didn’t speak, didn’t dare. She was too afraid to hear what they were waiting for. The smug confidence on his face already told her she wouldn’t like it.
Just then the operator poked his head through the far door. “Sir,” he said. “It’s time.”
The Disavowed Book 3 - Threat Level: Red Page 10