“Technological advancement,” Trent said from another screen. “Just one more angle.”
Hayden returned from briefing Yorgi. “And another thing, guys, probably as important. The Pythians are not ghosts operating on an astral plane. We have to find their HQ. Judging by what we know this Pandora plague is merely a beginning. More lives will be lost unless we locate them.”
“Footprints, digital or otherwise,” Caitlyn said. “Some must exist.”
“What news of Stone and Bell?” Dahl asked.
As Hayden reported their total lack of developments, Drake watched Yorgi prepare to leave the room. His mind recalled when he’d first met the young Russian thief, back in that hellhole of a prison where Zanko played god of war. They had helped each other back then, and Drake had seen the man’s potential and realized his skillset might come in handy someday.
Today.
Quickly, he scooted off the sofa and intercepted Yorgi by the door. “Leaving without a word?”
“I speak English not too well.” Yorgi shrugged with a slight smile. “I not want to embarrass.”
“Ah, bloody hell, you speak English just fine.” Drake pulled the Russian into a bear hug. “Stay safe out there, my friend, and think fast. Just do your job, nothing else.”
Yorgi nodded. “It has been a while but I am happy to be helping.”
Drake opened the door and watched Yorgi head out. It didn’t seem right letting him walk off alone but he knew that members of Crouch’s team would meet him straight off the jet. Yorgi would be stalking the street of Paris by lunchtime.
“It’s a three-way hunt then,” Crouch was saying. “The Pythians. The Pandora angle. And the secret facility. Let’s get to it.”
As Drake wandered further into the main room he passed Mai on the way out. The look on her face set his angst into overdrive. Without asking he made a decision to follow her out of the room and into the empty corridor. Mai met his eyes.
“Hibiki,” she said, gesturing with her cell. “He has news on the family of the man I killed over in Tokyo.”
Drake winced, but stopped himself from talking. Mai appeared to be more hooked up on this than she had been on the search for her parents. The only help for her was to let her see it through.
Dai Hibiki, Mai’s Japanese police contact and old friend, spoke fast. “After you killed the husband the Yakuza killed the rest of the family, just to be sure. The daughter escaped. We don’t know where she is now.”
Mai crumbled so fast Drake thought that her very soul must have collapsed. Her face went slack, her legs shook. Drake moved in to support her. For a moment there was utter silence.
“We will keep trying to find Emiko, the daughter, Mai. We’ll never stop. All reports says she’s a good girl. She’ll turn up soon, I guarantee it.”
Mai opened her mouth but nothing came out except a grating far back in her throat. Drake gently took the phone from her hands.
“Cheers, Hibiki. Mai needs to digest all that and you need to monitor international chatter for any sign of the Pythians or their bases. They’re a world threat now.”
“Understood. There has been intelligence lately to suggest several groups of men employed by these Pythians have moved across borders in southeast Asia, along with whisperings of a lost kingdom on an Atlantis level. We are investigating.”
“Good. Keep us informed.” Drake ended the call and then held Mai. When her head fell across his shoulder and her body began to shake he knew they were in desperate trouble. Knowing better than to speak he thought of all that they had been through since that wonderful, fateful day back in ’98 when Mai and he had teamed up to take down a Chechen warlord. The years had been more than rough—they had ravaged the life out of both of them. But here they were—together, fragile but happy in their relationship, destined for a better life. Drake’s personal battles and losses had pushed him closer to Mai, but now hers were pulling her away. He had made his peace and moved on, finding contentment even after Ben’s death and the murder of others, in this unlikely family he had discovered, this improbable team that loved and lived and fought for each other every hour of every day of the week.
He urged Mai back into the hotel room, seeking that companionship. In an uncanny moment the only person that noticed them was Alicia, eyes flicking his way from the TV screen and registering a glint of concern. Drake dropped Mai into a chair and stood beside her, hoping the turmoil would break her emotional miasma.
