Drake had seen them too. “Stick together,” he said. “And let’s go.”
The four of them picked their way through Dahl and Alicia’s chaotic battlefield, Drake having to administer two knockout blows in order to further subdue some of the more spirited opponents. He was careful not to completely incapacitate anyone, as Dahl and even Alicia had been. These youths had been sent poorly armed for a reason and Drake had no doubt they had no clue who they’d actually gone up against.
It would be a mysterious one for the memory-banks, if they retained any memory of it at all.
Drake and Mai scanned the row of cars, remaining vigilant as they cleared each opponent’s vehicle. By the time they reached their own, Dahl and Alicia had rejoined them, both grinning and breathing easily.
“Great way to start the day,” Alicia said instantly, before remembering where she was and throwing Karin a long-suffering look. The Englishwoman had confided very little since the events in DC, but the Slayers had now departed to Europe for Lomas’ and much of the rest of the gang’s funerals. Alicia had chosen to remain with the SPEAR team, but Drake had the impression she was still running, still searching, refusing to lie down and grieve or take comfort—especially now that another she had clearly loved was dead.
Dahl, in the lead as ever, had stopped near one of their cars. After a moment’s pause he fell to his stomach and checked the vehicle’s underside, the wheel-wells and small cavities. As Drake approached he saw that something was stuck to the windshield.
“A parking ticket?” Karin wondered. “Surely not.”
Drake stared. The object was a padded envelope, and it had four names typed in bold across its face.
“I guess I know what this is.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Drake scooped up the envelope and exited the cemetery in a hurry. Nobody spoke again until the team were safely entrenched in a hastily booked hotel suite. It wasn’t just that they didn’t trust safe houses anymore, though understandably so, it was mostly because they could already guess some of the particulars and parameters that might exist within the contents of the envelope.
Once secure, Drake opened the envelope and upended its contents. A small, silver voice recorder fell out, clattering onto the table with a plastic rap. The team simply stared at him. Drake reached out and pressed the ‘play’ button.
“Hello, Matt.” The sugary tones almost made him shiver. Old, great memories mixed with shocking betrayal and pure disbelief. Even now . . . even now he struggled to believe.
“And greetings to Torsten, Alicia and Mai, I hope. This message goes out to all of you. You are invited to attend the tournament of the decade. The world’s best killers will be there, thirteen in total. You will have twenty four hours to become the Last Man Standing, to prove that you are the best. For you, Drake, it offers the chance to face me—Coyote, also known as Shelly Cohen in case you haven’t recognized me.” Laughter.
Drake gritted his teeth in silence.
“I will join the fray once ten hours has elapsed to spice up the battle. For Torsten, Alicia and Mai it offers fair competition and the chance to help your so-called family. But make no mistake, team—this is purely last man standing. Only one can walk away.”
“But how—” Komodo stared to say, but Alicia waved him to silence.
“You may be wondering how I can hold you all to this? Well, if you don’t turn up I will kill you and your families. I’m sure you know by now that I can do it. And it will be slow—and painful—dragged out for years.” Coyote’s sickly laughter hummed through the tinny speakers. “As for your other questions, know that our tournament takes place in the heart of a sleepy country town. I already have enough explosives inside the town and around the perimeter to wipe it off the face of the map. I’ll reveal the location later but I warn you—tell no one. I will know. Exploding bumpkins are not your goal. Yes, I have other surprises, but it would be a shame if I revealed them all before we start, don’t you think? Check the classifieds in the Post tonight, last edition. And do not disappoint me, Team SPEAR. The world wants to know who is best. Let’s find out.”
Drake let the recording play for a while longer. Nothing else was said. The Yorkshireman held his head in his hands. “Shelly?” he breathed. “I just keep thinking she’s being framed. Or coerced.”
Alicia grunted. “I knew Shelly too. Nice chick, if a little slutty. One thing I do know is that Coyote is a part of this tournament. We’ll see her and break her, whoever she is.”
