He spun, his gun spitting fire of its own, crying out with the pain of movement. Silk and Radford weaved and ducked behind smoldering wreckage. Then the Moose rose once more. In his right hand he held yet another device.
“Take it,” the Moose rasped. “She earned it. Nobody’s stood up to me like that in thirty years. Nobody.” He threw a backpack toward them.
Radford started to rise, but Silk wrenched him back down, sensing what was about to happen. “No—”
The last explosion rocked the ground around them, but only one person died.
Silk hauled Radford up and headed over to the backpack. With infinite care, but knowing the risk had to be taken, he opened it. Inside sat a square black lockbox.
“I think we’re in business.”
Radford breathed a sigh of relief and waved back at Trent. “Thanks to her,” he said. “All thanks to her.”
Silk blinked rapidly. “In all my days,” he said. “I have never seen anything like that. Never.”
Radford hefted the backpack. “Let’s get this thing to safety. And see how the other teams are doing. With a bit of luck,” he smiled optimistically, “this will all be over.”
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
Tyler Webb tried to suppress his anger. It wouldn’t do to act hastily here, not in front of his closest minions. If General Stone’s great plan had fallen apart it was still only the first of many, still only the beginning. Any one of their great plans could fail, including his own stunning venture constructed around Saint Germain. His unquestioned leadership had to be maintained at all costs.
Stone appeared poker-faced on the colossal television, one of five split-screens, having just revealed that two of the samples had been retaken by specialist teams. The look on his face would have felled an eagle in mid-flight.
Nicholas Bell had a sympathetic expression plastered across his face. “Don’t worry, Bill. We still have Miranda’s galleons.”
Webb frowned hard. This was the first real sign that voting Bell into the Pythians had been a bad idea. Rulers of their caliber should never express certain emotions. Sympathy? The emotion simply should not exist here, at the very heights of power. Sympathy was for weak men and children. There was no compassion among kings.
So we will have to trim the pack a little. It is easy enough to do.
“Perhaps the galleons should come next.” Webb suggested, thinking ahead.
“But my lost kingdom,” Bay-Dale spewed forth immediately, starting the beginnings of a pounding inside Webb’s head. “Work is already afoot. We are close to the site. Tokyo, Taiwan and even the Beijing teams report progress.”
Webb held up a hand to stop his prattle. Seriously, this whole collection of uber-powerful whiners was giving him a migraine. Webb had been prone to horrendous migraines since he was a small boy, debilitating headaches that took him to a different world of pure pain. Until recently only utter darkness and the lack of all stimuli had eventually returned his world to a dull ache and then slow recovery. That, and his own special, personal brand of terrorism—something none of these minions would ever know about.
Stalking. The distraction of the lethal prowl. But he was keeping that beautiful, flourishing concept for later.
First, Stone’s apparent failure.
“We still have the sample from the London plague pit, yes?”
Stone nodded dully. “The mercenary, Callan Dudley, obnoxious man though he is, delivered commendably.”
“And Bell? Miranda? You are on site, yes?”
Bell nodded. “The factory is fully functioning.”
“A little small,” Le Brun sniffed. “But mostly adequate.”
“I certainly hope the long flight didn’t swell your impeccable ankles,” Webb snapped before he could stop himself. Damn. Reel your pride and fury in. They must not fall apart.
“Sir?” Bell to his credit, gave him a second chance.
“This mercenary, Dudley, is he bringing the sample to you personally?”
“I insisted that he do,” Stone put in. “With the remainder of his team.”
“Good. Good. Then we will at least have one of the samples. Start production as soon as it arrives. The process will take longer, but will still give us our edge.”
“Of course.”
“And ramp up security.” Webb attempted to stave off the pounding by gazing through his picture window, straight at the impressive torrent of water that fell out there every night and day, eternal, everlasting, undying. The faraway falls, previously, had been his only solace when his life fell to pieces.
