Silk followed her, staying close. He definitely didn’t have the official juice, but Frying-Pan-Face was too busy trying to keep up with Brewster. As they paced, his attention was diverted by the scene inside the arrivals building. Although the authorities had begun an evacuation, groups of people still milled around. The bright, glaring lights bathed everything in a stark unreality, as if the spotlight of infamy had been turned upon the entire scene. Scared faces still stood behind every airport check-in desk, and even pilots and gaggles of air hostesses continued to walk through the concourse, wheeling their trollies behind them and moved at a fast, clipped, high-heel pace. Information in a place as big as this usually came down third or fourth hand, and was often diluted along the way. It wouldn’t be the first time people had died through lack of knowledge.
Silk heard Brewster asking about backup.
“FBI are en route, though after their little pad was blown to shit all the Feebs are still chasing their tails. Bomb squad’s haulin’ ass from nearby, should be here any minute. Homeland? Well, what the fuck do they know, right?”
Brewster stopped as an approaching guard held up a hand, waving Jackson down. Silk stayed close to Brewster’s left.
“Try that way.” The guard pointed toward the windows. “Restrooms. Storage. A suspicious package was reported a few days ago. Turned out to be some idiot’s duty-free.” He shrugged. “Could’ve been a dry run.”
Another man came running up to them, in his haste almost bowling over a dude wearing an expensive suit and chatting obliviously into a cellphone. The dude stared angrily, seeing the pack of cops, the rattled guards, but only seeing through irritated eyes.
“No unauthorized entries today anywhere.” He panted, breathing hard. “We’re clean.”
Jackson turned heavy eyes on Brewster. “You sure about this? I mean, no offence, but how could the LAPD know more than the FBI or airport security?”
“Call it an educated guess. But do you really wanna take the chance?”
“Jus’ sayin’, lady. We’re evacuating a goddamn airport, here. Not a bus shelter. People are gonna be goin’ apeshit.”
“Better than being dead.”
Jackson headed out toward the restroom area. “I dunno, lady. Some ‘o these types, they wouldn’t thank ya for stopping a bomb, but they’d happily sue ya for makin’ ‘em miss their fuckin’ flight to AC or Fresno.”
Brewster said nothing, knowing Jackson was spot on with his prognosis. Silk ran with his eyes tracking everything, wall to wall; from the unhurried crowds to the nervous flight attendants, from the hundreds on their phones to the ones who just stood and watched. Any one of them could be a dupe or a patsy or even just a spotter. The lines involved in terrorism were never clear.
As they approached the first door and began to split up, Jackson’s radio squawked.
“Come in. Come in! Come the fuck in!”
“Keep yer goddamn panties on.” Jackson unhooked the comms and pressed a button. “What the hell?”
“We found it,” came the shocked reply. “It’s in the cleaning room. We found it. And, Jackson—”
“Yeees?”
“It’s a nasty looking son of a whore.”
Brewster started running back the way they had come. Silk ran in her tracks. Jackson shouted into his walkie, firing orders out almost faster than he could formulate the words. Many people, on seeing the running authorities, panicked and began to move toward the exits. Brewster shook her head.
“At last.”
Silk sympathized with them. “Our entire country’s constantly on either yellow or orange alert these days. Who can blame them for just getting on with their lives?”
Brewster cut to the right. “Yeah, but maybe that’s what the terrorist assholes want. I mean . . . to constantly elevate the threat level and make us even more complacent about it.”
“More than likely.”
Jackson was nodding too. “Wouldn’t be the first time I heard a civilian say, ‘Ach, it’s only at orange today. Nothing to worry about’.”
They spied a group of men ahead, faces like ash, waving frantically with their walkies. Silk spotted the FBI pushing in through the front doors across the hall. Jackson walked right up to the door leading to the small cleaning room.
“What we got?”
“I’d leave it to the pros, sir.” One of the men nodded at the door. “Bomb squad are here too. The damn thing stinks to high heaven.”
“It does?” Silk asked. “Of what?”
