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

by David Leadbeater

  “You got it. Now, give me some time. I have a little event to plan.”

  Webb agreed to the general’s signing off. Within ten minutes he had said his goodbyes to the rest of the Pythians, effectively cutting their meeting short but hearing no complaints. Tyler Webb had started this group, the vision was his to enjoy, the game his to abuse and manipulate. He would have everything go his way or not at all.

  General Stone had slipped up somewhere, he was sure. There were no clues in his latest dossier. Perhaps Nicholas Bell knew something—the outspoken builder had been atypically quiet throughout the meeting.

  Webb’s sense for trouble, as practiced and shrewd as a Shaolin master’s, unfolded inside, its edges jagged, sharp like thorns. Even among the superior ranks of the world, he mused, death’s heavy hand could strike at any time.

  CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

  Alicia Myles checked her watch for the hundredth time. “How come we aren’t getting any action?” she complained. “Drake and those blokes in LA got plenty. How about little ole me?”

  Russo, crouched beside her behind a hedgerow, grunted. “Coming from you the term ‘action’ could mean half a dozen different things.”

  “Quit speaking, before I break that mountain you call a face with my boots.”

  Russo frowned, his crag-like face shifting like sliding rock. “I accepted you, Myles. Doesn’t mean you can insult me.”

  “Believe me that was no insult. And besides what’s wrong with being a game girl?”

  “Nothing. So long as you don’t bring that ‘game’ near me. I get the feeling that the term ‘safe sex’ isn’t even close to your playbook.”

  Alicia licked her lips. “No such thing.”

  At that moment, Michael Crouch, the leader of their little team, spoke up. “I realize watching a cemetery through the night is a little boring, chaps, but try to keep the noise down.”

  Alicia heard Healey snigger, the young man’s emotions getting the better of him. “Hey Zack,” she said. “You ask Caitlyn out on that date yet?”

  Caitlyn, knelt next to Healey in the ditch, turned her head away. Healey immediately crimsoned. “Umm, well, do ya think I’ve had bloody time?”

  “Nope.”

  Healey shook his head, muttering a word.

  Alicia’s ears caught it. “Don’t call me a bitch, Zacky. You know that kinda talk just turns me on.”

  Crouch gesticulated. “Look!”

  Alicia studied the flat open-plan graveyard they had found in the heart of Paris early that morning. Arriving in the fog of 4 a.m. they had located a hiding place and settled down to watch. The Church of the Three Holy Innocents bordered the Rue St Dennis and immediately called to Alicia as a truly gruesome place. The mausoleums were dirty, old and broken, their doorways like jagged teeth. Snarled weeds grew everywhere. A mural of the danse macabre patterned one large wall whilst rumors of charnel houses blighted the place. History spoke not only of terrible charnel pits but also of the dreaded plague pits, bodies being tipped into deeply dug holes in the ground like endless toppling heads of corn, their arms and legs entangled, their dignity in death destroyed. Several mercenaries known to be on the Pythians’ payroll had been identified visiting the cemetery over the last two days. Armand Argento at Interpol had fed the information back to Crouch.

  “At first the Paris police weren’t interested,” Crouch said, matter-of-factly. “Nothing ever changes. But after the events in London and LA, my bet is they will suddenly get interested. Especially . . .”

  Alicia watched a dark-clad group of men thread a path through the broken-down graves on their route to the center of the cemetery. She decided they had been right not to send someone into the graveyard to snoop around. The mercs were here and they were totally exposed. Ripe for the plucking.

  “Ready?” She shifted tensed-up muscles, ironing out the knots of the last few hours.

  Crouch signaled a go. Under a crisp, brightening dawn sky they moved off. Stars and the moon still twinkled in the frosty heavens; a brisk wind snapped around them. Moving with a low center of gravity and absolute silence, Alicia and Russo led the team out of hiding. Guns were prepped; in the case of Caitlyn tracking devices, information-gathering tools and communications systems were tuned and monitored. She ran at the back, armed and flak-jacketed, but with orders not to engage until Healey had made good on his promise and trained her up.

