The Disavowed Book 3 - Threat Level: Red

by David Leadbeater

  “Time to pay for all your wrongs, Davic,” he said. “It’s gonna be a scorching day in Hell for you.”

  Davic snarled. “How’s your wife and kid, Aaron?”

  Trent drew his right arm back and smashed his fist into the side of Davic’s head. Using his strength, he pinned the mafia boss in the corner, keeping him immobile. But the gun still wavered in his fingers, still lethal. The two men fought a tight, powerful war; both knowing even the minimal let up in pressure would end the fight. Davic possessed power in his struggles; he had the strength of a weightlifter and was no pushover. Power like that, though, didn’t put you in good stead for a street fight. Trent’s ears were full of Collins’ groans, but he couldn’t spare the time to even flick a glance over to her. The night whipped by as the plane banked and turned; the wind blasted around the cockpit and tore at their clothes. The sound of the engine and prop was a thunderous roar.

  Then the pilot’s voice cut through it all. “I have you covered, Trent,” he said calmly. “Move away from Mr. Davic.”

  Trent closed his eyes. The calmness of the pilot’s voice was what worried him most. Under all this pressure only a pro could sound so in control. When he reopened his eyes he saw Davic glaring at him with triumph; with hatred.

  If you’re gonna die, Trent thought in that final moment. Die well.

  Trent turned to the pilot, still holding Davic. The man was three feet away, face impassive. Trent wondered if he could take the whole plane down; just send it plummeting into the depths of the Pacific. It would be worth it just to rid the world of this vile Serbian infection.

  “Move away,” the pilot repeated softly.

  “Not going anywhere,” Trent breathed. “I’ll shoot your boss before I die, make no mistake.”

  Davic growled. The pressure of the stalemate bore down on them like a thunderstorm; violent and black.

  “I’m taking us all down,” Trent said then. “The whole fucking lot.”

  Davic went crazy; fighting and striking at Trent with all his strength. The ex-CIA man was forced away for only a second, but it was enough to allow Davic the chance of escape. His gun thrust up into Trent’s gut.

  “Zbogom, Aaron. It seems to be you who will die first.”

  Trent couldn’t move, but still tried to bring his own weapon around. The gun shifted hard against his stomach. Then, from out of nowhere, he heard a cry; a cry of gut-wrenching pain and heartache. As Trent and Davic’s attentions momentarily shifted they both saw Claire Collins heave herself up from the floor and clamp a hand down onto the pilot’s arm. The man flinched and his weapon fell, clattering to the floor. Trent heaved his body away from Davic, giving them some room.

  Collins clung on to the pilot’s arm as he tried to shrug her off. Her head smacked against the back of one seat and the cushion of another, but she hung on tenaciously, as if the man’s wrists were a lifeline.

  Davic fired. Trent felt the bullet graze the top of his arm; a streak of pure fire. The bullet smashed into the front windscreen, cracking the glass. The pilot’s face changed from anger to fear in an instant.

  “Nooo!”

  Trent now had room to maneuver his own gun. Without any more ado he squeezed the trigger again and again, blasting bullets into Davic as if the man were close-up target practice. The body jerked and twitched and gushed blood. The Serb’s face took on a look of shock; of regret; of remorse.

  “I had . . . plans.” he muttered, and died.

  The windscreen started to crack; a slowly widening fissure. The synthetic vision glass and full-color display fractured; splitting and blurring apart. The pilot desperately tried to extract himself from Collins’ grip, but the FBI agent held on with every ounce of strength, head down, bleeding onto the carpet, but fighting hard until her last strength gave out.

  “Let me go!” the pilot screamed. “I have to land her!”

  Trent trained his gun on the man. “One wrong move and you’re head first out that fucking door,” he said. “Claire. You can let go. I’ve got this.”

  The agent slumped. Trent reached down to help her whilst still keeping his gun arm steady. The pilot had eyes for nothing but the controls, furiously shuffling levers until the plane began to lose speed and descend. Trent hauled Collins up as best he could, wrapping her in one arm and trying to staunch the flow of blood; trying to keep her alive. This woman was a hero; today she had survived her own edge of Armageddon and was still battling.

