Truly Deadly: The Complete Series: (YA Spy Thriller Books 1-5)

by Rob Aspinall

  “Right, I get it,” I said. “If we get caught, it’s just another part of our JPAC-bashing world tour. And Agent Danby’s part of our crew.”

  “Which brings us to the question,” Philippe said, “What’s in it for us?”

  “What isn’t?” asked Danby. “We know you had an informant in their organisation.”

  “You must be a little light on new intel since the hit,” said Peter. “We could help you with that. You help us bring in the defector. We share the information. Pool our resources.”

  “You’ll still be free to run your own operations,” said Danby.

  “Unsanctioned missions?” Philippe asked. “Your superiors will be comfortable with that?”

  “So long as it benefits our national security,” Peter said, “Of course.”

  Philippe didn’t seem convinced. But when did he ever?

  I jabbed him on the arm. “Sounds good to me. Probably the easiest thing we’ve ever done.”

  Philippe mulled it over for a moment. “What happens if we say no?”

  “Then we’ll have to take a very dim view,” said Peter. “And make life very uncomfortable for the pair of you.”

  “Think life without trial,” Danby said. “Somewhere very cold.”

  Neither me or Philippe said a word.

  “Ah, that’s a yes then,” said Peter, slapping a thigh. “Good show.”

  The tea and cake brigade had seemed nice until the threat of life in a Siberian prison. Or a place at the top of their kill list. Or whatever else they had lined up when things went south. Which they inevitably did.

  Sure, this was a routine mission. But what would they have us doing next? And why did I suddenly feel like Gretel at the door to the gingerbread house?

  I looked again at the screen. At the Rosales gang. Teddy Tucker was cold and stiff and now we had to pay Peter the piper.

  “Ha-pp-y birth-day to meee,” I sang to myself.

  11

  Easy Peasy

  MEXICO CITY, MEXICO.

  Hot. Fricking hot. And not in a good way. In a cotton clinging to skin way.

  Thank goodness for the air con inside the white SUV Agent Danby had been handed the keys to at Los Reyes airfield. He drove us through the littered streets of suburban Mexico City. Low-lying buildings slowly crumbling either side of the street, in a deserted borough a few miles from the main airport.

  Our rendezvous was on the outskirts of the city, beneath an underpass where helicopters and drones couldn’t spy. Plastic Jesus had loads of distant brothers and cousins in the area. Rosary beads hung around the rearview mirror of the SUV, left there by a previous customer. Crosses and graffiti paintings of the Virgin Mary were common too, spray-painted all over falling-down walls. Auntie Claire would have been in her element.

  After a fight through bumper-to-bumper freeway traffic, Agent Danby brought the SUV to a stop beneath the underpass; where weeds met rubbish and graffiti met concrete. The handover was due to take place at noon. The sun was out in force; not a cloud in the sky other than the smog hanging like a phantom over the city, so the shade was appreciated.

  I checked my watch. They were ten minutes late. Greg said it was to be expected. Still, the longer I could spend in the cool breeze of the air con, the better.

  “Here we go,” said Philippe, after a few minutes’ wait.

  A pair of cars pulled up under the bridge; a beaten-up red Toyota saloon in front and a white Ford work van behind.

  I climbed out of the SUV into the ninety-degree shade, wearing a thin, white high-neck top with no sleeves, a pair of light brown cotton trousers and some cute white pumps Philippe said were impractical.

  I couldn’t have agreed less. They were entirely practical given that most of the trip would be spent on flights in and out of an open oven. If he wanted to dress in jeans and a black tee in this weather, then more fool him.

  Danby, in a summery white shirt and beige slacks, held up a hand to the two men stepping out of the Toyota.

  They met us in the space between our cars. Both were in their twenties, five-seven tall at most, covered in tattoos, with shorts and basketball tops a few sizes too big. One wore green, the other gold.

  They got straight down to business.

  “You bring the money?” the one in green asked in Spanish.

  “Where’s Rodrigo?” Danby asked, speaking fluent Espanyol.

