Drake rose, shaking his head as he met Dahl’s eyes.
“Compared to this,” he muttered, “Kovalenko’s DC attack was minor. This is big fucking league.”
The Swede released a deep breath. “Like comparing evil Barbie to Maleficent. Our planet’s screaming,” he said, striding past. “Broken down by the unspeakable dreams of small men who would be kings.”
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
Whitehall was a tide of humanity at 9 a.m., a feeding ground for all players from the oldest profession in the world to the nastiest, right up to Admiralty House. Here, a line of policemen stretched across the road, stopping passers-by and office workers, halting traffic. Horns blared amid the hubbub. Uniformed officers sporting guns could be seen situated on every corner and on rooftops. As they made their way slowly against the flow Drake questioned Hayden as to the seriousness of the attack.
“Shots fired in the vicinity of the Prime Minister is always considered serious,” she said. “It’s the way it was done that raises questions. Mercs matching the descriptions of those we encountered in Knightsbridge fired shots in the air as Prime Minister Ronson descended the steps from the Department of Energy. He escaped unhurt and three men were cornered. Now they’re trapped in the Clarence pub, one of those quaint, tight, narrow-corridor establishments you Brits love.”
Drake slowed as the crowds began to thin, relieved that they had left their non-combatants back at the hotel. As they approached the cordon he was impressed by the action of the police and their calm demeanor. What could have been a volatile situation was being defused by self-confidence and composure.
“So why us?” he wondered. “Don’t we have more important things to do?”
Hayden tugged at the sleeves of her jacket. “You’d think. But these mercs are more interested in us than giving up.”
“I don’t understand.”
“They’ve been tweeting about us from inside the Clarence. Our names. Comments on the SPEAR team. Abuse. Challenges. The usual macho bullshit.”
“So we’re here to shut them down?” Dahl rumbled. “Let’s get it done quickly.”
“We’re here to see if we can figure out what the hell’s going on. Mercs don’t fire into the air and then trap themselves so easily. They don’t tweet like idiots—most of them.”
“So something’s up.” Drake waited as they were shown through the cordon. He moved ahead, eyeing the buildings on both sides of the normally busy road. “Have all these offices and shops been searched?”
“You kidding?” Hayden looked incredulous. “That would take days.”
As if in response to Drake’s words small coffee shops and cafes to both sides of the street emitted a stream of men. Drake, trained to have some of the best perceptions on the planet, paused at the cordon, sniffing trouble; Dahl did the same. The others walked ahead momentarily. Even Mai, though her awareness was tragically elsewhere of late.
“Wait,” Drake hissed. “Something’s not right.”
The police cordon was snaking as men turned, whispering to each other. Eyes shot up, to the left and right. Drake narrowed his vision. Pedestrians to both sides suddenly shifted away, heading back into shops or hurrying up the street.
Komodo was alongside them now. “What I’m thinking,” he said. “Can’t be right.”
The stream of men fanned out. Cops stared in disbelief and denial. Radios squawked. A woman screamed.
Drake saw no advantage in waiting. The men staring him down weren’t mercenaries, they were terrorists, and they had been waiting in coffee shops and cafes outside the cordon, already prepped before Prime Minister Ronson was fired upon. No way could these men have drifted here afterward in such numbers. Drake ran even as guns appeared from underneath coats, as a grenade bounced toward the middle of the road, and as a tall, swarthy malnourished man revealed what was strapped to his body.
“A present from Ramses,” he said and released the dead-man’s trigger.
The central London street turned into a battleground. Drake dropped and rolled. The man exploded a moment after the grenade. Body parts and shrapnel burst everywhere. Drake held a hand across his head and rose the second he felt the shockwaves pass. Luckily the terrorists were running forward, closing a gap they shouldn’t have. In their hands were a number of traded and bought weapons. Clearly, the weapons black market, always strong in London, was flourishing. Drake swiveled on his back and kicked out the legs of the nearest man, sending him sprawling. He caught a glimpse of the police line behind him, breaking up as some reached for weapons and others parted to let armed forces race through. Shots came from above—snipers positioned on the roofs. Dahl ducked as he was about to run smack-bang into a scrawny man, sending him ten feet into the air and catching his weapon on the way down. Komodo fought hand to hand with another terrorist.