  As they flew, the pilot glanced down. “Shit. Oh shit.”

  Trent followed his gaze. The seas below were flat, fairly placid, but the surface was alive and scattered with gunfire. The cops and the Coastguard had arrived and were engaged in a battle with Davic’s remaining men.

  “Don’t worry,” Trent said. “By the time we land you’ll have a nice tidy reception committee waiting to take you away.”

  He raised Collins’ head. The woman’s eyes were flickering. “Please,” he said. “Please. Be okay.”

  “She is one tough bitch,” the pilot said. “Put up a helluva resistance to Davic.”

  “Shut your mouth. If I didn’t need you to land this thing I’d shoot you in the back of the head.”

  The pilot clammed up. The seaplane descended toward the ocean and the approaching beach. As they neared the ground the cockpit glass finally gave out; shattering apart and letting in a huge gust of wind. The pilot grunted and scanned ahead. The beach was wide and relatively flat; comprised of thick sand and small rocks.

  “We could make it to the beach,” he murmured. “We could land. But I think I just decided I don’t wanna play patsy no more. I ain’t off to no fuckin supermax.”

  “Don’t do anything stupid,” Trent warned. “I will hurt you.”

  “Do your fuckin’ worst, asshole. At least this way I stand a chance.”

  The pilot gently altered the landing path until the nose was aimed beyond the short beach and straight at a stand of tall trees. Trent gasped. The trees approached fast even as the plane cut speed and dived hard. There was no time to do anything except try to survive the landing.

  Trent heaved Collins up further into the back seat, ignoring her moans and complaints. Quickly, as gusts of wind and debris tore around the inside of the amphibian, chasing each other in some kind of daring game, he set her upright and buckled her into the spare seat, pressing her back against the window.

  Her eyes were open now, and she smiled at him. “Aaron?”

  “Be home soon.” He patted her hand and pitched Davic’s body off the other seat and into the footwell. A quick check out the front and suddenly the view up there, the approaching vista, was nothing but a mass of trees. The first branches slapped against the seaplane’s body as the pilot cut the engines.

  “I’m coming home, baby!” the pilot screamed, smashing his fists against the dash, breaking off buttons and dials.

  The nose tilted, smashing through branches and knots of leaves and glancing off rigid trunks. The sound of tree limbs striking the outstretched wings and main body was a loud cacophony of whispers, growing in force by the second. The plane jerked and shuddered; wrenched and pulled from side to side by unbending boughs. More than one tree shattered; its shredded bark bow-waving into the small cabin. The pilot bucked and heaved. The noise was horrendous; one long, terrifying tumult of deadly anticipation.

  Trent reached out across the back seat. Collins saw and reached back. Their hands clasped, their eyes joined, they waited for fate to roll the dice.

  The plane bounced as its nose struck the ground first, but at a favorable angle. The impact was like nothing Trent had ever experienced. His entire body jumped and jolted from side to side, even with the four-point seat belt tightly fastened. Branches shot into the cabin. Trent and Collins both turned their heads to the side. The plane began to lose some of its pace, slowed by the dense foliage. A branch smashed through the window next to Trent’s head, a violently cast spear, but all he felt was the whoosh of air and bark, and leaves falling across his shoulders
. A foot nearer and he would have been decapitated.

  The plane slewed. The pilot screamed. A great shuddering motion whipped through the structure as something big was torn off. Collins never once took her eyes off Trent. There was a sudden impact; a lurch that made Trent feel like his entire stomach was being turned inside out, and then the plane came to a slow, juddering halt against a great tree trunk, quaking along its body and many stress points as if in great pain. The huge tree itself groaned.

  Trent blinked, half-turned toward Collins, and then screamed himself as an enormous branch came through the empty cockpit and pierced the pilot right where he sat. Such was the force, the branch passed cleanly through his body and the back of his seat without losing a tad of momentum.

  Collins, strapped into the seat behind him, couldn’t get out of the way.

  The bloody tip of the branch stabbed toward her, huge, then stopped less than six inches from her body. Trent held his breath. The plane sat there, trembling. Metal groaned and fractured. The body listed to one side.

