Terminal Vendetta (A Diana Weick Thriller Book 3) Page 2

  “Nobody knows,” she replied, circling back to the desk to lean against it. Her feet were sore from her run this morning, her calves were sore from hiking last weekend—she truly hated the act of ageing. The Botox helped with the self-esteem at least, but her body was filled with constant reminders of her senility.

  “Does nobody include you?” Amber raised an eyebrow.

  Amita smiled.

  Zabójca had many enemies. The lieutenant had lied about killing him, and she’d known that for years because she’d been tracking Zabójca for years. It was a bold assumption, but one she was quite confident in.

  “She’s followed Zabójca,” Amita said. “To Seoul.”

  “How do you know that? She completely dropped off the grid after the DC drone bomber,” Amber said skeptically.

  “It’s an…” She thought. “Educated guess.”

  “Right, ma’am.”

  “So you’ll go then?”

  “To Korea?”

  “On my orders.”

  “For what exactly?” Amber asked. “With all due respect, ma’am, Weick isn’t MI6. You want to bring her on as an independent contractor?”

  “That’s what I want to do, yes,” Amita said. “Let’s not forget that the Readers approached her. They wanted to recruit her. She’s valuable. You know that already, Amber.”

  “Oh yeah,” Amber said. “Firsthand.”

  “I see much of myself in her,” Amita muttered, her eyes glancing down to her crossed ankles and then out the window to the black water that flowed through the midst of London’s gloomy compass.

  “Really?” Amber half-laughed. She moved her eyes to him, narrowing them. “Well… sorry, I’m not taking the piss, but you two are nothing alike. She plays on her own team. Highly focused which I guess you have too, but that’s about it for similarities. You’re posh, executive and.... gray. She’s black and white—hot-tempered, sometimes completely mad.”

  “You didn’t know me when I was young, Amber,” she replied, sighing and pushing herself off the desk. Amita circled it twice before sitting down at her chair. There was a slight rustle from beyond the bathroom door behind her like something falling off the counter. It had never been her dream to have a bathroom in her office—in fact, she borderline hated the room. It had been hard for her to find a use for it. She didn’t want to isolate herself further from her employees by defecating on a private golden throne.

  “Flight’s booked,” Amita said, looking back at the laptop, more unanswered emails adding to the slush pile. “Confirm with Reina.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Amber nodded and swung his feet, kicking himself up from the armchair. He gave her half of a cheeky salute and made his way to the door.

  “Stick with her, Amber,” Amita stated, not taking her eyes away from the screen. “I want her.”

  “Heard.”

  Chapter 3

  Cameron Snowman

  Washington DC

  There were some days that he missed the simplicity of being a government agent. Once upon a time, he stopped at Starbucks in the morning, picked up wraps and coffees, sat at a desk for eight hours and then clocked out—smoked weed and played video games all evening long. Definitely simpler times. But less fulfilling. There was something nostalgic about waiting around by the J. Edgar Hoover Building though. He’d spent long lunches with his partners and colleagues at this corner café, except in the past—most of the time—he hadn’t needed to be in disguise. But he didn’t have to wait very long in the button-up Aloha shirt and straw sunhat that was too small.

  Agent Park sat down at the exact table that he always sat at for his after-work beer. They had shared many in their years as partners together, and Cameron knew he would order a Blue Moon, spin the cap and depending if it landed shiny side up or down, he would get a sandwich.

  Park had always been superstitious. Not a great quality for an FBI agent to have, but an amusing one.

  Cameron slid from his table to Park’s.

  “Uh, this is taken,” Park said. The Blue Moon cap landed shiny side up—no sandwich, only booze.

  “So are you,” Cameron stated and peered at him from under his hat. “But that’s not going to stop me from making a move.”

  “Wh—” Park looked up. “Cameron?”

  His hand went to his belt, but Cameron already had his pistol out, pushing it into his stomach underneath the table.