Drake fired twice and took two out. Hayden came up to him. “They’re here for us,” she breathed. “Look at them.”
Drake already knew. The terrorists, fourteen strong, were converging on the SPEAR team and ignoring the cops, the specialists and everything else. Sensing he was pinned he immediately leaped up onto the front end of a car, rifle steady, aimed and pressed snugly to his shoulder, squeezing off shot after shot. He then ran hard, jumping from the hood of one car to another, firing without let up.
Dahl flung one terrorist against the other, starting a pile. A third pointed a gun at him, found it wrenched from his hands, and was added to the heap. Komodo ducked behind it. Hayden stayed back, maybe still a little sore from her gunshot wound in their battle through the nightmare streets of Washington DC during the Blood King’s blood vengeance, a time when so many had died. Though fully healed, she had yet to see full combat. Kinimaka stood beside her.
Mai and Smyth found themselves ducking and diving, more target practice and distraction for the terrorists than anything else. But the contrived tactic was working. Faced by capable operatives and with men dying every second the terrorists were starting to wilt. They were not military or even militia, just a bunch of men hardened by oppression and bullying and three months’ training.
Cops joined the uproar. Special Forces slid through. Drake rolled across the roof of a car, down onto its trunk and then slithered to the road as bullets stitched a ragged line after his boot heels. He thought about sliding under the car but decided it was a bad idea. One rolled grenade and he was in bits. He nipped out around the side and fell to the sidewalk, catching a glimpse of a terrorist being thrown into the air, arms and legs flapping, and knew instantly where the mad Swede was. Hayden and Kinimaka were further down the row of cars, taking cover. Drake inched up until he could see through the side window.
Eight terrorists were dead or incapacitated. Of the six remaining one was losing to Komodo, one to Mai and three others were fleeing from the cops. That left . . .
Booted feet smashed onto the front end of the car Drake was hiding behind. A figure came into view, already firing. Drake rolled onto his back, gaining half a second, but the weapon was swiveling too fast. He squeezed the trigger, unable to aim fast enough but hoping the shots would make his assailant flinch back.
No luck. The man was hell bent on dying anyway and came on. The bullets from his gun blasted a line across the sidewalk, along a brick wall, through a glass window and then back toward the sidewalk again as he crabbed forward. Drake shuffled backwards but nowhere near fast enough.
Bullets mowed concrete as they churned around his boots. Firing, he rolled one last time. The shot went wild. There was no satisfaction on the terrorist’s face, just an anesthetized, dazed expression.
Then his chest exploded and he fell face first, weapon silenced and clattering to the floor.
Drake took a breath, then saw who stood behind the fallen man. Hayden Jaye crouched and trained her gun to the left as Kinimaka offered Drake his right hand. “Up ya come, bud. Won’t do to get shot before lunch.”
Drake jumped up, nodding at Hayden. In the road the scene was now quite different. T
he terrorists were down, cops standing around looking shell-shocked, officers shouting into radios that every establishment should be checked.
Hayden bit her lip. “Did that guy say ‘Ramses’?”
“Aye,” Drake’s accent thickened. “Who the bloody hell is he?”
Kinimaka was staring between them. “Why do I get the feeling the terrorists and the mercs are working for different bosses?” He kicked away the dead terrorist’s gun, stumbling over the curb and sitting down hard on the wing of a car in the process.
“Mainly?” Drake said in response. “Because terrorists and mercs don’t mix. Not generally. Their ideals are poles apart.” He shook his head, thinking fast. “Look, we don’t have time to sort through all this. There’s more than just Whitehall at stake.”
“Message from Karin.” Hayden pecked at her cellphone. “Yorgi has landed. The op in Paris is a go.”
Drake stared around at the chaos. “Let’s hope they have better luck than we did.”
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
As she assessed Le Grand Hyatt, Alicia found her thoughts wandering. Recently it had become increasingly clear to her that the course of her life had to change. Running would only take her so far and, by its very nature, would only end up taking her full circle. Nobody could run for their entire life. A reckoning was coming, she knew, when she would have to take some time and face the demons of her life—the very real devils that had shaped it.