  Trent sprang into action. With speed born of utter desperation he unbuckled, fell out of his seat, and leapt across to Collins. He gently pulled her free, sliding her body an inch at a time.

  She stared up at him. “Am I . . . are we dead?”

  “It’ll take more than that to kill off a nutbuster and a reject. Just hang in there.”

  “Was only a bullet and a plane crash,” she murmured as her head lolled and her eyes closed. “It’ll take more than that to . . .”

  Trent heard the sound of approaching feet. “Hurry!” he screamed. “For God’s sake, hurry!”

  57

  Those who survived met a short time later at the Cedars-Sinai Medical Center. Through everything they had lost, those who lived stood or sat in the private hospital room and took solace as much in the presence of each other as in the fact that they had beaten Davic.

  Trent stood with Mikey before him, his hands on the boy’s shoulders. With Victoria’s death their lives had changed hugely. Mikey was without a mother. Trent would become sole guardian. The bittersweet craziness of it all brought an unaccountable guilt bubbling to the surface, even though he knew it was totally unfounded. Still, survivors’ guilt affected almost everyone. And he knew Mikey’s new state now irrevocably altered the Edge dynamic, not to mention Silk’s new situation.

  He opened his mouth to continue speaking. “As I said, Davic and every terrible thing he built has been taken down. Destroyed. His men surrendered and rolled over like puppies in the end. His mobile crews—” Trent refrained from saying the word terrorist for Mikey’s sake. “Were rounded up with ease once they found the CCTV footage and seized Davic’s organization’s members’ cellphone numbers. All tracked. Far as we know everyone involved was arrested.”

  Silk’s eyes hit the floor. “Apart from that guy, the Moose.”

  “Yeah.” Trent sighed. “Apart from him.”

  Natasha moved over to the window and peered through the sparkling glass. “Doug’s send-off is day after tomorrow. I expect you all will be there.” Her Russian accent was thick with emotion.

  “Our best man.” Trent felt tears in his eyes even now as he gripped Mikey’s shoulders. “You couldn’t keep us away.”

  The relative stranger in the room, Alex Black, Doug’s magic man, slumped slightly. “My fave old guy,” he said glumly. “I’m so gonna miss him.”

  “We all are,” Trent said. “Doug was one of a kind, all right.”

  Silk held Susie Brewster’s hand. “You know, I never told you this, but Doug had eyes on me right from the very beginning. From the first time I stole cash from the back of a van, Doug was watching. It was his van. That’s why he recruited me. Saw something . . . special.”

  Trent still found it hard to see Brewster at Silk’s side rather than Jenny. The man’s recent harrowing visit into the darkest parts of his past had evidently changed something inside him. The crushing, desperate need for his family and lost childhood was no longer his sole driving force. Trent wondered if he would ever regain the best of it. Privately, he hoped so.

  “So Davic is done,” Silk said. “Maisie and Emilia Miller are reunited and safe as can be. Our disavowing was total bullshit but still remains part of the cover-up. And the Washington big dogs have come out covered in glory. I guess only Henry Curran and his family paid the price for the government’s bureaucratic win.”

  Much of the blame for Davic’s actions had been placed on Curran’s shoulders, following his murder. In some respects, it was actually the truth. He’d known about Davic’s abduction of the Miller family from the start.

  “And don’t forget the Thrusters,” Silk added with more regret than he imagined he would ever have felt. “Only Hadleigh survived, and he’s still in intensive care.”

  “So what’s next?” Trent looked over at Claire Collins sitting in her wheelchair. The FBI agent had made it, barely, and had struggled through a long operation, but had started to recover almost straight away. Her smile, though still wan, seemed odd but wonderful on her face.

  “Straight back to kickin’ ass. And dancing,” she said. “When they let me out of this damn chair.”

  Trent grinned at her. The gesture was returned. Mikey looked away, toward the hospital bed.

  Dan Radford, battered and fragile, managed a weak smile of his own. His left arm had been broken in the bomb blast. It was the one he’d shielded Amanda with, and the impact of wreckage against his own bones had probably saved her life.