  “Rodrigo couldn’t make it,” green top said. “I’m Pepe. This is Louis.”

  The atmosphere was edgy. Philippe stood with a black jacket draped over one hand. The other clutching his favourite Glock pistol, held ready beneath it. I kept my right hand on my hip, close to the pistol tucked in the back of my waistband.

  No doubt Pepe and Louis had a similar arrangement. Maybe that’s why they wore such long, baggy vests.

  “Hand over our man and we’ll hand you the money,” Danby said, ice-cool behind his shades.

  “The money. Then the man,” Louis said.

  Agent Danby glanced across at Philippe. Philippe glanced across at me and nodded.

  I backed up towards the SUV and opened the rear driver-side door. The titanium briefcase was in the footwell. I heaved it out; heavier than I thought. I walked over to Agent Danby and held the suitcase flat in both arms. Danby span out the code on both combination locks and opened the case, revealing tightly-packed wads of high-value bills in US dollars.

  Pepe and Louis gave nothing away. Danby removed a stack of bills and threw it to Pepe.

  “Bring our man around and we’ll let you count it,” Danby said.

  Pepe ran a finger through the wad of bills and nodded at Louis.

  “Okay,” Louis said, waving a hand towards the white van, where a plumper version of Pepe and Louis climbed out; this time in a white vest, low-hanging jeans and a dark-blue bandana. He trudged around to the rear of the van and opened the doors.

  Out stepped our defector; in brown desert boots, torn jeans and a black t-shirt. He also had a black hood over his head and his wrists in white plastic wrist ties; requested in advance by Agent Danby

  The defector was led by the arm to the centre of the exchange, but held short of the handover.

  First they had to count the money.

  Agent Danby relieved me of the weight of the case. He handed it over and let Pepe count through the money on the bonnet of the Toyota, the hard shape of a weapon pushing out under his jersey as he leaned over the car.

  Within a few minutes, we were ready to roll, the tension breaking as Pepe nodded and smiled. He shut the case and handed it to Louis. The guy in the bandana walked forward with the defector and shoved him towards Agent Danby.

  “You speak English?” Danby asked the defector.

  He nodded in return.

  “Okay,” said Danby. “Then don’t talk. Just do exactly what I say.”

  The man in the hood nodded again. He wasn’t much bigger than the Rosales boys, but then anyone looked small next to Agent Danby; built like Superman.

  As the Rosales cartel backed out of the meet into their rides, so did we - back into the chilled paradise of the SUV. This time Danby got in the back with me, leaving the driving to Philippe.

  “Well that was easy,” I said, as we pulled out from beneath the underpass, Team Rosales already on the wind. “Simples.”

  “We’re not done yet,” Philippe said, over his shoulder.

  Ever the optimist, I thought, as he steered us back on to the main streets; green Beetle taxis trundling by in either direction, and the traffic thickening up the further we got to the slip road onto the highway.

  “You want the sat nav on?” Danby asked Philippe.

  “I know the way,” Philippe said.

  “Then I’ll call it in,” Danby said, plucking a phone out of his jeans. He teed up a call. “Yeah, we’d got the package,” he said. “En route to extraction.”

  We’d gone over the plan in more detail in the New York apartment. The extraction point was the same Los Reyes airfield we’d flow
n into on a private jet. Exactly the same way in and out, only this time, with human cargo and a shorter haul to a drop-off point in El Paso, Texas, across the Mexico-US border.

  As we made our way towards the entry onto the highway, we came to a large set of roadworks; the road ahead blocked off by road crews in trucks and orange hi-vis vests.

  Philippe steered the SUV back on to the streets of Los Reyes, following a diversion sign. Before long, we were straying deeper into the city, the neighbourhoods growing more and more run down. The buildings stacked higher and closer together. And I thought my home neighbourhood was rough. This place made It look like Beverly Hills.

  Philippe tapped on the sat nav and entered the name of the airfield. He ignored the next diversion sign, taking a left at an intersection full of boarded up stores and an empty patch of weed-infested land that used to be a petrol station.

  Philippe put his foot down, the gas-guzzling engine of the SUV vrooming low.

