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

by David Leadbeater

  “The new dawn always makes it better,” Collins said.

  “Not always,” Trent said. “There are some tragedies a thousand rising dawns could never fix. But if you think your life is over,” he turned to her, “always take one last look.”

  Her eyes sparkled. “You just never know,” she said.

  “I’ve heard that said about songs too,” Silk said from the other side of the car. “Susie and I have one of our own.”

  “As do Amanda and I.” Radford checked his hair in the mirror. “Shadows of the Night. Pat Benatar. Seems fitting.”

  “You Shook Me All Night Long.” Silk grinned. “Very fitting.”

  Trent basked in the glow from Collins’ eyes. “Do we have a song?”

  Her gaze drifted. Collins was the social butterfly, the dancer, the singer of the group. Trent realized that something like this would be very important to her.

  “When we have one, we’ll know,” she said. “We’ll know.”

  The vehicle blared its sirens and cut through swathes of traffic. Collins relayed reports as they came in. Trent put his game face on and listened to incoming details as they neared the site.

  “They practically emptied an entire precinct,” Collins breathed. “Trailer park’s surrounded. SWAT will arrive three minutes before us, give them time to set up. FBI response teams are en route, and even the goddamn Marines from Camp Pendleton! This is the big one, guys. There’s nothing more wanted in Los Angeles than the head of this murdering bastard.”

  The car slewed to a halt, dispensing the Razor’s Edge who checked their weapons and looked for the man in charge. Collins led them to the staging area and into the presence of a big dark-skinned cop with a gray beard and enormous flak jacket that almost doubled his size.

  “Collins. FBI,” she said. “What do we have?”

  The cop deadpanned her. “You in charge? Who the hell’s in charge? All I know is it sure as hell isn’t me. Got so many goddamn teams on the way here might as well hold a goddamn party.”

  Trent almost pitied the cop. Collins didn’t take shit. She was the most driven woman he had ever known. “Stand the fuck down,” she growled into the cop’s face. “And either help me or get out of my way.”

  She pushed past, making the cop grunt. Trent followed her. The cop grumbled at her back. “Initial sighting was around that blue van over there. That was . . . thirty minutes ago. Nothing’s moved since but trailer folk.”

  “The Moose won’t hang about,” Silk said. “He’s too clever for that.”

  Collins looked around, surveying the cluster of metal trailers and dirt track roads, the haphazardly parked vehicles, the makeshift washing lines strung from roof to roof, the still-open doors of people that had been evacuated. “Fuck. We’re gonna have to evacuate the entire site, not just around here. And we need more men. Get choppers on the perimeter and CHP at every road. Manpower will draw the bas—”

  Radford, who had been closer to the Moose than any of them, face to face, saw him first. A man stood in the road ahead, wearing a leather coat, with a bandanna around his head and a shiny silver belt buckle reflecting the sunlight.

  “I’ve never known the Moose to hide,” Radford said quietly as the others saw the motionless figure. “All I do know is that he’ll have a plan.”

  Trent stared, not moving. The Moose stared back, eyes steady. This was the man that had indirectly killed their mentor Doug the Trout, and Trent’s wife; the man that almost killed Mikey before Doug took the boy’s place; this was a man that loosed sorrow and a flood of tears over the great, scorching city—and he deserved to end his days screaming.

  But Trent remained motionless, eyes never breaking contact. Radford, at his side, breathed raggedly.

  “It’s the diner all over again,” he murmured. “Distract us whilst . . .”

  Collins raised both hands to show they were empty. “Let’s talk,” she shouted. “We can come to some agreement.”

  “Murdering piece of shit,” she added under her breath.

  Trent made no move. The Moose stood stock-still as the breeze whipped up around his leather coat, making it billow. The man’s lips, even from where Trent stood, could be seen to form a sneer, a deep mocking expression.

  “I say shoot and ask questions later,” Radford, always the impulsive one, breathed. “One less Moose in the world isn’t gonna be a problem.”