  As she ran, Alicia fixed the ragtag group of mercenaries in her sights. They were closing now, only one of them seemed even half-observant and he was studying a patch of darkness in the other direction. The front four men suddenly dropped out of sight, giving Alicia a moment’s pause, but then their heads reappeared and she realized they had jumped into a previously excavated hole.

  “On point,” she whispered into her comms. “All good. They’re bringing up the samples now. We’ll catch them red-handed.”

  Still, an air of unease trickled across the back of her neck. After what had transpired over in London and Los Angeles this campaign almost felt inadequate. Could this actually be the Parisian cops trumping the mercs? Or perhaps they didn’t have much of a crew?

  “Underestimate me at your peril,” Alicia breathed as she came upon one of the mercenaries with his back turned. “I may look like a fantasy but I’m your worst fucking nightmare.”

  Her knife made sure he didn’t even squeak. As Russo descended like an avalanche the rest of the mercs spun. Healey and Crouch were already on one knee, taking aim, and picked two off without wasting a moment. Alicia danced around her falling man and engaged the next. This was too easy.

  All four mercs were climbing out of the hole. Crouch fired again, sending one writhing back down. Alicia thought fast and sprinted to reach the hole first, leaving the rest of the mercs to her team. Those emerging from the hole would have the desperately needed samples.

  As she ran, a figure dropped out of the sky, landing eight feet in front of her. A figure wrapped in a skintight black bodysuit. Somebody who snagged her attention so violently she tripped and fell.

  “Beauregard!”

  Alicia covered her fall with a roll and a leap. The assassin, Beauregard Alain, hadn’t moved, but stood with a feline grace, muscles bulging.

  Alicia hesitated. “You may have beaten the SPEAR team once,” she said. “You won’t beat me again.”

  Beauregard’s lips turned upward. “You tripped over when your eyes met mine.” His French accent was music to her ears.

  “Is that why you zip that stacked body of yours into a skintight suit?” She allowed her gaze to drift down to what she considered to be Beauregard’s biggest asset. “To keep that monster from tripping you up?”

  “Maybe one day,” Beauregard leaped at her, “you’ll find out!”

  Alicia sprang to the left, head still intact by an inch as Beauregard’s heel snapped at thin air. “Promises, promises.”

  Spinning fast she jabbed an elbow into the small of his back. Again Beauregard stood motionless, studying her. Alicia changed tack. “Why are you fighting for these people? And aren’t you supposed to be locked up, for God’s sake?”

  Beauregard couldn’t resist a little sneer. “Aha, your silly team allowed the authorities to handle my interrogation.” He stressed the word in a disdainful way. “They were not a match for me.”

  Alicia felt a sudden urge to take this man down, teach him his place in the world. “If you challenge me that way,” she said, “you’ll end up crawling at my feet.”

  Beauregard arched an eyebrow. “I believe I might enjoy that.”

  “So why are you here?”

  The Frenchman struck fast, clearly trying to make an impression; if not in her mind at least on her body. “Money,” he said. “Always the money.”

  “You’re on the wrong bloody team.” Alicia fended him off and took a second to review the rest of the team. Three mercs still fought Russo and Healey, whilst Crouch had his hands full with another. Through the earpieces Caitlyn shouted excitedly about a merc
with a backpack standing quietly behind Beauregard. Alicia noticed him for the first time.

  “Who’s your boyfriend?”

  “We have what we came for,” Beauregard said. “Stop me if you can, Alicia Myles. We’re so far ahead of schedule we may even be stopping over for the night.”

  Alicia paused even as she fell into a well-practiced move. Was that . . . ? Did he just . . . ?

  Russo’s clamorous voice brayed through the morning like a claxon. “Myles, stop chatting the bloody man up and take him down!”

  Alicia eyed the assassin. “You planning to switch sides?”

  “Le Grand Hyatt,” he said without moving a muscle. “But be careful of monsters there.”

  “I’d better encounter at least one.” Alicia didn’t know how to explain it but, flirting aside, she trusted Beauregard. Their world of shadows and death, one-night encounters and paid wet work was far from reality. Alicia had been there—done it. She knew the ropes and how to test the character of the people that stood among them. Perhaps it was familiar souls, comrades in arms; perhaps it was that he’d gone easy on them and surrendered back in England in a knocked-unconscious kind of way; perhaps it was some kind of new desperation. Always look forward, she thought. Never back.

