by Joe Ducie
‘I know you,’ Drake said. ‘You were with Whitmore under the Rig. You saw what they were doing down there. Who they – you – killed. For shame, Danielle DeMarco. Oh, for shame.’
‘Perhaps I can get you something to drink?’ she asked with a smile, revealing twin rows of perfect white teeth. ‘Or take your … hat?’
‘I’ll bring this museum crashing down around our heads before I let you take my hat. Don’t think I won’t.’ He was pleased to see a glimmer of uncertainty flash across her eyes. ‘Now. Where is Irene Finlay?’
‘Entertaining young Amy, I believe.’ Danielle DeMarco composed herself and found a fresh grin. ‘Let’s go and see if we can’t track her down. She’s not entirely convinced you’re alive.’ Whitmore’s assistant looped her arm under Drake’s and led him further into the museum, away from the grand entrance and across the foyer.
Weaving through marble pillars, around old display cases of fossilised bones and new tables of delicious food, Drake started counting the number of guards in the room. Old habits died hard, if they ever died at all. Drake had been counting Alliance guards for nearly two years. Even dressed as they were in expensive suits, Drake knew the bearing of Alliance soldiers – how they held themselves and how they walked, how their eyes scanned the room. He counted at least a dozen such men, spaced across the foyer. He didn’t doubt there would be more, and that they were there for him. He could feel eyes on his back, burning like cigarettes pressed against his skin.
‘I did die today,’ Drake said idly. His thoughts strayed to the creature that had worn his mother’s face. The alien made of living crystal that was imprisoned beneath the Rig in a reef of pulsating blue light. It’s a prison beneath a prison … and it needs me to escape. Somehow it had reached him, across distance and time, to save his life. But it isn’t my friend.
‘Perhaps better for you if you had,’ DeMarco said. ‘Not very wise, Will, to antagonise President Whitmore.’
Drake snorted. ‘Aren’t you just a loyal little thing? I’m very displeased with your behaviour, Miss DeMarco. You and your boss will be sorry for what you’ve done before I’m done.’
A shiver ran down Drake’s crystal arm and a cascade of blue sparks spilled from under the cuff of his jacket and over the edge of his glove. Whitmore’s assistant flinched, her grip tightening on his real arm, and her smile became more than a touch forced.
‘Will –’
‘Don’t want people knowing about my magic tricks, huh?’ Drake picked up a flute of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter and held it gently in his gloved hand. He met Danielle DeMarco’s eyes and squeezed the glass.
The flute shattered and shards of glass, along with champagne, hit the marble floors. Nearby eyes turned to Drake and DeMarco.
‘Oops,’ he said. ‘Look at all the attention I have. Ladies and gentlemen!’ Drake took a mock bow. ‘For my next trick –’
Danielle DeMarco pulled him away and Drake let himself be pulled. The woman looked furious, behind her smile that was more of a snarl, and eyes of hard flint. ‘You idiot boy,’ she whispered. ‘Listen to me closely, Mr. Drake – there are soldiers from Crystal Force up on the balconies. Several of them have high-powered rifles aimed directly at your heart. They are instructed to shoot you dead if you stray.’
‘Yeah, one of those Crystal Force bastards already shot me today. In the head. It tickled somewhat. And check out the cool scar.’ Drake uncurled his arm from DeMarco’s and shoved her aside. ‘I see my date over there. You can bugger off.’
DeMarco reached for him again and caught the shoulder of his jacket. Drake paused, clenched his fists, and opened his mouth.
‘You may be able to survive being shot, Mr. Drake,’ DeMarco whispered. ‘But can Irene Finlay?’
‘Touch her ever again,’ Drake felt an absurd giggle rising in his throat, ‘and the glove comes off. I mean it.’
DeMarco pursed her lips into a thin line and nodded once. ‘Five minutes. And I’ll collect you for your meeting with President Whitmore.’
Drake shrugged her arm from his shoulder and stepped through the crowd towards a long table draped in a dark velvet cloth. Standing at that table, looking good in blue, Irene held hands with a girl who looked no older than six or seven.
‘Good evening, Irene,’ Drake said, in what he hoped was a charming and suave voice. ‘Drake. Will Drake.’
