Threat Level: Red by David Leadbeater

Author:David Leadbeater [Leadbeater, David]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2014-03-31T07:00:00+00:00

31

Trent wasted no time jumping on the I-10 and aiming the Porsche toward the Pacific. The small dashboard clock situated under the windscreen ticked the minutes away at an alarming rate. Carving his way through the brake lights, Trent found himself muscling toward another imposing red light—that of the setting sun, which had just started to spread its fiery wings across the far horizon.

But the dusk would not set on this day. Not whilst Mikey was in harm’s way.

Trent flicked and coerced the vehicle with every ounce of his skill, coming within inches of causing several fender benders and twice clipping wing mirrors. A black Mercedes tried to block him, trying to impress him with its power, but Trent remained underwhelmed. Another minute ticked by, forever lost. He buried the gas pedal through the floor, and when the Mercedes slowed he simply tapped its rear. The driver panicked, swerving across three empty lanes and let Trent through. Obscene gestures filled his rearview, but his attention was focused on only one thing.

Santa Monica lay up ahead. Trent dropped down onto Olympic then threw the vehicle up Lincoln. He stamped on the brakes as a man carrying a briefcase and sipping from a takeaway coffee cup sauntered across the road without looking. Gray smoke billowed from the tires. To its credit the car didn’t swerve. The man didn’t even look up as burning smoke enveloped him. Trent squealed off again, throwing the car around a dawdler’s Chrysler and ignoring the prerequisite honk of disapproval.

Be safe, Mikey. Be safe, little man.

Trent eyed the clock. Colorado led straight to the Pier, where the Moose’s third man awaited. As he approached, Trent was suddenly grateful for the obvious eccentricities of the Moose’s go-betweens. This next one was clearly the Tiger. He was dressed, head to toe, in a rare tiger onesie, even to the hood with sewn-on teeth and pointy ears.

Trent aimed straight for him. The clock ticked. Two minutes left. One hundred and twenty seconds.

Tick, tick.

The Tiger fiddled with his phone, face eager. What is it with these people? Do they get some kind of bonus if they place the call?

Trent rounded a badly parked vehicle, his mind elsewhere. The clues so far were baffling, but he’d expected nothing less. A map of Los Angeles and a strangely coded number. What do they mean? What the hell will the Tiger contribute to the jumble?

The traffic was thick along Ocean. Trent forced his way through, using the Tiger’s orange and black onesie as a target, and came to a stop with the bastard’s protruding belly almost touching the front of the car, right at the entrance to the Pier. The enormous entrance arch towered over him, the dotted palm trees waving without a care in the world. The wide, calming expanse of the Pacific lay beyond that but Trent barely noticed. The Tiger leered at him. If he’d been able to staple those ridiculous ears to the front fender somehow he would have.

Trent jumped out,

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