Chosen (The Chosen Few Trilogy #1) (3 page)

“
We don’t even know where she went. We
’
re left behind without a single clue.
”

Tears sprang from Lucy
’
s eyes.
“It was
because of
me,
”
she sobbed.
“
I drove her away. We had
…
we had an argument.
”

“
No,
”
I said gently.
“
Your mother loved you.
Loves
you. Christ
…”

“Did you make her go?
What did
you
do?
”

“
Nothing!
”
My denial was loud, as much through the shock of the question as its abruptness.
“
One day everything was fine, the next
…”
I spread my arms. On the TV I noticed they were interviewing Johnny
Trevochet
, a survivor of the Madison Square Garden tragedy, an old American soap opera star. A strange tingle travelled the length of my spine when I saw him, though at the time I had no idea why.

Then I said:
“
She
was a fine actor.
I
’
ll give her that.
”

Lucy looked at me through her tears and sniffed.
“
What do you mean?
”

“
If
something
was
wrong. If
I
did something wrong. I never knew.
”

She turned away.

“When we lost your mother
I wanted to give in. Remember?
I couldn’t think straight
.
But do you know what you’r
e doing now?” I put my hand
lightly over one of the bandages.

Lucy said nothing.

“Not winning,” I said
. “The only thing you
are
doing is pushing away the only parent you have left. The one who cares.”

I let that sink in for a moment, then said: “They could take you away from me, Luce.”

Raychel, I hate you for this.

A bewildered expression fell over
Lucy’s face
as if a thousand conflicting thoughts
hit
her all at once. It must have
c
aused a considerable amount of pain, but she leaned over and held her arms out to me.

“Dad, I’m sorry. Please don’t leave me.”

I took her
into my arms. “
I’m not going to leave you.
I want you to trust me, Luce.”

I hugged my daughter as tightly as I dared, and my eyes happened on the muted TV where a breaking news channel was flashing up new stories about more tragedies around the world. I closed my eyes against the horror, vowing to give Lucy all the time
she needed
.

I wasn’t going anywhere.

3

MIAMI, U.S.A.

Marian Cleaver bobbed and weaved around the heavy leather bag, then came up and punched into it with a powerful left, ro
cking it to the right. It
felt good tonight. The rhythm, the rock and the roll, the shuffle and the jab. Even the smells were right- stinging antiseptic mixed with fresh sweat, old sweat, and blood. It was all here tonight. Fear, determination, hope. And the old men sat
around
wa
tching, their rheumy eyes bri
g
ht
with
memories of younger
days. Cleaver
loved
it. These nights came around once, maybe twice a year.

It was after midnight. Earlier, he’d watched the tragedy unfolding at Madison Square Garden. Then he’d started wondering if it was the start of something more, something related to him, and his duty.

He’d felt the need to hit the leather. Hannigan, the old pro who ran this place, usually locked the door around eleven but let his guys train until they were spent. Cleaver dropped a shoulder and
pummeled
the bag once more, grinning as the thought struck him that only those who led seriously fucked-up lives would ever train and sweat at this time and place.

Marian Cleaver was a member of the celebrated HC Detective Agency. HC stood for Hector Clancy, the ex-marine in charge. Imaginative. But Cleaver was also one of the most capable field-operatives of a secretive Global
organization
called Aegis.

He heard his beeper go off. He
threw some
easy punches to cool
off. He stopped and stared
at the bag, breathing heavily, a tall solidly built man with day-old growth
springing from his
chiseled
features. He had a face that both men and women found dependable, and
a twinkle that could attract
females like waffles attract blueberries. Out on the street he was an enigma, a mix of reliability and violence.

In South Miami he was a legend.

Once an upcoming boxer, all controlled fire and natural skill, he had gone from ruling the ring to occupying his own prison cell in two easy hours. Young, fearless, and impetuous he had stolen a car. And, wanting to impress some friend who had faded away faster than his career, he had driven it fast.

He had collided with a boy. Josh Walker.

Cleaver killed that same boy every night in his dreams. When it g
ot too bad he came back
here, to
Hannnigan’s
. To take it out on the leather.

Through the y
ears he tried to make amends. H
e worked for a detective agency, helping where he could. And he worked for Aegis,
an organization that tried to remain anonymous whilst constantly
helping to save the world. If he could do more, he would.

He crossed over to the peeling window
-s
ill where he had left his
belongings. On the way
,
one of the old men caught his gaze. The man’s unforgiving glare seemed to say ‘
you lost it, kid. You had it all and you lost it all. Look at me- I never had nothing, but you could’a walked outta this place wearing gloves a’gold…
Cleaver tho
ught the old man was probably
thinking nothing of the sort, but gnawing guilt told him otherwise.

With a fumble he picked up his beeper. Its message
, from HC,
glowed electric green.

