The Matt Drake Series Books: 7-9 (The Matt Drake Series Boxset 2)

by David Leadbeater

  He turned again. Silk had just defeated his own opponent, leaving him prone on the roof, and looked unwilling to kick him into space. Trent understood his restraint. They may be paid mercenaries, but the Disavowed were not thugs. If you didn’t have to . . .

  “Your cell,” Trent panted, trying to survey every angle at the same time. “Get Collins on the line.”

  Silk dialed. It took a moment to connect but then the agent’s fruity tones bombarded them.

  “What are you doing? Get the fuck down from there!”

  Silk shrugged. “Believe me, I wish I could.”

  Trent urged him on with a stern gesture.

  “Oh and yeah, we figure that whilst everyone chases the big, noisy trucks the samples are getting away on foot. Probably with one or two men. It makes sense.”

  Collins didn’t hesitate. “We’re sticking with you,” she said. “We’ll call that in but we’re with you all the way.”

  Trent sent another man pinwheeling off the truck. By now the second metal mammoth had maneuvered its way alongside. Cop cars weaved through the graveyard in hot pursuit. With the sprawled men and the damage caused by the trucks and the cars, the place looked like a war zone.

  Silk stared back at the vehicles. “Wonder if Susie’s out there?” His new girlfriend, the woman he had left his wife for, was a Los Angeles cop. The two were barely separable these days. Susie had helped him through the recent heavy trauma of revisiting his days as a child thief and recalling the people he had befriended and helped only to see them brutalized, loved and then lost. His greatest love had been murdered; his greatest mentor vanished without a trace. But they had caught the serial killer that haunted his past and although the ordeal had wrecked his marriage it had also given him a new lease on life.

  “If not yet,” Trent said, “then soon. She knows where you’ll be.”

  Silk barely kept his balance as the truck cleared a hillock. “Yeah, smack bang in the middle of the chase.”

  Trent almost smiled. “Amen.”

  Ahead, the cemetery was finally thinning out. Trent saw the wide concrete strip of road and knew immediately what was about to happen.

  “Hang on!”

  The dumper truck cleared the cemetery, shot across the sidewalk and swung out into the road. Whoever was driving was good, because the back wheels slid all the way, a hundred-degree drift, but he held it with composure and even poise. Trent and Silk clung onto whatever they could, the edge of the roof, the aerial mast, the rear machinery. Bodies flung from side to side, they kept their heads down until the vehicle righted itself, hearing shouts as climbing mercs were thrown off by their own driver.

  “How many of them are there?” Silk shouted.

  “Enough,” Trent said. “The Pythians don’t appear to underestimate.”

  The dumper truck powered along the road now, its fellow tucking in behind. A swarm of power-sliding cop cars screamed in pursuit, lights flashing, sirens blaring. Trent looked back as their ride became easier.

  “Ah, shit.”

  Men had climbed the sides of the truck that followed them and were now drawing weapons and taking a bead on the Disavowed.

  “We’re sitting ducks up here!”

  The mercs opened fire.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Trent threw himself across the roof, Silk following. Bullets hit the high back with a metallic clang; others flew through the air with a supersonic whistle. Trent wrestled his own gun free, firing back just to give the mercs something to think about. Their own truck was hustling at high speed now, rushing by the odd civilian vehicle out in Long Beach at this late hour, jumping red lights and panicking pedestrians. Trent rolled again as another metallic flurry perforated the air, completely unsighted, and felt a rush of relief to find he wasn’t dead.

  Silk fired off a few shots. “Not my idea of a thrilling Thursday night.”

  Trent looked at him deadpan. “Oh, I dunno. Beats a CSI rerun.”

  Silk’s cell rang. Rolling his eyes and putting down his gun for a moment he answered it. “Yeah?”

  “Me!” Collins’ high-pitched voice startled even Trent. “Bad news, boys. You won’t believe this but the fucking Moose is out here tonight. He’s back!”

