Fallen Angel Page 2

  Ryan was gaining speed, pulling away from her – fifty metres, eighty metres, hundred metres – and she yelled – Ryan, Ryan – but the motorcycle’s engine was shrieking like a banshee, drowning her out, and all she could do was watch as he melted away at the next intersection.

  Finally, Kendra stopped running, and she doubled over, hands on her knees, bile clawing at the back of her throat. She started to shake, feeling dizzy, anguished. betrayed.

  This was a goddamn set-up. Ryan isn’t the victim here. He never was.

  7

  Kendra looked back and saw that first responders were already establishing a perimeter around Farmers.

  They were drawing up barricades and shepherding people out of the red zone.

  With her heart hammering in her ears, her emotions churning, Kendra blended into the crowd. She moved past the civic centre, past Aotea Square, past the town hall.

  She covered three blocks, then she peeled away from the crowd and stepped into a public restroom.

  Kendra checked that it was empty before cleaning herself up. She washed away the blood and grime and dust. She finger-combed her hair, then she locked herself inside one of the stalls.

  Sitting down on the toilet, she cradled her head in her hands.

  She coaxed herself to breathe.

  In through the nose.

  One, two, three.

  Out through the mouth.

  One, two, three.

  Straightening, hands on her cheeks, she listened to the shouts and sirens echoing from outside. It was a terrible symphony, and the gravity of the situation sank in.

  Here she was, a washed-up agent caught up in a terror strike apparently perpetrated by an old boyfriend.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuckity-fuck.

  Kendra didn’t want to believe that this was happening.

  And yet... she couldn’t deny the obvious.

  Ten years is a long time. Ryan could have changed. He could have been radicalised.

  She felt a surge of guilt in her heart, stinging like acid.

  By choosing to serve – by choosing to leave – had she hurt him that much? Had she pushed him in the wrong direction? Was she ultimately responsible?

  Kendra groaned and slammed her foot against the wall beside her. Damn it, she wasn’t sure if this was love or obligation or just madness. But there was no turning back now; no return to innocence.

  Get a grip. Get a fucking grip. And work with what you have.

  Kendra inhaled and exhaled.

  She replayed the sequence of events in her mind. She picked everything apart, moment by moment, and she remembered the briefcase that Ryan had been carrying. She remembered how uncomfortable he had looked with it.

  Was that the bomb?

  But, no, that wasn’t possible.

  The sheer force of the blast, coupled with the scale of the damage, suggested a larger device. One packed with an incendiary like thermite or phosphorous, and that would have been too bulky to fit into a briefcase.

  Which meant that the actual bomb was already hidden within the Farmers store, maybe inside a storeroom, wired to detonate beforehand.

  Kendra had to assume that Ryan must have ditched the two operators, Alpha and Charlie, by slipping out the back of the store, leaving them to be caught in the blast. Vaporised.

  But why?

  Kendra swallowed, and she got out the wallet she had taken from the dead operator, Bravo. She thumbed through it. According to his driver’s licence, his name was Thomas Cronin, and he lived on the North Shore. And according to his business card, he worked for an investment firm, also on the North Shore.

  A bullshit proposition.

  Kendra knew all too well that pocket litter like this was seldom, if ever, the real thing. They only existed to solidify a legend; a cover identity.

  Next, she took a look at Mr Cronin’s smartphone. She checked the data and call logs. And... everything was blank. Which meant that it had been set to self-erase.

  Kendra figured it must have been Mr Cronin’s final act before he died.

  She popped out the phone’s battery, along with the SIM and memory cards. Right now, she didn’t want anyone tracking her position.

  Better to be paranoid than sorry.

  Tilting her head, Kendra unholstered the pistol. It was a Heckler & Koch. She released the magazine and performed a press-check on the gun before racking the slide and catching the ejected round. A forty-five. Subsonic.

  She worked the slide a few more times and found the action to be smooth, well-oiled.

