Matt Drake Book 9 - The Plagues of Pandora

by David Leadbeater

  Drake slowed as the big double gate was suddenly flung open, unsure of what to expect. Through the great opening the mercs rushed and now Drake could see beyond them, into the floodlit area, to where they were working.

  A hollowed out crater sat within the small, fenced off square, directly between a hotel and a row of offices. It wouldn’t have surprised Drake if past hotel occupants hadn’t stared out of their small windows, down at this segregated strip of land, wondering just why it was sealed off. Maybe they fancied it was a private garden, an underground junction box, a forgotten patch of greenery.

  Never knowing . . .

  The sides of the plague pit were jagged and vertical, uneven where men had jabbed shovels and scraped at the dirt. Those men were now arrayed around the rim, staring down. As Drake watched, more men toiled up a sharp slope, each one carrying a small white container that looked like an organ transplant box. Five men came up in all, depositing their boxes carefully into a larger one. Dudley strode over and clicked it shut.

  “Grab it. Quick nigh!”

  “Man, what an accent,” Smyth complained.

  “I think I like it,” Mai said.

  “Well at least he talks,” Drake said huffily. “Rather than texts.”

  Hayden motioned for silence. “One thing. Don’t let those samples get away.”

  Dudley urged his men on. “Cops are comin’. Move it.”

  Drake exploded into action. Pistol raised, he ran forward shouting a warning. Predictably the mercs either turned to fire or ran in the opposite direction. Those that raised their weapons hit the concrete bleeding; those that ran were hunted.

  Dahl and Smyth ranged around the parked vehicles, coming in from the far side. Hayden and Kinimaka fanned out to Drake’s left. Dudley screamed an insult or two, now hefting the large box over one shoulder. “Move out,” he said. “Give de feckers no quarter.”

  Drake skipped behind the house wall as the mercs opened fire. Fragments of brick blasted past his nose, speckling the Range Rovers. As he raised his gun a mass of men surged through the gate, barging each other and running as if they’d seen a plague-infested ghost. A shoulder smashed him across the face. Hayden shouted. Dahl, in typical form, rushed the entire group from the right. Mai was in their midst, bending and breaking.

  Drake tripped and pushed men so that they tangled with others. Dahl smashed his way among them, a literal bowling ball, bashing the smaller pins to left and right. Some careened into the brick wall, howling; others fell against the cars and the spaces in between, faring no better.

  Dudley slipped past the big Swede, as slippery and predictable as an injured tentacle, and rolled across the Aventador’s low hood still clutching the box. Men scuttled after him, shielding his escape. Drake took two down with precise shots, then joined the chase. Dahl was hot on his heels.

  Hayden’s voice came through their comms system. “We’re staying here to make sure it’s not a decoy.”

  A man whirled in front of Drake, whipping a pistol around. Drake paused for one heartbeat, let the weapon swing by, and then slammed the off-balance man in the chest. Dahl overtook him, catching the next and lifting him by the back of his jacket, sending him sprawling face first into the street. Dudley turned around once more.

  “Only pain ‘ere, boys. Soldier boys never learn.”

  Dudley threw the big box high into the air, turned on the spot, and faced Dahl. The big Swede, clearly surprised by the unmistakable confrontation, slowed a little. Drake couldn’t help but watch the box somersault through mid-air. Distracted, he folded when a merc tackled him around the waist, staggering backward but staying on his feet with Mai at his side.

  Dudley came at Dahl, snarling. The box landed hard beside them, thudding into the street but resilient enough to endure without a scratch. Dudley punched hard and true, a boxer through and through. Blows to Dahl’s ribs and arms made the Swede only flinch, rather than let his guard down. Dudley kept coming, snorting and puffing, drawling it up a storm.

  Drake hefted his attacker by the shoulders and slammed him sideways into the wall. Still holding his pistol he used it to shoot another man about to take a potshot. Four were left around him; they grabbed the box and made a break for it. Drake watched them sprint up the road in the direction of the many shops and plush apartments that fronted Knightsbridge.

