Alicia slapped the side of his head. “Animal.”
“What? I’m just worried about you, darling.”
“Seriously though,” Hayden said, “we don’t have long. Someone’s gonna make a call if they haven’t already. Check your guns, your ammo, your jackets. Let’s just take two minutes to prep for the next fifteen blocks.”
Drake dropped his gun on the table, ignoring the looks of everyone around. For the most part everyone that noticed them took a brief glance and then sent their eyes back to where they’d been glued before.
“It’s perfect,” Dahl said. “We’re invisible.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Five quiet minutes passed.
Drake organized himself and his weaponry. Hayden checked Google Maps, finding out exactly where they were. Kinimaka made sure Kovalenko was re-tied.
“Your men aren’t coming for you,” the Hawaiian said. “They quit when you got caught. Hear me? It’s just the old Russians coming for you now.”
“My men are loyal,” Kovalenko said. “I know what you think, but they’re not all coerced. Some will be coming for me.”
“You gonna let that nuke blow?”
“It’s always been the plan.”
The Blood King’s response was so callous, so void of emotion, it gave Drake the first real pangs of dread. So far, he’d been relatively upbeat about all this. They’d captured the Blood King. Turned the tables on him. Killed men he needed. They were close to the fourth nuke. But hearing a criminal mastermind admit to being prepared to end thousands of lives brought this living nightmare into perspective. It was seeing the nightmare right there, before your eyes, in real life, and knowing that it wasn’t going away no matter how many times you pinched yourself.
“You’d do that?” Dahl asked.
“If I see the Army on the streets,” Kovalenko said. “If I see Special Forces or anyone other than normal cops then I’ll blow the nuke.”
“Time to move,” Hayden said.
They weren’t fast enough. Somebody watching had already given them away. Drake knew it could be any one of 100, but blamed the doorman when men wearing civilian clothes and carrying weapons burst into the strip club through the same door through which they’d entered.
This time though, they didn’t open fire.
Drake saw Kovalenko’s smirk and assumed they were his men. He acted quickly, dragging the Blood King to the front of the stage, and waited.
“Stand down!” he shouted. “Walk away or the bell end dies!”
Some slowed. Others probably didn’t understand English, or particularly Yorkshire. They kept coming through the tables. Many pulled out knives as they closed the gap.
Alicia sprinted for the stage, Cam with her, to spread the group. Dahl and Luther jumped up on tables, guns raised in warning.
“Back off, last warning!”
Kovalenko’s men didn’t slow. Hayden and the others spread out. A man leapt at Kenzie, landing on a table then throwing himself down at her. She caught him and sent him on his way so that he crashed among the tables behind her.
Another slid under a table, rising straight up into Molokai’s hammer blow and collapsing as though he were dead. Mai and Luther jumped at more approaching men, knocking them askew. Mai threw elbows and fists, kicking out at every turn. She sent men to the ground faster than Luther; men with broken bones, bloodied eyes and missing teeth.
Alicia waited on stage as three men attacked her. She let them jump up and then kicked out to their chests, sending them crashing among the tables and patrons below. People were running everywhere, trying to find a way out. Bouncers and bar staff were trying to stand up to the attackers, sensing that the place they worked was about to get smashed to bits and, come tomorrow, they’d be out of a job.
A man landed beside Alicia and smashed her in the face with a gun. She staggered to the left. Cam looked over but fell when a man rushed the stage and grabbed his legs, unbalancing him. Alicia gut-punched her attacker, spun him around, and kicked him back to the floor below.
Three more men leapt at her.
Cam was up and ready to fight. This was his jungle. He’d already thrown his gun to the ground and squared up to the three men, bare knuckles raised. They leered and attacked, two thrusting with knives. Cam punched the first in the bicep, the pure force of the blow deadening the muscle so that he dropped the knife. He punched the second a hard jab across the jaw that broke bone. The third slowed warily, which was his undoing. With time to spare, Cam stepped in with three cross and jab punches and then a right hook that rendered him unconscious. Alicia wasn’t surprised. She had seen Cam fight before. He’d grown up fighting among the best gypsy boxers of his time. She’d yet to see anyone throw a harder punch, younger or older.
Alicia staggered as a blow landed across her back. Someone had crept in backstage. She steadied herself and glanced over her shoulder. There were two back there, even now squinting down onto the club’s main floor so they could identify Kovalenko’s figure in the chaos.
We can’t let them rescue Kovalenko. Not with that nuke still active.
They didn’t know where it was.
Alicia raised her gun and shot one man in the chest. The other struck at her, a lucky blow that deflected into her throat. Instant pain clouded her vision. She brought a hand up, gagging. She fired. The man wasn’t there; he’d stepped to her right. He punched down at her face, at her skull. Alicia rolled away to buy time. She sensed him over her, looked up to see the knife clasped in his right hand.
Before he could plunge it into the top of her head, a figure flashed past her eyes. The figure crashed into Alicia’s attacker, forcing him to stumble and lose the knife. Alicia focused, seeing that one of the strippers had saved her by distracting and disarming the man. She sat back, aimed, and shot him in the chest.
“Th . . . thanks . . .” she said to the stripper, barely able to speak.