Irene staggered a step back, bumping into the table, and then lunged forward and threw her arms around him in a hug that nearly sent Drake tumbling to the ground. He laughed, a genuine laugh of surprise, and placed his good hand around the small of Irene’s back.
‘I didn’t believe them!’ she said. ‘I mean, Whitmore, he said you’d survived but … there’s a scar above your eye! How did that happen? Will, what the hell were you thinking jumping onto the chopper after me?’ Irene pulled away and swatted him on his chest. Tears swam in her eyes and fought her smile. She was stuck between relieved and furious.
‘Well, you know me, right?’ He struggled to find a grin. ‘And I met something, something powerful, that gave me a kiss on the forehead.’ Drake exhaled slowly and shook his head. ‘Irene, you look …’
She stepped back and smoothed her dress down. ‘Oh, like what you see, do you?’
Drake smirked. ‘No. I was going to say you look awful and I liked you better in the Rig jumpsuit. Far more flattering.’
Irene swatted him again – harder this time, more of a slap – then leant in and gave him a quick kiss. ‘So you came here to rescue me? Took your time. I was getting bored.’
Drake tasted strawberry on his lips. ‘No, I came here for the free food.’
A cadre of Alliance guards stood by the large doors that led back out of the museum, eyeing Drake firmly. Their stance, and the bulges under their jackets, suggested they were armed and not about to let him go. Armed with something larger than a pistol. Drake hesitated, contemplated forcing his way through in a barrage of crystal fire, but he foresaw a lot of collateral damage. Irene squeezed his forearm and Drake relaxed.
‘Excuse me,’ said the little girl next to Irene. She tugged on Irene’s wrist. ‘Can we dance again?’ she asked. ‘Who’s that?’
Irene smiled down at the little girl. ‘Amy,’ she said. ‘This is my friend Will.’
Amy blinked. ‘Are you married together?’
Drake coughed but Irene kept her kind smile. ‘No, no. But me and Will can’t dance right now. We have to go, actually. Don’t we, Will?’
‘Afraid so,’ Drake said, keeping an eye on the guards. He didn’t like that Amy had become a shield between him and them. ‘Why don’t you go find your parents and we’ll dance again soon, OK?’
Amy thought about that and then nodded. She dashed off with a quick laugh, hair floating around her head like an aura, and the ribbons on her dress caught in her wake.
‘Cute kid,’ Drake said.
‘That’s Lucien Whitmore’s daughter. Come on, we have to go – let’s find another door.’
‘I’m supposed to be meeting with Whitmore,’ Drake said. ‘Kind of want to hear what he’s got to say.’
Irene spun on him. ‘Are you mad?’ She winced. ‘I mean, sorry …’
Drake tapped his forehead and the kiss-shaped scar brushing his eyebrow. ‘Not yet, but I’m working on it.’
‘I’ve spoken to him,’ Irene said, as Drake helped himself to something that looked like a mini cheeseburger on a toothpick. ‘He’s … he’s not kind, Will. He felt awful.’
‘Felt awful?’ The mini cheeseburgers were good. Drake grabbed a handful.
‘Well, he was polite and didn’t hurt me, but it’s like he had no soul. He was cold. I never even saw his eyes behind those sunglasses he always wears.’
Drake nodded. ‘There’s more going on here than we know, you know. Either I am mad, Irene, or there’s an alien demon thing trying to break out of a crystal prison beneath the Rig. I want to know what Whitmore knows. And I don’t think he can stop me – I don’t
think he wants to stop me, to be honest.’
Irene frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, I’ve been thinking about it. How quickly did the Alliance find us in St. John’s, or on that train, or over Niagara Falls? Very quickly, is the answer, once we emerged from the forest. They were on us the whole time. Probably never really lost us. As soon as we started heading to New York the soldiers and helicopters left us alone. Whitmore wanted us here, wanted me here. He had Brand nab you in that helicopter to force me to this museum.’ Drake sighed. ‘Is Tristan here?’
Can I tell her more? What if they’re listening?
‘No, I haven’t seen him since the helicopter.’
Drake shrugged a shoulder. ‘He told Whitmore where we were staying. Apparently they offered him a job and everything. Little rat was … well … a little rat.’
