The Plagues of Pandora

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Los Angeles simmered at 8 p.m., basking in the heat amassed from another glorious day. Beaches and parks still echoed to the sounds of the spirited and the sprightly, all the more lonely now for losing the greatest gifts humanity could bestow — life, liveliness, energy. And innocence. Innocence existed here only in the young. Parents struggled to keep the real world from their children beyond the very last moment — and to help do that they took them to the beach. The park.

Let them run in the sun, luxuriate in the warmth, play to their hearts’ content, live out their very real dreams before life intervened.

Los Angeles, the city of angels, savored the night. The Santa Anas gusted through the mountains, but at least the forest fires weren’t burning tonight. More than two million people were living their lives in the great basin, day to day, night to night, meal to meal, TV show to TV show.

Aaron Trent was known by his friends and colleagues as the “serious” one. He was the leader, the one with the weight of the world on his shoulders. Every decision, every op and its outcome, was down to him. For many years the gods had seen fit to reward him, earning his three-man team a reputation as the best in the business. The Razor’s Edge, they had been called, and every agency in the world sought their input. Their skills were legendary.

And then one night it had all shattered to dust. By then his marriage was over, his boy — Mikey — living with his mother and her new boyfriend minutes from Rodeo. Trent and his team had become known as the Disavowed — three agents who took the fall for a country’s failings. Later, they discovered the real truth — that they had been used, framed by a Serbian madman who found aid in one of the world’s largest corporations. By then it was too late. The Disavowed had found a new purpose — helping those who could not help themselves, working for the weak who struggled to fight against the powerful.

Now, as the omniscient stars glittered knowingly and the warm air absolved the sins of yet another day in paradise, Trent knew there was something else in his life that had well and truly begun to matter. Her name was Claire Collins, and she was the Disavowed’s FBI liaison, helping them work off the books now that their old friend, Doug the Trout, was dead. Collins was the new light in his life, the ballbuster with a soft edge, the midnight dancer with a fragile heart; she had all the complexities of a motherboard, all the sharpness of a samurai sword, and all the energy and sparkle of a six-year-old.

She sat to his right, enjoying the barbecue his colleague, Dan Radford, dished out.

Thoughts of Doug the Trout only sent his mind back toward Mikey. Doug had saved the boy’s life very recently, dying in the process, taking the brunt of the explosion that was meant for Mikey. The perpetrator of that act, a terrible contract killer known as the Moose, had supposedly escaped into retirement and obscurity. Now, Trent suddenly felt the need to hold both his son and his girlfriend; he slipped an arm around their waists.

Mikey, eight going on eighteen, squirmed in protest but didn’t pull away. This barbecue was a major step forward for the young boy — his mother had been kidnapped and murdered during the recent terrorist attack on LA, when everything had gone Threat Level Red; this was the first time Mikey had seen his dad with another woman.

Collins raised a glass. “Here’s to us.”

Trent reached for his juice and handed Mikey a glass. Radford and his wife, Amanda, both held bottles. Adam Silk and his new partner, Susie Brewster, were partaking of the red wine.

“Still standing,” Silk said with a boyish smile.

“Still raising hell,” Radford added and gripped his wife tighter.

“And ignoring the complaints,” Trent said a little sternly.

“Just tell ‘em to go fuck themselves,” Collins finished the new mini-ritual off with a cough over the curse word and drank deeply. Trent watched her. Collins was more than a woman, she was a core of complexity — hard-ass, no-nonsense by day, party-goer and deviant by night. A dual identity. No, he thought. A jewel identity.

The warm winds drifted through and the hot food was devoured in earnest, the noise and laughter becoming louder as the night wore on. Time stopped on a night like this; problems were put aside as the magic of company mixed with the magic of Southern California, creating one blissful, eternal moment.

All too short.

Collins put a hand in the air as her cell rang out. “Have to take this,” she hiccupped, trying to stop dancing at the same time. “No rest, wicked, and all that.”

Trent glanced at his watch. “And past your bedtime, bud. We should be heading home.”

Mikey pouted. “It is a school night.”

“Oh, man. I’m the worst father in the world.”

A strained note entered Collins’ voice as she conversed over the phone, a note that piqued Trent’s attention.

“Tell me what happened!”