But not now and not today.
She stood in a window with Yorgi at her side, opposite the fancy looking but timeworn French hotel. Caitlyn had already downloaded blueprints and was trying to isolate their targets’ rooms. The other three present members of their team, Crouch, Healey and Russo, were checking weapons, comms systems and other crucial equipment, a practice drummed into every soldier even in initial training.
Alicia ignored the mission and started drilling Yorgi for information. “So, what the hell’s up with Mai?”
The Russian looked uneasy. “I speak poor English,” he said. “Sorry.”
Alicia took hold of an ear. “Bollocks to that. You forget I was there when we rescued you, Yorgi. Now, the little Sprite’s got a big problem. Spill.”
“In truth I don’t know much.” Yorgi spread his hands wide. “It is a problem she brought back from Tokyo. I heard she killed man, a low Yakuza employee, and then they kill his family just to tie . . . what you say? Tie up . . . ?”
“Loose ends,” Alicia said reflectively. “Damn.”
“Only the daughter lives,” Yorgi finished.
Alicia whistled, showing no emotion. Inwardly, her heart was with Mai and the family. Such things could never be laid to rest.
“And how’s Drake coping?”
It was one question too many and Alicia knew it. Quickly, she turned away, freeing Yorgi from the answer and glaring toward Caitlyn.
“We ready yet?”
The dark-haired girl scrunched her nose. “Second floor,” she said. “And check out is at 1 p.m.” She checked her watch. “If they’re checking out today it won’t be long.”
Crouch came over. “Despite what Beauregard told Alicia I’m inclined to act first rather than wait and see. Yorgi, you’re up.”
The young thief inclined his head, showing no real emotion. He double-checked the blueprint and compared it to the row of rooms Caitlyn had isolated. “We know which one has sample?”
Caitlyn shook her head. “You have a choice of three double rooms. Three names they’re using are known aliases, yes, but nobody stands out as a leader. I couldn’t speculate.”
“I’d prefer to avoid open battle.” Crouch knew about events in Los Angeles and London.
“It won’t be necessary,” Yorgi said. “I will take samples from under noses of men.”
Alicia grabbed hold of his arm as he started to move out. “You do know I’m coming with you, right?”
“No, no. I work best alone. You will make me worse.”
Alicia’s brows shot up as one. “Excuse me?”
“Always alone. Always. I have . . . trade secret.”
Alicia laughed. “If you die alone in there, Yorgi, you’re gonna be on my shit list.”
“You come so far,” Yorgi granted. “Will help. But I finish alone.”
“I can live with that.”
*
Alicia strode alongside Yorgi as the thief threaded a knot of back streets on his way to the hotel. Standing almost a head taller, blond and as muscular as a world-class athlete, she immediately looked conspicuous but a padded coat and woolly hat diluted most of her eye-catching assets. Linking arms with Yorgi, the pair strolled around like a couple in love. When at last the hotel’s rear entrance appeared ahead Yorgi stopped.
“Why not the front door?” Alicia wondered. “We can take the elevators to their front door.”
“This way we can take service elevators,” Yorgi said. “Not made to be noticed.” He gesticulated widely as was his habit. “Rear entrances are watched, yes, but not as carefully as lobby and corridors. Service staff always come and go.” He pointed out a waiter sneaking out of a door and lighting a cigarette. “Many chances.”
“We’re not appropriately dressed.”
Yorgi shrugged. “This is true. If it was I, Yorgi, planning this it would take a week or more. We have less than one hour.”
Alicia slowed as Yorgi waited for the smoker to leave. At the first appropriate doorway he leaned in and Alicia folded her arms around his neck. “Oh.”
“I am sorry. It is necessary,” he whispered into her ear.
“I know. But it’s still the closest thing to a shag I’ve had in months.” She remembered the open comms. “Except when Russo jumped on top of me.”
The man’s angry snort was a wasp in her ear. “I was thrown.”
Alicia held Yorgi tighter. “Likely story. You’re the size of a bloody Sasquatch.”