Irene shook her head fiercely. ‘I still can’t believe it.’
‘You were there. He admitted it. Because of him they kidnapped you, I got shot, and now we’re forced to eat half a dozen of these mini cheeseburgers at this fancy party.’
‘What are you going do to him?’ Irene asked quietly. ‘If you see him again.’
Drake met her gaze. ‘Kindly ask him to leave.’ His lips were set in a grim line but his eyes laughed. ‘The Alliance have left their front door unlocked again.’
Irene looked confused and then surprised. Her mouth settled into a similar grim line.
‘Michael …’ she said softly. ‘I can’t believe it.’
‘He wasn’t as helpless as he made it seem on the Rig. Wasn’t a nice guy, either.’ Drake hesitated.
‘Will, we have to find him –’
‘Forgive me for the interruption,’ Danielle DeMarco said. ‘But President Whitmore will see you now. Follow me.’
‘Irene’s coming, as well.’ Drake glanced up, through the dinosaur fossils, and scanned the dark, secluded balconies full of soldiers and rifles. He couldn’t see them, but he did believe Whitmore’s assistant – they were up there.
‘So be it.’ DeMarco turned and walked through the crowds, smiling and greeting guests in their fine suits and dresses, and led Drake and Irene – hand in hand – to meet the President of the Alliance.
Chapter Nineteen
The Shadow War
Irene squeezed Drake’s hand as he led her up a set of stone stairs, following the woman with the ugly sneer. They left the party down below in the expansive foyer and walked up to the third floor. Wide oil paintings of men on old wooden ships adorned the walls, between cabinets of Native American tools and clothing. The long-necked dinosaur fossil reached the third floor. A large, grinning skull of flat teeth and hollow eye sockets surveyed the party.
Irene followed the fossil’s gaze, into a sea of black suits and colourful dresses, and caught sight of little Amy Whitmore weaving in between the guests on the dance floor. She’s a nice girl … who has no idea what kind of monster she has for a father.
‘Are … our other friends OK?’ Irene asked, whispering close to Drake’s ear. She didn’t know either Noemi or Takeo well, but they had both struggled to keep them alive so far. And their pilots, Grace and Toby, had died getting them out of Canada.
He nodded slightly. ‘Parked nearby. Worst comes to worst we can duck out of a fire exit and head into the park.’
‘I advise you to be polite, Mr. Drake,’ DeMarco said, her high heels clicking against the stone floors. ‘President Whitmore does not suffer fools gladly.’
‘Then how’d you get your job?’ Drake asked and Irene hid her smile.
DeMarco glared at him and then rapped gently on a set of dark wooden doors with her knuckles. After a moment, she leant against the wood and the door slid open over a deep red carpet. The room beyond was lit well, with a window overlooking the foyer and the party. A large meeting table took up most of the space, with screens built into the surface and raised slightly towards the high-backed leather chairs, six in total. The crest of the Alliance spun slowly on each of the screens. A second door with an ornate golden handle led deeper into the museum. Another window on the opposite wall showed a nice view of Central Park and some of the skyscrapers down towards Times Square.
It was in front of this window that Lucien Whitmore stood, staring at the city, his hands clasped behind his back.
‘Mr. Drake and Miss Finlay, sir,’ Danielle DeMarco said and then stepped quietly from the room, pulling the door closed behind her.
Drake’s grip on Irene’s hand tensed as the man with the silver hair, his eyes hidden behind those trademark reflective lenses, turned slowly and offered them both a smile that, on anyone else, might have been charming. On Whitmore it looked like a half-smile of contempt.
‘Hello, Mr. Drake,’ Whitmore said. ‘Quite a day you’ve had. Tell me, what did the creature show you?’
‘I haven’t the foggiest what you could mean, mate,’ Drake said, although the way he said it – a deadpan yet dangerous edge to his voice – made Irene think he knew exactly what Whitmore meant.
Whitmore nodded to himself and picked up a glass of sparkling water from the table. He took a sip and gestured to the chairs. ‘Please sit – we have much to discuss, and little time in which to do so. Tonight many things will be decided.’
Irene and Drake shared a look, of trepidation, and he pulled a chair out for her. She sat and he took the next one along, closer to Whitmore.