“Dunno. Some kind of chemical crapahoola. There are two big white tubs, both fizzing, and a shitload of wires leading to some kinda circuit board. Probably the detonator.”
“Are they mixing? The chemicals?”
“Yeah, man, why’d you think we’re out here, waiting for the bomb squad?”
Silk glanced at the bomb squad, just pushing through the airport doors and the FBI jackets in front of them.
He briefly closed his eyes, then met Brewster’s.
“Damn. We don’t have time to wait for the bomb squad.”
Without looking back or listening to the warning shouts, Silk slammed through the cleaning room door.
50
Radford drove through the night at a fast clip, Amanda by his side. The upcoming danger of the situation hadn’t escaped him, but the dreamlike quality of today’s unbelievable incidents only served to further cloud his judgment. Once he got closer to the Moose he’d resolved to drop Amanda off at the nearest diner and continue alone, but for now . . .
“We’re apart,” he told her. “Again.”
“You mean you guys? Maybe that’s what this Davic wanted. Together—you’re Spiderman. Apart—you’re just Peter Parker.”
Her words brought a smile to his face. “Think I’d rather be Wolverine.”
“So would every guy, I guess.” Amanda’s face stayed serious. “But I shoulda said Tony Stark really, you know, with all his womanizing.”
Radford closed his mouth hard, caught out by the cutting remark. “Is this the best time?”
“I think it’s the perfect time. A lot has changed today. For all of us, and not too much of it is good. So either we make this work today or we have to change too. Permanently.”
“I wasn’t expecting this.”
“I wasn’t expecting our marriage to . . . change like it did.”
“Sorry.” Radford knew he needed every ounce of concentration for this discussion, but a large part of his attention was being channeled into tracking the Moose. Maybe that’s what Amanda wanted.
“Sorry?” Amanda echoed, passionately. “You’re sorry? Jesus Christ, Dan.”
Radford swallowed and dug deep, reaching into his heart for the feelings he knew begged to be set free. He found them churning, boiling, ready and willing to be plucked to the surface. He kept his eyes glued firmly to the road.
“I’ve always loved you. But my stupid, fat head,” he gritted his teeth, “just got in the way. My brain . . . it’s wired wrong. Some kind of compulsion . . . I don’t know. Maybe I need therapy.”
“You sure do,” Amanda said, not ungraciously. “But I didn’t just dip my toes into the same water, Dan. I jumped in with both feet, believe me.”
“I know.” Radford had heard most of the stories. “Quite literally, at a few of those pool parties.”
“Ah, naked pool parties are out of vogue these days. Once you’ve seen one Hollywood actor or bestselling author in the flesh you’ve seen them all. Most of them work out with the same equipment, even have the same trainers.” She shook her head to clear a few images. “But we’re getting off track. Dan—what do you want from me?”
“A marriage,” he said simply. “As it’s meant to be. All of this other nonsense,” he waved a hand, “the Edge, the womanizing, is just that. Hot air. We’re a boy and a girl, Amanda, and we’re the best of friends. Can’t we build from that?”
“Start over? Start fresh? You wanna take me out on a date?”
Radford smiled. �
��A first date.”
Her forehead creased with concentration. “If we do this, we do it right. We should live apart. We don’t push things. We don’t see each other every day. And we talk on the phone a lot—like we used to.”
Amanda’s voice was laced with heavy excitement. Radford felt his own heart flutter, and then the emotion turned to sad regret as he realized she’d wanted and thought about this for a long time. The need was deep within her voice.
“I’m sorry,” he said again.
“The past is in the past,” she said. “But we’ll never go back. Never again. And, Dan, if you screw me on this you know what I’ll do to you?”
Radford took his eyes off the road for the first time; forgot about the Moose for the first time. “What?”
“I’ll walk away,” she said simply. “And you’ll never see me again.”
And somehow, that humble threat caused him more anxiety than anything he’d ever faced up to in his life.
