Drake sighed. “He’s definitely reverted to his old self.”
Alicia nodded. “Yep, that is one horny bastard. I think I’m gonna start calling him: The Love Grenade.”
Drake grimaced as Dahl wrenched the door off its inner hinges, exposing a hole twice the size of a man.
The Swede produced a flashlight and shone it inside. “Looks good.”
“Maybe, but where the hell does it lead?” Luther asked.
“I know exactly where it leads,” Hayden said. “To the place that’s below us.”
Drake recalled after a moment. “Pennsylvania Station. That’s perfect.”
Dahl climbed inside, his boots clanging on the metal shaft. Drake shouted to Kenzie and Mai to give them two more minutes of cover. They were careful with their ammo, they had plenty but were aware they were a long way from finishing this yet.
Alicia followed Dahl into the shaft then Kinimaka prodded Kovalenko inside. Hayden followed. Drake signaled to Luther, Cam and Molokai to go next and waited for a few seconds.
“Now,” he hissed at Mai.
The Japanese woman spun and ran past him. Kenzie flew by next. Drake fired several shots to hold the cops back then dropped a smoke grenade on the floor.
“Stay here,” he shouted. “I don’t know who’s paying you, but they’re not worth dying for.”
He turned and ran. As the grenade’s smoke billowed, he threw an explosive grenade too. If their attackers didn’t follow, they wouldn’t get hurt. Drake threw himself into the shaft a moment before the grenade exploded. Screams rang out. He ran bent almost double, his spine touching the top of the shaft. It was made of shiny metal and appeared to be a service shaft, running from the station below to the arena’s basement. Quickly, he caught up to Mai.
The shaft started to slope down at a sharp angle.
Drake held onto the sides of the shaft, praying it wouldn’t get any steeper. He heard no movement from behind. He guessed about three minutes had passed between jumping into the shaft to reaching the bottom end.
The others were already pressed up against a louvered door.
“Take cover,” Dahl said and aimed his gun at the hinges.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
On the other side of the vent, Drake found himself in a narrow passage. To the right, at the far end, there was a door with a vision panel. Beyond that he saw several people passing by and the blur of a train arriving. To the left, the passage curved away.
“Into the station,” Kenzie said. “We can vanish.”
Hayden nodded. “And we can use the trains to travel all twenty blocks.”
They set off. Luther dug out his cellphone and googled the New York Subway map. If they were lucky, they could jump on the next train north; if they weren’t they’d have to find the right platform.
Thinking ahead, Drake made sure his handgun was properly holstered and the flak jacket pulled across it. There was no hiding the HK though, which he slung across his shoulders. There was no hiding their other weaponry too—grenades, spare ammo and knives among them. Kinimaka kept a tight hold of Kovalenko as they approached the door.
Dahl cracked it open and peered out before turning. “As we thought. Just a platform. You guys ready?”
There were several ayes. Drake enjoyed that. They filed out onto the platform, walking two abreast toward a central exit sign. There were a lot of people about, many of whom turned to stare. Hayden made a point of flashing an ID and shouting: “NYPD SWAT.”
It helped. Nobody screamed, but people did make a point of moving out of their way. Kovalenko was clearly a prisoner in their midst with his hands cuffed behind his back. Drake checked their rear but saw no signs of pursuit. Maybe the cops had all died back there. It was a sad thought no matter their proclivities. Perhaps they had been forced into making an attempt on Kovalenko’s life by some new player?
A usurper? Someone trying to take the Russian’s place?
Drake shoved the speculation away, compartmentalizing it. He dared not lose focus now. They were approaching the platform’s exit. A wide gap in the side wall led to a central walkway through which he could spy escalators jam-packed with people. It wouldn’t be an easy journey back to street level, but it shouldn’t be filled with danger either.
“How many blocks have we done so far?” Cam asked.
Alicia sighed. “None.”
“Ah, okay.”