  A nasty thought occurred to him. These guys didn’t even need to escape the area. If the Pythians owned a piece of property around here—anything from a One Hyde Park hundred-million-pound apartment to a basement beneath the local Nero’s—then the authorities were never going to find it.

  Even a vehicle in a parking garage . . .

  The more he thought about it the more realistic the idea sounded.

  He clicked the comms. “Follow the guys with the box. Now!”

  Hayden’s voice came back instantly, crackling. “We’re pinned down.”

  Drake glanced over as he ran with Mai, seeing the ex-FBI agents taking cover behind a Range Rover as assailants fired on them. The good news was that the wail of sirens was coming inexorably closer, now almost on top of the street battle.

  The bad news: He was almost a man alone, chasing down the current most precious prize on the planet.

  From behind he heard Dahl grunt and then Dudley cry out. But still the Irishman raged. Drake leaped aside as one of the men he was chasing peeled off and turned around, on one knee, gun drawn.

  Drake dived as the weapon fired, hearing the shot but not seeing even a flash as the bullet fizzed past. Rolling, he came up feet first and planted them in the shooter’s chest, breaking ribs and taking him out of the fight. Up and running he was even further behind now as another man broke away from the pack.

  Another shot.

  Drake dived behind a van, heard the bullet ricochet away, popped his head out and came close to getting it blown off by a second shot. The van’s front headlight disappeared in a plastic blizzard. Flashing blue lights painted the surrounding walls. Drake sneaked a peek through the van’s rear window, saw the remaining two men escaping with the box. It was critical, deadly serious if they escaped, but what could he do?

  Getting his head shot to pieces was not the answer.

  In that instant, for reasons he could not begin to fathom, Mai stepped out into the open. The gunman’s aim swiveled toward her. Mai didn’t move; just stood there as a distraction waiting for the bullet that may or may not end her life. Drake yelled at the top of his lungs and rose too, shooting through his entire clip. In that moment Mai breathed again.

  “Damn.”

  Drake knew not what the curse meant, nor whether it was for a good or bad outcome, but he finished the shooter off and didn’t hang around to ask. Head down, sprinting at top speed, he reached the dark corner ahead and slipped around it as carefully as possible.

  Empty. The road was empty.

  The men were gone. The box was gone. The plague had escaped.

  Drake shouted with frustration.

  *

  In the aftermath, as Hayden fought to establish the team’s credentials with an overenthusiastic inspector, Drake sought Torsten Dahl. The Swede was sitting with his back to a low wall, staring up at the skies. Drake threw himself down alongside him.

  “How ya doin’, mate?”

  “Could be better.” Dahl winced a little as he moved. “Little fucker packs a punch.”

  “He get away?”

  “Yeah.” Dahl sounded as gloomy as a man who’d married for money only to find out his wife’s real name was Colin. “Took off across the gardens like a stabbed rat.”

  “Is that supposed to be topically funny?”

  “Not especially.”

  “Did he at least come out worse?”

  Dahl gave him a stare. “Don’t be a dick. What do you think?”

  Drake grinned. At that moment Mai came up to them, standing next to Drake’s outstretched legs. Her cell was ringing. “It’s Dai Hibiki,” she said. “Maybe he’s learned something more about Grac
e or her parents.”

  As she spoke, Drake studied her with hooded eyes. Hooded because they were anxious. Hooded because they were terrified.

  What the hell was going on with Mai Kitano?

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Los Angeles simmered at 8 p.m., basking in the heat amassed from another glorious day. Beaches and parks still echoed to the sounds of the spirited and the sprightly, all the more lonely now for losing the greatest gifts humanity could bestow—life, liveliness, energy. And innocence. Innocence existed here only in the young. Parents struggled to keep the real world from their children beyond the very last moment—and to help do that they took them to the beach. The park.

  Let them run in the sun, luxuriate in the warmth, play to their hearts’ content, live out their very real dreams before life intervened.

  Los Angeles, the city of angels, savored the night. The Santa Anas gusted through the mountains, but at least the forest fires weren’t burning tonight. More than two million people were living their lives in the great basin, day to day, night to night, meal to meal, TV show to TV show.

