Mai was down on her knees at his side. “Please.” She took the attendant’s head in her hands and locked eyes. “Help us.”
The attendant nodded, blood flying from his wound. Smyth cheered. “Good ole Maggie.”
Drake made a disgruntled noise. “Is there anything you can’t make men do?”
Mai smiled sweetly. “Not that I’ve found so far.”
“Drake!” Dahl cried out. “What the hell do you want him to do?”
The roar of engines was very loud now, and Drake could see two black boxy shapes and a bright orange wedge coming toward them through his peripheral vision.
“Keys,” he almost begged the attendant. “To the cars outside the hotel. We need them now or we’re gonna lose these guys.”
The attendant blanched. “I can’t. We should wait for the police.”
“The police aren’t equipped for war in the streets,” Drake yelled. “Not at this moment, anyway. We are.”
“I . . . I’m sorry. I can’t. It’s more than my job’s worth.”
The first black shape, a Range Rover equipped with smoked glass, roared up. A gun poked through a partially open rear window. The first shot passed by with a whine, the second kicked up shards where Smyth had been standing a moment before. Drake grabbed the attendant and rolled behind the nearest car, Mai at his side.
“Keys,” he said softly as more shots rang out and engines roared.
The attendant pointed quickly at a metal box attached to the nearby wall. “Tagged seven and twelve. Seven’s the Jag. I couldn’t stop you.”
Drake jumped to his feet. Dahl stared down at the parking assistant, clearly worried. “Don’t worry, the blood and bruises should help you explain how all these cars got stolen at once.”
Smyth hesitated as they started to run. “You think it would help if we hit the guy again?”
“No!”
Outside, Drake rolled fast as a second Range Rover shot past him. Mai and the others were trapped on the other side but quickly scooted across as it bounced up the slope. Drake stopped rolling, hit a curb with a grunt and climbed to his feet. A third vehicle, this one accompanied by a roar louder than Satan’s own personal steam vent, raced toward the exit. Drake sprinted up a patch of grass, keys in hand.
“Dahl,” he shouted, flinging a set of keys. “The Mercedes is yours. Try to keep up.”
The Swede grumbled, “I’d prefer the Jag.”
“Are you kidding?” Drake shouted back at full sprint. “We’re chasing a group of fully armed killers through London with God knows how many lives at stake and you’re complaining about the car you get to drive?”
“The Jag’s . . . better.”
“I know.” Drake grinned. “That’s why I’m driving it.”
They broke for the cars, Drake and Mai climbing into the white F-type as Dahl and Smyth reached the garishly yellow SLS. Drake clamped his foot down on the brake and pressed the Jaguar’s start button, listening as the potent engine screamed to life.
“Wow,” he said a little dreamily. “That’s a helluva V8.”
“Just drive!” Mai cried. “There’s no time!”
Drake jammed the accelerator to the floor and squealed into the road. Up ahead he could still see their quarry, still hear the echo and rumble of their mighty engines.
“Race is on now,” he said as Dahl’s Mercedes fishtailed into the road behind him.
The streets echoed with thunder and gunfire.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Drake powered the Jaguar up the narrow street, using the bronze paddles located behind the steering wheel rather than the automatic gearbox. When driving this fast he liked to at least feel he was in control. Parked cars flew by to either side, so close he clipped a side mirror.
“Matt,” Mai warned.
“The guy was parked at a bloody silly angle!”
Dahl roared up behind him, almost a challenge. Drake flicked the minus sign on his paddle, shifting down; then streaked away, taking the revs to the red line before flicking up to third. He swung the F-type around a corner as the tailpipe popped and crackled. Dahl was already closing. Ahead, the orange blur came into focus as it was held up by the two bulky Range Rovers.
“What the hell is that thing?” Mai squinted.
“Aventador,” Drake said. “By Lamborghini.”
Mai held on as Drake drifted the F-type around the sharp corner that brought them onto the multi-laned road at Marble Arch. “Is it faster than ours?”
Drake coughed. “Like you wouldn’t believe.”