  “Nope,” Cameron snapped and lifted his brow so Park could look him in the eyes. “I mean, yeah it’s me but no, don’t go for your gun unless you want to die here.”

  Putting his hand back on the table and reaching for his beer, Park asked, “Can I do this at least?”

  He took a sip of his beer.

  “Sure,” Cameron said.

  “Risky move being here,” Park stated. “You’re kinda an idiot.”

  “You’re kinda an asshole,” Cameron replied. “But you were always that way.”

  “Yeah.” Park laughed. “Because you weren’t always an idiot.”

  The gun pushed harder into Park’s torso as Cameron shook his head at the attitude. He had no qualms in shooting his ex-partner if he needed to. Park had already forgotten how much power he had over him, and that wasn’t even including the gun pointed at his stomach.

  “How’s Helena?” Cameron asked.

  Park’s black eyes sucked back like he was looking into a spotlight. His mouth twitched.

  “Just before I left,” Cameron sighed. “She was expecting, right?”

  The sound of Park’s wedding ring ringing against the beer bottle caused a grin to form across the bottom of Cameron’s face. He was a bit self-conscious of it now—his smile. He couldn’t do it in a mirror because it reminded him too much of the father that had been stolen from him. Especially as he got older, every reflection was a reaffirming nudge that working with the Readers had been the correct choice.

  The only thing he wished was that he would have been the one to put that bullet into Ratanake’s head. Carson had gotten that privilege—that satisfaction. Lucky dead bastard.

  It was a balance. Cameron would have taken a bullet from Weick if it meant killing Dominic Ratanake.

  After a moment, Park shook his head, sighed and asked, “What do you want, Snowman?”

  “It’s not much of anything really,” Cameron replied, stiffening slightly at the mention of his father’s name. “It’ll be so easy for you to keep your family alive.”

  They both went quiet as the waitress came over. Cameron kept his head down as Park ordered two more Blue Moons. Dress shoes clicked by on the DC sidewalks, some in a hurry, most dragging their way home after work.

  “The Principal Deputy under Secretary for Benefits,” Cameron said after the waitress went back inside through the glass doors, covered with stuck-on posters of local shitty indie bands.

  “What about it?” Park hissed. “The VBA? It’s vacant right now.”

  “I know,” Cameron replied. “I need the name of who’s filling that position.”

  “Probably Hoagland.”

  “Not Hoagland.”

  “Well, how the hell am I supposed to find that out? They are a completely separate branch.”

  “Both federal. You’ve got people over there.”

  “No, I really don’t, Cameron.”

  “Talk to HR,” Cameron said, leaning back slightly. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

  “How about you figure it the fuck out?” Park growled.

  Sighing, Cameron fished his phone out of his pocket with one hand. He already had it open to the photo because he knew that Park wasn’t going to just bend over and submit so easily. The phone slid against the iron top of the table, the back of it scraping, the screen shining with the face of Park’s smiling wife. It was from the other side of their living room window, her with her hand over her quite-pregnant stomach. Sometimes, threats needed to be tangible for people as dense as Park to grasp them.

  Looking down at the screen, Park took a sharp breath
through his teeth, quickly putting his hand over the top of it as the waitress came and dropped off their beers. She did hesitate at the tension between them.

  She even felt the need to make a comment. “Everything okay here?”

  “Yup,” Cameron said.

  “Fine,” Park relayed.

  As they both watched the waitress teeter away, Cameron got another rush of nostalgia, but this time not for his agent days but for his home—Atlanta. The streets in DC were blank and white and government. Atlanta, at least, had flavor. The waitresses didn’t care what you got up to on the patios in Midtown.

  “Fine,” Park repeated.

  “Good.” Cameron relaxed the gun against Park’s hard stomach. “It’s just a name, Park.”