Trent caught Silk’s eye and rose. Radford joined them. Without being asked they all zoned in on Collins’ exchange.

“And they lost the sample? All right. Where do we currently stand with LA and Paris?”

Trent saw Radford signal to his wife who moved toward Mikey. The whole team were aware of the global situation right now and had promised to help in any way they could. Skilful and capable response teams were their best chance of defeating this latest threat and Trent believed there were none better than his own.

“Now?” Collins burst out. “Shit, man. You sure pick your time. Sure, sure. We’re on our way. Get me the location of that graveyard.”

She ended the call, taking a moment before meeting the eyes of the Disavowed.

“Go grab your guns, boys,” she said. “We need to take apart a few more terrorists. Right now.”

Trent listened as Collins briefed them on the situation. Radford fired up the car and Mikey smiled a weak goodbye, tearing at Trent’s heartstrings. This just couldn’t go on. Eight was an impressionable age — what happened now would live in his son’s memories forever. A solution had to be reached.

Immediately after they helped save LA.

Collins spoke from the back seat. “The Pythians just struck London. The SPEAR team lost the first sample.”

“Dammit,” Silk exploded.

Trent felt the hard veneer of battle fall across his face. “We’re all up against it. Don’t judge. The Pythians are on our pitch now and we have to step up to the plate. Take the bastards down.”

“To break it down as simply as possible,” Collins said with an impish glance toward Silk. “So we can all understand — a well-equipped, well-funded team of mercenaries are seeking to rob the graves of the long dead. Apparently it took a while to pin down but now they have a location and they’re going for it big time, balls out. We have to stop them.”

“And the rest of the security forces?” Radford asked.

“They’ll help too.”

“Who do we have on tech?” The technological side of every operation was Dan Radford’s domain.

“There’s no tech involved here, Dan. It’s pure urban warfare.”

Trent inhaled quickly. “Well, at least the recent ops prepared us for that.”

“Tell us about these samples,” Silk said from the front passenger seat as Radford hurled them onto the freeway. “What are the mercenaries looking for?”

“Old plague bacteria,” Collins explained. “I don’t know the details so don’t ask. The relevant point here is that most of the leading governments of the world know of this threat and have agreed that nothing should be held back in trying to neutralize it. Nothing.”

“Dance off?” Radford pressed. “That’s your thing.”

“I’m up for that.”

“Continue,” Trent urged.

The car barreled through the night, slipping through red stop lights as they switched from lane to lane, splitting the red flashing snake that ran from Hollywood to downtown. Collins tied her hair back with practiced ease. Radford eased the vehicle around 4x4s, sedans and a row of dumper trucks.

“Old bacteria may still be viable in plague pits,” she said. “Or they have found some way of extracting what they need. These people are planning to weaponize the plague, a terrible encore to their ‘house on the hill’ demonstration.”

“Wasn’t the plague a Europe thing?” Silk asked, frowning. “Did we even encounter it over here?”

“The only known occurrences of human-to-human transference were in 1919 and 1924-25, way after the Black Death and other infamous outbreaks. An outbreak in Oakland first and then later in Los Angeles. At least thirty cases of bubonic plague, most of the victims were buried right in the cemetery we’re heading for right now. Long Beach Municipal.”

“Surely other pits would have been easier to attempt?”

“Why?” Collins swayed in rhythm to the car’s motion. “It’s away from the big city. Quiet. No security. And on US soil. Half these friggin’ Pythians are American, for God’s sake.”

Radford pulled up, not too close. “We’re here.”

Most of the cemetery was built on a gradual slope, gray and black headstones running down to the roadside. Gray mausoleums stood around like lost souls, the great, outstretched limbs of untended trees pointing to things invisible and unnamable.

The team climbed out, noting the presence of SWAT vans, cop cars and other specialists already lined up. Collins groaned. “We’re not in charge here. This is gonna be one messed up operation.”

The team exited the car, trying to stay inconspicuous. The cemetery itself sprawled to their left, exposed, no fence or gate enclosing its expanse. A brown sign boasting a painted palm tree announced: Municipal Cemetery, City of Long Beach; an oil pump worked continually alongside as if trying to wake the dead.

Trent paused in the shadows. “Something’s not right,” he said, and turned around as if sniffing the air.

“It sure is friggin’ quiet in there,” Radford said with a fake shiver.