Strangely, he noticed that Lauren Fox had risen to her feet, about to address the room. Maybe it had something to do with General Stone.
“I have an idea,” she said. “Totally off the wall. I mean so far off the wall,” she pointed to the small partition beside her, “it’s on the other side of the room . . .”
All eyes turned to her. From Los Angeles, Agent Collins said, “Oh, thinking with diversity. I like this girl already.”
Lauren gathered her thoughts. “It occurred to me at the beginning of all this when Stone first invited Bell to participate in our trysts. I could check with my friends in the trade. We’re a very close-knit group. We have to be to warn each other about bad punters, dangerous johns, as we call them in the States. Our warning network is first class. Has to be. Now, if Stone and Bell frequent escort girls in DC, do they also frequent them somewhere else?”
A moment passed, then Crouch said, “That’s a bloody good idea. A habit is a habit and you’re right. Both men will have used escort girls elsewhere. You just need recent or coincident occurrences.”
Lauren flushed at the compliment, clearly not the jaded individual she appeared to be. Being useful, being a part of the team, evidently placed high on her needs list.
Grace, so far very quiet, came over to stand by Mai as she realized the Japanese woman wasn’t herself. To her credit she remained silent, offering only companionship. The young woman had enough problems of her own as memory loss gradually gave way to an emerging past of slavery and abuse. The complications of letting such a past go were huge as that past now felt like her present. Drake wondered if their world was about to unravel.
And then the call came in. Hayden snatched up her cell first, listening and turning parchment white as someone shouted in her ear.
Fifteen seconds later she was pocketing her phone and running for her jacket. “Meeting over!” she cried. “Just heard James Ronson has been attacked by mercenaries. We have to go!”
“Ronson?” Crouch repeated. “You mean Prime Minister Ronson? Oh, my God. My God. What the hell is happening?”
“We’ll be secondary, but we have to be there.” Hayden checked her weapons, already heading for the door.
Drake rose, shaking his head as he met Dahl’s eyes.
“Compared to this,” he muttered, “Kovalenko’s DC attack was minor. This is big fucking league.”
The Swede released a deep breath. “Like comparing evil Barbie to Maleficent. Our planet’s screaming,” he said, striding past. “Broken down by the unspeakable dreams of small men who would be kings.”
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
Whitehall was a tide of humanity at 9 a.m., a feeding ground for all players from the oldest profession in the world to the nastiest, right up to Admiralty House. Here, a line of policemen stretched across the road, stopping passers-by and office workers, halting traffic. Horns blared amid the hubbub. Uniformed officers sporting guns could be seen situated on every corner and on rooftops. As they made their way slowly against the flow Drake questioned Hayden as to the seriousness of the attack.
“Shots fired in the vicinity of the Prime Minister is always considered serious,” she said. “It’s the way it was done that raises questions. Mercs matching the descriptions of those we encountered in Knightsbridge fired shots in the air as Prime Minister Ronson descended the steps from the Department of Energy. He escaped unhurt and three men were cornered. Now they’re trapped in the Clarence pub, one of those quaint, tight, narrow-corridor establishments you Brits love.”
Drake
slowed as the crowds began to thin, relieved that they had left their non-combatants back at the hotel. As they approached the cordon he was impressed by the action of the police and their calm demeanor. What could have been a volatile situation was being defused by self-confidence and composure.
“So why us?” he wondered. “Don’t we have more important things to do?”
Hayden tugged at the sleeves of her jacket. “You’d think. But these mercs are more interested in us than giving up.”
“I don’t understand.”
“They’ve been tweeting about us from inside the Clarence. Our names. Comments on the SPEAR team. Abuse. Challenges. The usual macho bullshit.”
“So we’re here to shut them down?” Dahl rumbled. “Let’s get it done quickly.”
“We’re here to see if we can figure out what the hell’s going on. Mercs don’t fire into the air and then trap themselves so easily. They don’t tweet like idiots—most of them.”