  “Don’t forget why we’re here,” Collins hissed. “The samples.”

  The Moose whirled and his coat surged around him like a giant black bat, engulfing his body. Trent saw his hand for one split second, and the black device there.

  “Down!”

  But Collins fired. She would not concede defeat so easily. Bullets blasted from her swiftly drawn gun as trailers to both sides of the road exploded. To the left a bright metallic van, shining with reflected sun, burst into flame and heaved to the side, spitting fire. To the right a Caribbean-blue van shuddered as its windows exploded and then its top blew off, rising up into the sky. Further ahead, deadly debris, a confusion of metal, iron, glass and timber, crisscrossed the road with multiple blasts one after the other. Trent, Silk and Radford hit the dirt, staying low through it all, but Collins remained on her feet, firing hard as lethal wreckage made the air bristle all around her.

  Seven, eight shots fired at a fleeing shadow. The first definitely caught his jacket, the second a wooden post at his side. The third, as a shard of metal grazed her cheek, flew through his hair, the fourth grazed his scalp. She saw it all in slow motion, as if witnessing her own death, and maybe she was, but the Moose had to be taken down. Such a man could not be left to walk this earth. The fifth bullet took him in the shoulder, the sixth jarred wide as razor sharp splinters jabbed at the hand that held the gun. The seventh took out his elbow as heavy fragments battered her flak jacket.

  The eighth took out his ear, blood exploding.

  Trent looked up, unable to believe his eyes. His scream went unheard as Collins fired and fired her weapon, focused on the job like a woman possessed by desire and drive and determination. In the end, as the eighth bullet struck, Trent swept her legs from under her, seeing her head turn as a piece of door frame hit, the movement saving her life as it glanced away.

  Collins fell into his arms, barely conscious.

  Trent screamed.

  Silk and Radford scrambled and ran as fires blazed. They leaped through gouts of flame, hurdling the blasted ruins of trailers and furniture, televisions and microwave ovens. The Moose was on his knees, hand to his head, but he was far from finished. The man hadn’t survived decades of bloodshed to go down so easy.

  He spun, his gun spitting fire of its own, crying out with the pain of movement. Silk and Radford weaved and ducked behind smoldering wreckage. Then the Moose rose once more. In his right hand he held yet another device.

  “Take it,” the Moose rasped. “She earned it. Nobody’s stood up to me like that in thirty years. Nobody.” He threw a backpack toward them.

  Radford started to rise, but Silk wrenched him back down, sensing what was about to happen. “No—”

  The last explosion rocked the ground around them, but only one person died.

  Silk hauled Radford up and headed over to the backpack. With infinite care, but knowing the risk had to be taken, he opened it. Inside sat a square black lockbox.

  “I think we’re in business.”

  Radford breathed a sigh of relief and waved back at Trent. “Thanks to her,” he said. “All thanks to her.”

  Silk blinked rapidly. “In all my days,” he said. “I have never seen anything like that. Never.”

  Radford hefted the backpack. “Let’s get this thing to safety. And see how the other teams are doing. With a bit of luck,” he smiled optimistically, “this will all be over.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

  Tyler Webb tried to suppress his anger. It wouldn’t do to act hastily here, not in front of his closest minions. If General Stone’s great plan had fallen apart it was
still only the first of many, still only the beginning. Any one of their great plans could fail, including his own stunning venture constructed around Saint Germain. His unquestioned leadership had to be maintained at all costs.

  Stone appeared poker-faced on the colossal television, one of five split-screens, having just revealed that two of the samples had been retaken by specialist teams. The look on his face would have felled an eagle in mid-flight.

  Nicholas Bell had a sympathetic expression plastered across his face. “Don’t worry, Bill. We still have Miranda’s galleons.”

  Webb frowned hard. This was the first real sign that voting Bell into the Pythians had been a bad idea. Rulers of their caliber should never express certain emotions. Sympathy? The emotion simply should not exist here, at the very heights of power. Sympathy was for weak men and children. There was no compassion among kings.