“We will draft in other teams.”
“Do that. We all underestimated the abilities of our opponents this time. Do not let it happen again. And Stone?”
“Yes?”
“That terrorist stunt in London was beyond stupid. Don’t ever think of doing anything like that again. The attention we gained has vastly weakened our position.”
Stone frowned. “Just a minute. I thought we wanted attention.”
Webb scowled at Stone’s blatant incompetence and lack of vision. “Not from such terrorist royalty as Ramses,” he spat. “Are you mad? That animal has the power to start a terrorist world war. Do you really think that will help the Pythians?”
“No, sir.”
“No, sir,” Webb mimicked. “For the Pythians to flourish, the world has to be at least mostly stable. We can then start and end our own wars. Take all that we desire. Now ensure that sample is weaponized as soon as it arrives and keep us informed.”
Webb flicked a switch, succumbing to the hammering that threatened to pulverize the back of his neck. He was alone. By flicking another switch he closed the blackout curtains and switched off the lights, leaving him in utter darkness. Then he placed his head into the crook of his arm.
His mind drifted to the SPEAR team and their accomplices. No matter.
I will be inside their lives soon enough.
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
Drake took a step back as new information started to roll in. Actually, he thought, more a trickle of information. Considering what the other teams had already reaped.
Time was a ravenous monster snapping at their heels. They had recovered two of three samples, but the third was still out there and they had no idea where the Pythians’ secret factory was based. It had to be assumed that they could make some kind of weapon from the sample they still possessed. Drake and the team sat in a waiting room inside New Scotland Yard, networking, reviewing and learning as much as they could. The chairs were hard and plastic but the coffee was plentiful and came with packets of biscuits that tasted even better when subjected to that grand old Yorkshire art—dunking.
Dahl made a pained face when he saw what Drake was doing. “Do you really have to go and lower the tone, ya bloody Yorkie muncher?”
Drake dipped again. “Improves the coffee. Improves the biscuit. How is that bad?”
The Americans stared aghast as he continued to dunk, leaving him to wonder if he’d lost an ear in the last battle and not realized.
“What the hell are you all looking at?”
The entire team sat around. Even young Grace was there, fresh from another phone call to Aidan Hardy and still no good news. Mai reminded her again that finding her parents might take months, but Grace couldn’t relax. Drake didn’t want to broach the subject of her returning memories so instead turned to Karin.
“Anything?”
“This is where we stand right now. There are teams studying the samples, trying to figure out the ‘what and why’ of it and how bacteria might still be viable after so long underground. What you have to remember is the durability of plague, of Black Death. From AD541 to 1350, 1650 and 1855, from China to America, this plague has continually reappeared and wiped out more than half the population. Did you know that in some villages in England there are still the old market crosses that have small depressions at the foot of the stone cross? This depression was filled with vinegar in times of plague as it was believed
vinegar would kill the germs on coins and so limit the spread of disease. But I believe it is the presence of other known diseases within the plague pits that may be our problem. Not bubonic plague.”
Hayden put a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Get Crouch’s team online. And Collins’. We need everyone working this. No one leaves until we get a break. You hear me? Between the three teams we have the best goddamn assets in the world. Let’s make a difference.”
Kinimaka sat his bulk down in the chair next to Drake. The Hawaiian’s eyes rolled as the plastic rivets groaned. “Hell, if these things had arms I wouldn’t be able to sit down at all.”
Drake unwrapped another biscuit. “You hear from Kono, mate?”
“The sister from hell? No. I guess she’s waiting to swoop down when we get back home.”
“Home?” Drake looked up. “Is that what DC is to you now?”
The Hawaiian shrugged, an immense movement. “My mother’s dead. Sister hates me. I have no family now save for Hayden and you guys.”
Drake clapped him on the arm, smiling. “We’re there for each other, right?”
“Yeah. And I’m really interested in learning how to do that.” He nodded toward Drake’s cup. “Dunking. Is it really an old Yorkshire tradition?”
