The Plagues of Pandora

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

As they came in to land, Hayden called the team they had chosen to assist in Los Angeles. Recommended by Michael Crouch and Armand Argento of Interpol, and the team that had saved Kono Kinimaka’s life more than once, the so-called Disavowed were ex-CIA and an unlikely but competent bunch.

Hayden spoke to their self-appointed but now universally accepted leader, Claire Collins. “Hi, again. If you’re up for some off-the-book, rollercoaster action where you’ll quite possibly get yourself killed at least twice then you’re one of the gang.”

“We’re up for anything and everything.” Collins said. “At least twice. So tell us what you need in LA.”

“Well, obviously you won’t be the only ones out there. But we need you guys to play to your strengths. The Disavowed team were the best in the business at what they do, and could still be. We need them on the ground, working this thing from the streets.”

“We’ll get to it.”

Hayden proceeded to impart all the information they had gathered, bringing Collins up to speed as her colleagues listened. When she was done their West Coast team sounded ready for action.

Hayden spent a few more minutes briefing them and then signed off. “We’re counting on you guys. Don’t let the Pythians or their agents out of that plague pit alive.”

“We’re right on it,” Collins said. “If there’s one thing we’re good at…”

“… it’s kicking terrorist ass.” Claire Collins ended the call and sat back in her seat, searching the eyes of everyone else gathered in the room, evaluating.

“So… what do you guys think?”

Aaron Trent perched on the edge of his chair. Trent was tall and dark-haired, spoke in a clipped manner, was slow to smile but always good-hearted. He had recently been fully reunited with his son after his ex-wife died at the hands of a Serbian whack-job called Blanka Davic. The readjustment, not to mention the grieving, was taking its toll.

“Search and destroy. But I can’t leave LA for more than a day. Mikey’s just too fragile to be without a dad right now.”

Adam Silk, an ex-child thief recruited into the CIA, a whip-like man able to finesse his way into almost anything, looked concerned. “Maybe you should sit this one out, Aaron. Take some time.”

“If it were less of a threat, I’d say yes. But not after what I’m hearing.”

Dan Radford, the playboy and techie of the group who had recently come to realize he was head over heels in love with the wife he’d once happily approved of having an open relationship with, poured himself a coffee. “We need a list of plague pits in LA. We need equipment setting up or access to an existing room where we can monitor the airwaves. We need an open line to the authorities and promises of response if we shout. Not only that, but somebody should be setting up a think tank to find these Pythians and their factory. We have their names, right? How hard can it be?”

“Has there ever been a case of the Black Death in the States?” Silk wondered. “I’ve never heard of one.”

Collins looked blank. “I guess we’ll find out. The Bureau’s already on high alert, concerned over the significant increase in terrorist chatter these last few weeks. Nobody’s sure what to make of the Pythians — a new group appearing out of nowhere and making such gigantic waves is unprecedented.”

Trent was staring into space. “I know one thing about the bubonic plague,” he said. “It’s supposedly where the rhyme ‘ring-a-ring-of-roses’ has its darker roots. The children’s nursery rhyme?” He intoned, “Ring-a-ring o’ roses, a pocket full of posies, atishoo, atishoo, we all fall down’. Associated with the plague and Black Death, though I do believe true folklorists disagree. But, come on. Sneezing and falling down? A rosy rash was said to be a symptom of plague. And posies of herbs were often carried as protection to ward off the stench of the disease. And they still sing it to this day.”

“Shit.” Silk looked wide eyed. “Ain’t you a ray of sunshine? How do you know all this?”

“I went to school. Didn’t you?”

“Actually, no. Not really.”

“Oh, yeah, sorry. Child thief and all that. Well, I also know that the line ‘atishoo, atishoo’ was in fact originally ‘ashes, ashes’. A reference to plague-ridden corpses being burned. Then again,” he smiled grimly, “it might just be a happy singing game.”

“Okay, so maybe I could draft Susie in to help?” Susie Brewster was Silk’s new cop girlfriend.

“Oh yeah, the more I see of Susie the better my day becomes.” Radford said, then realized his gigolo days were over and blushed. “ ‘Cause she’s a good cop,” he added lamely.

“Maybe your wife could help too,” Silk hit back. “Since she’s slept with the majority of LA’s elite.”

“Hey, that was mostly movie and music stars,” Radford protested.

“So that’s acceptable now?” Collins wondered. “I realize some couples have a laminated card with ‘approved’ celebs on it but Amanda’s would have to be the size of a billboard.”

The room fell into laughter, Radford taking the ribbing good-naturedly because he knew his own slept-with list was just as long, but then Trent rose to his feet, no hint of a smile on his lips.

“Whilst we talk, our enemies grow stronger,” he said. “Let’s get to it.”

Collins saw her phone light up and clicked the ‘accept’ button. “Yeah?”

“Are you ready for this?” a voice asked. It was Armand Argento, their Italian Interpol contact.

“Ready for what?”

Collins saw every eye swivel toward her, sensing trouble.

“You should sit down. It is not good. Oh, no it is not so good.”

“Armand! Just spit it out!”

“Am I on speakerphone? I don’t want to have to say this twice, amico mio.”

Collins pressed the button. “Shoot.”

“Word has just come in of a terrible development that concerns you.” Argento said. “Oh, I am sorry. So sorry. The word is — that the Moose is working for the Pythians.”

Not a breath was taken, not a hair stirred.

At last, Trent spoke. “Are you sure, Armand?”

“As sure as an Italian man can be. No we are not without our failings but we do find it hard to recall them.”

“The Moose?” Radford recalled every moment of horror from their recent contact with one of the world’s greatest contract killers. “Then this is personal.”

Trent’s face was like carved granite. “It’ll never be more so.”

The Moose had recently kidnapped Trent’s young son, aided in the murder of his wife and tried to blow up Radford and Amanda. The killer had been contracted to Blanka Davic for a ridiculous sum of money, and had sent Trent on a terrifying chase across Los Angeles. After Davic fell, the Moose disappeared. Most had thought to retire — never to be heard from again.

Collins thanked Argento and then got to work. Her first call was to Hayden. “How close are you to London?”

The CIA agent’s voice was tense. “Just coming in to land. London’s sitting on a knife-edge now. We’ll be…”

“… in touch soon.” Hayden stared out the window as she spoke, admiring the city’s shimmering lights. All seemed calm down there, made more so by the manifestation of a faint early morning mist, but she knew it was anything but.

Cops and secret agents, terrorists and mercenaries roamed the streets. The public had no idea of the secret war about to erupt all around them.

Airplane tires squealed against tarmac.

“Here we go.”