  His wife lay down in intensive care, still struggling, but was expected to survive.

  “Hey Mikey,” Dan managed. “Once I get outta here, you gonna take us all to Disneyland? I so like the sound of that. A little Mickey. A little Daisy. Some Splash Mountain. A lot of R&R.”

  “Disney?” Mikey laughed even now. “That was last year. I’m nine now.”

  “Oh. I thought Disney appealed to kids of all ages? That’s what it says in the brochure.”

  “Apparently not between the ages of nine and thirteen.” Trent rolled his eyes.

  “Universal?” Radford grunted.

  Mikey wiggled his hands. “Nothing new.”

  “Comic-Con?”

  Mikey grinned. “I knew you’d get it eventually.”

  “I did get blown up recently,” Radford said. “That’s my excuse.”

  At that moment the door burst open. Eight pairs of eyes shot across in that direction; five owners already reaching for concealed weapons.

  The nurse looked a little flustered at all the attention heaped upon her. She blushed a little. “Hey. Just wanted to say your wife, Amanda, is out of intensive care, Mr. Radford. She’ll be coming up in the next few hours.”

  Radford grinned. “Thank you.”

  The nurse departed. Trent stared after her. “She seemed a little ruffled. Hope you haven’t been asking for her number, Dan.”

  A genuinely content smile was his reply. “Never again,” he said. “My wife and I are very happy, thanks.”

  Silk took that moment to break contact with Brewster and join Natasha at the window. “So,” he said wistfully. “What happens next?”

  “Next?” Trent echoed. “We have one of the best teams in the world right here.” He glanced around. “A little banged up maybe, but not on the garbage heap yet.”

  Silk stared at him appraisingly. Nobody had to explain that everything had become so much more complicated now. The unsaid words were hanging ghostlike over all their heads like a burdening shroud.

  “I hear Matt Drake’s team need a little help over in the UK,” Silk said thoughtfully.

  “Too soon,” Trent said. “But one day . . . one day maybe.”

  Collins wheeled herself toward Radford’s side table and plucked up a handful of grapes. “Besides, we have our own people to mourn.” She remembered her new, young partner Rich London’s, wasteful death and how she’d never mourned her old partner’s death, purposely not giving herself the time or the will to grieve. Back then,
she’d seized the job with all her might, letting it and it alone guide her through. To jump straight back into the job now would be to make yet another big mistake. “I think we all have a lot of recovering to do. Time to grieve. Time to evaluate. Besides, I’m owed a shitload of vacation time.” She pulled a face at Mikey. “Sorry, kid. I don’t normally say ‘shit’ in front of minors.”

  Mikey cracked a smile, a weak but genuine expression of amusement.

  Trent massaged his son’s shoulders. Collins’ words made great sense. Not only would a little time help them recover, it would let the new dynamic fall into place. After that, they could assess.

  Regroup, so to speak.

  This group had been hit hard time and again recently. It wouldn’t hurt to sit back and convalesce. New plans had to be made.

  “So we’ll see what comes next,” he said.

  Silk nodded. “Whatever it is,” he said. “We’ll be ready for it.”

  THE END

  Please read on for some exciting information on the future of The Disavowed and the Matt Drake series.

  This book brings to an end the initial series of The Disavowed. I do have another book planned, but the big news is that I intend to develop a thrilling addition to the Matt Drake series first. Yes, we’re talking an Alicia Myles spin-off in the same mold and it’s coming soon!

  This will all lead up to one hell of a ‘crossover’ novel in early 2015. Matt Drake and SPEAR joining forces with The Disavowed and the new spin-off crew in the biggest action adventure I will probably ever write. Can’t wait to get started!

  Matt Drake 8—Last Man Standing due July 2014.

  In addition, I am currently writing Chosen 2 and hope to have it released in September 2014.

  Please check my website for all updates—www.davidleadbeater.com

  Word of mouth is essential for any author to succeed. If you enjoyed the book, please consider leaving a review at Amazon, even if it’s only a line or two; it makes all the difference and would be very much appreciated.