CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN
Soldiers pounded down the escalator.
Drake knew he only had seconds to weigh the options. The Blood King was right there, backing away slowly and with a confident grin stretched across his craggy face; his remaining two backup teams mere seconds away. President Coburn stood behind Dahl and Alicia, staying quiet for now, but already signaling to the descending soldiers that something was wrong.
Gabriel stood between Drake and the Blood King, bruised and bloody but none more so than Dahl, still with that manic grin stretched across his face. If anything, the wiry African looked even more delighted.
Drake pretended to wrestle with his inner self, but pure common sense dictated the right thing to do. America needed its President back in one piece—and the SPEAR team had helped to accomplish that. The Blood King would wait for another hour, another day.
“I’ll see you soon,” he said as Kovalenko backed away.
“The Blood Vendetta will never end. Not whilst I live. I have already ruined you, Drake. I have ruined my great enemy. I too look forward to the last act, dah?”
A clatter of grenades bounced across the floor, followed by a loud explosion. Debris erupted from the blast point, a small chunk slamming Drake in the vest and doubling him over, the jolt of pain so intense he could barely breathe. He fell to his knees, losing focus, but battled to stay conscious. Shouts sounded from all around. Shattered brick, timber and stone continued to rain down from the ruptured walls and surroundings.
Drake crawled forward, barely able to see two feet in front of him. His outstretched hand touched Alicia, who was kneeling and shaking her head. Beside her, Dahl sat as though in a daze. Drake slapped his face once, twice.
Dahl blinked and sighed. “That’s enough.”
Drake made it three times the charm, to Dahl’s annoyance. Alicia looked to be planning a fourth when Dahl rose carefully and slowly to his feet.
“Bollocks.”
Drake followed his gaze. The arched entrance to the train tracks was completely blocked off. The damage had been almost completely localized.
“One more failsafe for Kovalenko,” Drake said.
The President still stood, shoulders covered in dust and little bits of rubble, and shouted at the first soldier who reached the bottom of the escalator. “Warn them up top. Something’s about to hit. Warn them!” he shouted into the wavering soldier’s face. “Give them a chance!”
“Mr. President, my orders are for the sole—”
Coburn wrenched the man’s comms away. The Bravo team leader had already reported a possible strike, but the President’s voice would add immense potency to the threat. The rest of the soldiers surrounded the President, completely ignoring the Blood King’s mode of retreat, Drake, and his team.
Alicia eyed a man who shouldered by her. “You’re welcome.”
“They’re just doing their job.” Dahl steadied her. “Soldiers do that.”
“Let’s go.” Coburn threw the comms device back at the luckless soldier and started toward the ascending escalator. Drake watched him walk away, then turned again to track Kovalenko’s retreat.
“Bastard’s gone.”
Dahl came up beside him. “Op’s complete,” he said. “Time to go up top and find out what the hell’s happening up there.”
Drake reached for his phone. “And to call our friends.”
****
If anyone had had any conventional thoughts and plans about tracking and capturing Dmitry Kovalenko through the miles and miles of underground tunnels, junctions, cross-passages, old stations and rabbit warrens which snaked beneath Washington; if anyone had pointed out that the lack of running trains aided his escape; if anyone had realized that the team led by Mordant, his other lieutenant, would eventually meet with him, then those generally uninspired thoughts had been ripped to tatters by the time President Coburn saw the rising sun.
Smyth and many others saw the menace first, the UCAV, the Unmanned Combat Air Vehicle, rise up and swing in low across the heart of the city. If it had been near the White House, Capitol Hill, or other major buildings, it might have been shot down by their defenses, but it swooped in an arc over the Dupont Circle, then settled into an unwavering flight pattern.
Kovalenko would have known where the main forces and main players would be situated by now. Had he ever actually intended to take the President any further than this Metro station? Had he intended to kill him there? Conceal him in the blast? No one would ever know. Maybe Coburn’s death had been planned as the last act in the Blood Vendetta and the drone was a distraction technique.
