The Disavowed Book 3 - Threat Level: Red

by David Leadbeater

  Radford had a sudden terrifying thought.

  “Stay away from the windows!” he cried. “Stay down. Don’t show yourselves till he’s gone.”

  The ex-CIA agent rose against his own advice and scanned the parking lot. The Moose had made a bee-line for Radford’s car, using the key to set off security beeps, and was now climbing behind the wheel. In another second he was jamming down the gas pedal and speeding toward the exit.

  Radford shook his head slowly. What had been in the Moose’s eyes if not the desire to commit murder? Why hadn’t he killed anyone? That look he gave Radford had been . . . purest evil.

  Radford watched the car go. Saw the driver’s side window slide down.

  The arm holding the cellphone rolled lazily out of the window. The black plastic was clasped between forefinger and thumb, leaving the middle digits free.

  And, as shock and awareness hit him like a blinding comet; as he screamed at people to get down and get out; as he threw himself over Amanda, the bomb that the Moose had left underneath his table exploded.

  His last coherent thoughts were of his wife and her wonderful but sad eyes, and how they had come so far, gotten so close to redemption, only to lose it all in the end.

  54

  Trent leapt aboard the drifting speedboat and took a quick inventory. Four bodies lay prone in the bottom; four guns lay beside them. Trent picked up every one and searched the dead men for other weapons—coming up with two handguns and more knives than he could handle. A couple of stun grenades presented themselves too, first-class weapons that always gave a good military man options.

  Trent moved quickly to the outboard motor and gripped the powerhead, tilting the propulsion system and checking it was still in one piece. The boat wasn’t sinking at least. He sat down and gunned the engine, using the tiller to spin the craft around in a quick one-eighty, spray shooting up into the night. The engine roared. Trent opened the speedboat up, still able to see the shadows of Davic’s boats disappearing into the murk. Head down, he saw an intersect course. His face turned into a grim mask. No way would Davic take Collins away from him. No way would he escape justice after killing so many, Victoria included. And the trauma Mikey had suffered would be in his psyche forever. No way should such a depraved, inhuman maniac be allowed to live for a moment longer than was necessary.

  In his dealings with the criminal society; in his finesses and operations conducted under the auspices of the CIA, he had always held a certain reserve. Strict, hard and to the point, he had maintained an utmost professionalism no matter what the crime or the perpetrator.

  But today everything had changed.

  There was nothing he would like better than to rip Davic’s head off with his own bare hands. He piloted the speedboat as fast as he dared, taking care not to break the damn thing. Any twitch or accident now would mean the loss of Claire Collins. The boat’s hull bounced along the surface of the sea, cutting through the rolling waves and sending sheets of water streaming past its low sides. Trent clung on as he was buffeted from side to side. The weapons clattered and clanked at his feet. Davic’s boats drew nearer, so close he was able to make out the silhouettes of their occupants, all staring straight ahead as if searching for some kind of goal.

  Trent arrowed his speedboat straight at them. As he clung on he snatched up one of the guns and kicked the others into line. Davic’s five boats were all occupied, but Trent had no idea which one Collins and the Serb were in. Just as he was getting within range the lead boats suddenly cut power, the men in the prows frantically waving their arms. Flashlights blink from every boat. Trent cut his own speed until he saw what was going to happen next.

  An answering beam of light shot out of the night. Trent heard a faint cheer. Then, as he watched, he saw something that literally made his jaw drop. An enormous shape appeared out of the pitch black, dim lights glimmering to life all around its body. A plane, a seaplane, but one unlike any Trent had set eyes on before.

  A solid black silicone rubber nose fender jutted above the dark rolling waves, the rest of the body as sleek as anything Trent had ever seen. And mounted onto the top part of its tail fin, jutting forward just as aggressively, was a huge propeller. The amphibian appeared to crouch in the water like a squat, powerful sea monster, engines burbling and waiting to be let loose. Trent blinked again, shaking his head, when he spied a second beast lighting up behind the first.