“Course it is.” Drake laughed, putting the wrapper aside. “Okay, well first thing is to remember is not to let the biscuit get too soggy, ‘cause then you have a major disaster on your hands . . .”
Karin’s voice drifted through the room. “Every major government is involved in the search. Crouch and Collins—did anybody in either of your teams overhear anything useful during your battles?”
Collins spoke first. “We pretty much shot first and asked questions later. And the Moose? He was no help at all.”
Crouch reported a negative too and then said, “I still believe in what we’re doing though. They named this project after Pandora for a reason. Caitlyn has been doing further research.”
Drake assessed the rest of the team. Lauren sat in a corner; the New Yorker had made calls to several top-class escort contacts, asking for help in finding two abusive clients. She was still waiting for answers. Smyth sat beside her now as he had the last several days, close but not in her personal space, protective but not overbearing. Drake thought the rascally old Delta boy just wanted a new friend after losing Romero. Nobody thought that a rough, tough soldier like Smyth occasionally needed someone to talk to. Nobody except fellow soldiers.
Dahl lay back with his feet up on a table, impatiently flexing his arms and shoulders. As he laughed with Kinimaka, Drake became aware of another presence at his side.
“Yorgi.”
“I want thank you for keeping faith,” the small Russian said. “In me. You saved me long ago, but only now I start paying you back.”
Drake pulled out a chair. “Sit down, pal. And you owe me nothing. Never have. I’ll never promise to keep you safe, Yorgi, but I can promise you will always be part of our team. And what made you race straight back here—Alicia scare your pants off?”
“She is a little scary,” Yorgi admitted. “But I belong here. With you. And so does she.”
“You think?”
“Yes. Everybody finds their way in end. She no different. She will return to you.”
Drake struggled not to frown. “To me? You mean to us. To the team.”
“I know what I mean.” Yorgi reached for a biscuit. “Let us dunk together!”
Dahl closed his eyes in frustration.
Drake threw a biscuit at him. “Hey, it’s better than slugging vodka.”
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
Alicia watched as Michael Crouch worked the problem from his own perspective. A respected and accomplished boss of more years than he cared to reveal, Crouch had more personal, influential contacts than a Saudi oil baron and more clout with the British authorities than the Treasury. But this setback was different; it required another skillset to solve. At heart the man had always been a treasure hunter, a mystery solver, and it was this flair and talent that he sought to utilize now.
With Caitlyn he spoke of the gods, the Pandora angle, and how the Pythians might be trying to fit ancient mysteries together with an old plague and a terrifyingly modern plan. With most of Pandora’s story already told, Crouch and Caitlyn focused on the narratives and chronicles that intertwined with it.
Alicia drifted over to what she thought of as the soldiers’ table. Healey and Russo were already there, sipping water and listening closely. Russo offered her a seat by kicking out a chair on the other side of the table.
Alicia didn’t argue. After everything that all three teams had accomplished the realization that they were still on the verge of facing a man-made super-plague hit them all like a lightning bolt.
“Heard from Lex?” Healey asked quietly.
Alicia shook her head, attention still claimed by Crouch. “Nope. I ain’t his mother, Zack. Let Lex do what the hell he wants. It’s up to Crouch if he gets back on the team.”
Back in Vegas, Laid Back Lex had taken a red Ducati and departed in a hurry, an undisclosed seething anger possessing him, barely able to explain his motives for leaving. Alicia took it to mean he was sorting some issues—maybe one day she would be able to do the same.
“So Zeus ordered Hephaestus to create Pandora and cast her upon the slopes of Mount Olympus. On her wedding day she was given a beautiful gift, a jar or box, and told never to open it. We all know what happened next. But later, even Homer made mention of Pandora in his famous Iliad, referencing Zeus’s palace where two urns stood, one filled with evil gifts and the other with good ones. Whomever received the mixed gifts would face both good and evil destinies, but whoever received only the evil gifts would be scorned, and quote: The hand of famine will pursue him to the ends of the world. That’s us. Mankind.”