Smyth had seen this kind of drone before, a US Hunter Killer. It operated under real-time human control, boasted a big payload capacity and hours of flight time. The subject of unmanned drones was a highly sensitive one, and this fiasco sure wasn’t going to help. Even the new ones, called ‘full autonomy’, which could think and learn for themselves, continued to rack up collateral damage in various war zones. If Kovalenko had somehow managed to get his hands on one he must have a mole inside the United States Air Force.
Not exactly the biggest surprise of the day. And, as Smyth knew, anything could be stolen. It just took the right minds and enough ruthless men.
Smyth watched with eyes that had seen it all before. These things used stealth technology and were able to deploy a range of munitions over a number of targets, all with surprising speed. It could defend itself against manned and other unmanned aircraft. It could deploy countermeasures to foil missiles. There was nothing he could do except watch and report.
“Is Hayden prepped?” He spoke directly to Karin.
“Ready to go. You’re on speakerphone.”
“I’d wait a while. This won’t last long, but Washington’s about to come under attack.”
Smyth ended the call as gasps of disbelief bombarded his ears.
****
Drake sprinted hard up the escalator, taking the metal risers two at a time. When he emerged from the shadow of the underground and reached the top, he found a station in chaos; the entrance leading to the street thick with soldiers, FBI agents, SWAT, almost every acronym Drake could think of, and plenty more that probably didn’t officially exist. The President was surrounded by a force of soldiers, and a small detachment of Secret Service agents were making their way to his side. Though 23rd Street was wide there was barely a space to be had between the Metro entrance and the Circa restaurant and Citibank across the road and along the road to the right that led deeper into the University area.
Drake, recognizing men of his own natural vocation, strode over to a group of Special Forces soldiers. The men who eyed him nodded after a few seconds, before returning their attention to a small screen held by their captain.
“Snipers have a bead on it,” one of them breathed. “Wait. Gonna take it out.”
“Fucker has to be guided by a hacked military satellite,” another muttered. “Command should just take that out.”
“It might not be a satellite-controlled drone,” someone else answered. “Could be hacked locally, retrofitted with some kind of GPS software.”
“Even,” another man said. “Stolen or hijacked from one of our private security companies. Someone like Blackrock. They have drones all over the world guarding their mercenaries.”
Then Drake looked up as the drone blasted overhead.
****
Smyth watched the drone employ its super-agile air defenses as it came under fire. Switching between precision-guided and precision-miniature weapons, it suppressed the army defenses and strafed the open spaces around the Metro Station. High-velocity rounds stitched a curving line through the massed forces down there, continuing through Washington Circle Park, taking chunks out of the monument and peppering the walls of nearby buildings.
Smyth hung his head. “God help us.”
The drone swooped, then rose almost vertically and made to come around for a second pass. Fighter jets would have been scrambled almost immedia
tely, but even those already on alert would take two to three minutes to hit the skies over Washington.
A fully armed drone could do a lot of damage in two minutes, depending on the skills of the human controller. No doubt he was just aiming for mayhem, and was cruelly accomplishing just that. The drone flew down like an attacking hawk, firing its lethal projectiles at a terrifying rate. Parked cars jumped and shook as they were torn apart. Running men fell in the street. Glass windows and the sides of buildings shattered and fragmented, pouring debris down onto the men below. Even the hospital came under fire, along with the ambulances and white FBI cars parked outside. Street lights, trees and exterior stalls collapsed, crashing down among a group of soldiers. Outside the Metro station, I Street was clogged with vehicles and personnel, most in disorder and chaos as they tried to deal with the first few minutes of Kovalenko’s newest strike. The drone came in at about treetop height, a deadly black-painted predator, and mowed a wavering line from one side of the street to the other. The sound of bullets discharging and plowing into hard concrete and solid steel was overwhelming as the UCAV felled all in its path. Before it began to pull up again, an echoing boom was heard as two F-22’s sliced through the skies.