“Not for you. This is my livelihood.”
Alicia nodded. Cam came up to her. She turned around and looked to the floor of the club. It was a mess out there. Patrons were trapped under tables or trying to squeeze by knots of fighters. Bar staff smashed bottles over anyone that looked like an aggressor—from Hayden to Kovalenko to the newcomers.
Her team were winning, only using guns where they needed to. Kovalenko’s men were becoming more desperate, especially when their leader started to shout and curse at them. Strippers and bouncers were in the thick of it too, one jumping onto Drake’s back and trying to drag him to the floor, another tackling Luther around the waist.
Alicia leapt off the stage and waded in to help.
By the time she got there, Kovalenko’s men had been whittled down to less than ten. Drake and the others were fighting as many club staff as they were enemies. Hayden’s voice came through the comms.
“Retreat,” she gasped. “Back exit.”
“We came through the bloody back exit,” Alicia said helpfully.
“Well, front fucking exit then.”
They pulled away from the fight, backing off. Alicia plucked a half-naked stripper off Drake’s back and set her on her feet, eyeing the Yorkshireman.
“What? She was too strong for you to throw off?”
“Didn’t want to hurt her,” Drake said gruffly, and Alicia knew it was true. The team made space for themselves, making Kovalenko prominent in their midst and firing on any of his men who were foolish enough to continue their attack.
Hayden opened a door in the side wall and pushed through. Alicia found herself in a changing room, with mostly women and a few men half-hidden behind chairs and coat racks. They passed through quickly, coming to an empty shower area and then another door and another passage.
They passed two more doors and a wide entrance hall before approaching a much larger lobby than the one at the back. Nobody was around. Drake peered through glass doors into a rain-sodden street.
“We still pushing forward alone?” he asked.
Hayden nodded. “F
or now. I can’t see any other way.”
“We call Coburn,” Drake said. “That’s what we do next.”
Hayden nodded. “Good idea, Matt. As soon as we get clear. As soon as we know we’re not being followed.”
They pushed out into the overcast New York street, seeing the usefulness of keeping their weapons hidden. They couldn’t hide their flak jackets, but black was just black in the murky weather. Kinimaka grabbed Kovalenko and marched him at their center. For two minutes they walked steadily along the street. Nobody glanced at them. No one noticed them.
Then a cab slowed. Its driver grabbed a cellphone. A man across the street jerked his head around at them, clearly a lookout.
“Eyes everywhere,” Dahl said. “We can’t use the street.”
“We’re on 39th Street. Fourteen blocks from the nuke,” Hayden said. “We could run it.”
Kovalenko shook his head. “I guarantee my enemies have 200 men between you and the nuke.”
“Then what?” Mai said. “Where can we go?”
Drake gestured discreetly to a building on the far side of the road. It had several entrances and even more in alleys running alongside.
“There’s always the pub,” he said with a smile.
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
Alicia was hurting. She’d not fully recovered from the Sea Rats mission before being thrust into a Manila galleon treasure hunt and then this—the hardest op of them all. Her body ached. Her bloody bones ached. She knew that her energy was sapped and that she could only go so far on pure adrenalin before mistakes set in.
With that in mind, she had decided to back off for today.
No leading the pack. No hard decision making. She couldn’t do her teammates justice. And, of course, there was Cam to think about.
She stood beside him now in the pouring rain, worried. He wasn’t trained for this. His head had to be whirling, his mental state dubious after witnessing the murder of his lifelong friend and sister. Chasing through the streets of New York in search of a ticking nuke might well distract him from his own woes, but it couldn’t be doing much for his state of mind.
But short of leaving him behind in a Starbucks with twenty dollars of pocket change, she couldn’t envisage any other scenario.
She imagined that once today was done, they would talk. Discuss his future. Now though, with water running down her face and neck, with bullet impacts throbbing beneath her Kevlar vest, with blood in her hair and a battered HK semi-auto in her hand, she was finding it hard to envision tomorrow.
“How are you, Cam?” she asked, her voice soft.
“It feels like a dream.”
Alicia’s eyes were fixed on the pub across the street and had to agree. “Looks warm and inviting.”
“I meant this morning. I meant the shit you people get yourselves into.”
Alicia shrugged. “It’s the job. We do this so other people can live their lives in peace. We protect the picket fence so that they can live inside it.”
Cam thought about that. “You never achieve it yourself?”
“Not in the way they do. We’ve seen a different world. One that you can never unsee.”
“I get that,” Cam said. “But how do you do it week after week?”
Alicia indicated her team. “Family,” she said. “It’s all you really need.”
Cam looked away. Alicia realized she’d hit a nerve and cursed herself. “Me and my mouth,” she said.
“Don’t worry. I know how you meant it.”
She nodded, flicking rain from her face. They were standing in shadow, in the lee of a triangular-shaped roof, halfway down an alley. They hadn’t moved in five minutes. They were watching the pub, the comings and goings, the passersby. The whole team was aware they needed a short break and time to call for help.
New York was under siege. Some people didn’t know. Others were watching what footage they could on small and large screens or searching for information on the internet. Most of the sensible ones were already inside.