  “It’s okay,” said Danby, “We’ve got time.”

  “Wanna bet?” I said, as we ran into another set of roadworks.

  “Just follow the diversion,” Danby said. “I’d rather take the long route than get lost.”

  “The long route is through Neza-Chalco-Izta,” Philippe said.

  “That’s not good?” I asked.

  “The slums,” Philippe said. “Trust me, you don’t want to go there.”

  “We’ll be okay,” said Danby. “Just keep moving.”

  Philippe followed the diversion deeper into the slums. We passed beneath a bridge, where three dead men hung naked and bloodied by their necks.

  I was shocked. “What the-?”

  “Turf wars,” said Philippe. “A warning to another cartel.”

  “Okay, maybe we follow the sat nav,” Danby said.

  Philippe pulled a U-turn, looking for a main road out of the slums. We followed a cement truck along a street with three- and four-storey buildings either side; the SUV bumping over a dirt road littered with rubbish. The truck in front pulled sharply to the left and backed up, beeping.

  “Come on, come on. Turn the damn thing,” Danby said, shaking his head.

  The cement truck stopped, blocking the road ahead. The driver, dressed like one of the road crew, jumped down out of the truck and ran off into the surrounding neighbourhood.

  “Something’s wrong,” Philippe said, looking in the rear view.

  I didn’t like the tone in his voice.

  “What kind of wrong?” I asked.

  He didn’t reply. Just put the SUV in reverse and backed out of there at high speed, gears whining. I turned to see a dump truck carrying a load full of gravel pull across behind us.

  Philippe was forced to slam on the brakes. He left the SUV running in the centre of the road. I peered out of the tinted windows. No movement out on the street; just a jumble of dirty, flat-roof buildings.

  “You got any local backup?” Philippe asked Danby.

  “We’re flying solo,” Danby said. “Probably just a car-jacking.”

  “Let ‘em try,” I said.

  “Keep an eye on the rooftops,” Philippe said.

  I looked out of my side from behind the driver’s seat, Glock in hand, just like Philippe and Danby. There was an eerie calmness as the engine ticked over.

  “Clear on this side,” I said.

  “Clear” said Danby. “What are they waiting for?”

  Bad, bad question.

  I leaned forward between the front seats and saw a Mexican teen with a black scarf wrapped around his face. He emerged from behind a low perimeter wall on the roof of a three-storey building that housed a small convenience store below, closed for a siesta.

  The Mexican kid was younger than me. Skinny, with spiky black hair. He hoisted a rocket launcher onto one shoulder and aimed directly at the SUV.

  12

  Upside-Down

  A missile blasted out of the kid’s ex-Russian RPG-7 in a swirl of white smoke. It made up the distance before Philippe could steer us out of the way, ploughing into the front grille on the passenger side.

  The impact shook the entire world, flipping the SUV into the air, one-eighty to the right. My gun fell out from my hand as I hit the roof with my back, before flying sideways into the window on the opposite side.

  The SUV landed on its roof with a whumph, my ears ringing and senses numb.

  I shook off the dizziness and got my bearings. The engine was dead. Me and Danby lay in a tangle on the felt lining off the roof, Philippe and the defector hanging upside down inside their belts.

  The cabin filled with smoke. I coughed it out, my eyes stinging. Philippe was shouting something, but I couldn’t make out what.

  A follow-up round of machine gun fire rattled into the the SUV. The windows and bodywork were bulletproof, but they wouldn’t hold out forever. Philippe unclipped his belt and fell on to the crumpled ceiling of the SUV, his weapon in hand. I searched frantically for mine. Danby shoved it in my hand, having found his own. With a nasty cut to the above the eye, he reached up and detached the defector from his seat, catching him as he fell.

  As the bullets continued to pelt into the SUV, I scrambled into the front of the cabin, my hearing returning.

  Philippe told me we had to get out.

  Yeah, no shit, Sherlock.