911. They never used 911.
Fuck!

No time for a shower or
even a change of clothes.
He headed for the exit and rolled his eyes at Hannigan, a battered old black guy, and one of the few men Cleaver would ever trust.

“The agency. I’m heading out.”

“Worked that back pretty good,
” Hann
igan’s voice was
a heavy whisper. “You come back any time you need it, Marian. Any time.”

Cleaver smiled. Hannigan was also the only person in the world Cleaver knew would never twist his first name into a form of mockery. Once outside he flipped open his phone
, hit speed dial, and
tucked it
under his ea
r
.

An agent answered. “Elliott.”

“
Clancy paged me.”

Clancy was the big boss, scornfully nicknamed Clanger outside the range of
listening equipment by those who knew
about
all
the big balls he’d dropped.

There was a short silence, a whir of machinery,
and then
Clanger
.
He sounded excited. “Cleaver? Great. Get out to South Beach. You know Liberty Avenue near the convention centre?”

“It’s after midnight
, sir, and technically my day off.”

“Who cares? Just go. Now.”

“After I shower and change-”

“No,”
Cleaver had rarely heard the sound of stress in Clanger’s voice. “You’ve always been chasing the
big one
, Cleaver. Well,
our
cases don’t come much bigger than this.”

Cleaver’s curiosity piqued. “So explain.”

“No time. Just get going. Gomez, Moore and Day have already left. You’ll be late but I want you on point. You’re my number one, Cleave old
boy;
did I ever tell you that?”

“Constantly,” Cleaver said, thinking
but only when you want the envelope pushed that little bit
furth
er, Clanger old boy.

Clancy
was still droning on. “D
on’t waste time setting up an O
C. Just call me back when you
g
et close. And listen
, d
on’t get emotional
on this one, just do it by the book.”

“I know my job, sir,” Cleaver wondered what the hell
that
was supposed to mean.
Don’t get emotional
?
He cleared his throat. “Who’s the client?”

“Tell you later. Oh, and Cleaver?”

“Sir?”

“This one’s definitely got your name on it.”

Cleaver scratched his chin as the old tingle passed through him. A long time ago, back when he was setting up his very own Rockford Files, a client ha
d set him up. Some
Latino scum-fucks had wanted to take out the man
who’d flat-lined their
dope operation
-
him
. So they’d hired Cleaver anon
ymously. Everything checked out, even when Cleaver met them. B
ut he’d been warned by that special tingle, that sixth sense. Fuck,
call it Spidey sense, he had it i
n abundance. Something he put down to his years of surviving in the boxing ring. Suffice to say that
the
above mentioned scum-fucks died screaming.

He felt that tingle now as he flipped the cell closed. To his knowledge HC had never sent more than one employee to any client.

The Liberty Avenue job warranted four.

As he neared ground zero Cleaver put his game face on. His cell rang. It was Clancy, speaking like
Schumacher
used to drive his Ferrari.

“Cleaver? You there yet?”

“Almost.”

“Listen up. You’ve got a houseful of hostages. All kids, ranging from ages eighteen to twenty. Sossamon’s made a few enquiries and he says there was some kind of frat party going on. Probably a damn orgy. You with me so far?”

“All the way,” but Cleaver thought:
kids?

“Right,” Clanger rushed on. “Best case scenario- Jesus,
thirty kids.
But here’s the kicker. Miami PD says there’s only a single hostage-taker. Heat sig’ and a couple of sightings seem to confirm what they’re saying.”

“I don’t get this. Who’s the client?”

“The kids have all been forced to huddle up against a wall, and our bad guy, who is actually a bad
woman
, is sat in a Lazee-Boy, feet up, watching them.”

Cleaver was silent for a moment, thinking:
you didn’t answer my question. Again.

Something was warped right out of shape here.

Eye on the bag,
Hannigan used to say.
And always on the sweet spot. Never lose your focus on that damned sweet spot.

He focused now.

“Do MDPD have shooters on her?”

“Sure. But they
can’t
tell what she’s hiding, if anything.”

Cleaver frowned as he swung the car around a sharp left. Clanger was right. The woman could have a major weapon. Even a bomb.

“Could some of the hostage-takers be mixed up among the kids?”

“Don’t rule it out.”

“I’m guessing there’s been no negotiations, no contact.” He used his ID to weave through stalled traffic and pull into a mini-mall parking lot. He sniffed at his armpits, got a whiff of stale sweat, shrugged and exited the car. He breathed in the warm night air and started to make his way towards the scene, cell tucked under his chin.

“What?” Clanger’s voice faded in and out.

Half a dozen radio units were strewn haphazardly in front of a length of crime
-
scene tape, their bubbles painting the surrounding buildings in lurid red flashes. Cleaver raised his voice. “I asked if there’d been any
contact.
”