Alicia wasn’t done. “To be fair, if we’re being truthful, you could say we’re on a minus, since we’re several stories lower than where we started.”
“Thanks for pointing that out,” Hayden said. “You can start moving faster any time you want to.”
At that moment there was a blast of wind and the rush of an arriving train. It sped past in a blur of force, windows flashing by as it came to a quick stop. People walked toward the edge of the platform.
The train stopped and the doors whooshed open.
“Shit,” Luther said. “We’re in trouble.”
Drake saw three doors filled with hard-faced men. They all looked like the proverbial thug, scarred, hard and emotionless. Immediately, he knew they weren’t mercs. They didn’t carry themselves like trained men. The men poured out of the doors, whipping their heads up and down the platform.
Drake assessed the situation. They wouldn’t make the escalators in time. If these goons were packing weaponry—and he had to believe they were—there was potential for utter chaos and carnage on the subway system.
“Attack,” he breathed, already moving.
His team sprang with him.
They ran at the enemy but didn’t open fire. Kinimaka stayed at the back with Kovalenko. Dahl smashed into one man before he’d been spotted, knocking him off his feet, and then careened into a second. Drake arrived seconds later.
“We want Kovalenko,” one of the newcomers grated. “Give him up and go.”
So everyone wanted the goddamn Blood King now. Drake would like nothing better than to kill the Russian and stop all the madness in its tracks, but the nuke prevented all that. Would these men listen to that kind of reasoning?
One with a face like hammered lead tried to headbutt him. Drake lowered his skull, allowing the man’s nose to break on the top of his head and then front-kicked him in the chest, sending him back against the train. The doors were still open. Civilians were caught crossing in and out, unsure where to go. Drake took on another opponent from the right, seeing the man draw a gun.
Bollocks.
Drake twisted the gun arm until it broke, then threw his opponent into another man. A shot rang out. Dahl batted the gun away from a bald-headed thug. Drake saw two of them break from the melee and dart toward Kinimaka.
“Just him,” another man grated in guttural tones. “Just Kovalenko.”
They could barely speak English, some of these men. Drake had heard a Russian accent before and knew these men hailed from that part of the world. Why the hell were Russians attacking Luka Kovalenko on the New York Subway?
It’ll only take one lucky shot and that nuke’s gonna be unstoppable.
He dreaded to think what would happen if the Blood King died.
Drake unslung his HK and shot both men dead. They collapsed face first on the ground, just four steps from Kinimaka. The big Hawaiian nodded and holstered his Glock.
“We have to get Kovalenko away from here.”
Drake nodded. He was aware. The thought of taking this chase out on to the streets of New York was alarming, but he couldn’t see any other way. Dahl shot another goon dead. More shots were ringing out and the train’s passengers were growing more and more hysterical.
Drake slid in close to Kovalenko. “Are these your men?”
“You know they’re not.”
“How should I know? One Russian criminal looks the same as any other to me.”
“It is my rivals. They are using this chance to get rid of me. To usurp me.”
“You’re sure of that?” Drake shot another goon heading their way.<
br />
“I am exposed,” Kovalenko admitted. “I knew that I would be, but it was the best way to draw you and Coburn into play. This isn’t how I expected things to turn out.”
Drake cursed. “Next time just invite us to a fucking party at your place. We’ll be there no problem.”
“There will be no next time.”
Drake ignored him, but couldn’t help wonder what else Kovalenko had planned. One thing was for certain—he hadn’t expected the party crashers.
“Come on.”
Drake grabbed Kovalenko and heaved the man to his feet. Kinimaka pushed him toward the escalators. A bullet flashed past. Drake whirled and killed the shooter at the same time as Molokai fired on him. Then, the whole team broke free of the battle, racing for the escalators.
Drake reached them first, pounding up two of the sharp metal stairs at a time. People cowered to the right, so Drake flew up the left-hand side, hauling Kovalenko along. Kinimaka was just behind with Mai and Alicia below him.