  Professional maintenance.

  Kendra reloaded the gun and fitted the sound suppressor on to the muzzle. It snapped on with a click. Seamless. Completely unlike traditional suppressors, which had to be screwed on.

  Custom-made. Match-grade.

  Kendra removed the suppressor and holstered the gun.

  Then she drew the tactical-folding knife. It was an Emerson. She thumbed open the blade. It was non-reflective black, partially serrated with a spear point. Flexing her fingers around its moulded grip, she carved lines through the air – seven o’clock and three o’clock – before folding the blade shut.

  Slick. Very slick.

  The fact that Mr Cronin was kitted out with subsonic rounds, a custom suppressor and a tactical folder meant that he was prepped for some serious wetwork.

  But why?

  Biting her lip, Kendra got out Mr Cronin’s car key. She narrowed her eyes. It had no logo, no emblem, no identifying marks of any kind. But, still, she considered the possibilities.

  8

  When Kendra stepped out of the washroom, she saw a police helicopter hovering above the skyline.

  Her muscles tensed up, but she reminded herself that the authorities weren’t going to lock down the entire city centre.

  At least not yet.

  Their standard-operating procedure called for a policy of containment. They would focus on extinguishing the blaze, triaging the wounded and moving civilians out of the red zone. They wouldn’t be looking to detain anyone at this point, or canvass the wider area.

  Which means that I still have some time.

  Kendra made her way to a multi-storey parking garage two blocks down. She had worked out the distance, measured the odds, and she had decided that this was the best possible candidate.

  It offered the quickest access to three motorways – the North, North-Western and Southern – and it was also tactically close to Farmers, presumably the focal point of the op.

  Kendra approached the parking garage from the rear. There were five levels. She hazarded a guess and used the stairs to reach the basement level.

  Vehicles of every make and model flanked her.

  Eyes darting, she began the process of elimination.

  She ruled out bright colours like yellow and red. They were too flashy; too conspicuous. And she also excluded midrange colours like white and metallic. Still memorable. Which only left hushed tones like grey or black. They were surveillance friendly; able to blend in without attracting attention.

  Next, Kendra crossed off any vehicle that was too big or too small. Which meant no SUVs. No vans. No hatchbacks. No sports cars. And that only left the sedans, which offered the perfect mix of mass, acceleration and a low centre of gravity.

  Finally, Kendra rejected the sedans that were parked front-first into the bays. She only zeroed in on those that were reverse-parked. This was common sense. Mr Cronin and his team would have wanted a no-fuss exit. Just get into the car, start the engine and pull away. No clumsy manoeuvres.

  With all the options whittled down to a minimum, Kendra approached a grey Toyota Camry and aimed the car-key fob at it, depressing the button.

  No joy.

  She moved on and tried a black Holden Commodore.

  This time, the car chirped and flashed and unlocked.

  Bingo.

  Kendra looked past the windscreen at the prepaid parking ticket displayed on the dashboard. She saw that it was due to expire in an hour, a
nd she found that very revealing.

  Thomas Cronin and his buddies didn’t plan on sticking around for very long. This was meant to be a milk run. Touch and go. No fuss. Only... it didn’t work out that way.

  Smirking, Kendra was tempted to get into the car right now.

  But, no, she had to be smart about this. Meticulous.

  Stooping to a crouch, she duck-walked around the Holden. She fingered the underside of the bumpers, probed behind the tyres and peered at the undercarriage.

  Kendra did this inch by inch.

  She orbited the car twice.

  And so far, so good.

  But she wasn’t done.

  Not yet.

  Kendra flicked out her knife and – slowly, very slowly – she opened one of the doors just a fraction. She slid her blade all along the gap between the door and the car’s frame, back and forth, top to bottom. She only opened the door completely once she had confirmed that there was no tripwire present.

  Kendra repeated the process for the remaining doors.

  She cleared them the exact same way.

