The Matt Drake Boxset 6

by David Leadbeater

  Both vehicles raced along the desert, hills and dunes to either side, as the mercenaries geared up to follow, pealing out in pursuit with four trucks. Luther’s men had gained a five-minute head start.

  Luther himself sat with them, back to the cab where a driver and shotgun-man sat. Two more crouched in the bed of the truck, peering through the canvas to gauge the pursuit.

  Luther made a point of attracting Drake’s attention. “You need us,” he said. “For now. Don’t fuck with us. Let us do our jobs.”

  Drake nodded and carried on evaluating his new enemies.

  Luther got on the comms, talking to the other truck and making sure they were following the plan. The desert rose and fell all around; mushroom clouds of sand and dust plumed into the air. Though the vehicles were traveling comparatively slowly it felt like they were moving at great speed, bouncing and jouncing around so that Drake’s wrist again started to chafe as they rubbed against the new chains.

  Dahl nudged his shoulder. “Captured twice in two days. That’s a new low for me.”

  Drake considered it. “Yeah, me too.”

  “Really? Surely with the SAS it’s just a Tuesday.”

  “Funny. Seriously though, this feels better.”

  Dahl shifted his gaze across to Luther; the enormous head with its long scar and intelligent, black eyes. “Depends what he has in store for us.”

  “The guy’s Army, through and through,” Drake said. “I’d like to know his orders.”

  “Well, if his orders come from the same guys that disavowed us it won’t be a tea and biscuits invitation.”

  Through gaps in the canvas they saw flashes of the other truck, where Alicia, Hayden, Kinimaka, Yorgi and Smyth lay in chains, Drake assumed. It jolted along a few feet parallel to theirs, the figures and frames of their friends visible only briefly. If Drake shifted again he could see through the back.

  The mercenaries were coming up fast.

  “You couldn’t get a faster truck, bro?” Dahl asked Luther.

  A shrug. “White House is strapped for dollars these days. Everyone knows that.”

  Luther moved to the back of the truck with such physical presence it was like watching a lion stalking. Drake did not fancy trading blows.

  “Pal?” he said. “Any more of that chocolate?”

  “It’ll make you fat.” Luther studied the oncoming vehicles.

  “We’ll take the chance,” Dahl said. “The conditions in that cave were somewhat taxing.”

  Drake snorted. “Taxing?”

  “English understatement,” Luther said, signaling one of his men to comply. “I like it.”

  Drake tuned it out as eating the sugary food became the highlight of the last twenty four hours. The engine roared in his ears, the tires rumbled like thunder across the desert. The heat was intense but frequent gusts of wind wound through the canvas gaps, making it more tolerable.

  “Not good.” Luther turned back to the truck. “This is not good, boys. Break out the candy.”

  Drake eyed Dahl and they both watched Luther’s men crack open the large black box they had been sitting on. Reaching inside, they rummaged and then withdrew two RPGs, grenades, smoke bombs and other military paraphernalia. Luther crab-walked over to heft the first rocket launcher.

  “Snyder, you ready with the smoke?”

  “Yeah, boss.”

  “Do it.”

  The truck rumbled on. Luther approached the rear of the truck once again, then suddenly stopped and threw the launcher to the floor.

  “Grenade!” he bellowed.

  The driver heard, stamping on the gas. Drake saw the black streak flying toward them and ducked just as the driver wrenched hard on the wheel. The truck slewed, slamming into its partner and bouncing hard on the dust and gravel. The missile flashed by, burying its head into a mound of sand and exploding. The screen of expanding sand it threw up blasted far and wide, showering the passing trucks. Drake felt sand striking his back.

  Luther rose and took position. “Firing!”

  A rocket flew, just missing the passenger side wheel of a gaining truck. Drake now saw the second in line.

  “Balls, that looks like it means business.”

  The truck sported a turret-mounted gun on top, like a tank, but Drake fancied it would move a lot quicker.

  “Smoke.” Luther reloaded the RPG.