Mai’s mouth hung open. “Did you really just call someone slutty? You? And I thought I’d heard everything.”
Drake’s phone started ringing. “It’s Crouch,” he said. “Quiet.”
The commander wasted no time with pleasantries. “Just got a special invite, Drake. To your tournament. Guess I’ll be joining you.”
Drake frowned. “Won’t that just make her job harder?”
“Who knows? This Coyote’s clearly the cleverest bastard we’ve come across. Fooled me for God knows how many years. All of us.”
“I always had my doubts about her,” Alicia said with arms crossed.
Drake snorted. “Give it a rest. Just because now you think she’s a slut? Damn, Alicia, the only boss you never slept with was the President.”
Alicia smirked. “Ya think? Don’t be too sure.”
The room quieted. Even Drake narrowed his eyes to see if she was joking. Crouch cleared his throat down the phone.
“I never slept with Myles. Is that good?”
“Well, it’ll save you a few diseases,” Mai said practically.
Drake turned back to the phone. “We’ll see you there then, sir.” He finished the call and stood up. “So. Let’s find out when and where were going.”
Dahl looked around the room. “Which one of us do you think will win?”
Drake held his gaze. “So long as we get Coyote I don’t care.”
“Good,” Dahl said. “Since it’s obviously going to be me.”
CHAPTER FIVE
The Yorkshire Post impatiently yielded its prize, falling open to the classifieds the moment Drake threw it on the table. The ad glared out at them with blackest humor: SMALL COYOTE FOUND. RECENTLY RELOCATED. HATES WATER. WELL TRAVELED. RESPOND TO LMS BY 8PM FRIDAY. A landline number rounded it off.
Karin looked on as Mai googled the number on her mobile phone. Ordinarily, the tech-geek would be the first to break out the digital aid but her mind was a wreck, her sentience a ruin. Having survived Kovalenko’s blood vengeance, she wanted nothing more than to grieve. The man at her arm was doing the best he could and she loved him for it. But she was washed out, devoid of compassion and motivation.
She heard Mai say that the STD code belonged to a single town, called Sunnyvale, only about a forty minute drive from Leeds. Whilst Mai looked up some local knowledge, Karin again zoned out.
The story of her past, and thus her lack of ambition, was a sad one; not something she relished looking back on at any time, but grief and tragedy had again brought those past events into sharp relief. When she was young, highly impressionable, and full of life she’d been out chasing around with her best friend, Rebecca Westing. ‘Go burn off some energy, you two,’ her mother had said to them. And they needed no more prompting than that. Out, over the fields, past the relic of an old playground trashed by youths and ignored by the local council, and eventually into town they had run, savoring their freedom. They’d reached their limits, the furthest their parents allowed them to wander, quickly, and thought about running back. But Karin saw something. She headed down a blind alley—a ginnel Becca had called it—where something had been discarded. It was a rusted ruin, a wreck, but to two young girls it was hours of nirvana. A swing set, swaying gently in the breeze; an open-armed death trap.
Karin had seen the danger at once, but fended the feeling away. Becca had jumped on first, trying out a few tentative swings and then her face lit up.
“It works!”
Karin claimed the seat b
eside her friend. Up they went, higher and higher, aiming to touch the sky with their heels, until one of Becca’s chains snapped and she flew out of the seat at an awkward angle; not only hitting the nearby brick wall with her head but also the concrete floor.
Before Karin had even managed to stop her momentum, the blood was pooling.
But Becca was breathing, groaning, even trying to move. Karin was young but she knew what she had to do. She ran for help. She’d raced to the top of the alley, out into the street and screamed for help. And it was then that she’d learned about life. An old couple stared hard at her, this young flush-faced girl, their eyes hard with contempt. They thought she was playing some kind of prank. The businessman swished by with his phone to his ear, too busy to help. The taxi driver rode on by, spotting a distant fare. The man in the black saloon mouthed an obscenity as she almost stopped him making a green light.