****
Radford pointed the car up toward the sweeping hills leading out of Los Angeles. If the Moose kept going this way he’d end up in Las Vegas in about five hours, or any place in between. Radford had made this journey a dozen times, but never with Alex Black in his head.
“Stay on that road. You’re gaining. Estimating you’re about forty minutes behind him now. Hit the gas, Dan, and we’ll start to think about how we’re going to take him out.”
“An RPG would be good.”
“I’m sure. But not for anyone else in the vicinity. Stand by.”
Radford stepped on the gas. Amanda glanced at him. “We okay?”
“We’re close. I’m going to stop the car and let you out at the next stop, Amanda.”
“What? No you’re not. We’re in this together now. Isn’t that what we just talked about?”
“After this,” Radford said. “After the Edge and the danger has gone. The man we’re chasing is one of the most wanted killers in the world. Ex Special Forces. A top-ten terrorist and contract assassin.”
“And you want to go up against him alone? Is that it?”
“I have to. I’m trained to.”
Amanda made a face. “I thought you were the nerd of the group. What the hell do you know about fighting an assassin?”
“Nerd?” Radford repeated the word as if hearing it for the first time. “We’re all trained the same, Amanda.”
Her eyes were suddenly pitying. “No,” she said. “You’re not. Don’t try the patronizing speech on me. You said this Moose was Special Forces. I never told you this but I have a friend who once dated a Special Forces soldier, this Mossad kinda guy and she told me she’d never seen anyone fight the way those guys fight. And she’d dated marines, you know? You think a blow to the head is just a blow to the head. A punch. Well, it’s not. It is a crushing, incapacitating strike, aimed at a precise point and designed to kill. Instantly. Can you do that?”
Radford stared at her. “I never knew that. Where’s your friend now?”
“Out of all that you focus on the woman.” Amanda raised an eyebrow. “You gotta do better, Dan.”
He winced. “Right. Well, sure, I can strike like that.” He tried to put some credibility into his voice.
“Bullshit. And even if you could, I know you, Dan. You’re not the kind of man who would want to. Not the first time. Unless . . . unless your wife was there too. In danger.”
“No way,” Radford said.
“Every way,” Amanda said. “I’m not getting out of this car.”
“I’ll tie you to the damn wheel.”
“Save that for after you take him down. It’ll be funnier.”
“Damn it!” Radford knew he wouldn’t win this one. And if he went against her, truly and forcefully went against her, he knew their future wouldn’t survive. This was the test then. Place everything into the hands of God and hope.
No. It’s in my hands, he thought. In her hands. In our hands.
We can do this together.
They had to.
Then Alex Black’s voice chirped through his earbud. “The Moose has stopped up ahead. Some kind of rest stop in Ontario Mills. Wait, it’s an In-N-Out. I’m bringing up the visual now. Get ready. You’re about to go head to head with this guy. Be careful, Dan.”
“I will.”
“I have units on the way, but you’ll get there first.”
“Understood.”
He turned to Amanda. “You ready for this?”
51
Trent’s heart leapt when Alex Black told him that Davic’s short convoy was headed down a road that had no end. It spurred him to even greater speeds and, with it, risks, but there was no way this terrorist asshole was going scot-free tonight. Trent could have waited, he could have slowed down—the cops were only about twenty minutes behind—but in this game Trent knew that twenty minutes was the difference between a hard-fought victory and utter defeat. It was a time difference that he was determined wouldn’t haunt him for the rest of his life.
This was Davic’s end game.
Black reported that Davic’s vehicle had stopped at the edge of the beach, in an area of total blackness. Trent imagined it wouldn’t be quite so. He could almost see the exchange of flashing lights—the signal from land to sea that told the black boats or whatever was out there that the Big Man was ready to go.
Black continued his description. “I have good sat image on this, Aaron. Two SUV’s. Just sitting there in the dark. Possibly checking for a tail. Or signaling. I have now dispatched two army choppers and the Coastguard. Booyah.”
“Good. I’m eight minutes out.”