  Davic’s mercs piloted their boats toward the two seaplanes, closing the gap fast. Trent cruised forward slowly. Men began to shout and deliver instructions. The seaplanes’ pilots obeyed and unhinged their canopies: both futuristic-looking glass cockpits raising enough to accommodate the boarders. Trent continued to drift into range, seeing immediately that the assembled mercs didn’t stand a chance of fitting into the two seaplanes. Trent spied a four or five man seating arrangement, depending on how cozy you wanted to get with the guy next to you. He expected the surplus men to fire the speedboats off into the night toward some other secret rendezvous.

  After their boss was safely away.

  Trent crouched and waited; the heavy shadow aiding the terrorists’ escape also helping to shroud his presence. He was hoping for a break, maybe that the cops would arrive or even the coastguard vessel; maybe that Davic’s excess bodyguards would get a signal and leave, evening the odds a little, but it soon became clear that none of those things were going to happen.

  Then a man rose in the prow of one of the speedboats and clambered over the sill of the seaplane, turning to accept a handcuffed form. Another man rose, blond hair obvious even in the gloom, gesticulating and laughing, and Trent knew exactly who it was.

  With the second seaplane already loaded, Trent knew it was only a matter of minutes before the two peeled out. Setting his jaw, he scooped up a second weapon and slung it around his shoulders, then gunned the speedboat forward. This close it made a tremendous noise and caught the attention of everyone present. But Trent had the element of surprise, he had perfect, measured knowledge of everyone’s positions, and he had inflexible commitment.

  Laying off the power, he opened fire, spraying the bobbing vessels with bullets. Men cried out and fell overboard, or scrambled down to the boat’s bottom. Many died or were sent tumbling into the black waters in the first few seconds. A cry pierced the tumult, followed a split second later by Davic’s seaplane engine starting up. The monster roared. Trent fired a burst across its bows, seeing the pilot’s face flinch with sudden panic. The speedboat skimmed its way purposely toward the plane.

  But the amphibian was already moving, its engines purposely firing up and its two-meter-wide top propeller furiously whizzing. The beast lurched forward a little. Trent came up close, ducking as bullets flew from the quickly recovering mercs in the nearby boats. Trent returned fire, keeping them at bay, but by now the plane was screaming even louder.

  The glass cockpit began to close. If that happened all was lost. Trent swore loudly and took a risk. He fired into the side of the cockpit, bullets smashing through the body, and quite abruptly the canopy stopped moving.

  Still open; enough to gain entry.

  The pilot powered the plane. Trent gunned the speedboat, turning his vessel alongside the bigger one. Spray and foam flew in plumes up into the air between them as Trent closed the gap, now almost running alongside the roaring plane. His boat bounced and smashed its way through the turbulent waves. He hung on grimly, desperately awaiting the right moment.

  Then the sound of more speedboats cut through the din. A glance back and he saw his pursuers; stern faced mercenaries with orders to take him out at all costs. Bullets were already stitching their way across the waves toward him, little splashes marking their path. As they drew nearer they clanged off the aft of his boat.

  Trent saw he was as close to the seaplane as he was going to get.

  The cockpit stood partly open, a twelve-inch diagonal gap his only way in. With a last glance back, a second to secure his weapons, and a quick prayer to Doug wherever
he may be, Trent ran headlong across the zooming speedboat’s deck and launched himself into space toward the seaplane.

  Even as he jumped he saw the mercenary inside, closest to the gap, turn and raise his weapon.

  ****

  Collins fought with cornered, cat-like fury.

  When she saw Trent speeding alongside in the speedboat; when she saw his hard, determined face, the raw fire returned to her body. There was a chance. After all this, after everything that had happened today, Aaron Trent was still at her side. Literally. Struggling. Fighting to save her. The sight galvanized her every muscle and sent new vitality thrumming through her. Nobody had been willing to do that for her before.