  Aaron Trent was known by his friends and colleagues as the “serious” one. He was the leader, the one with the weight of the world on his shoulders. Every decision, every op and its outcome, was down to him. For many years the gods had seen fit to reward him, earning his three-man team a reputation as the best in the business. The Razor’s Edge, they had been called, and every agency in the world sought their input. Their skills were legendary.

  And then one night it had all shattered to dust. By then his marriage was over, his boy—Mikey—living with his mother and her new boyfriend minutes from Rodeo. Trent and his team had become known as the Disavowed—three agents who took the fall for a country’s failings. Later, they discovered the real truth—that they had been used, framed by a Serbian madman who found aid in one of the world’s largest corporations. By then it was too late. The Disavowed had found a new purpose—helping those who could not help themselves, working for the weak who struggled to fight against the powerful.

  Now, as the omniscient stars glittered knowingly and the warm air absolved the sins of yet another day in paradise, Trent knew there was something else in his life that had well and truly begun to matter. Her name was Claire Collins, and she was the Disavowed’s FBI liaison, helping them work off the books now that their old friend, Doug the Trout, was dead. Collins was the new light in his life, the ballbuster with a soft edge, the midnight dancer with a fragile heart; she had all the complexities of a motherboard, all the sharpness of a samurai sword, and all the energy and sparkle of a six-year-old.

  She sat to his right, enjoying the barbecue his colleague, Dan Radford, dished out.

  Thoughts of Doug the Trout only sent his mind back toward Mikey. Doug had saved the boy’s life very recently, dying in the process, taking the brunt of the explosion that was meant for Mikey. The perpetrator of that act, a terrible contract killer known as the Moose, had supposedly escaped into retirement and obscurity. Now, Trent suddenly felt the need to hold both his son and his girlfriend; he slipped an arm around their waists.

  Mikey, eight going on eighteen, squirmed in protest but didn’t pull away. This barbecue was a major step forward for the young boy—his mother had been kidnapped and murdered during the recent terrorist attack on LA, when everything had gone Threat Level Red; this was the first time Mikey had seen his dad with another woman.

  Collins raised a glass. “Here’s to us.”

  Trent reached for his juice and handed Mikey a glass. Radford and his wife, Amanda, both held bottles. Adam Silk and his new partner, Susie Brewster, were partaking of the red wine.

  “Still standing,” Silk said with a boyish smile.

  “Still raising hell,” Radford added and gripped his wife tighter.

  “And ignoring the complaints,” Trent said a little sternly.

  “Just tell ‘em to go fuck themselves,” Collins finished the new mini-ritual off with a cough over the curse word and drank deeply. Trent watched her. Collins was more than a woman, she was a core of complexity—hard-ass, no-nonsense by day, party-goer and deviant by night. A dual identity. No, he thought. A jewel identity.

  The warm winds drifted through and the hot food was devoured in earnest, the noise and laughter becoming louder as the night wore on. Time stopped on a night like this; problems were put aside as the magic of company mixed with the magic of Southern California, creating one blissful, eternal moment.

  All too short.

  Collins put a hand in the air as her cell rang out. “Have to take this,” she hiccupped, trying to stop dancing at the same time. “No rest, wicked, and all that.”

  Trent glanced at his watch. “And past your bedtime, bud. We should be heading home.”

  Mikey pouted. “It is a school night.”

  “Oh, man. I’m the worst father in the world.”

  A strained note entered Collins’ voice as she conversed over the phone, a note that piqued Trent’s attention.

  “Tell me what happened!”

  Trent caught Silk’s eye and rose. Radford joined them. Without being asked they all zoned in on Collins’ exchange.

  “And they lost the sample? All right. Where do we currently stand with LA and Paris?”

  Trent saw Radford signal to his wife who moved toward Mikey. The whole team were aware of the global situation right now and had promised to help in any way they could. Skilful and capable response teams were their best chance of defeating this latest threat and Trent believed there were none better than his own.