Trent listened as Black spent a few seconds bulling up the Coastguard. He didn’t have to. Trent knew those boys were as hard as Navy Seals. He calculated when he was three minutes out and then drove the rest of the way in the dark. The road grew narrow and hazardous, littered with obstructions, crisscrossed by deep wheel ruts. Trent bounced his way along, jarring and tearing at the car’s bodywork. At last, he ditched it and, under the star-filled sky, jumped out and headed off through the brush.
Black’s voice came through his open Bluetooth set-up. “Car doors are opening. Goons aplenty getting out. I count . . . six from the first car. Wait. Wait.”
Trent slowed as Black’s voice took on a new note.
“Shit.”
“What is it?”
“They have a hostage, Aaron. Second car just opened. Another six bodies emerged, but one . . . one of them has their hands tied behind their back, and was just pushed to the ground. Shit.”
“What are they doing?” Trent crawled to the edge of the brush, pausing at the bottom of a slight rise at the edge of the beach; sand, small rocks and shale trapped beneath his body. Quickly, he used his elbows to crawl to the top.
“Standing to the seaward side of the vehicles, staring at the damn Pacific. So, unless they’re waiting for Ron Jon’s to turn up with a surfboard delivery I’d say a boat is on the way in.”
“I guess you’re from Florida then.” Trent paused at the very top of the rise and peered ahead into the dark. The stars and thin crescent of the moon bounced a little light off the water, faintly illuminating the beach. Trent saw the outlines of two vehicles and the silhouettes of many men stood around them. He saw the figure on its knees.
“Could be a decoy?” he said. “I wouldn’t put it past Davic.”
“The resolution is good,” Black said. “But not that good. I can’t make out a face. I can however tell you that it’s a woman and she’s wearing an FBI vest under a short leather jacket.”
Trent frowned, thinking, then his heart slammed up into his mouth. It couldn’t be! But it made sense. He hadn’t heard from Collins all day—an improbable circumstance given all that had happened. And Davic wanted revenge on her just as much as he wanted revenge on the Edge and the FBI.
Could Davic have grabbed her?
“It could be Claire Collins,” he whispered. “The FBI agent.”
Black said, “It
could still be a decoy. Watch yourself.”
Trent shimmied over the top and down the slight slope. Small rocks and grit tore at his clothes. He moved quietly, conservatively, saving his energy and trying to shield his body behind the nearest big car. What struck him as the oddest scenario here was the utter silence. Not one man spoke or even moved. Everyone stared at the sea as if they’d all been turned to stone. What exactly was Davic waiting for?
Closer he crawled, now flat out and well within hearing distance. A faint breeze whipped across the dunes. The surf splashed and hissed as it foamed along the beach. Waves roared and rolled further out. Not a figure stirred, nor spoke, nor even breathed. Or so it seemed. They were all listening . . .
Then Trent heard it. The sound of water striking metal, waves crashing against a sleek surface. Out of the pitch black they materialized: six low-slung, smooth speedboats, small in size but nonetheless powerful. Men stood at their prows, clad all in black, sub-machine guns held ready as they drifted in. As they powered closer Trent saw more men positioned inside the vessels, similarly armed.
This place was about to get very messy. Trent figured he was one man against about fifty.
Trent had a terrible choice. Face eleven men on the beach and Davic alone, and try to save the hostage; or wait for the cops and join a heavily armed chase. Even if he struck with brutal force and, by some miracle, got the hostage out of there, he’d still be up against what amounted to a small army of mercs.
What choice? No choice.
The moment he’d decided it might be Claire Collins out there, bound and taken prisoner, he’d abandoned the alternatives. There were times to live and fight another day. And then there were times when you fought tooth and nail, to the last drop of blood, to save the things that you loved from being destroyed.
Trent checked his gun, crept up behind the rear fender of the nearest SUV, and breathed three times, slowly in and out. Then he rose, flinging the rock he held hard at the first SUV. When the rear window smashed, the sound like a meteor strike crashing through the heavy silence, he slipped around the back and out into the open.
The Disavowed Book 3 - Threat Level: Red Page 15