They pounded upward as fast as they could go. Still, Drake was only halfway up by the time their pursuers reached the bottom. With no option, Dahl and Kenzie fired down at them, striking chests and thighs, sending men sprawling, guns clattering away. Dahl was leaning out over the central part; Kenzie crouched at his side. Above them, Hayden also lent her fire.
Below, the goons scattered.
Drake neared the top of the long escalator, perturbed by its low groaning, shaking movements. Once he was clear, he saw a clear space bordered by turnstiles and then another wide area beyond that. Cops stood around; not the kind that chased you around Madison Square Garden but the kind that manned the subway’s byways.
Drake ran straight up to one, arms up, and flashed an ID. He shouted that they were transporting a prisoner, that they were being pursued. Of course, the cop already knew.
“I got ears and eyes, sir,” the cop drawled. “You gotta wait here.”
Drake sighed and turned away from the man before signaling Kinimaka.
“Hurry!”
The Strike Force team streamed over the top of the escalator, cleared the turnstiles and headed upward.
To the streets of New York.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Followed by a horde of unknown Russians, the team raced out of the subway station and into the drizzle-shod, dark-gray city streets.
Drake was thankful for the light rain cooling him down. It was still thirty minutes short of midday, but the skies were as dull as early evening, the sun barely a glimmer behind leaden clouds. The sidewalks and roads were full of civilians, of taxis, trucks and cars. The noise was tremendous, an onslaught of horns, hollering men and women, screeching brakes and splashing puddles. The general light was dim, but pockets of brightness shone everywhere from headlights to signage and neon logos, all vying for attention. Drake spun in the wet.
“Which way?”
“North,” Kovalenko said unhelpfully.
“I’ll tattoo north on your fucking nose if you say it again,” Alicia growled. “I really have no clue where we are.”
They’d been in New York before, not so long ago, when Dahl had defused a nuke in Central Park. But this was entirely different.
“Move!” Hayden shouted. “They’re coming fast.”
Drake ran along the sidewalk. He’d checked his military watch, which had a built-in compass, for directions. The first minute was easy going, but then the enormous task of getting eleven runners through crowds of unhelpful civilians became clear.
Drake decided he could either shoot into the air or take to the road. He chose the second option. The team spilled into the road, running at oncoming traffic. Kinimaka shoved a protesting Kovalenko before him, still close to the man. Again, Drake saw a heated exchange between them right there in the street.
But there was no chance to question it now. An oncoming car braked hard. Its rear wheels slewed. It skidded at an angle, very slowly, toward them. Drake sidestepped and ran on. The car came to a stop before it neared the others, who raced past. Behind, at the entrance to the subway, a group of Russians had gathered.
“These new enemies,” Drake shouted at Kovalenko as he jogged. “How many are there?”
“Up the eastern seaboard? Hundreds. Maybe thousands.”
Drake cringed. “You’re fucking kidding me.”
“If it is the old Russian families coming after me, which I believe it is, they have people everywhere. The mafia. The drug and gunrunning trade. The—”
“I get the idea. And how many men do you have?”
“At the last count in New York—over 100.”
Drake shook his head. “You see any of your men coming, you give me a shout.”
He knew it would never happen but felt better for saying it. Ahead, two cars parted to let them through, spray from their wheels coated his clothing as they sped by. A bus came next, swerving and upsetting traffic in every lane. Drake looked back.
The Russians had seen them and were in pursuit.
They ran, boots splashing through puddles, a light rain getting in their eyes. Horns sounded all around them. A gun was fired from their pursuers. Drake weaved between oncoming cars. Kinimaka pushed Kovalenko to and fro. They tried running near the gutter and occasionally on the sidewalk, but pedestrians, cyclists and other obstacles kept getting in their way.
More shots rang out. A bullet smashed the glass on a nearby bus stop, sending shards flying every which way. Men and women screamed and ducked. Another bullet flew overhead. Drake pulled Kovalenko closer to the ground.
“Keep running but stay low.”