  Trent felt a ring of steel encircle his heart and fought hard to keep down a sudden rush of pure hatred. Along with Beauregard Alain he was either called the world’s greatest or worst contract killer, depending on your viewpoint. The man who almost killed Mikey, the man who helped murder his ex-wife, the man who was willing and tried to blow up Radford in a diner full of innocents, the very man who helped orchestrate a terrorist attack on LA and got away with it. The Moose.

  “I didn’t believe it. How can he be so stupid? I thought he retired to a vineyard or something?”

  “He did. I guess the Pythians have very deep pockets. Of all the cities to bring the Moose back to—LA? It’s not only crazy, it’s callous and outrageous.”

  “Seems they want everyone involved. Do you have a bead on the bastard?”

  “No. That’s just intel. But you can bet your balls he’s here tonight.”

  This time, Trent felt a gust of disquiet travel through him, something that made all the hairs on his arms and the nape of his neck rise. “Jesus.”

  Silk squeezed off another shot, still holding the phone. “Anything else?”

  “Yeah,” Collins shouted. “We’ll be with you in just a moment!”

  Silk winced and held the receiver away from his ear. “What does she mean? And why the hell is she shouting?”

  Trent shrugged, but then the reason became clear as a loud roar accompanied the sight of two big bikes powering up alongside the second truck below. Collins was visible astride the first, Radford the second. Collins held a gun at arm’s length.

  The truck swerved toward her. Collins flicked the bike away, maintaining distance. Radford hauled on the brakes, creating tire smoke. In another second he was shooting around the truck’s other side. At the same time both he and Collins opened fire.

  Trent held on as their own truck slid around another corner. Frantically he stared around, recognizing the ocean, now running alongside, the beach and a row of houses. “East Ocean Drive,” he said. “Man, any closer to the ocean and we’d be swimming in it.”

  Looking back he blinked hard as every other pursuing vehicle made the same turn—the second truck, the fast bikes, the stream of cop cars, and a black SWAT van. Pedestrians stared from the sidewalk and the golden ribbon that was the beach. Even the surfers were sitting on their boards, grabbing an eyeful.

  Trent heard gunshots echo into the night and smash through Silk’s phone connection as Collins again opened fire. The second truck suddenly swerved and a splash of red struck the windscreen on the passenger side. Silk managed to hit a merc on its roof, sending the man sprawling and then slithering over the side. His body bounced in Collins’ wake, but only just.

  “This is all well and good,” Trent muttered. “But my heart tells me the samples are a long way from here, either carried by or protected by the Moose.”

  “Collins called it in,” Silk cried. “Let’s just stay alive.”

  Charging down East Ocean, the staggering convoy ate up mile after mile. The cop cars moved closer, but were now attracting fire from the mercs atop the second truck. Trent and Silk saw some breathing space and were about to rise when a new monster entered the battle. A police chopper, rotors thundering, swung into sight and headed, nose down, for the men on the second truck. Quickly, it gained on them, flying above the raging torrent of cop cars and both motorbikes. Guns bristled from its open doors.

  Trent and Silk hit the deck near the back edge, watching. Rapid gunfire slammed into the truck’s roof, shredding men and piercing the metal, passing down into those below. Instantly the truck bucked, swinging sharply as its driver died. Collins and Radford made evasive maneuvers, Collins shooting to her right, up over the sidewalk and a little way down to the beach, Radford bouncing across somebody’s front gar
den and then laying the front end down to avoid a parked car, whipping it back up in time to lay on the power and shoot back into the race.

  Trent turned to Silk. “Guess who’s gonna be perforated next?”

  Silk nodded. “I’m already there.”

  As the second truck slowed and smashed up onto the sidewalk with mercs falling from its sides and leaping from its doors, Trent and Silk rose and ran to the front end. Once there, they paused, looking down. Trent caught a silver flash in the corner of his eye and looked right, saw Collins keeping pace with them, hair flying, and beyond her now a police speedboat, slicing through the ocean, matching their speed.

  The rotors of the chopper grew louder.