“No, not that. If I’m right—” he nudged Collins. “Patrol cars spotted two men believed to be working with the Pythians right here. Cell chatter is high for this area. But—”

“A pit takes time to dig, right? And they have to do it carefully.”

“But we’re in a cemetery,” Radford pointed out unnecessarily, stressing the last word. “No one’s gonna be bothered if they see anyone digging. That could even be why they chose this place.”

“Sure,” Trent said, still favoring the shadows beneath a sprawling tree and watching the bustle of activity near the road. “But we learned the Pythians were pursuing this Pandora thing only a day or so ago. The guys in London acted fast enough to almost thwart their plan. I’m guessing we’re in the same ballpark. The problem is—they know it too.”

Silk stared across the pools of shadow and silvery light that hunched and merged between gravestones, trees and mausoleums. “If they have a backup plan,” he said, “knowing the Pythians as we do, it ain’t gonna be dancing in the moonlight.”

Collins turned a wistful eye on him. “If only.”

Trent frowned at the ground. “Later, maybe. What the hell are we missing?”

Although ex-CIA and FBI, although trained to be observant and notice the things everyday civilians didn’t; although crammed with many years’ experience, it still took the team several minutes to pick through their memories and find an answer.

Collins got there first. Maybe it was the sudden roar, the growling clank of heavy metal, but the bulb going off in her brain lit her eyes. “Damn! The dumper trucks!”

Trent spun. Like angry, newly resurrected monsters, four brightly lit trucks roared down the wide road that fronted the cemetery. End to end, engines screaming; Trent was put in mind of the four horsemen of the apocalypse come to devour the living.

“We passed them on the freeway,” Collins said. “And if they’re here now it can only be for one thing.”

“Diversion.” Trent ran back toward the road as if he was trying to cut the trucks off. To the left, some of the security forces had finally taken notice and were starting to shout. Trent cried out, sensing Silk, Radford and Collins at his back, trying to attract all the attention. Guns materialized through the trucks’ open windows.

Trent dived and rolled, reaching for a weapon. Bullets crisscrossed the air above his head. Coming up on one knee he opened fire.

“Just another friggin’ day with the Disavowed,” Collins said in his left ear, already pulling her trigger.

“We sure aren’t a hop-on, hop-off kinda ride,” Silk said. “We’re more of a twenty-four-hour endurance race.”

“With a twist,” Radford added.

“I think you mean twisted,” Collins said with a devilish grin.

The dumper trucks barreled past, breaking formation as they approached the SWAT vans and cop cars. Trent found himself left in their wake. His sober, analytical mind saw exactly where this was going.

“God help them.”

One truck veered off the road, smashed up across the curb and over the sidewalk, entering the cemetery. Roaring, it proceeded to bounce and crash its way through gravestones, shattering each one to pieces as it climbed the slope. The remaining three trucks charged on, at last taking fire, but way too close to their target to make a difference.

Three hundred tons travelling at forty miles an hour is more than a daunting sight — especially when it’s bearing down on you. Cops and flak-jacketed special units broke before the onslaught like waves before an enormous prow. The first truck rammed a cop car, destroying the front end and sending it spinning into the next. The truck then collided with the side of a SWAT van, lifting it off the ground with an almighty crunch and tipping it over to the side. Behind it the remaining two dump trucks smashed more cars and vans, and aimed deliberately for the running men.

“It’s a fucking war zone.” Trent watched the first truck as it crashed through the cemetery. “Come on!”

The four of them dashed from tree to tree, headstone to headstone, sprinting up the slope in pursuit of the speeding truck. It wasn’t hard to follow. The sheer size and noise, the damage it left in its wake, the concentrated purpose of its route, left them in no doubt as to its destination.

Over the crest of the hill they ran. The truck was already hurtling down, gaining speed and jouncing from bump to bump so harshly Trent wondered if its occupants might end up with broken spines. One look behind told him they had no backup; the authorities had their hands full with their own pitched battle. He charged down the hill and saw their destination before they were halfway there.

An open pit by a fallen grave marker; the dark shapes of men standing around the rim.

“Waiting,” he said. “They’re just waiting for the truck. We have to hurry.”

At that moment there was a fiery flash from the gravesite. Trent recognized the sign immediately but Collins spoke faster.

“RPG!”