“How on earth can these mercs afford such expensive cars?”
Drake thought about it. “Maybe on the Pythians’ dime? Maybe they just stole ‘em. And you can rent a supercar for about a grand a day.”
“Oh, is that all?”
Drake propelled the car around Marble Arch, the back-end fishtailing happily as it gripped tarmac just at the top end of Oxford Street and surged toward Park Lane. Dahl came alongside in the SLS Mercedes, its engine louder than anything Drake could have imagined. And now behind the Swede he spotted Hayden and Kinimaka behind the wheel of a cobalt blue Aston Martin DB9.
“Bond’s back,” Drake said with a smile. “And about bloody time.”
Ahead, due to the lack of traffic so early in London, their enemies pushed on. Drake imagined they would certainly try to lose them, and since the SPEAR team had no clue as to the whereabouts of the plague pit they were heading for, this, their only lead, had to pay off at all costs.
The cars flashed toward Park Lane. A pedestrian, out on this cold morning, whipped his head around, mouth open in amazement. The bleach white Marriott Hotel zoomed past, and another building covered in scaffolding and protective wrap. Drake raced up to the back of the Aventador, pulling out into the next lane. The Lamborghini swerved to cut him off and an arm thrust out of its passenger window.
“Gun!” Mai shouted.
Drake hauled on the brakes. Dahl’s yellow Mercedes shot by, tires squealing as he swerved out of the path of the bullet. White smoke plumed into the air. The SLS went broadside for a second but then Dahl managed to wrestle it back into shape. A bullet smashed into its lower bodywork. Hayden’s Aston kept its distance.
The Lamborghini again squealed away, smoke emitting from under its tires, drifting up toward the lines of overhanging trees. Park Lane switched from three lanes to four. Drake pulled the shift-paddles once more, quickly revving and switching the Jag through two howling gear changes, reaching fourth in just a few seconds. Even the Lamborghini wasn’t getting away, and the Range Rovers were somewhat slower. The vehicle’s speed and instant response was violent, pinning Drake and Mai back into their seats.
Down Park Lane they raced, the famous Forstner car showroom zipping by. Without warning the three mercenary vehicles swung sharp left. Drake reacted instantly but still only just managed to make the turn, burning rubber.
Mai lost her grip on the leather covered door handle, the seat belt just stopping her from ending up in his lap.
Drake spotted the big red ‘C’ painted on the road. “Bloody hell! We’re heading into a congestion charge area.”
“You’re worried about that? Really?”
“I’m a taxpayer. Of course the congestion charge worries me.”
Drake threaded the needle between a parked lorry with orange lights across the top of its cab and an overloaded skip with a plastic-wrapped pallet sitting next to it. Plaster puffed in his wake, making it harder for Dahl to see. More buildings obscured by scaffolding stuck out like eyesores to either side.
“Guess the recession’s well and truly over.” Drake hadn’t yet seen a city street where some kind of work wasn’t being carried out.
“Just concentrate.” Mai was focused ahead. “Drive.”
The Lamborghini veered right, a harsh maneuver that made its back end drift. Drake stamped on the brakes in anticipation. As he did so the driver of the orange supercar aimed a gun out of his own window.
“Oh, bollocks
!”
The merc only managed one shot due to speed and velocity but that shot was stupidly accurate. It smashed into Drake’s side mirror, breaking it and sending it through his side window. Grimly, he hung on, covered in glass and plastic, hair whipped by the sudden gust of wind.
“Unholster your gun,” he said. “But don’t fire unless you’re doubly sure nobody’s around.”
“At 4:30 a.m.?” Mai took her weapon out. “Even the Tower’s ghosts will be asleep.”
Drake flicked the F-type to the right again, heading back toward Park Lane by the side of the Aston Martin showroom. At the top end a line of trees marked the road. Two Range Rovers and four supercars roared past the corner, wheels scrabbling for purchase, engines roaring like angry monsters, smoke streaming and trailing around them in swirling plumes. The Grosvenor was next, its black painted sign flashing past, its doorman staring after them and shaking his head.