  “You gonna use it to bomb another funeral?” he hissed, glaring across the table, throwing back half of his beer in one sip. The beer giving him some type of confidence, he slammed it down and continued. “They are after you, Cameron. You, that Polish guy…. the Redders—”

  “Readers.”

  “Whatever. You’d better think about how you’re spending your time and where you’re spending your time because you’ve only got a little left before everything around you is concrete and iron bars.”

  Cameron laughed.

  “Here’s the thing, Park,” Cameron whispered, taking the other beer in his hand. The condensation was cool against the heat of his palm. “I don’t care if I go to jail. I don’t care if I die for this because at least I know that what I’m doing isn’t playing into the hands of some old fucking white dude, sitting at a desk, funneling his money into everyone except to the people that need it. That’s the same guy that decides to send off our brothers, sons and sisters to die in his pointless missions for oil and nuclear warheads. He knows they’re gonna die. Do you think he cares about you and me? If we die, if you die, tracking down an international terrorist group that’s trying to reform the system that he built. No. He doesn’t give a shit. You know what he cares about? His golf clubs, his side chicks, his vacation house in Costa Rica. All they care about is money. And all I care about is watching his bills burn.”

  In two movements, he finished the beer in his hand and tossed it into the metal garbage can next to him. Then, Cameron grabbed his phone from the table, stuck the gun back in his pocket, tipped his too-small sunhat in Park’s direction and took off down the sidewalk, away from all the nostalgia and the remnants of who he once was.

  Chapter 4

  Diana Weick

  Seoul, South Korea

  Diana had been to Seoul once before. But as a young SEAL, she’d spent almost all of her time at the Yongsan military base and closer to the demilitarized zone up north. Walking through Gangnam more than a decade later, she was able to finally appreciate the city. The skyscrapers had grown and the people had diversified, but Seoul had that perfect mix of traditional and economics—a city of 10 million that could feel like a city of a thousand in one neighborhood and of a billion in another.

  Gangnam felt like it was one of those cities of billions, especially in the early hours of the night as young people and businessmen searched for the trendiest place to eat.

  Diana still didn’t know who the Readers were after, but she knew where they were headed.

  She set up her stakeout across the street from the cocktail bar, JangSen. At the front of the convenience store, there were low plastic tables, empty bottles of green glass scattered around the surface, reflecting off the neon lights and flashing restaurant signs on all sides. Diana adjusted the long brown wig against her forehead as she sat down on the squat chair and waited.

  A variety of people went in and out of JangSen. Mostly, young people and the occasional tired businessman popping in for an overpriced drink before dipping out to meet his coworkers for more drink and food that would take him all the way into the next morning.

  It was about an hour before Zabójca turned on to Diana’s street. His bald head was covered by a newspaper boy hat and a long thin coat was buttoned up around his tall body. He was pretty unabashed for a wanted terrorist—he knew no one could touch him. Not here.

  He took a seat up at the bar after a short wait, his sharp elbows spreading out along the countertop.

  It took more than a moment for Diana to notice David though. She didn’t know how long he had been standing there, pressed up against the alley between two buildings on the opposite side of the street, waiting for their target.

  None of them had to wait long because as soon as Diana saw the man turn the corner—she knew who the Readers were after. She knew him. Not personally, but through reputation. He had been Ratanake’s most recent boss. It was hard to keep track of military personnel that high up because they were always switching positions and giving themselves promotions.

  Major General Hoagland—and, as Yoonah had predicted, there was a woman hanging off his arm, a beautiful Korean woman who was much too young for him. Seemed about his speed, for what Diana had heard of him; a scummy general with a love for every woman except his wife and a knack for talking himself out of scandals.

  They took a seat at a table by the window. Zabójca peered over his shoulder at the couple, muttering something into what Diana assumed was an earpiece because she saw David’s lips move a few moments later.

  She didn’t have resources or funding. Even the wig was cheap, brown hairs shedding off onto the table in front of her. Diana didn’t have backup or a team behind her. She was completely and entirely alone. Once, that would have made her nervous. But now? It was the only way she could imagine herself taking down the bastards who had murdered her family along with a hundred and ten others.