  Russo brayed again. Alicia sensed him pounding up behind her. She nodded quickly at Beauregard and performed a weak attack. The Frenchman skipped away, bruised her ribs and sent her sprawling. Then he twisted Russo despite the big man’s strength and threw him onto Alicia.

  “Fuck!” she yelled as the tremendous weight sprawled atop her.

  Beauregard grabbed the man with the backpack, relieved him of the burden, and ran straight into the brightening dawn. The remaining man drew a pistol but was taken down almost immediately by a sniper’s shot from Crouch.

  “Get the hell off me, you daft lummox!” Alicia shouted.

  “I’m bloody trying.” Russo struggled to roll his body off her. “Last place I wanna be, believe me.”

  “Ow!”

  “And if you hadn’t spent so much time trying to get shagged maybe we would have taken him down.”

  “Hey, Russo, your miniature backup piece is digging into my ass.”

  “Eh? I don’t have a . . .” Russo finally managed to roll clear, groaning. “Oh, I get it.”

  “Good.” Alicia sat up. “Keep it in your pants.” She noticed Crouch drawing a bead on the fleeing Beauregard and shouted at him to stop.

  Crouch lowered the weapon, calm, regarding her curiously. “What did you do?”

  “I talked us into a chance,” she said, giving Russo the eye. “Using my distinctive charm, of course. We’re sitting ducks out here but the mercs don’t know we know where they’re staying. The Le Grand.”

  “You mean to steal the sample back from under their noses?” Crouch caught on quickly. “What makes you trust Beauregard?”

  Russo snorted. “I can think of one thing—”

  “I bet you can, Robster, but Michael knows what I mean, don’t you? You were there at Sunnyvale. You know Beauregard could have seriously hurt us. And now . . . chances are he could have escaped with the samples anyway.”

  Crouch chewed his lower lip. “Tricky operation, Alicia. Even with a fully trustworthy soldier on the inside. And a hotel is not exactly perfect for a team raid.”

  Alicia nodded. “Agreed, sir. But if I can get hold of Drake straight away, I believe we have just the man.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

  At 7 a.m. on a cold and windy London morning, Matt Drake and his team regrouped in a local hotel. This was no longer a single entity discussion—by necessity it had to include all the cooperating teams and more. Karin handled the heady logistics, helped by Caitlyn Nash on the Paris side and Dan Radford in LA. Armand Argento also tuned in from Interpol.

  Drake reclined in an easy chair, facing a work desk where Karin had placed two laptops. Arranged around him were his teammates. The atmosphere was a little despondent, but despite their loss they still showed good spirits. With all the governments around the world searching for the samples it was only a matter of time before they showed up. In addition, with most of the Pythians’ mercenaries identified and being tracked it would be relatively easy to anticipate their next move.

  Drake put an arm around Mai, receiving a slight smile in response. Grace, perched on the soft arm beside her, kicked her legs to and fro and stared into space. Most everyone else studied the laptop screens as they began to fill with images.

  Alicia’s face popped up suddenly. “Hey!”

  Drake laughed. “Damn, I’ve seen some things in my time but that’s scary.”

  Alicia pouted. “An insult means you’re missing me. I get it.”

  Hayden stepped in front of the screens. “Everyone is online? That’s good. We can start. I’d like to get a feel for what has happened so far. Mr. Crouch, if you can start.”

  Drake listened without giving his full attention. In the end, all their stories were pretty much the same. They had lost the samples. The bubonic plague, or a form of it, was on its way to be weaponized at some secret factory.

  Then Alicia’s voice cut through his deliberations. “I have a plan to steal our sample back.”

  Dahl was first to jump in. “You know where they’re taking it?”

  “Not quite like you mean,” Alicia said. “I simply know where it will be today. Perhaps even tonight.” She went on to describe her meeting with Beauregard and its favorable outcome.

  Drake thought about the master assassin’s conduct during Coyote’s recent tournament. The reward was worth the risk. He nodded as Hayden turned toward him with questioning eyes.