  Snyder stepped past him and hurled two grenades. Exploding as soon as they hit the ground, they spewed out thick, white smoke, blanketing the area. Luther crouched and hefted the rocket launcher across one broad shoulder.

  Drake caught a good glimpse of the other truck. A man waited there too. He switched his gaze back to the smoke screen.

  Two missiles flashed through the thin veil, straight toward them.

  “Fuck!” Luther cried.

  “Evade!” Drake shouted. “Do it now or we’re dead!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

  To his credit, the driver moved instantly.

  Flinging the wheel to the right this time, he made the speeding behemoth screech in protest. Joints rattled and clattered but held. Drake watched the enormous canvas cover tear free and flap off in the wind like a newly born pterodactyl.

  A rocket impacted just behind their rear right wheel, sending up a large amount of dirt. The force of the explosion also lifted the truck at that side, forcing the wheel off the floor and the whole vehicle to tilt.

  Drake held on with a death grip, more conscious now that the pursuing fighters would almost certainly kill them outright this time. Potentially, his life rested on the balance of the truck. The back end went high, sand and dirt following it in a rippling heap. His vision altered, now showing the sky. Luther tumbled back into the truck, losing his grip on the RPG. Worse, Snyder tipped over the side of the truck, tumbling over and smashing hard against the desert floor, unmoving.

  Luther cursed as he moved against the truck’s upward inertia, gripping a strut and staring fixedly at Snyder’s clearly dead body. “Fuck!”

  The big man then flung himself against the rising back of the truck, using his weight to help right the stability. The truck seemed to rise and hang in the air for hours as Drake held on but he knew it was mere seconds. The driver worked hard at the wheel, keeping it in line, and then it came down, ass first, back on the road.

  Drake breathed in relief, then saw the other truck slewing left and right along desert mounds. “Looks like it evaded the missile and got stuck in sand,” he said.

  Another of Luther’s men lay in its wake, dead.

  The huge head fell. “Dammit, these kinda good men are hard to come by.”

  Drake offered him the rocket launcher with his one free hand. “You dropped this, mate.”

  Luther glared. “Give me the damn thing.”

  Another rocket came out of the box, a man called Nielsen throwing the object over to him. Luther keyed his comms. “How long to the road?”

  He didn’t like the answer, shaking his head again. “Time to light up the entire desert.”

  Drake saw four chase vehicles in total. Two standard and two with the wicked-looking turret. The latter two were leading the pack now, their guns lined up.

  “You have to get off this road,” Mai said tightly. “We’re lit up like Chinatown.”

  “What I have to do is blow up one of those assholes,” Luther said, loading quickly.

  Drake saw the problem here. Luther was a blood and fury old-schooler. This was what he did. Realistically, it would come down to who had the biggest, meanest weapons.

  “What else you got in that crate?” Kenzie asked quickly.

  “We could help,” Drake said. “We have as much riding on this as you do.”

  Luther merely snarled. “Once I’ve bagged my meat, it’s let out only to be thrown into the oven. Sit tight.”

  Dahl sighed. “I don’t think he likes you.”

  “Really? And he’s such an accommodating guy.”

  A shrug. “So says Alicia.”

 
; “Now what’s that supposed to mean?”

  “A joke.” Dahl and Drake watched Luther fire another rocket, missing the two lead trucks but hitting one of the followers. Flames and tearing metal marked the devastation, and a pump of the fist from Luther.

  The loss only spurred the attack on. Both lead vehicles were close now, turret-guns trained and men visible in the back with rifles at the ready. Shells slammed out of the turrets, both missing by inches and sending plumes of dirt across both truck beds and the cabs. Luther bellowed crazily, picked up a semi-auto and started peppering the closest attacker with bullets. Nielsen ran to his side, the two men unleashing walls of lead and seeing them bounce off bulletproof glass and metal.

  “Grenades,” Luther said.

  When he turned to watch Nielsen fetch them, Drake saw a feral twitch to the side of his mouth, an agreeable expression across his face. Nielsen ran back and the two stood right on the back of the truck, lobbing grenades at their pursuers.