  Next, she moved on to examining the car’s interior. She only reached in with her upper body, careful not to lean against the seats until she had examined every crevice, every groove and every corner with light from her phone. Just to be sure that no pressure switches had been installed.

  That done, Kendra moved to the back of the Holden. She used the car key to unlock the trunk, but kept her palm firmly on the lid to prevent it from springing up. She raised it carefully, using her knife to clear the gap before opening it completely.

  The interior looked empty, but when she rolled back the mat and shifted the spare tyre, that’s when things got interesting – there was a backpack hidden underneath.

  Kendra tugged it out and checked the pockets. Spare ammunition. Surveillance gear. Night-vision goggles. A laser-aiming module. And an infiltration kit.

  An operator’s idea of Christmas.

  When she unzipped the top of the backpack, she saw that the fabric extended over the wearer’s head and folded over the chest and stomach, becoming a ballistic vest. Wraparound design, good protection, easy access to the pockets.

  Christmas and New Year’s.

  Refolding and zipping up the bag, Kendra slung it across her shoulder and closed the trunk.

  She moved to the front of the Holden. Popping open the hood, she inspected the engine. She aimed her light this way and that. She detected nothing suspicious, and she shut the hood.

  Sighing, Kendra finally allowed herself to sit down on the driver’s side. She pulled open the glove compartment. She confirmed that it wasn’t wired, and she found a GPS navigation unit inside. Turning it on, she tapped the screen and launched the list of recent destinations.

  Kendra swallowed, recognising the one at the very top.

  It was an address in Remuera.

  Ryan’s parents.

  9

  Kendra closed her eyes and remembered.

  ...She was meeting his parents for the first time, and she saw the coldness in their eyes, felt the weight of their judgement, and she realised right there and then that she was an outsider – the wrong skin colour, the wrong social status – and her knees went weak, and her heart pounded, but he was brave, so brave, clutching her hand tight, standing tall, telling them that she was his girlfriend...

  Kendra opened her eyes. She blinked hard and sagged against the steering wheel. She felt as if a fat cat was sitting on her, overpowering her ability to think, to rationalise.

  Shaking her head, she straightened. It would have been all too easy to key the ignition and get going, but she decided not to.

  Sure, the Holden didn’t appear to be booby-trapped. But that didn’t mean that a tracker hadn’t been hardwired into the car’s electronics. And even if there was no tracker, stealing the car was still a bad idea. Traffic in the immediate area was bogged down. She wouldn’t be going anywhere in a hurry.

  So Kendra placed the GPS unit back into the glove compartment and stepped out of the Holden and locked it with a chup-chup.

  She didn’t have to worry about leaving any prints behind. The pads of her fingers had been chemically scrubbed years ago. One of the many procedures done to turn her into a ghost while operating in foreign countries.

  Irony of ironies. What works abroad works just as well on home soil. Who would have thought?

  Kendra felt a stab of bitterness for what she had become; for how much things had changed.

  She turned and started to walk away from the Holden, making for the stairs. And that’s when she heard the telltale clap of a suppressed pistol, and she felt a sharp hiss just above her right shoulder, like a bumblebee had just zapped past, parting her hair.

  Kendra flinched, and her heart seized up.

  Fucking hell...

  Someone had just taken a shot at her.

  10

  Kendra ducked and scrambled for the safety of the closest car.

  Gasping, panting, she crouched right behind the engine block, knowing that this was the most solid part of the vehicle, offering the best protection.

  Two more rounds ricocheted off the car’s hood, drawing sparks from the bodywork.

  Huddling against the car’s tyre, Kendra reached behind her and unzipped the top of the backpack. She pulled the ballistic vest down over her head and secured it around her front. Then, drawing her pistol, she snapped the suppressor on.

  Despite the adrenaline, she forced herself to take measured breaths and slow her racing heartbeat. She didn’t want to get anxious and over-pressurise her blood with stress. She couldn’t afford fidgety muscles and frantic thoughts.