A sedan screeched to a halt in front of them, its hood slewing to the left. Dahl didn’t hesitate, but jumped onto the hood, rose and fired back the way they had come with his HK on full-auto. Bullets riddled their pursuers, hitting their bodies and digging into the asphalt all around them. Men fell back and sprawled in puddles of water. Others dived for cover behind cars, trash cans and hot-dog stands.
Drake leapt over another car, sliding off the hood. Still they ran. They’d covered a block already. The Russians who’d come off the train were well thinned out but still numbered about a dozen or so. His own team was nicely bunched, utilizing obstacles to dash between and covering each other in classic one-two formations. The sidewalks were a mess of the shocked, the dripping wet, and the oblivious.
Drake darted along the center of the road. The white lines flashed before his eyes, uneven, the roadway bumpy and slick. A bus flew past, braking hard, giving them shelter for precious seconds.
“Those are not my men,” Kovalenko said out of the blue.
Drake spotted a bunch of men gathering on the opposite side of the road, at the top of the steps to another subway station. It looked like they were being pursued by city gangs using the public transport system to get around. Drake relayed it through the comms.
“We have to find shelter,” Kenzie said. “We’re too exposed.”
Not to mention the general public, Drake thought.
“Probably best to get off the street,” Dahl said with typical understatement. “We’re not making any friends out here.”
Drake kept running. He’d make a move as soon as he saw something useful. One of the big issues was the number of people moving around Manhattan at any given moment.
“I count eighteen new party crashers,” Kenzie said.
“That puts the enemy count around thirty,” Alicia said. “How many blocks have we covered?”
“One,” Cam said.
“Bollocks.”
Drake checked his timer. The seconds were being eaten away. Two hours ten minutes to detonation. On the left the newcomers had seen the chase and were shouting and waving their weapons as they came. One man ran smack into a car, rebounding back onto the sidewalk. Another slipped in a puddle and fell under a bus. The rest raced among traffic, smacking hoods and trunks, jumping around skidding cars, trying to outrun oncoming trucks. Drake put on a burst of speed.
“That’s another b
lock done,” Dahl said.
Headlights blinded Drake. At the last moment he leapt, jumped above a fender, came down on the hood and then leapt up the windshield. By the time the car stopped he was crouched on its roof. Kovalenko and Kinimaka were lying sprawled along the slick roadway to its left, the Hawaiian’s head just three inches from its back wheel.
Drake ran down the trunk, jumped to the floor and helped Kinimaka up. Kovalenko stood before them dirty and wet, his face bruised.
“Where the hell are your men?” Luther came up. “We could do with them taking some of these assholes out of the picture.”
Kovalenko pursed his lips. “Honestly, I’ve been wondering the same thing.”
They didn’t let up. They put their heads down and ran. The drizzle helped, obscuring them slightly from their attackers. They were four abreast, stopping traffic before it reached them with gestures and waving guns. Cars, buses and trucks skidded to all sides. One car struck the curb, another knocked over a newspaper kiosk. Doors were flung open, allowing people to leap out and run. Drake jumped into one of the still running cars, gunned the gas pedal and sent it flying down a short span of the road straight into the oncoming enemy. He leapt out before it hit, rolling, and then sprinted to catch up with the others. Behind him the car struck bodies and then metal; grinding, screeching and smashing.
An enormous building site appeared on the right. Drake saw cranes and hoarding, scaffolding and exposed construction worker elevators. A new development was being attached to an old building. He wondered if they might lose their pursuers among the construction chaos.
“See that to the right,” he said.
Hayden came straight back. “My thoughts too. If we can get through the hoardings, we can hug the side of the old building, come out on a parallel street.”
Drake saw her logic. The site was a mess, a jumble of concrete pillars, foundations, machinery and cabins. It offered a far better chance of escape than a dead straight New York thoroughfare.
“Do it,” Drake said.
“Ohh, a crane,” Dahl said.
Drake’s heart sank.
The Blood King Takedown Page 8