The drone swerved between buildings.
****
Drake ran toward the madness, Dahl and Alicia at his side. When they burst out of the furthest station entrance the drone had already blasted overhead, stitching the ground along its flight path with a good chunk of its payload. Drake saw snipers on the roofs and soldiers on the streets, all with rifles aimed high, along with black-suited agents pointing their guns to the skies, all standing in the face of the onslaught and returning fire. They put up a stiff, heroic resistance but the drone passed by intact. Seconds later, the F-22’s tore the clouds apart as they spotted and locked on to their target. The drone vanished along a wide street but couldn’t just sit there. It soared out of the far end, hurrying to get some altitude before it began a third devastating run.
Drake could imagine the frantic communications passing between the fighter pilots and command. All they needed was the go-ahead to destroy the drone over downtown Washington and the battle would be done. All they needed was a man with a set of brass balls.
To his right, Drake heard President Coburn ask for an immediate line of communication to be opened to command. When the mobile comms was passed to him he ordered the drone to be shot down, no bluster, no airs, but also no doubt. “Just take that bastard out.”
The drone lined up for another strike. One of the F-22s fired an AMRAAM, a fire-and-forget air-to-air missile with full active guidance.
“Fox Three . . . away.” Drake heard the pilot’s voice clearly through Coburn’s open comms. The missile streaked toward the drone, hitting and blasting it apart in under a second. A cheer went up as smashed pieces of the drone fell to earth, scattering across rooftops and a good part of I Street.
Drake breathed a sigh of relief. At last, he could point his gun at the floor, a sign that the threat had lessened.
For now.
Dahl made a quick gesture. “Now,” he said. “Call the others.”
CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT
Kinimaka listened to his head and not his heart, and waited for the ambulance to turn up. It arrived accompanied by a military escort. Karin, using newly established local contacts, and Kinimaka, using his juice as an ex-CIA agent, had pulled every string in their respective bows to get Hayden escorted to the nearest best-guarded hospital. The men they had spoken to had won their confidence and come through with the prompt ambulance and heavily armed escort. The SPEAR team was still under threat, a point acknowledged by all, and were permitted as much security as the authorities could spare.
Kinimaka watched with a pained expression and an aching heart as Hayden was carried away on a stretcher. He held her hand until the last moment, its limp weight almost breaking his heart. The paramedics didn’t need to say that his impromptu field surgery had saved her life. He just hoped they could keep it that way. He glanced up into the morning sun as the ambulance drove away, seeking solace in its warmth, then returned to the ruined safe house.
“I’ll see you again,” he said under his breath: a promise, a wish.
“Tell me again,” he added, louder, “Why I can’t go with her.”
“This is why.” Karin held out her phone. “The team needs you more than Hayden does right now. So does this country. I have Drake on speakerphone. Listen to this.”
“Kovalenko got away, Mano. He blew up some underground tunnels, used some kind of drone and escaped through the labyrinth beneath Washington.”
Karin knitted her brows. “They’ll still have him on CCTV, Matt,” she said. “There’s surveillance cameras below DC too, and most other major cities.”
“I know. But the arsehole’s got some tech wizards working for him. They disabled some remotely, destroyed others. We have some patchy footage, but nothing that tells us where he and his psychotic band of brothers came out.”
“Tech wizards for sure,” Karin said. “Covert agency standard at least. Controlling that drone must have been almost as hard as stealing it. Then we had the traffic light fuck up. The Special Agent Grid incursion. What next?”
“He hit hard and fast,” Dahl said. “He put everyone on the back foot. Especially us, with all the extra suffering we’ve had to face. Now he’s on the run. This is our chance to pull together and end this the right way.”
“You have everyone with you,” Kinimaka said. “We all owe that bastard.”
“Damn straight,” Smyth rasped quietly, a look of sadness on his face. “What’s the plan?”