  “Now?” Collins burst out. “Shit, man. You sure pick your time. Sure, sure. We’re on our way. Get me the location of that graveyard.”

  She ended the call, taking a moment before meeting the eyes of the Disavowed.

  “Go grab your guns, boys,” she said. “We need to take apart a few more terrorists. Right now.”

  *

  Trent listened as Collins briefed them on the situation. Radford fired up the car and Mikey smiled a weak goodbye, tearing at Trent’s heartstrings. This just couldn’t go on. Eight was an impressionable age—what happened now would live in his son’s memories forever. A solution had to be reached.

  Immediately after they helped save LA.

  Collins spoke from the back seat. “The Pythians just struck London. The SPEAR team lost the first sample.”

  “Dammit,” Silk exploded.

  Trent felt the hard veneer of battle fall across his face. “We’re all up against it. Don’t judge. The Pythians are on our pitch now and we have to step up to the plate. Take the bastards down.”

  “To break it down as simply as possible,” Collins said with an impish glance toward Silk. “So we can all understand—a well-equipped, well-funded team of mercenaries are seeking to rob the graves of the long dead. Apparently it took a while to pin down but now they have a location and they’re going for it big time, balls out. We have to stop them.”

  “And the rest of the security forces?” Radford asked.

  “They’ll help too.”

  “Who do we have on tech?” The technological side of every operation was Dan Radford’s domain.

  “There’s no tech involved here, Dan. It’s pure urban warfare.”

  Trent inhaled quickly. “Well, at least the recent ops prepared us for that.”

  “Tell us about these samples,” Silk said from the front passenger seat as Radford hurled them onto the freeway. “What are the mercenaries looking for?”

  “Old plague bacteria,” Collins explained. “I don’t know the details so don’t ask. The relevant point here is that most of the leading governments of the world know of this threat and have agreed that nothing should be held back in trying to neutralize it. Nothing.”

  “Dance off?” Radford pressed. “That’s your thing.”

  “I’m up for that.”

  “Continue,” Trent urged.

  The car barreled through the night, slipping through red stop lights as they
switched from lane to lane, splitting the red flashing snake that ran from Hollywood to downtown. Collins tied her hair back with practiced ease. Radford eased the vehicle around 4x4s, sedans and a row of dumper trucks.

  “Old bacteria may still be viable in plague pits,” she said. “Or they have found some way of extracting what they need. These people are planning to weaponize the plague, a terrible encore to their ‘house on the hill’ demonstration.”

  “Wasn’t the plague a Europe thing?” Silk asked, frowning. “Did we even encounter it over here?”

  “The only known occurrences of human-to-human transference were in 1919 and 1924-25, way after the Black Death and other infamous outbreaks. An outbreak in Oakland first and then later in Los Angeles. At least thirty cases of bubonic plague, most of the victims were buried right in the cemetery we’re heading for right now. Long Beach Municipal.”

  “Surely other pits would have been easier to attempt?”

  “Why?” Collins swayed in rhythm to the car’s motion. “It’s away from the big city. Quiet. No security. And on US soil. Half these friggin’ Pythians are American, for God’s sake.”

  Radford pulled up, not too close. “We’re here.”

  Most of the cemetery was built on a gradual slope, gray and black headstones running down to the roadside. Gray mausoleums stood around like lost souls, the great, outstretched limbs of untended trees pointing to things invisible and unnamable.

  The team climbed out, noting the presence of SWAT vans, cop cars and other specialists already lined up. Collins groaned. “We’re not in charge here. This is gonna be one messed up operation.”

  The team exited the car, trying to stay inconspicuous. The cemetery itself sprawled to their left, exposed, no fence or gate enclosing its expanse. A brown sign boasting a painted palm tree announced: Municipal Cemetery, City of Long Beach; an oil pump worked continually alongside as if trying to wake the dead.

  Trent paused in the shadows. “Something’s not right,” he said, and turned around as if sniffing the air.

  “It sure is friggin’ quiet in there,” Radford said with a fake shiver.