“Seen it all,” Mai commented.
Drake nodded. “Park Lane ain’t no stranger to the supercar prowl or odd race,” he said. “Try walking down here at the weekend.”
Flags flashed by, fluttering, clinging to the sides of the hotel. The Dorchester with its wide curved frontage came next just before a set of lights turned to red. The mercs completely ignored the signal, ploughing through. Drake saw a black taxi ambling up toward the crossroads and floored it.
“Damned if we’re gonna lose these freaks!”
The cab came to a sudden halt, horn blaring. Drake, Dahl and Hayden shot through as the sounds of sirens at last began to split the night behind them. Ahead, the road and path widened as Park Lane met Hyde Park Corner. Ordinarily these roads were clogged with red buses, black cabs and tourists, but tonight they were mercifully clear. Drake saw the elephant at Achilles Way, perfectly balanced on the end of its trunk; a square green signpost that mentioned Knightsbridge flashed by too fast; and then the magnificent Wellington Arch—a sculpture showing the angel of peace descending onto the chariot of war—reared up ahead like an ancient vision.
Drake flung the F-type around Hyde Park Corner, hitting the apex and letting the back end glide the whole way around the enormous roundabout, straightening the front end as he almost brushed the Aventador’s rear and the main arch itself flashed by. The SLS was right behind him, the Aston Martin almost touching the Mercedes’ flank as they all passed two inches in front of a bus stop that read Hyde Park Corner. Drake flicked the Jag to the left, down the long straight of Grosvenor Terrace, trying to intimidate the Lamborghini into making a mistake.
Drake’s phone rang. Mai jabbed at the speakerphone. “What?”
“Let me past!” Dahl’s voice boomed. “I’m the better driver.”
“You mean you’ll take more chances,” Drake hit back.
“We can’t risk losing them,” Hayden chimed in, joining the link.
Drake stamped on the brake as the outlandish Aventador swung into a side road, piercing the district of Belgravia like a vivid blade. Dahl shot past, missing the maneuver and then Hayden was suddenly on Drake’s tail.
“Dickhead,” Drake muttered.
Dahl swore loudly.
Drake pursued the mercs once more, passing dozens of buildings that all looked the same—white stone lower floors and drab brown uppers. Drake thought it might be the dreariest street in the capitol until he spun around another corner and crossed an intersection. Flagpoles jutted out from the sides of several buildings, each one a different color.
“Upper Belgravia.” Drake said. “We’re in embassy territory.”
Around the wide, tree-lined square they shrieked, the Aventador shooting in front of the Range Rovers. Drake felt a quick rush of concern as the back window flipped open and the rear tailgate banged down.
Two men lay in the back of the vehicle, rifles nestled along their shoulders.
“Evade!” Drake screamed, knowing the phone channel was still open. He swerved left, accelerating rapidly to help narrow down the angle. Dahl trod on the brakes, front end dipping. Hayden swung her Aston Martin among several parked cars and vans, narrowly missing a collision. Bullets clanked off their bodywork and struck railings and lampposts, a parking meter and a pair of Renault Twingos. Belgrave Square echoed to the sound of double volleys, its prosperous peace shattered for the night.
Drake nursed the F-type back into position, wary now of the Range Rover but still able to keep it in his sights. The procession cut down West Halkin Street, the first Range Rover taking out one of the inverted-arrow keep-left signs, Dahl destroying the other.
Up Lowndes Street and Hayden was suddenly on the phone. “I know where they’re going. Knightsbridge Green. It’s the only known plague pit around here.”
“Can we get there before them?” Dahl asked.
“Can we risk you guessing wrong?” Drake worried.
Hayden stayed firm. “We may not beat them, but we can take a better route,” she said. “Follow us and get ready to fight. Things are about to get rough.”
Drake snorted “About to?”
Dahl sniffed. “Stop crying and get out of my bloody way.”
Drake nodded at Mai. “Whatever weapons we have, get them ready.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Drake slowed as Hayden slammed on the brakes.