  Breathe. Focus. Stay calm.

  Kendra peered under the car, trying to locate the tango, but the view was too limited, and she couldn’t see a damn thing. However, she didn’t want to raise her head above the hood either, nor did she want to make herself visible through the car’s windows. That’s exactly what the tango would be expecting.

  So Kendra crab-walked to the rear of the car instead, taking up a new position right beside the trunk. Of course, this was a risk. The trunk was the weakest part of any vehicle, its hollow construction making it easy for bullets to pass through. But she was counting on her vest to protect her, and besides, she didn’t plan on sticking here for too long.

  Kendra inched sideways, curving herself around the rear bumper, tracking her gun this way and that way. The fact that the tango was using a suppressed weapon made it difficult to determine where he was, but she figured that he had descended from the staircase, so she aimed in that general direction—

  That’s when another two rounds drummed into the front of the car, this time shattering one of the headlights, sending fragments of plastic and glass tinkling.

  Kendra inhaled.

  He still thinks I’m right beside the engine block. He’s trying to keep me pinned down so he can outflank me.

  Kendra exhaled, feeling her confidence rise.

  He didn’t have an exact fix on her position, and that was good.

  She heard footsteps echoing, and she craned her neck. She caught a glimpse of the tango. He was threading his way between the vehicles up ahead, his pistol raised in a two-handed grip, his body held sideways in a Centre Axis Relock stance, minimising his profile.

  He had broad shoulders that tapered down to slim hips. And, yeah, he wore an untucked shirt with cargo trousers.

  He’s part of the surveillance team. The fourth member. Delta.

  That realisation didn’t give Kendra much comfort.

  Somehow she had missed him earlier, and the only way that could have happened was if he was on overwatch duty, perched high on a rooftop, helping his team at street level with optics.

  But she decided not to agonise over it.

  Doesn’t matter. All that counts is right here, right now.

  Kendra leaned out, taking aim at Delta, acquiring a sight picture.

  She knew her posture wasn’t great and th
e angle was poor, but she fired a cluster of shots anyway, puncturing the windows of one car, then another.

  Their alarms went off, wailing in a shrill tempo, and Delta reacted by zigzagging backwards and dropping out of sight.

  Kendra knew she hadn’t hit him, but that wasn’t the point. She only needed to halt his forward momentum so that she could make a move.

  Rising to one knee, she fired several more shots, then she turned and launched herself into a dash, keeping her head down, reaching the row of vehicles just opposite.

  She slid into cover behind the closest car, flattening herself behind the engine block just as Delta fired on her once more. Bullets thwacked into the car’s front grill and ripped into the tyres. Air whispered from the shredded rubber as the car sagged.

  Sweating, Kendra sucked in breaths through her clenched teeth. She performed a tactical reload, swapping her half-empty magazine for a full one.

  She wondered if anyone would respond to the alarms.

  Maybe the police?

  Maybe private security?

  Hell, no...

  Everyone was too preoccupied with the blast at Farmers.

  Who would care about a little ruckus happening in a parking garage?

  Shaking her head, swallowing, Kendra made a quick assessment of her situation. Delta was blocking her path to the stairs, so that route was definitely out of the question. However, there was a ramp right behind her. It led up to the next level.

  If only I can get to it...

  Kendra decided that some dialogue with Delta was in order, if only to buy herself some time. So she cleared her throat and raised her voice over the sound of the alarms, ‘Hey! Listen! I didn’t kill your team down at Farmers. I had nothing to do with that.’

  She waited.

  She counted down the seconds.

  Eventually Delta spoke, his voice angry, his accent local, ‘You’re lying. I saw you frisking Cronin. That’s how you got the keys to the car. You’re working with Onyx.’

  Kendra used the distraction to peel away from the car she was using as cover, and she carefully inched her way around the next car behind her. ‘Onyx? Is that the code name you’ve assigned to Ryan Hosseini?’