And all the while her best friend died, bleeding out. And Karin, so young, felt an agony of helpless frustration that threatened to burst her heart. In the end a young, female student helped her, but Becca had died. Becca was dead and gone and the life she would lead, the hearts she would touch, and the dreams she would fulfil would now never know her.
Karin fell by the wayside, despite the great efforts of her parents and brother. They had tried until it almost killed them.
And now . . . what would she do without them?
After Becca’s death, Karin had nurtured the loss and turned life away, choosing not to be involved. As heart-breaking as that was, she was still clever enough to turn out right, to ignore the worse things in life that can swamp and extinguish a lost soul.
Karin returned to the present as she heard Drake’s request to contact the guys back in Washington DC. As Drake placed the call and opened up the speakerphone she listened with a little lift of hope as Hayden’s voice came on the line.
“Hey guys. Is it raining?”
Dahl snorted. Drake laughed. “It doesn’t always rain over here, you know.”
“So it is then?”
“Yes.”
“Knew it.” Hayden laughed lightly, but stopped quickly. Her recovery was progressing slowly and she’d barely gotten past the wracking cough part yet. Karin imagined Kinimaka was sitting beside her and soon enough the Hawaiian’s deep tones came across.
“We’re only allowing her to speak for three minutes a day. So enjoy.”
Again Hayden laughed and this time did degenerate into coughs. Karin heard Mano apologizing. Her own eyes flicked to Komodo and saw the gentle smile there. The soldier and the SPEAR team had taken her out of a decade-long fugue, only for all the happiness to be blasted apart in a single night of violence. But Komodo was still there. He was her anchor, her safe haven in the storm.
And still she could not bring herself to speak.
Kinimaka’s voice returned. “We have a few things simmering over here. Nothing world shaking. My sister Kono is being looked after in Los Angeles by the FBI. I have to say this Agent Claire Collins seems an extremely capable Fed. It was her fast actions that saved Kono’s life on the night of the Blood Vendetta. Only hers. Oh, and President Coburn is about to appoint a new Secretary of Defense—Robert Price.”
Drake didn’t know the name, nor did he care. “Remember, Mano, the vendetta is far from over. The Ninth Division was taken out—that’s part of Kovalenko’s revenge. So is this prissy tourney we’re being forced to enter. Keep your loved ones safe. That includes all of you.”
Kinimaka’s voice lowered. “We’re as safe as can be, guys. But safe houses ain’t what they used to be.”
Alicia grunted. “Don’t we bloody well know it.”
Karin watched as Alicia and then Dahl walked off to make their respective phone calls. The Swede’s family—wife and two daughters—had recently arrived in DC. Karin had never seen Dahl worry before, but this was different. The man’s heart and soul were gently held within that family, as fragile as spring flowers. Nowhere was safe. Then there was Alicia, who spoke at regular intervals to her biker friends. Especially Laid Back Lex, who wanted to join her. But Alicia would have none of them in her life at the moment; it was enough that she kept in contact with them.
Kinimaka continued to talk with a little help from Hayden. Karin flicked her eyes over to Mai when the Japanese woman’s text message tone went off, and so did Drake. Was it Smyth? The hot-tempered soldier did like to keep in touch with his incarnation of perfection. Of course it could be Grace. Their young new addition was still being processed around the world and no doubt, like all teenagers, possessed the art of being able to text, eat and talk at the same time. Karin didn’t possess that art, nor did she want to.
Mai texted somebody back. Kinimaka updated them on Yorgi and Lauren Fox. Both were still ready and eager to help if they could. Sarah Moxley was another matter. It would be some time before the reporter was able to help anyone.
Alicia slammed her phone shut and then, on hearing Mai’s annoying text message alert once again, stomped over to the smaller woman and grabbed her phone.
“Really?” Mai asked with exasperation. “Are we school children now?”
Alicia wiggled her thumbs with surprising speed, reading aloud as she typed: “Sleeping with you would be like sleeping with one of the seven dwarves. And no, I’m not telling you which one. There. Send.”