  From a prone position next to Blanka Davic, she leaned further back into the plush seats and kicked out. The seats were made of foam and gave good recoil. Her feet slammed into the back of the front passenger seat, unbalancing the man there. The merc beside her looked surprised and upended his gun to smash her across the skull with the barrel. Collins squirmed and rammed her head up into his sternum, jolting him, making him cry out in pain. Then she spied Trent running hard; running straight at the speeding seaplane and the small gap that would gain him entry.

  Fuck me. You crazy son of a—

  Collins curled her body and used every ounce of recoil she could muster to smash her outstretched legs against the passenger’s exposed back. Just as the merc twisted to get a bead on the flying Trent, she kicked him like a rabid mule, making him lurch to the side and drop his weapon. She imagined she even heard bone break.

  All I needed was a little hope.

  Now it all came flooding back. The motivated woman she’d been before her partner had died at the hands of a serial killer. The life she used to feel buzzing through her; the will to enjoy and have experiences and simply be alive.

  It wasn’t just Davic, the man sat next to her, who had threatened all that. It was Collins herself who’d put it at risk, a gut reaction to rage and pity.

  Now she squirmed against Davic as the Serb joined the fight. He elbowed the top of her head, stunning her. The merc to her left finally got his weapon down and aimed the barrel at her.

  “No, idiot,” Davic said. “Kill that CIA motherfucker climbing in through the goddamn window.”

  ****

  Trent leapt with the wind and angled his body as best he could; trusting several elements to pure luck, including the swing of his shouldered weapons. If they ended up looped around a catch or something, he was dead. If they snagged around his neck he was dead.

  His fingers gripped the side of the plane, his body and legs smashed against the side. A blustery airstream snatched at his flailing limbs. Struggling, he held on, swinging in the wind. Using his upper-body strength he hauled his top half through the gap. The mercenary was right there, inches away, groaning and leaning to the left, oblivious of his approach for now.

  Trent saw Collins fighting like a wild, caged lion and knew exactly what had happened to the merc.

  But his distraction wouldn’t last long. The pilot was screaming. The merc in the back seat shouted out too even as he swung his gun around. Trent heaved once more, slithering through the small gap and into the passenger’s lap. Now he was hidden from the guys in the back seat; his body concealed by the merc’s hefty bulk.

  But there was still the man himself to deal with. And the pilot was scrabbling around at his own feet, probably searching for a dropped handgun.

  Trent scrambled desperately around in the guy’s lap. “Sorry,” he said. “I really don’t make a habit of this.” He ducked as the man swung a haymaker, letting it pass over his head as he unsheathed a knife and buried it up to the hilt in his opponent’s stomach, right under his Kevlar vest. A blast of stunned air flew from the suddenly wide-open mouth; eyes bulged; and hands reached for the blade.

  Trent pushed once more. The seaplane shot through the ocean waves, bouncing, almost at take-off speed, thrust and rotation almost maximized; the pilot now thankfully completely engrossed in a smooth lift off.

  Davic cried, “For God’s sake, shoot the bastard!”

  The merc in the back seat didn’t hesitate. Bullets ripped through the seat back and into the other mercenary’s body, thankfully not passing through and into Trent. Of course, the vest helped, something the people in the back seat had temporarily forgotten.

  “Get over there!” Davic screamed at the hapless merc. A scream that was cut off as Collins headbutted him for the second time. “Dammit, bitch! Quit!”

  “There’s only one . . . bitch . . . in . . . here,” Collins grunted as she launched herself at the Serbian boss again and again. “And he’s a sadistic, psychotic son of a bitch who’s about to get his head stuck up his own ass.”

  Trent’s mouth stretched into a hard grin. Collins might have undergone an ordeal today, but she was still functioning; still a force to be reckoned with. He flinched as the merc in the back seat opened fire again, but correctly guessed that it was nothing more than a diversion tactic. He knew what was coming. As soon as he heard the rush of clothing, the movement of limbs, he rolled over onto his back, weapon up.

  The merc dived over the seat, arms outstretched and teeth bared like a movie vampire assaulting its unwitting victim, but Trent was fully prepared. As the man’s upper torso cleared the seat Trent fired a flurry of bullets straight up, taking off the top of the man’s head, spattering the roof with thick droplets of blood and adding a little ventilation. Trent ducked from underneath the falling body, coming up in the gap that ran from front seats to back, and finally saw Blanka Davic up close.