  “Happy days,” Dahl said with concern. “This isn’t looking good, folks.”

  “Need to get free,” Drake pulled on the cuffs again. “Nielson has the keys.”

  Ignoring the grenades, prepared to risk injury to gain the rewards, the chasing vehicle ploughed through each explosion, coming closer and closer. When it was near enough to jump aboard Drake could see the expressions of the men driving and of those in the back. The gun turret swiveled, but it was a distraction.

  Through rear rails, guns were propped. The sudden sound of gunfire was ear-splitting.

  Luther staggered and fell to one knee, holding his side. Nielsen was shot through half a dozen times, the bullet ripping holes in his back and deflecting past Drake and Dahl to slam in the cab, as the unfortunate man tumbled backward and came to lay dead, right in front of the SPEAR team.

  Luther turned. “I need more firepower.”

  Drake saw the other truck under similar assault. Another hail of bullets struck right down the center of the truck. A scream from the driver sent everyone’s nightmarish fears into overdrive.

  The truck began to veer.

  Drake and Dahl dived to the floor.

  Luther protected himself just as the offside wheels veered into a sandbank and the entire vehicle tilted, slowed rapidly and fell over. The world tilted, everything shifted. Drake hung on once more for dear life.

  And heard the mercs laughing hard as they pulled up, some firing for fun into the sky. He figured they had about thirty seconds to live.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Drake saw legs and torsos approaching the sideways truck. Luther was already prepared, machine gun lying along his right leg, aimed at the mercs. Drake patted Nielson everywhere before finding the keys, uncuffing himself and then handing them to Dahl.

  “I know what you’re doing,” Luther said without moving a muscle. “Making one more mistake to add to the ledger. Don’t.”

  Drake rooted through the upended crate, finding grenades and guns. “First time we’ve been free in a while, mate. Feels good.”

  “You are not free.”

  “I beg to differ,” Mai said. “We hold all the guns. And they’re trained on you.”

  Luther grunted. “It will do you no good, Kitano.”

  “Well, I’ll give you this,” Kenzie said appreciatively. “You sure do have balls.”

  “Like steel.”

  “But you are lacking in the brains department, my friend,” Mai told him. “Surely by now you can see you need us.”

  Luther didn’t reply for a moment; even from behind Drake could see his shoulders and muscles working as he struggled.

  “I need no help from prisoners,” he said. “Especially enemies of the state.”

  And, as the legs got closer, Luther opened fire, shearing some off at the knee and shredding others. At the same time he shimmied himself down the truck and through the tailgate, finally able to stand and face the enemy as he wanted to—head on.

  They ranged all around him, at least ten men with semi-autos. Still firing, he waited for the hot death of a dozen rounds.

  Fury smashed and burned all around him. Wounded and dying men, the fires and smoke of crashed vehicles, the evil thunder of gunfire; it was the very place where he’d been born to die, and he’d known it from around the age of six.

  The HK fell on an empty mag. Never giving up, never resting, Luther whipped a new one out and slammed it home. By then, of course, a dozen men had him lined up in their sights.

  Ah, shit.

  And then glory stung the battlefield, and Luther’s very soul, as the SPEAR team streamed around his left and right sides, a torrent of violence and surprise attack, a surge of death gunning for the very men that had incarcerated and tortured them. Luther stood strong at the center, picking attackers off one by one, and the SPEAR team lived up to every expectation he’d ever heard, chasing the bullets down, running into danger, facing the worst of the worst and tearing their ruthless lives to shreds.

  Luther’s second truck fared in a similar manner to the first, its disavowed occupants jumping into the fray after slewing to a halt. When Luther looked around, and all too soon, the second pursuing turret-gun vehicle was pulling up, closely followed by the one remaining standard truck.

  “Go, go,” Drake cried. “Into the desert. Run!”

  Luther saw his two surviving people among the others. The kid, Pine, and the diva, Carey. It would be hardest for them.

  “Move it!” he cried. “We have more safety in numbers for now.”