  He signalled to me that he would move first. I’d provide covering fire. As he booted his door open, the bullets ceased. I kicked the passenger door open at the second attempt. It was stiff and ashen, leaving a black film on the sole of my pumps. I crawled out of the SUV, staying low behind the door. We’d been taking fire from 11 and 1 o’clock, so the doors at least offered protection.

  I peeked over the rim of the door and saw a pair of gunmen a little further along the street; both taking cover inside doorways on opposite sides of the road.

  The one across the street from me stepped out after reloading a semiautomatic assault rifle. I took him out with a single shot and as always, tried not to think about the young life I’d just snuffed out.

  I mean, it was him or Philippe, right?

  As the one on my side lined me up in his sights, Philippe ended him with a headshot, before turning his attention to the rooftops, where the kid with the rocket launcher had popped another missile in the pipe and was ready to fire. Philippe caught him in the head and he took a long lie down.

  But the problems were mounting.

  More guys with guns. Sidearms peppering the SUV.

  We returned fire until we clicked empty. Danby tossed me his weapon and shouldered open the rear door on my side, a hand on the scruff of the defector’s neck, who was ridiculously quiet for a man in the middle of a gunfight.

  I thought Philippe should have Danby’s weapon, since he was the best shot. But as I tossed it towards him, he was dragged out of the SUV by half a dozen hands. I scrambled for the gun and crawled out after him.

  Rat-a-tat. I was instantly pinned down by more gunfire ripping into the SUV.

  I ducked back inside for cover and crawled across the front cabin to the passenger side. Through the upside-down windows of the SUV.

  I stuck my head out and peered around the back. There were nine guys now. Three more out cold on the floor where Philippe had fought back. But they had a hood over his head, hauling his dead weight across the ground, his boots dragging in the dust as they hurried him quickly into the same white van they’d brought the defector in.

  I had to make a decision fast. Come out blasting, or stay down?

  Philippe was a Christmas turkey if I didn’t do something. The rest of us were 100% goosed if I did.

  I watched through the cracked windshield as they slammed the doors of the van. It sped off out of sight, the dump truck having disappeared too.

  “I need to call it in,” said Danby, fumbling inside his jeans for his phone. It came out broken in his hand. The screen cracked and useless. He stuffed it back in his pocket. “Shit! We’re dead.”

  “We are if we don’t mo
ve,” I said, checking the chamber in Danby’s SIG-Sauer pistol. “There’s a door to an apartment block a few feet away. We can get in …”

  Danby grabbed the defector by the armpit and nodded.

  “You get him out of the SUV,” I said. “I’ll cover you.”

  I slid out of the rear passenger door and scanned three-sixty, following the sight of my gun. “Go!” I shouted.

  Danby crawled out of the chargrilled SUV. He dragged the defector along and ran him across the space between the rear passenger door and the entrance to a rundown apartment block.

  Gunfire cracked from further down the street. I couldn’t see from who or where, but they were a lousy shot. Probably another kid.

  I returned fire, moving sideways. I reached the doorway to the apartment block as a bullet hit the concrete wall a few inches from my face.

  I took cover inside the doorway as Danby booted in the door. It gave at the third attempt and he moved the defector inside. I watched as the cavalry came up the street. Familiar cars. Familiar faces. La Firma in all their basketball-shirted glory.

  Pepe and Louis parked their Toyota a hundred feet down and walked the rest of the way, flanked by a posse of gang members with underwear sticking out of long denim shorts and gold chains hanging around their necks.

  Some were in vests. Some in skins, with tattoos all over their chests and arms. They all carried one weapon or another, casually, like they were toys. I looked at the smoking SUV, the small crater the explosion had made in the road and the dead Mexican bodies strewn across the street; blood trails where they’d dragged themselves to safety in desperation.

  It was a war zone. A nightmare. And I was super-glad I wore the brown trousers.

  13

  Dead End

  We didn’t take the stairs up the cramped apartment block. Instead, we cut through the rear, across a scruffy courtyard surrounded by a wire fence.

  We needed to put streets and blocks between ourselves and those La Firma gang members. Lucky for us, a section of wire fence had been half-torn off its post by locals looking for a quick way in and out of the apartments.