“So something’s up.” Drake waited as they were shown through the cordon. He moved ahead, eyeing the buildings on both sides of the normally busy road. “Have all these offices and shops been searched?”
“You kidding?” Hayden looked incredulous. “That would take days.”
As if in response to Drake’s words small coffee shops and cafes to both sides of the street emitted a stream of men. Drake, trained to have some of the best perceptions on the planet, paused at the cordon, sniffing trouble; Dahl did the same. The others walked ahead momentarily. Even Mai, though her awareness was tragically elsewhere of late.
“Wait,” Drake hissed. “Something’s not right.”
The police cordon was snaking as men turned, whispering to each other. Eyes shot up, to the left and right. Drake narrowed his vision. Pedestrians to both sides suddenly shifted away, heading back into shops or hurrying up the street.
Komodo was alongside them now. “What I’m thinking,” he said. “Can’t be right.”
The stream of men fanned out. Cops stared in disbelief and denial. Radios squawked. A woman screamed.
Drake saw no advantage in waiting. The men staring him down weren’t mercenaries, they were terrorists, and they had been waiting in coffee shops and cafes outside the cordon, already prepped before Prime Minister Ronson was fired upon. No way could these men have drifted here afterward in such numbers. Drake ran even as guns appeared from underneath coats, as a grenade bounced toward the middle of the road, and as a tall, swarthy malnourished man revealed what was strapped to his body.
“A present from Ramses,” he said and released the dead-man’s trigger.
The central London street turned into a battleground. Drake dropped and rolled. The man exploded a moment after the grenade. Body parts and shrapnel burst everywhere. Drake held a hand across his head and rose the second he felt the shockwaves pass. Luckily the terrorists were running forward, closing a gap they shouldn’t have. In their hands were a number of traded and bought weapons. Clearly, the weapons black market, always strong in London, was flourishing. Drake swiveled on his back and kicked out the legs of the nearest man, sending him sprawling. He caught a glimpse of the police line behind him, breaking up as some reached for weapons and others parted to let armed forces race through. Shots came from above—snipers positioned on the roofs. Dahl ducked as he was about to run smack-bang into a scrawny man, sending him ten feet into the air and catching his weapon on the way down. Komodo fought hand to hand with another terrorist.
Drake fired twice and took two out. Hayden came up to him. “They’re here for us,” she breathed. “Look at them.”
Drake already knew. The terrorists, fourteen strong, were converging on the SPEAR team and ignoring the cops, the specialists and everything else. Sensing he was pinned he immediately leaped up onto the front end of a car, rifle steady, aimed and pressed snugly to his shoulder, squeezing off shot after shot. He then ran hard, jumping from the hood of one car to another, firing without let up.
Dahl flung one terrorist against the other, starting a pile. A third pointed a gun at him, found it wrenched from his hands, and was added to the heap. Komodo ducked behind it. Hayden stayed back, maybe still a little sore from her gunshot wound in their battle through the nightmare streets of Washington DC during the Blood King’s blood vengeance, a time when so many had died. Though fully healed, she had yet to see full combat. Kinimaka stood beside her.
Mai and Smyth found themselves ducking and diving, more target practice and distraction for the terrorists than anything else. But the contrived tactic was working. Faced by capable operatives and with men dying every second the terrorists were starting to wilt. They were not military or even militia, just a bunch of men hardened by oppression and bullying and three months’ training.
Cops joined the uproar. Special Forces slid through. Drake rolled across the roof of a car, down onto its trunk and then slithered to the road as bullets stitched a ragged line after his boot heels. He thought about sliding under the car but decided it was a bad idea. One rolled grenade and he was in bits. He nipped out around the side and fell to the sidewalk, catching a glimpse of a terrorist being thrown into the air, arms and legs flapping, and knew instantly where the mad Swede was. Hayden and Kinimaka were further down the row of cars, taking cover. Drake inched up until he could see through the side window.
Eight terrorists were dead or incapacitated. Of the six remaining one was losing to Komodo, one to Mai and three others were fleeing from the cops. That left . . .