‘What the hell are you doing letting Marcus Brand run loose?’ Drake asked. ‘He’s the one that gave me this, you know.’ Drake tapped his strange scar. ‘Bullet to the head. Whatever you want from me, I should be dead, and it was his fault.’
‘Marcus Brand has been disciplined for disobeying my commands. You were to be left alive and unharmed.’
‘I’ve been shooting down helicopters all week. Helicopters filled with your soldiers and your guns. Alive and unharmed is a bit of stretch, don’t you think?’
Whitmore grinned and raised his hands, palms outward. ‘You are here, are you not? And you will listen to what I have to say.’
Irene saw Drake struggling with his anger, and no doubt with the power residing in his crystal arm. His gloved hand clutched the arm of the chair hard enough to tear the fine leather.
‘I’ll listen, I guess, but if I don’t like what I hear you can’t stop me from leaving.’
‘As I assured Miss Finlay earlier this evening, all I ask is that you listen. I’ve an offer for you, William, a chance to do some good in this world – clear your name, so to speak, and help a lot of people. Your mother included.’
Wrong move, Irene thought. You shouldn’t have mentioned his mother.
Drake sat up straighter in his chair. ‘I’ll say this just once – face to face. Lucien,’ and Drake spat the name, ‘you go near my mother and I’ll kill you.’ Fierce warmth bled from Drake, from his crystal arm. He was barely in control.
Tingles ran through Irene, and the tiny hairs on the back of her neck shivered. She wasn’t sitting next to a person, she was sitting next to a bottle of caged lightning. A bottle that was falling from the sky, unable to be caught or stopped, and when it hit the ground … the force of that lightning would be unleashed. She shivered again. Lucien Whitmore might have been the president of Alliance Systems, might have commanded the respect and fear of governments and militaries all over the world, but the moment Drake had absorbed the Crystal-X Whitmore’s power began to crumble.
And Whitmore knows that. Does Will?
‘I have ensured your mother receives nothing but the finest care for her condition. My personal doctors report she is in good health, responding well to the leukaemia treatment and a course of Detrolazyne-V. She asks after you often.’
Irene wanted to say something, anything, to calm Drake. But she also thought that perhaps right now he didn’t need calming. That the angrier he was the more likely they’d make it out of the museum alive.
‘Whatever good you’ve done, or think you’re doing,’ Drake said quietly, ‘doesn�
�t – can’t – make up for what you did under the Rig. The kids that died. And what Brand did to Doctor Acacia Lambros … I found her body, Whitmore, stuffed into an old crate to be fed to the sharks. Murderers, the both of you.’
‘You are not entirely without sin, Mr. Drake.’ Whitmore stroked his chin. ‘Allow me to show you something.’
Irene seemed forgotten between the two of them. She touched the back of Drake’s hand, half expecting an electric shock, but he didn’t look at her. If Whitmore had been made of ice then Drake’s intense glare would have melted him in his chair. Whitmore’s expression was carefully controlled: calm, she thought. She couldn’t see his eyes, but a tiny frown line between his eyebrows made her think Drake’s words bothered the Alliance’s president more than he was letting on.
Whitmore tapped the screen on the table in front of him and the Alliance logo on the screens before Drake and Irene changed.
‘Oh my,’ Irene breathed. ‘Is that – ?’
‘Footage taken at sunset today, yes, indeed,’ Whitmore said. ‘As you can see, your escape has caused more damage than you could possibly have imagined.’
‘The hell …’ Drake took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. ‘That’s the Rig.’
On the screen, an Alliance drone circled the four remaining platforms of the Rig from above – at least a few hundred metres or so. Much of the oil-rig prison was covered in sharp spires and twisting loops of dark crystal – the colour of midnight, of Drake’s arm. Mixed within the entanglements, and strung across the platforms, were bands of glowing clear crystal which pulsed blue every few seconds.
‘Our drones have been circling the facility since you forced an evacuation and escaped.’ If Whitmore was bothered by Drake’s escape, his voice didn’t reflect it. ‘As you can see, the fall of the eastern platform and the explosion of Crystal-X within the hold of the Titan seems to have … exacerbated the growth of the underwater reef.’