  Trent could see only one way out. Sirens and rotor blades slashed the air apart behind him. The truck’s terrible roar battered his ears. Collins’ powerful bike spurted ahead with a powerful roar. The speedboat bellowed.

  A cocoon of peace enveloped him. “Just do it.”

  He leaped down onto the truck’s cab and leveled his weapon, but it was already too late. The chopper thumped overhead, bullets spraying from its sides. Many found their way diagonally through the truck and into the cab; allowing the bird to pull up and away before the deadly stream caught up to Trent and Silk.

  They were warned! he thought. They knew we were here. Thank God.

  But that still left them in a world of difficulty. The driver, now dead, was no longer in control of the wheel. The behemoth slowed but it also slewed to the side. Cop cars shot past the right-hand side, careful to keep a wide gap between themselves and the runaway. Collins and Radford surged ahead. Trent hung on as the truck slid to the right, causing confusion among the cops. Several cars collided before a space opened up and the truck jolted through, striking the sidewalk and then shuddering onto the beach. It hit hard, its left-side wheels sinking, its right still spinning, and immediately tipped. Trent and Silk, clinging to the bulkhead with white knuckles, felt the heavy vehicle lift onto two wheels. Both let out involuntary cries. The whole world tipped.

  A life flashed before Trent’s eyes—the new life he wanted for his son and himself. This wasn’t the way to do it. This was going to get him and his friends well and truly killed.

  The truck lifted and lifted, Silk at the bottom and moments from death; Trent at the top and feeling his legs starting to float—and then the three-hundred-ton monster stopped tilting, its weight the final factor, and slowly slammed its chassis back down onto all tires.

  Silk fell to his knees, the sudden loss of momentum as jarring as the horror he had just lived through. Trent clung to the bulkhead. For a moment they were both quiet, thankful, drawing breath.

  The sound of sirens and the roaring of engines destroyed their fugue. Collins, minus her bike, ran up alongside.

  “What the hell are you guys still doing up there? Get down here now!”

  Trent sent a quick glance toward Silk. “We’d better do as she says. Nobody wants to survive a ride like that and then face Collins in ballbuster mode.”

  Silk nodded. “I don’t know which is worse.”

  Trent steeled his resolve and wiped the blood from his face, then nodded down at Claire Collins.

  “Coming, dear.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  Tyler Webb slammed the table in excitement, his exuberance getting the better of him. Alone in the office, but still faced by five live TV screens he struggled to keep from dancing around.

  “We have two of them!” he cried. “What a start to the game, my friends. What a start.”

  Five confused faces stared back at him. Of course they were waiting for the customary greeting. Of course they knew less than he about proceedings in the three target cities. Of course, this was as it should be.

  “We are the Pythians,” he intoned.

  “We are the Pythians.”

  “So, straight to business. Team London lost most of its men but still smuggled out the sample. Team Angeles, when warned of the oncoming raid, reacted superbly and threw attention away from the Moose as he liberated our sample. Team Paris is about to strike. I love the fluidity of all this, gents and ladies. Makes me feel very much alive.”

  “Los Angeles was touch and go,” General Stone affirmed. “To say the least.”

  “That’s what I mean!” Webb practically cackled. “We spent two days finding the right place, two days excavating and then outmatched the best of the US in a last minute escape. You couldn’t write that stuff!”

  Stone looked a little relieved. Webb wondered why for a moment and then remembered the thorn in their rosy situation. “This team in London,” he said, “that almost beat us. They’re called SPEAR, I believe.”

  Stone winced but covered it with a nod. “Yes, sir. I believe we first heard of them through Dmitry Kovalenko. It was they that thwarted the Blood King in his efforts to use the nano-vest on the president underneath Washington DC. Indeed, it was they that took him down. They also stopped Coyote,” he smiled, “but failed to stop her using the nano-vest.”

  Webb pursed his lips. “I recall they also stopped several other attempts to test the vests.”

  “Sure.” Stone shrugged. “I guess they’re what you might call—our arch enemies.”

  “And the team in LA?”