“Knightsbridge is a built up area,” he said through the speakerphone. “Maybe one of these bloody hotels was built on top of the pit. Or Harrods.”
“It wasn’t.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because it’s the one they’re heading for! Think about it, London’s practically a charnel city, built on centuries-old bodies. If they’re heading for this one it must be accessible, otherwise why not choose another? It also has to be viable, for whatever reason. The Pythians wouldn’t have pushed the ‘go’ button without being sure.”
It made sense. Drake stopped the F-type behind the Aston and waited for Mai to hand him his loaded weapons. Dahl roared up alongside, almost too close to get the door open. The Swede and Smyth jumped out first, grinning as they sauntered up to Hayden. Drake shook his head. “Kids.”
Mai was already out. Drake squeezed through the tiny gap and made his way to the front of the Aston. Kinimaka was groaning and squeezing out the kinks in his outsized body. Hayden checked her satnav.
“A recent Daily Telegraph article puts the plague pit about four hundred meters in that direction.” She pointed toward a dark corner, indistinct beneath the soft light of the street lamps. “Let’s move.”
With no sign of the mercs’ vehicles, the SPEAR team set out at high-speed, keeping close to the high railings and stone walls that bordered the surrounding buildings. Now, darkness was their ally. From far away the sound of sirens shrieked at the mist-shrouded night. Though time was not on their side the team hunkered down at the first corner.
Hayden peered around. “All right. I can see several vehicles parked at the roadside, nothing unusual there, but they’re adjacent to a high wall where floodlights have been erected. It appears to be a builder’s site—a great way to hide what you’re really looking for. No activity though.”
“Is it in the right place?” Drake wondered. “Last thing we wanna do is take down a bunch of men working overtime and swilling builder’s tea.”
“Gimme a minute.”
Hayden checked her satnav again, marking the exact location from the Daily Telegraph’s map and linking it to her digital map. She nodded. “That’s it, I think.”
Dahl sighed.
“Well, dammit, the coordinates are vague. The map is vague. What the hell can I do?”
“So we wait?” Drake said, rubbing his eyes. “Let’s start a recce of the area.”
Hayden was still checking her information. “Wow, remember what they said about the bacteria in plague pits vanishing almost immediately? Well, they published a list naming every disease where, if once-contaminated human remains are dug up, they might put people at risk of exposure to pathogenic microorganisms still carried by
the cadaver. Plague is among them, as well as anthrax, smallpox, viral hemorrhagic fever and yellow fever. Even today,” she put a finger in the air to make her point, “it is said that all planning applications for new-build properties on Shepherds Bush Common are continually rejected for fear of tampering with the plague pit that lies beneath.”
Drake felt an involuntary shudder. “Jesus.”
“Even the office blocks at Houndsditch don’t occupy full plots due to the amount of plague pits in the area.”
Hayden looked up. “The right hand says it’s all good, the left remains wary. I’ll stick with the left.”
Drake cast his gaze up the street. Despite the intensity of the glare that escaped over the top of the wall, its beams speckled by the ground glass somebody had glued to the top, he could hear nothing.
Dahl glanced over at him. “You stuck to the spot or are you going to start that recce?”
“Shut yer gob,” Drake answered with true Yorkshire aplomb. “I’m not waiting to cadge a bloody lift here.”
At that moment all decisions were taken out of their hands as three cars approached the scene, at least one of their engines pre-announcing their arrival. The Range Rovers slewed across the road with tailgates still open, occupants pouring out. The Lamborghini powered its way to the front of the pack and tried to drive up the curb. The squeal of grinding alloy wheels grating across concrete made Drake cringe.
“If only for that they need their asses kicking.”
Dudley was driving. As the Irishman slithered out, almost rolling onto the road, Drake and the team broke cover. Running, staying low, they closed the gap between themselves and their assailants with silent deliberation. Dudley and his men stopped outside a wide, arched wooden gate as one of them knocked. Dudley’s voice could be heard with that now familiar twang.
“Get yer feckin’ arses out ‘ere!”
Matt Drake Book 9 - The Plagues of Pandora Page 9