  So we will have to trim the pack a little. It is easy enough to do.

  “Perhaps the galleons should come next.” Webb suggested, thinking ahead.

  “But my lost kingdom,” Bay-Dale spewed forth immediately, starting the beginnings of a pounding inside Webb’s head. “Work is already afoot. We are close to the site. Tokyo, Taiwan and even the Beijing teams report progress.”

  Webb held up a hand to stop his prattle. Seriously, this whole collection of uber-powerful whiners was giving him a migraine. Webb had been prone to horrendous migraines since he was a small boy, debilitating headaches that took him to a different world of pure pain. Until recently only utter darkness and the lack of all stimuli had eventually returned his world to a dull ache and then slow recovery. That, and his own special, personal brand of terrorism—something none of these minions would ever know about.

  Stalking. The distraction of the lethal prowl. But he was keeping that beautiful, flourishing concept for later.

  First, Stone’s apparent failure.

  “We still have the sample from the London plague pit, yes?”

  Stone nodded dully. “The mercenary, Callan Dudley, obnoxious man though he is, delivered commendably.”

  “And Bell? Miranda? You are on site, yes?”

  Bell nodded. “The factory is fully functioning.”

  “A little small,” Le Brun sniffed. “But mostly adequate.”

  “I certainly hope the long flight didn’t swell your impeccable ankles,” Webb snapped before he could stop himself. Damn. Reel your pride and fury in. They must not fall apart.

  “Sir?” Bell to his credit, gave him a second chance.

  “This mercenary, Dudley, is he bringing the sample to you personally?”

  “I insisted that he do,” Stone put in. “With the remainder of his team.”

  “Good. Good. Then we will at least have one of the samples. Start production as soon as it arrives. The process will take longer, but will still give us our edge.”

  “Of course.”

  “And ramp up security.” Webb attempted to stave off the pounding by gazing through his picture window, straight at the impressive torrent of water that fell out there every night and day, eternal, everlasting, undying. The faraway falls, previously, had been his only solace when his life fell to pieces.

  “We will draft in other teams.”

  “Do that. We all underestimated the abilities of our opponents this time. Do not let it happen again. And Stone?”

  “Yes?”

  “That terrorist stunt in London was beyond stupid. Don’t ever think of doing anything like that again. The attention we gained has vastly weakened our position.”

  Stone frowned. “Just a minute. I thought we wanted attention.”

  Webb scowled at Stone’s blatant incompetence and lack of vision. “Not from such terrorist royalty as Ramses,” he spat. “Are you mad? That animal has the power to start a terrorist world war. Do you really think that will help the Pythians?”

  “No, sir.”

  “No, sir,” Webb mimicked. “For the Pythians to flourish, the world has to be at least mostly stable. We can then start and end our own wars. Take all that we desire. Now ensure that sample is weaponized as soon as it arrives and keep us informed.”

  Webb flicked a switch, succumbing to the hammering that threatened to pulverize the back of his neck. He was alone. By flicking another switch he closed the blackout curtains and switched off the lights, leaving him in utter darkness. Then he placed his head into the crook of his arm.

  His mind drifted to the SPEAR team and their accomplices. No matter.

  I will be inside their lives soon enough.

  CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

  Drake took a step back as new information started to roll in. Actually, he thought, more a trickle of information. Considering what the other teams had already reaped.

  Time was a ravenous monster snapping at their heels. They had recovered two of three samples, but the third was still out there and they had no idea where the Pythians’ secret factory was based. It had to be assumed that they could make some kind of weapon from the sample they still possessed. Drake and the team sat in a waiting room inside New Scotland Yard, networking, reviewing and learning as much as they could. The chairs were hard and plastic but the coffee was plentiful and came with packets of biscuits that tasted even better when subjected to that grand old Yorkshire art—dunking.

