“I still have bruises from our last cluster fu–”
“Pack a bag, bring some cash, and hop the next flight here. Charter something if you have to. Clock’s ticking, and he’s afraid this one’s going to get away from him.”
“What does he need the hundred grand for?”
“He located some icon that he’s sure describes where the treasure’s stashed. He made a deal to buy it, but he only has until Friday to come up with the rest of the money. Like I said, he’s retired, and he’s burned through his savings chasing the treasure.” Spencer hesitated. “Come on. It’s not like you’ve got a board meeting or something you can’t miss.”
“I do. A longboard, to be precise, and the waves are calling.”
“I need your help, Drake. You and Allie. I’ll take care of the rooms.”
By the end of the call, Spencer had been able to talk Drake into a mad rush to the airport, where he’d jetted to Singapore, and from there caught his current flight to New Delhi. Now, twenty-four hours later, Drake was dropping from the sky like a disgraced Greek god on little more than a whim, and his only consolation was that he’d somehow managed to entice Allie to join him.
Drake’s thoughts turned to her, and he pressed back in his seat, his lower back sore from sustained confinement. A vision of soft brunette curls and the most gorgeous eyes he’d ever seen flooded his imagination, and it took a hard bump from rough air sending a shudder through the fuselage to jar him back to the present. After the Myanmar adventure, Allie had returned to Texas, and was scheduled to move to California to be with Drake – or at least to pursue their budding romance and see where the trail led. After they’d discovered Paititi, they’d become gazillionaires – but Allie had quickly discovered, as had Spencer, that money brought its own problems, and litigious parasites had come out of the woodwork. But she was settling the legal actions that fortune hunters had brought, and Allie had assured him that she was ready to start a new life on the left coast. And now she was only days from making the move, which Drake had been anticipating with the optimism of a toddler waiting for Santa.
The landing gear descended with a groan and the wing flaps rose to slow the plane’s speed, and then they were bouncing along the runway, deceleration pushing him forward against the seatbelt as the terminal lights blurred by. Once at the gate Drake freed his duffel, containing little more than a few shirts and a couple of pairs of shorts, from the overhead bin. He wasn’t planning to be in India for long, and if he ran out of clothes he figured he could just buy local to get through.
Drake passed through customs and immigration and exited the terminal into sweltering pandemonium. Voices cried out over the pitches from hotel touts and tour guides, and an anxious crowd waved at new arrivals from illegally parked cars of every imaginable variety. Drake made his way to a long taxi line, and after a ten-minute wait, took a seat in the back of a well-used sedan and gave the driver Spencer’s hotel name. The man nodded and made a cursory attempt at friendly banter, but Drake was too tired to engage; the long flights had been too rough for him to get much besides snatches of inebriated sleep.
Traffic was beyond awful as the cab worked its way along the boulevards, a rush hour stop-and-go nightmare of kamikaze motorcyclists, stalled vehicles, cars cutting each other off for a few feet of perceived advantage, and general mayhem unlike anything Drake had ever seen. And everywhere there were the unfortunates, many of them disabled and wearing little more than rags, seated on stoops and curbs, pleading for alms or trying to hawk items they’d found or stolen.
The taxi’s air conditioning did little to alleviate the misery of muggy congestion, and by the time they neared the hotel Drake’s T-shirt was soaked through with sweat. At the hotel’s parking entrance, Drake got his first taste of New Delhi hospitality when the car was surrounded by beggars, desperation in their eyes, every sort of infirmity on display as they pressed against the glass. He winced at the sight of seeping open sores on one man’s arms, and was fishing in his pocket for change when security guards approached wielding batons, scattering the panhandlers so the car could get through.
“Bloody lay-abouts,” the driver muttered as he rolled forward, his tone hard.
The car pulled to a stop beneath a gilded overhang, where orange flames licked from two clay vessels that framed the entry. Drake paid the driver while a doorman stood by in an outfit that would have done an admiral proud, and once free of the taxi he stepped through ornately wrought iron and glass doors into the cool interior. The lobby was a stark contrast to the grime and misery of the street, all polished vanilla marble floors and sparkling chandeliers and pert, crisply attired attendants beaming welcoming smiles.
One of a dozen staff behind the reception counter hurried to greet him, her silky hair shining in a raven cascade, a traditional turquoise sari complementing her sparkling almond eyes.
“Yes, sir. Welcome to the Royal Jasmine,” she said, glancing at his small duffel with a neutral expression. “Do you require assistance with your bags?”
“No, I’ve got it. You have a reservation for me. Drake Ramsey?”
She tapped at a keyboard and nodded. “Yes, sir. Right here. A suite on the second floor. May I see your passport?”
Drake handed it over and waited while she retreated into the rear offices. Several minutes passed before she returned with a look of concern. “I’m sorry, sir, but our Xerox machine seems to be down. Would you mind leaving your passport until we can run a copy?”
Drake shrugged. “That’s fine.”
She handed him a golden key on a fob and nodded to a waiting bellman. “Very good, sir. If you’d sign the register, Daljit will show you to your room.”
Drake obliged as the bellman approached, and Drake followed him to a wide curved stairway. “My apologies, sir. The elevator is out of order,” Daljit said, and beckoned with a white-gloved hand to the stone slab steps. “May I help you with your luggage?”
“No need. Just lead the way.”