  “Yorgi,” he said. “Time to be useful.”

  The Russian thief smiled widely. “For too long,” he said. “I have sat on your sidelines. Now, I prove my worth.”

  Kinimaka checked his watch. “You’d better leave immediately, bud. It’s an hour’s flight and then some to Paris.”

  Yorgi rose. Hayden took him into a corner, explaining the details and handing him cash and a phone. Alicia asked about any special equipment he might need and then the thief was ready.

  Agent Claire Collins spoke up from Los Angeles. “We’re on full standby out here, but now we also have an agenda of our own—”

  Trent cut in. “A man called the Moose. Contract killer. Threatened or killed some of our friends a few months ago during the Blanka Davic takedown. Now he appears to be working with the Pythians—”

  “We want this man,” Silk broke in. “Badly.”

  “Understood,” Drake said. “If it comes to it, and you haven’t caught him by the time all this is over, we’ll fly over there and help you take the bastard out.”

  Collins smiled. “All right. So what’s next?”

  “Following our loss,” Crouch began. “It may be time to start pursuing a different angle. I mean, what of the Pandora myth? How does it connect with all this? Are we missing something?”

  Dahl and Kinimaka both nodded at the same time. The Swede spoke up. “I’ve been wondering that myself.” In answer to Drake’s smile he said, “Yes, Swedish men can multitask, unlike the English. My feeling is that they named this dreadful creation the Pandora Plague for a reason.”

  Drake’s smile grew wider. “I just love how you change nationalities when it suits. Anyway . . . Michael? What do you know about Pandora?”

  “First woman on earth,” Crouch recapped. The ex-leader of the Ninth Division had always been a lover of archaeological mystery, of fabled history and dusty old legends that just might turn out to be true. It was why he had created the new Gold Team and how they had recently discovered two caves full of Aztec treasure.

  “Created at the command of Zeus. Given a box and told not to open it. What would anyone do? She set loose all the sins of the world. Now the gods, feeling a little sorry for her, had also placed inside the box a good creature whose task it was to heal the body and soul. And so was born hope. Hope managed to escape the box at the last mi
nute, just before Pandora closed it, and flew around the world, healing the wounds that the sins and plagues had already made. But, as she escaped last, she is always the last to arrive. That’s why, when people are beset with worry, it is hope that always helps see them through.”

  “Wait a goddamn minute,” Smyth barked from his protective place alongside Lauren. “If I’m hearing this correctly, the gods wanted to punish mankind? So they sent woman. Am I right?”

  Lauren swatted his arm, not kindly. Smyth grumped and checked the perimeter of the room. He was nothing if not always prepared. Immediately after his impromptu outburst he whipped his cellphone out of a back pocket.

  “What about the box?” Karin asked. “It’s always Pandora’s Box. Maybe it’s an important artefact or something.”

  “A box that once held all known sins would be considered the greatest find in history. The stories say it could actually have been a pithos, a jar, made of clay or bronze metal. The actual story of Pandora is a theodicy—an attempt to address the question of why there is evil in the world. From the paintings of Lefebvre to the Soprano Nilsson she is always depicted holding the box, about to unleash the plagues.”

  “So the naming by the Pythians could be nothing more than another message saying they’re evil?” Dahl stated. “And about to unleash a pandemic.”

  “Possibly.” Crouch shrugged on screen. “Does anyone have a take on the story?”

  Alicia, always one to have an opinion, spoke first. “Personally, I enjoy most of the sins of the world,” she said. “But not these. Plague. Famine. The sins released by Pandora relate to what the Pythians are creating—a new plague.”

  Drake coughed. “Wow, what have you been feeding her, Crouch? Brain food?”

  “Piss off, Drakey.”

  Crouch was thinking hard, missing the exchange. “The Pandora story is so very ancient. Her daughter, Pyrrah, was said to have survived the great deluge along with Noah. Yet when she first appeared on the slopes of Mount Olympus, in the same vein as Eve, she signaled a change in the world from happiness and contentment to suffering and death. This can also be put down to a sign of technological advancement, for her coming was punishment for Prometheus giving mankind the stolen gift of fire.”