  Dahl made a pained face when he saw what Drake was doing. “Do you really have to go and lower the tone, ya bloody Yorkie muncher?”

  Drake dipped again. “Improves the coffee. Improves the biscuit. How is that bad?”

  The Americans stared aghast as he continued to dunk, leaving him to wonder if he’d lost an ear in the last battle and not realized.

  “What the hell are you all looking at?”

  The entire team sat around. Even young Grace was there, fresh from another phone call to Aidan Hardy and still no good news. Mai reminded her again that finding her parents might take months, but Grace couldn’t relax. Drake didn’t want to broach the subject of her returning memories so instead turned to Karin.

  “Anything?”

  “This is where we stand right now. There are teams studying the samples, trying to figure out the ‘what and why’ of it and how bacteria might still be viable after so long underground. What you have to remember is the durability of plague, of Black Death. From AD541 to 1350, 1650 and 1855, from China to America, this plague has continually reappeared and wiped out more than half the population. Did you know that in some villages in England there are still the old market crosses that have small depressions at the foot of the stone cross? This depression was filled with vinegar in times of plague as it was believed vinegar would kill the germs on coins and so limit the spread of disease. But I believe it is the presence of other known diseases within the plague pits that may be our problem. Not bubonic plague.”

  Hayden put a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Get Crouch’s team online. And Collins’. We need everyone working this. No one leaves until we get a break. You hear me? Between the three teams we have the best goddamn assets in the world. Let’s make a difference.”

  Kinimaka sat his bulk down in the chair next to Drake. The Hawaiian’s eyes rolled as the plastic rivets groaned. “Hell, if these things had arms I wouldn’t be able to sit down at all.”

  Drake unwrapped another biscuit. “You hear from Kono, mate?”

  “The sister from hell? No. I guess she’s waiting to swoop down when we get back home.”

  “Home?” Drake looked up. “Is that what DC is to you now?”

  The Hawaiian shrugged, an immense movement. “My mother’s dead. Sister hates me. I have no family now save for Hayden and you guys.”

  Drake clapped him on the arm, smiling. “We’re there for each other, right?”

  “Yeah. And I’m really interested in learning how to do that.” He nodded toward Drake’s cup. “Dunking. Is it really an old Yorkshire tradition?”

  “Course it is.” Drake laughed, putting the wrapper aside. “Okay, well first thing is to remember is not to
let the biscuit get too soggy, ‘cause then you have a major disaster on your hands . . .”

  Karin’s voice drifted through the room. “Every major government is involved in the search. Crouch and Collins—did anybody in either of your teams overhear anything useful during your battles?”

  Collins spoke first. “We pretty much shot first and asked questions later. And the Moose? He was no help at all.”

  Crouch reported a negative too and then said, “I still believe in what we’re doing though. They named this project after Pandora for a reason. Caitlyn has been doing further research.”

  Drake assessed the rest of the team. Lauren sat in a corner; the New Yorker had made calls to several top-class escort contacts, asking for help in finding two abusive clients. She was still waiting for answers. Smyth sat beside her now as he had the last several days, close but not in her personal space, protective but not overbearing. Drake thought the rascally old Delta boy just wanted a new friend after losing Romero. Nobody thought that a rough, tough soldier like Smyth occasionally needed someone to talk to. Nobody except fellow soldiers.

  Dahl lay back with his feet up on a table, impatiently flexing his arms and shoulders. As he laughed with Kinimaka, Drake became aware of another presence at his side.

  “Yorgi.”

  “I want thank you for keeping faith,” the small Russian said. “In me. You saved me long ago, but only now I start paying you back.”

  Drake pulled out a chair. “Sit down, pal. And you owe me nothing. Never have. I’ll never promise to keep you safe, Yorgi, but I can promise you will always be part of our team. And what made you race straight back here—Alicia scare your pants off?”

  “She is a little scary,” Yorgi admitted. “But I belong here. With you. And so does she.”