“Beauregard—” Russo began.
“Oh don’t mention his name when I’m all cuddled up,” Alicia moaned. “Makes me so—”
Yorgi pulled away. Luckily, the smoker had returned to work. The couple made their way to a pair of grungy doors which worked on a push-bar from the inside. Fixed to one side was a bell but there were no door handles. The single door to the left, however, was as standard as they came. Alicia grunted happily, reaching for the handle. Yorgi pushed in front of her.
“Follow me.”
A narrow, well-lit corridor ran away, cleaved on both sides by several single and double doors. The noise of a kitchen swelled from the right, doors wide open, and steam and the smell of garlic, tomato and baked bread drifting out. Yorgi moved fast, surprising Alicia, scurrying past the opening as if his heels were on fire. He paused at the next door, glanced in and moved on. Alicia hurried to catch up.
At the end of the corridor a pair of modest steel doors denoted one of the service elevators. Yorgi pressed a button and waited, head down.
Alicia saw the chef first. Emerging from the kitchen he stared straight at them, a look of irritation twisting his features. Alicia read the look in an instant, suddenly understanding that guests tried this on more frequently than she imagined.
“Hey, you’re not supposed to—”
His English accent was pure cockney. Alicia fed the man’s own conclusions, grabbed Yorgi and swung him into the just-arrived elevator, giggling all the time. With a loud “Byeeee!” she jabbed the second floor button and watched the doors close.
Yorgi untangled himself. “From blueprint we go left out doors, count five rooms and enter. Then, it is up to me.”
Alicia nodded and watched the Russian assemble the ‘special’ goods he had asked the Gold Team to procure as he made the London to Paris flight. Nothing spectacular, just a mini wrecking bar, some leather gloves with the fingers cut out and a reserve backpack. Alicia took a moment to hand him a small caliber pistol.
“I not use gun.”
“This time you do, Yogi.”
“It’s Yorgi.”
>
“I know, but I like Yogi better. Get used to it. If it’s a choice of kill or be killed I’d rather you shot first. The mercs these Pythians hired won’t lose a moment’s sleep over killing you.”
“But . . .”
“This is my world now.” Alicia pressed the weapon into his hands, holding it there. “Trust what I tell you and take the bloody gun.”
“All right.”
The doors whooshed open and again the couple drifted arm in arm toward their goal. Using the service elevator had meant they didn’t have to bypass the mercs’ rooms and risk discovery. It also meant their target room was closer. Yorgi slipped out a programmed keycard microcontroller and pushed it into the slot on the door of the hotel room they had booked over the Internet but had not had sufficient time to check into. Alicia shielded his body, leaning in and laughing. This time, nobody saw them. The hotel corridors were empty at midday and the maids had already cleaned the second floor.
Yorgi entered the room and stripped down to a tight black bodysuit that covered every inch of his flesh. Pulling on the gloves and placing the wrecking bar into a zip pocket, he shrugged into the backpack. “Simple but effective,” he said. “Now, you stay here.”
Alicia nodded but followed him anyway.
“Curiosity killed the cat.” Yorgi took deep breaths. “You know where that came from and what happened.”
Alicia could have responded with a number of comments but, not wanting to disrupt the little guy’s focus, she settled upon a moment of silence. Yorgi used the respite to break the window lock and slide the sash upward.
Alicia couldn’t refrain from commenting. “You know there’s no balcony out there?”
“Empty wall is better,” Yorgi said with a smile and disappeared.
Alicia ran to the window, believing she knew the thief’s trade secret. Sure enough he was clinging to the sheer brick wall, fingers and shoe tips inserted into tiny depressions, searching around for the next.
Buildering, she thought. If someone of Yorgi’s reputation used the illegal sport as a primary means of progress then he had to be world class. She herself had learned the art of buildering as a Special Forces technique, though not at his level. Of course, he would only normally employ it at night, in darkness, and after thoroughly researching every aspect of his intended target. Today, he didn’t have such luxury. Finding the samples and stopping the Pythians was paramount.
Matt Drake Book 9 - The Plagues of Pandora Page 14