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.”