  Later on, he would re-evaluate that statement.

  *

  Drake aimed for the high desert mounds after checking everyone was together. The group didn’t bunch in case Vladimir and his mercs decided to empty a mag in their direction. Drake ranged ahead, ignoring the sweat and the heat, the deep sand that dragged his steps down, the aches, pains, cuts and bruises he’d suffered in the arena.

  This was desperation survival now; the end game to end it all.

  “How far to that road?” he asked Luther, the man’s huge head about all he could see on his right periphery.

  “Last check had it two miles,” came the low reply. “That way.”

  Drake altered the direction of his run. Behind he saw Alicia, Dahl and Kenzie, followed by all the others, heads down and running easily. Crouch was being helped by Smyth and Kinimaka, but the Englishman looked to have perked up.

  “Chocolate goooood,” Drake called to him.

  “Anything is good when you’ve been beaten, tortured and forced to fight for over a day.”

  Drake nodded, thinking: It’s not over yet, pal, and slogged on. Behind them he saw Vladimir and Saint’s frames vanishing in the heat haze, but noticed how the mercenaries were lining up.

  “Bastards are giving chase,” he said. “Vladimir must be scared of his masters. This FrameHub? What do you know of them, Luther?”

  “Fuck off, Drake. We ain’t friends.”

  Drake shrugged as Dahl chortled. “Our charismatic leader,” the Swede said. “Working at the top of his game.”

  “Maybe I can help,” Alicia panted from behind as they jogged up an incline. “After all, I’m pretty sure we’ve . . .”

  “I remember you,” Luther growled. “Yeah, it took me a while but I remember you now.”

  “There you go,” Alicia said as if they were now all good friends. “Problem solved. Sometimes bumping uglies can be useful too.”

  “We bumped heads, not uglies,” Luther said, legs pumping hard. “You worked for the other side back then, Myles. Seems you still do.”

  “I did?” Alicia frowned. “Stop being such a smug shit. America and all its covert agencies change sides every week. You’re just an order taker, Luther. Might as well work at a restaurant.”

  Luther rumbled like an angered bear.

  “Guys,” it was Hayden speaking. “Can you stop trying to make friends? I thought we established that’s not your forte.”

  Drake stopped at the top of the rise, shading his ey
es as he gauged the lay of the land. The desert stretched to all sides, in places flat and in others composed of rolling dunes. Far away to the east he thought he spied a narrow black strip.

  “There we go,” he said. “Good call, Luther. I guess even a grunt can be right once a day.”

  “You got a problem with grunts now? We can settle this right here, asshole, if you wanna.”

  “I have no problem with grunts,” Drake set off. “Just wankers that follow blindly.”

  “You were like that once,” Crouch called over. “It’s how they shape you.”

  “True,” Drake admitted. “But then I was still a teenager.”

  Luther looked over as they ran carefully downhill. “Army man straight outta school?”

  “Yep. Never knew nothing else.”

  “Same here. Parents almost killed me.”

  From the rear of the pack there came a shout from Mai. The Japanese woman had ranged back a little to get a feel for what was following.

  “Twenty armed mercs, including Vladimir and Saint. Get a move on.”

  Drake was worried. The mercs were relatively fresh, trained and hungry for blood. They had their boss with them who, no doubt, was eager to finish and probably earn a decent pay day. Thinking it through, he decided the road was too far.

  “Plan B,” he said.

  Dahl chuckled. “Not that old maxim.”

  “Always works,” Drake said. Quickly, he shouted out a strategy and received a plethora of thumbs-up.

  “How many rifles we got?”

  Three shouts—Kinimaka, Smyth and Pine—one of Luther’s boys.

  “Can you handle it?”

  Three affirmatives.

  “Then do it. Mai, you hang back to supervise it.”

  Drake slowed as they found their positions. Kinimaka ran to the right, a hundred paces; Smyth to the left. Pine remained at the center and Mai watched over it all. They hunkered down on one knee, sighting carefully until the enemy were in sight.