“Homer?” Alicia said. “Can we trust a man named Homer?”
Crouch didn’t smile. “We owe Homer so much. It is through his poems that Mount Olympus was first identified as the seat of the gods. If you think about the effect that has had on all kinds of literature, interpretations, essays and theses ever since, you can begin to imagine the regard in which he is held.”
Caitlyn flicked through page after page of notes, referencing the Internet and comparing every snippet of information with what they knew of the Pythians. The look on her face was not uplifting.
Alicia turned her head to the laptop to watch the SPEAR team working over in London. Even now being apart from what she considered her key team, her family of actual friends, felt unreal, as if this new life were some kind of alternate dream. It was the most natural thing in the world to assume she would soon be back with them.
But then what of Crouch? What of Russo and Healey and Caitlyn? Were they just to be pit stops along the road? I have to find a home. Through the experience of all her travels she was only now starting to realize that someone got it wrong—the road does not go ever on. Somewhere in life, unless you want to die alone, it simply must stop.
Caitlyn turned to Crouch, a strange look on her face. “What if we’ve been going about this all wrong? I have an idea.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean we’re coming at our problem through ancient mysteries when we could do the total opposite.”
“Which is?”
“Modern technology.”
Alicia saw Karin’s head swivel all the way across the English Channel. Komodo stood right behind her, blocking everyone else’s view. She couldn’t see Drake at all and missed the camaraderie they shared.
“The Pythians we know,” Caitlyn said. “General Bill Stone. Miranda Le Brun. Nicholas Bell. Army, heiress, developer.”
“We’re checking into them all,” Karin said. “Known associates, movements, that kind of thing. So far they’re nothing short of squeaky. Maybe Interpol will learn something more.”
Alicia found her thoughts returning to Beauregard. The man had raised her interest back in the UK, and
not only for salacious reasons. A world-class assassin, he was an enigma. Who knew which side he was really on? Why does he help me? She had heard about men that could fight like him—as sinuous and deadly as toxic fog—but never come across one before. Indeed she had considered them an urban legend. Even Mai Kitano, herself a trained Ninja, taught by masters, could not move the way Beauregard moved. Where the hell do these people get their training?
Yet another mystery.
One that she’d like to uncover.
Alicia felt a spicy smile forming on her lips, noticed Russo staring at her in horror and realized she was staring at him. Shit! She was giving that man all the wrong signals and for once, felt apologetic. Russo had her back and there was nothing a soldier like Alicia prized more.
She switched her gaze. Caitlyn was still hypothesizing. The Pythians were public enemy number one and it surprised Alicia that the world’s security agencies hadn’t learned more by now. Then, of course, the Shadow Elite had operated quietly and with impunity for many years, pulling a string here and there when they had to. The Pythians were a different kettle of fish.
Purposely brutal. Egotistical. Inhuman.
Caitlyn tapped at her keyboard. “General Stone. The FBI had eyes on him until last night, DC time. Now, he’s vanished, but they’re positive he’s still in the States. No plane travel. Stone is the one we know is recognizable.”
“Are you saying the Pythian HQ—so to speak—is within America?” Crouch asked.
Caitlyn inclined her head. “I guess so. But that’s not where I’m heading.”
Crouch took a call from Interpol. Armand Argento was added to the video feed, the screen now split into three. Alicia saw the Italian—who his friends apparently called the Jabbering Venetian—for the first time. Swarthy and dark, he had that lived-in look that characterized older, fitter men who looked after themselves. Well-dressed, well-groomed and highly confident, Alicia could see why most people trusted him.
“I am here for you. I am here,” he told Crouch. “What do you need?”
Matt Drake Book 9 - The Plagues of Pandora Page 16