  “We’re investigating. I believe the Moose, when he’s safe, might be able to shed some light onto that question.”

  “Do they have anyone in Paris?” Nicholas Bell asked.

  Stone raised both brows. “I can’t imagine there will be anyone so effective,” he said. “They’re spread pretty thin.”

  “Good. Good. Well, we’re ahead of the game at least. A good place to be. So tell me, General Stone, tell me about this SPEAR team.”

  “Since they popped up in London I’ve been digging deep. It seemed as good a way as any to test the resources we have . . . procured. It’s the same team that found the tombs of the gods, if you remember? All that Odin stuff too. They also untangled a Korean plot to plant brainwashed super-assassins among the population.” Stone proceeded to name and describe every known member of the team.

  “Not all were present at Knightsbridge.” Webb stared down at a sheet of paper before him where names had been matched to quickly snapped photographs. “Yorgi the thief. Alicia Myles, I believe. Lauren Fox—the escort.”

  Stone appeared to wince. For a moment, lost for words, he said nothing. Then Nicholas Bell stepped into the breach.

  “I guess we don’t really know how big the team is.”

  But Webb barely heard him, concentrating on Stone. The general looked like he’d just swallowed a really, really big pill. “Is there a problem, Stone?”

  “Ah, we don’t know the exact location of every single member. Even our resources can’t encircle the globe.”

  “Accepted. But still, we are nothing if we’re not a proactive group. The curve of destiny is always before us but we must now strive to remain ahead of it. If SPEAR is causing us problems we should take steps to stamp them out.”

  “I suggest you stay on track,” Stone said quickly. “Nothing can be gained by deviating here. Look what happened to everyone else that stood up to them, even the Shadow Elite. We have schemes and plans to see us through the next two years. We should concentrate on those.”

  Webb thought about that. Stone was usually his most staunch ally, his hardest rock. Today, something was off with the man. Perhaps it was the influence of that damn builder, the uncouth Nicholas Bell. Perhaps it was something else entirely.

  Time to test the general.

  “This is your plan, Stone. We allowed you to take first strike. I must insist now that you man up and face a most thorny issue.”

  Stone’s eyes bulged at the slur, face suddenly flushing beetroot red. “Man up!” he blustered. “Man up. Me? I’ve seen more action than any man here. I’ll have you know—”

  Webb tapped the desk. “Calm yourself, General. Your reaction is the one I was searching for. But the basic issue remains. Drake and his
colleagues need to hit the proverbial brick wall.”

  Stone’s face scrolled through a medley of emotions, finally settling on deceitful. “There is a way,” he said. “Maybe.”

  Webb sat back, happy to see Stone back to his normal self. Clifford Bay-Dale jumped in with a stiff elitist comment, “Hurry up, man. We don’t have all day.”

  Stone continued as if the interruptions hadn’t happened. “Some time ago, across in the Czech Republic I understand, Drake and his team pretty much destroyed a terrorist arms bazaar—”

  “When they found the third tomb of the gods?” Webb, by now, was familiar with their exploits.

  “Yes, in Germany. Now, through the ears of the NSA and the eyes of ground-based assets I do know that this arms bazaar was attended by men who are normally ghosts. They pull the strings of the puppets we know. Terrorist royalty if you like, with a long reach and an even longer memory. The SPEAR team were marked that day, etched in the memories of these powerful men, though so far their constant exploits have kept them untouchable.”

  “How’s that?” Robert Norris wondered.

  “It’s hard to track and plan to kill a team always at war,” Stone said. “A team that doesn’t even know itself where it will be the next day, or even the next hour. Drake’s team has been on the move for over a year and situated in all parts of the globe. But now,” he mused aloud. “Now we might have a chance.”

  “Go on,” Webb said, reading through a dossier as he listened, a dossier compiled on that very team and its every member.

  “The terrorists don’t know where Drake is right now but I do. He doesn’t know his team have been marked. If we do this right we could have every terrorist in London burning his house down.”

  “Removing him from the game,” Webb said. “And adding a rich depth of confusion to it.”