  There was a glint of something glass, Zabójca removing something from his pocket, David straightening his jacket. From what she could gather, this was meant to be a slick murder-and-out, likely poison. David was the distraction.

  Diana stumbled her way across the street, pretending to be drunk, filtering her way through the foot traffic.

  As soon as David made to round the corner, she grabbed the scruff of his jacket, tossing him into the alley and shoving him against the wall. The brown wig was sticking to her skin, getting in her mouth. She tossed it off, throwing it as far down the alley as she could.

  The road down here was uneven cobblestone, certainly not hidden, a well-traveled path between two side streets.

  Diana pushed the pistol into David’s stomach.

  “Weick,” David managed as Diana punched him in the throat. He croaked, leaning forward as she plucked the earpiece from his head, throwing it down the alley with her wig.

  But that meant both she and Zabójca had limited time—him to complete his plan without his backup and distraction, and her to kill the both of them.

  “Good to see ya, hen,” he said.

  Diana moved her finger to the trigger.

  David brought both of his hands down, slamming them onto the pistol, knocking it from her grip. The gun fell between their feet. As he moved to his pockets, Diana grabbed him by the neck. He easily knocked her arm down, grabbing a pistol from his jacket.

  She clamped her palm down onto his wrist, twisting it. At the same time, she kneed him as hard as she could in the stomach. David was shorter than her but muscular and broad—she didn’t win this fight on strength alone. Bending forward and coughing, his wrist still in her grip, his fingers began to loosen lightly. With her other hand, Diana bashed his widening grip, knocking the pistol to the ground. It slid up against one of the metal garbage cans at the end of the alley.

  David pulled his wrist out of her hand and clocked her in the face twice. Reeling and almost-certainly partially concussed, Diana stumbled backward, slipping on the edge of the pistol by her feet but rallying her posture into a defensive position.

  “Fucking bitch,” David hissed as he kicked the pistol by his feet, sending it flying down the alleyway, the sound of metal scraping and bouncing along the cobblestone underneath the music of the street-level restaurants and drunk pat
rons on the other side of the wall.

  With three quick strides, he made for the gun by the garbage can, bending down to grab it.

  Diana bounded forward, clutching the back of his neck and banging his forehead against the metal garbage can. There was a moment. David, temporarily stunned. With two uppercuts, she punched him once in the stomach and then again in the head. He teetered backward, leaning himself against the side of the building.

  Diana kept her guard up, staying back and evasive, considering going for the gun but deciding that getting within his grapple range wasn’t worth it.

  “Come on,” Diana egged him on, blood dripping from her nose.

  A beastly growl ripped out of David’s throat as he hurled himself across the alley. Diana ducked out of the way, letting him fly past then grabbing him from behind again, throwing his head against the brick side of the building.

  David fell to the ground onto his ass with a sturdy, dazed thunk.

  As soon as he was flat to the cobblestone, Diana stuck both legs under his arms, tucking and pressing them on the inside of his thighs. With her arms, she wrapped one bicep under his neck and the other holding his head, putting him into the rear naked choke.

  David struggled against her grip, gasping for breath.

  There was a young couple, arms looped into one another, making their way to the alley. They saw the scene in front of them and quickly walked in the other direction.

  “No wonder they kicked you out of the troops,” Diana muttered in David’s ear. “You don’t have much going for you without a gun in your hand.”

  There were a few angry, mangled gurgles from David as she solidified her grip.

  On the other side of the wall, there were the sounds of an argument. Not like the one going on in the alley though—it was screaming and confusion.

  Then, Zabójca appeared.

  It was two against one. Diana had no gun, and she couldn’t hold David in this grasp forever.

  “You certainly have a knack for showing up when it’s most inconvenient,” Zabójca said, smiling slightly.