“Head for the Foggy Bottom Metro and use your IDs. Coburn’s calling together the meeting of all meetings. I have an idea . . . a good one,” Drake paused. “But I need all of your support to help me pull it off and make it look good.”
“On our way.” Kinimaka looked around. “C’mon, guys. It’s time to make Kovalenko pay. Time to shed some blood.”
Smyth snarled, “And get a fuckload of vengeance.”
CHAPTER THIRTY NINE
Lauren Fox sat listening as the SPEAR team made plans to go after Dmitry Kovalenko. Her head spun. Ever since she’d been attacked in her New York apartment, impressed Jonathan Gates, and then accepted a role in the team, her life had been anything but regular. Not that she led the most ordinary of lives anyway. But hell, she thought, There’s gotta be a limit.
Lauren was streetwise, quick-witted and, when necessary, somewhat of a smooth talker. But she was not polite. Maybe it was being dragged around foster homes all her childhood, maybe it was the New York vice, but Lauren could not bring herself to kiss ass.
Unless she was being paid two thousand an hour, of course. For that kind of money she’d pretty much kiss anything that presented itself.
Kiss ass or kick ass? She thought back to her time on the streets. It had always been the latter.
Now, with Jonathan gone and the future of the team uncertain, Lauren’s instinct was to bolt. She had the experience to look after herself. She had money saved in a Grand Central locker. The only reason she didn’t was because she knew Stone was an influential five-star general and thus held a lot of clout on the Hill. He would track her down when he had the time. SPEAR, or whatever element remained after today, was the kind of family that would have her back, no matter what. They would stand against the general and find a way to help her. The team that Gates had formed would be her salvation.
She had originally made contact with General Stone during the Babylon affair, prepared to use her wiles, but later been told to stand down by Gates. Almost past the point of no return, Stone had guessed something was off and had made stronger enquiries. That was until Kovalenko struck at the capital. Tomorrow, if Kovalenko vanished . . . who knew?
Now Lauren looked around. The team was about to split up. Yorgi the Russian, Sarah Moxley the Washington Post reporter and herself would be dropped off at the hospital where Hayden was being tr
eated. The place was heavily guarded, totally secure, and if Kinimaka had allowed Hayden to be taken there then Lauren had no problem joining the wounded team leader. Plus, Kovalenko was on the run and so were his various cells. Maybe he had a plan for another day and maybe he didn’t.
Anyway, she thought. Life’s at its best when it’s unpredictable.
The team gathered together. To a person they looked disheveled, shell-shocked, even downtrodden, but sparks of life and hope still lived in their eyes. They would learn to live with their losses and come fighting back.
Literally.
Kinimaka took a moment. “Look,” he said to Yorgi, Moxley and her. “I know you three guys have stuff that needs sorting out. Stick with us, and we’ll get into it right after we fry Kovalenko’s ass. Please, just give us a few days.”
Yorgi nodded vigorously. “I really have nowhere else to go. I’m good.”
Sarah just nodded absently. Lauren untied then retied her dark hair. “Only Gates knew how to help me.” She said. “It’s . . . very sensitive.”
Smyth looked up from his phone, thumbs suddenly still. Lauren wondered who he was texting in these significant moments. “Sensitive, huh? Can I help with some ointment?”
“Do I even know you?”
“I guess not. But there’s always tomorrow.”
Lauren looked away. “Not for some.”
Smyth looked down. Before the mood sobered any further, Kinimaka pointed to the door. “Let’s move out.”
Lauren followed Karin and Komodo, keeping her thoughts to herself. The morning light hit her like a balm, the chill wind like a cold shower. People were moving around outside. Civilization, it seemed, had returned to the world after taking the night off.
News reports blared from open windows. Entire families sat around listening. Lauren could see them as Komodo drove them down the block. Newsstands were open, papers racked up out front with glaring headlines designed to sell thousands of copies. The brave few who wandered the streets did so with sad, subdued faces.
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