Booted feet smashed onto the front end of the car Drake was hiding behind. A figure came into view, already firing. Drake rolled onto his back, gaining half a second, but the weapon was swiveling too fast. He squeezed the trigger, unable to aim fast enough but hoping the shots would make his assailant flinch back.
No luck. The man was hell bent on dying anyway and came on. The bullets from his gun blasted a line across the sidewalk, along a brick wall, through a glass window and then back toward the sidewalk again as he crabbed forward. Drake shuffled backwards but nowhere near fast enough.
Bullets mowed concrete as they churned around his boots. Firing, he rolled one last time. The shot went wild. There was no satisfaction on the terrorist’s face, just an anesthetized, dazed expression.
Then his chest exploded and he fell face first, weapon silenced and clattering to the floor.
Drake took a breath, then saw who stood behind the fallen man. Hayden Jaye crouched and trained her gun to the left as Kinimaka offered Drake his right hand. “Up ya come, bud. Won’t do to get shot before lunch.”
Drake jumped up, nodding at Hayden. In the road the scene was now quite different. The terrorists were down, cops standing around looking shell-shocked, officers shouting into radios that every establishment should be checked.
Hayden bit her lip. “Did that guy say ‘Ramses’?”
“Aye,” Drake’s accent thickened. “Who the bloody hell is he?”
Kinimaka was staring between them. “Why do I get the feeling the terrorists and the mercs are working for different bosses?” He kicked away the dead terrorist’s gun, stumbling over the curb and sitting down hard on the wing of a car in the process.
“Mainly?” Drake said in response. “Because terrorists and mercs don’t mix. Not generally. Their ideals are poles apart.” He shook his head, thinking fast. “Look, we don’t have time to sort through all this. There’s more than just Whitehall at stake.”
“Message from Karin.” Hayden pecked at her cellphone. “Yorgi has landed. The op in Paris is a go.”
Drake stared around at the chaos. “Let’s hope they have better luck than we did.”
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
As she assessed Le Grand Hyatt, Alicia found her thoughts wandering. Recently it had become increasingly clear to her that the course of her life had to change. Running would only take her so far and, by its very nature, would only end up taking her full circle. Nobody could run for their entire life. A reckoning was coming, she knew, when she would hav
e to take some time and face the demons of her life—the very real devils that had shaped it.
But not now and not today.
She stood in a window with Yorgi at her side, opposite the fancy looking but timeworn French hotel. Caitlyn had already downloaded blueprints and was trying to isolate their targets’ rooms. The other three present members of their team, Crouch, Healey and Russo, were checking weapons, comms systems and other crucial equipment, a practice drummed into every soldier even in initial training.
Alicia ignored the mission and started drilling Yorgi for information. “So, what the hell’s up with Mai?”
The Russian looked uneasy. “I speak poor English,” he said. “Sorry.”
Alicia took hold of an ear. “Bollocks to that. You forget I was there when we rescued you, Yorgi. Now, the little Sprite’s got a big problem. Spill.”
“In truth I don’t know much.” Yorgi spread his hands wide. “It is a problem she brought back from Tokyo. I heard she killed man, a low Yakuza employee, and then they kill his family just to tie . . . what you say? Tie up . . . ?”
“Loose ends,” Alicia said reflectively. “Damn.”
“Only the daughter lives,” Yorgi finished.
Alicia whistled, showing no emotion. Inwardly, her heart was with Mai and the family. Such things could never be laid to rest.
“And how’s Drake coping?”
It was one question too many and Alicia knew it. Quickly, she turned away, freeing Yorgi from the answer and glaring toward Caitlyn.
“We ready yet?”
The dark-haired girl scrunched her nose. “Second floor,” she said. “And check out is at 1 p.m.” She checked her watch. “If they’re checking out today it won’t be long.”
The Matt Drake Series Books: 7-9 (The Matt Drake Series Boxset 2) Page 55