Alicia waited for Hayden and Drake to make the decision. Two minutes later, they crossed the busy street in singles and pairs, hurrying but not running, concealing their weapons as best they could.
Alicia went near the end. By the time she walked through the door of the pub and into its warm interior she was soaked through. Still, body heat from fighting helped and the soft warm glow of the interior perked her spirits up a bit. She threaded her way through a clutter of scarred and sticky tables, following Luther, into a private room near the back.
Once there, the team sat down, laying their weapons before them. Hayden explained that she’d been able to rent the room because it was only normally used during the evening for functions and she’d handed over a pretty penny.
“Fifteen minutes,” she said. “Then, no matter what, we have to find that nuke.”
“One and a half hours to go,” Luther said. “Fourteen blocks to cover.”
It should be a simple task, but Alicia knew it would be one of the hardest of their lives. She comforted herself with the knowledge that they all still lived, but worried that keeping the Blood King as a prisoner might be just as volatile and deadly as setting him loose.
Hayden threw her HK down onto a table. “Next step anyone?”
Drake was eyeing the bar with its old beer pumps and licking his lips. “Well . . .”
“Seriously?” Hayden snapped. “There’s a nuke out there.”
“It’s a coping mechanism,” Drake said defensively. “We’ve all got them.”
“I know.” Hayden sighed. “I know, but . . . we’re in deep shit here.”
Kinimaka was watching Kovalenko. “You smile and you’re swallowing knuckles,” the Hawaiian said.
“How are your men keeping track of you?” Luther asked the Blood King.
“By watching the news is my guess. They know which vicinity we’re in, where we’re going. But not the exact location of the bomb.”
“And the Russian mob have eyes everywhere,” Drake said. “Including within the police force and God only knows where else. And we’ve been told to keep the army presence to a minimum. Our call list is limited.”
Hayden eyed him. “To be fair, it’s limited to one.”
He nodded as Alicia realized who they meant.
“Call him,” Drake said.
*
President Coburn was having his worst day in office since he’d been kidnapped by Luka Kovalenko in London and flown to Paris. The trauma of that day had faded; Coburn able to slough it off like a dead skin. Nevertheless, the one thing that shone through from those events and something he’d never forget, was the bravery shown by his family and the courage displayed by all those that had tried to save him.
Now, the Blood King was back. Coburn had been expecting something bad ever since he learned about the twenty low-yield nukes that madman had ordered assembled on Devil’s Island. But the day of reckoning always came too soon. It didn’t matter if it was election day, corporation tax day or judgment day—you were never fully prepared.
The President was seated in PEOC—the Presidential Emergency Operations Center—an underground bunker situated beneath the East Wing of the White House that functioned as a secure refuge and communications HQ for the President and his advisors during an emergency. The President sat at the head of a long, rectangular table. The Presidential seal was fixed on the wall to his right. In front, mounted at head height was an array of monitors. The room was well lit. The table and the walkway around it were hives of activity.
“Helicopter crash on 7th Avenue, south of Times Square,” an aide whispered in his ear. Coburn waved the man away. He was already watching it on CNN. He counted eighteen people sitting or standing before him, some with phones pressed to their ears, some tapping away on their laptops, and nobody could tell him exactly what the hell was going on or why Luka Kovalenko and the Strike Force team had dropped off the grid.
“Somebody give me something,” he snapped.
&nbs
p; “The crash is being reported as an accident,” one man said. “For now. To alleviate tension and prevent panic.”
“The people aren’t deaf,” someone else said. “They can hear what’s going on.”
“Of course, but they want to believe all is well. And those more savvy, well they’ve taken cover already.”
“Are people trying to leave New York?” the President asked. “What state are the bridges and roads in?”
“Some,” an aide replied. “And we’re letting them, but thankfully not all. Bridges and roads are gridlocked. The lack of information is stopping real panic but, frankly, every time there are reports of gunshots our ability to spin this thing gets harder.”
Coburn bit his lower lip at that statement. It was barely ethical.
“We know there’s another nuke,” an aide by the name of Angela Marchant said. “We know its radiation signature is concealed by a lead casing, same as the others. We know Strike Force One have or had Kovalenko. We know, from the dead bodies, that members of the Russian Mob and other organizations are targeting our team. Intelligence out of Russia says it’s the old Hard Line. Men that despise the Blood King organizing a coup.”
“A coup on the streets of New York with a nuke on countdown?” Coburn’s mouth was dry. “God help us all.”
“We’re putting pressure on the Russian president,” Marchant said. “But he can only go so far. These old politburo leaders are laws unto themselves. They control Russia’s criminal element in most countries. And Kovalenko, it seems, is their prime target now that he has surfaced and shown his hand.”
“I’d do anything to take Kovalenko down,” Coburn said. “But we can’t have war on the streets of our cities.”
“Of course, sir. The Army are heading toward the scene. They’re being choppered in. But we can’t evacuate New York. There isn’t time and the chaos it would cause . . .” Marchant shuddered. “The police remain our best bet.”
Another aide rose to his feet. Coburn recognized the man as Rod Brooks, a useful aide specializing in police liaison.
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