  “Don’t go anywhere, Davic,” he said. “You’re about to get waxed.”

  The Serb suddenly found a burst of energy born of desperation. Snorting blood through his broken nose and flinching from any contact to a concavity of the cheek where Collins had most likely broken it, he still managed to dig around behind him and grab a small handgun.

  Trent threw himself recklessly into the back seat, but the Serb tracked him with ease. Collins saw what was about to happen, grunted with a supreme effort, and threw herself onto Davic, blocking the weapon with her entire body.

  “No way, asshole.”

  Davic growled at her. “Have it your way, bitch.”

  And fired.

  55

  Silk felt the bottom drop out of his world. The timer was whirring to a climactic point, whirring fast. Brewster gripped his arm with iron-man ferocity; the look on her face so alarmed and resigned he couldn’t stand it. LAX was still in the throes of being evacuated; hundreds of people fleeing the area.

  “What can we do?” he cried.

  The bomb tech was standing behind him and holding his head in his hands.

  “Time up,” he said.

  The twin tubs of chemicals poured into each other; mixtures blending and reacting; their twin trail of wires snaking around and together to form a colorful portent of doom.

  The timer purred, just a mechanism working to its full potential, but inexorably counting down Silk’s last seconds. Somehow, he stayed calm, searching around frantically for something, anything, that might help.

  He caught the bomb tech’s glower. “Help me!”

  The tech suddenly seemed to snap out of it. “LN2!” he cried. “It’s always worth a shot. Here, in my pack. The vacuum flask.”

  Too far away, he slung the pack across the floor, letting it slide toward Silk who caught it by the strap and upended the contents. By his left ear the timer continued to whir, each miniscule point like the drone of a passing bee. Any second it could explode. Brewster held her breath.

  Silk pulled out the compressed liquid nitrogen. Time stopped along with his heart as he whirled and applied it to the metal timer. He knew the principles. Even metal froze at a certain temperature and liquid nitrogen worked best. A white liquid formed around the noisy mechanism, collecting rapidly, and white smoke started to rise. Silk didn’t exactly know when enough was enough but he kept it going, praying . . . hoping . . . />
  Brewster fell to her knees at his side. Her hand fell across his shoulders.

  The point of the timer almost seemed to slow, but still it whirred toward its detonating point.

  Silk closed his eyes. Shit! It hadn’t worked. If only . . .

  Then the timer froze before his eyes; the machinery came to a stop, and he was both amazed and horrified by the sight of two triangular points almost touching but separated by a gap of six millimeters.

  Brewster let out a heavy breath. The bomb tech inched his way forward. “Don’t move.” He said. “Don’t even blink. That close, it could still go off.”

  Silk swallowed, eyeing the deadly apparatus. Then, with a sudden move, he grabbed a hammer from the bomb tech’s bag and smashed the timer into pieces.

  “There,” he hissed at the shattered pieces. “Blow up now, you piece of fucking junk!”

  56

  Trent launched himself on top of Davic’s gun arm as Collins fell back, her body folding, and hit the passenger seat hard with the back of her head. The pilot actually bellowed in relief as the seaplane finally took off, flying away from the water at fifty five knots. The bow wave flashed by, the speed increased, the nose precisely angled. Trent hammered down on Davic. Collins struggled. Her hand, pressed to her side, came away bloody.

  Trent forced Davic’s arm against the side of the plane as the gun went off again. The Serb’s face turned into a violent mask as he sensed the danger and the end of his getaway. The bullets tore through upholstery; one striking the dead merc’s body armor and the other passing into the dark night through the gap between the cockpit and the body. Trent still had to be aware of the pilot though and, as he bore down on Davic, risked a glance over his own shoulder.

  The pilot was in full concentration mode, executing a full power go-around just above the water, making sure the nose didn’t drop.

  Trent pushed his advantage, getting in close to the Serbian terrorist.