“No!” Mai yelped and lunged but missed as Alicia danced away.
“Don’t worry. It’ll at least keep him quiet for a while trying to figure ‘em all out.”
Drake made a point of ignoring them both completely, studying his speakerphone with huge interest. Karin had noticed a little distance between Drake and Mai since they returned from Zoya’s place; nothing cumbersome, but Mai was definitely struggling with something.
One thing Karin knew for certain. It wasn’t Smyth.
She listened hard as plans were made. She feared for their futures but couldn’t see any part she could play. Perhaps it was for the best. For her the past had again caught up with the present, and the black hole it presented was already threatening to drag her down. Komodo was her anchor, sure, but who would secure him?
CHAPTER SIX
Tyler Webb surveyed the great kingdom a life of privilege afforded him. His grandfather and father had done all the work, netting billions. Once they’d died, Webb cast the everyday annoyances of running one of the world’s biggest corporations aside, deferring them to well-prepped lackeys, and began the real work of his life.
The Pythians.
A child’s dream perhaps, and indeed envisioned in childhood, Webb had always been fascinated by secret orders. By small shadowy houses purported to rule the world. When it became known in certain circles that the Shadow Elite were such a house, such a society, and had finally crumbled, Webb quickly put aside his incredulity on hearing that all his suspicions were true and considered how he might begin establishing his own.
A feat unknown in modern times. A new order with new rules, attempting to infiltrate and rule old, recognized circles. But it could be done. It could be done with money. Power. Influence. And, most important of all—with overwhelming, mortal fear.
His first act was to consider fellow members. Webb, an arms billionaire and leader in the field of nanotech, already knew several unscrupulous individuals. But he needed to stick to his parameters. Only those with unlimited power, influence and money could be invited to join. And for the Pythians, only the best, most lawless sinners in their field would be worthy.
So followed highly secret communiques to Miranda Le Brun, to Nicholas Bell of Sanstone Building, to General Bill Stone, to Clifford Bay-Dale and to Robert Norris—a man that actually sat on the board of SolDyn, the world’s biggest company. Webb hadn’t chosen these people at random. He’d spent weeks and months vetting them, gently exploring them, and then quietly testing them. At length he’d assessed them again and again, finally happy with his candidates and requesting an entirely covert, unidentified meeting. After this came more tests
and finally this day—the great day of their first true meeting. The new Pythians would sit together for the first time, and the new order would commence.
Webb had spared no expense; from the highly capable security team, the military grade surveillance and computer mainframe protocols, to the twenty-square-mile blanket suppression of all signals and monitoring of all nearby traffic, whether it be vehicle, airplane, or had two or four legs. With nothing left to chance, Webb was able to relax and even feel a little excitement as his guests began to arrive.
Webb sat at the head of a rectangular table. He wanted no illusion as to who was the principle partner in this particular collaboration.
“We are the Pythians,” Webb said, once everyone was seated, sipping champagne and eating fish eggs and oysters. “Welcome.” It was the opening line he intended to use at every meeting. “First order of business—news. What do we have?”
General Stone spoke up first. “With Kovalenko’s demise and failure to test the nano-vests we’ve had to rethink. If those vests had gone off under DC and killed the President, we would have announced our shocking entrance to the world. As we stand we’re now trialing them in the UK through Coyote, a master asset. Results should be in soon.”
“Still,” Webb said. “It leaves us without a ‘grand entrance’ into the game, don’t you think?”
“Sure,” Stone said. “Of course. There’s always the ‘house on the hill’ scenario.”
All the Pythians were well acquainted with current events and new group suggestions through an impregnable e-mail system.
“A bit extreme, Captain.” Nicholas Bell, the builder and least liked of the six of them, saluted as he spoke. Bell was more than rough around the edges. He spoke as if he’d been dragged up, acted like a rough lout most of the time, and showed little respect for his fellow members. But Bell, with his worldwide construction network and endless resources, offered the group a tremendous amount of options. Webb believed the man would become more than invaluable.
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