The second floor hallway matched the lobby’s opulence, the tall room doors hand-carved and gleaming with fresh varnish. They continued to the end of the corridor, and Daljit stopped in front of the second-to-last entrance and held out his hand for the key. Drake passed it to him and he swung the door open and entered, flicking on the light before moving to the thermostat and activating the air conditioning. Drake patiently listened as the man offered a brief orientation of the suite’s many features, and slid several bills into his hand when he returned to the small foyer.
“Ring us if you require anything at all. We’re here to make your stay pleasant and memorable,” Daljit said with a small bow. Drake resisted the urge to return the gesture, electing to nod instead.
When Daljit had departed, Drake locked the door behind him and walked into the bedroom, where the bellman had placed his bag on a rack near a strip closet that ran the width of the wall. Drake sighed in relief beneath a stream of frigid air blowing from an overhead grill and headed into the bathroom. After a glance at his two-day growth in the mirror, he splashed water on his face. Fatigue was evident in the shadows beneath his eyes, the discoloration making him look older than his twenty-something years. He was drying himself when he heard a clunk from the sitting room, and frowned as he tossed the towel aside and went to investigate.
Drake froze when one of the gold curtains that framed the glass balcony door stirred, and then Spencer stepped from behind it with an alarmed expression.
“Spencer!” Drake exclaimed. His friend crossed the room in three strides.
“Quiet. We’ve got to get out of here now,” Spencer hissed, eyes roaming the room. He grabbed Drake’s arm, practically dragging him to the open balcony doors.
“What the hell –”
“Follow me,” Spencer whispered, and then vanished through the gap, leaving Drake to follow him into the sweltering gloom.
Chapter 3
Spencer stood motionless on the balcony, head cocked at an angle as he listened intently. Drake
nearly ran into him as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. Spencer held out a warning hand as a muffled pounding sounded from next door. He held a finger to his lips, and then leaned into Drake, perspiration streaming from his hairline down his neck.
“We can make it to the ground floor from the balcony. I’ll go first,” he murmured.
“What? Who’s after you?” Drake whispered.
Spencer edged to the railing as though Drake hadn’t spoken and vaulted over in one smooth move. Drake could see his fingers gripping the metal lip, and then they disappeared, and he heard Spencer land on the veranda below with a thump. A crash echoed from the adjacent room – someone had kicked down the door.
The noise spurred Drake into action and he sped to the railing. Spencer was staring up at the balcony, motionless. Drake swung himself over the railing and hung suspended for a split second before dropping the remaining six feet and landing in an unsteady crouch. Spencer whispered to him as he scanned the manicured grounds.
“You okay?”
“I…yeah.”
Spencer pointed at an arch over a walkway that led along one wing of the hotel.
“If we’re lucky, we can give them the slip.”
Drake had a thousand questions, but one glance at Spencer’s drawn expression convinced him to save them for later. Spencer led the way to the path, and then stopped at the sight of police emergency lights strobing at the far end, by the hotel entrance. He looked around and met Drake’s eyes with an angry glare.
“Looks like we’re going to have to do this the hard way.”
They returned to the arch and Spencer gestured at a dark grove of trees. “Over there,” he said, and with a final glance at the balcony, took off at a run, covering the twenty yards from the main building to the grove in seconds. Drake mimicked his sprint and paused beside him, panting, eyeing the hotel silhouetted against the stars. Three men in brown uniforms appeared on the balcony next to Drake’s and peered over at the grounds below, backlit by the room’s light. Spencer grunted and turned away, eyes roaming along the service walkway that skirted a tall perimeter wall.
“Now what?” Drake asked, and then ducked down as a flashlight blinked to life on the balcony and swept the nearby grass. Spencer did the same and grimaced as he studied the wall.
“We need to get off the grounds.”
“How? Why?”
“Later. See that?” Spencer asked, pointing into the shadows to their right.
“No. What?”
“I think it’s a ladder.”
“We’re going over the wall?”
“If they don’t shoot us first.”
“Shoot us? What’s going on, Spencer?” Drake demanded, but Spencer was already moving as the flashlight beam played across the base of the trees. Drake swore under his breath and trailed Spencer. Thankfully the lush vegetation hid their progress as they trotted along a hedge that ringed the perimeter.
Spencer stopped and waited for Drake to catch up, and then leaned over and lifted one end of a rickety wooden ladder. “Grab the other end,” he whispered.
Drake did so and they hurried along, ignoring the flashlight beam behind them. A whistle shrieked from the balcony, and another light pierced the gloom, roaming along the hedge, and then another. If Spencer heard the whistle he gave no sign, and continued without hesitation. Shouts followed them, and then running footsteps from the ground floor echoed off the hotel’s rear terrace as additional police arrived, accompanied by the hotel’s security staff.
More whistles shattered the night air, but it was obvious to Drake and Spencer from the directionless yells that they hadn’t been spotted. They stayed low as they jogged, the ladder growing heavier with each yard, Spencer intent on some destination ahead of them only he could see.
They reached a gentle curve in the wall and paused at a gap in the cover. Spencer eyed the dark forms behind them and then looked at Drake over his shoulder. “Now or never. Ready?”
Drake nodded. They took off at a fast run and covered the open ground without drawing any attention, and darted behind another long strip of plants. Once they were out of sight of the rooms, Spencer hefted his end of the ladder and leaned it against the wall, where it rested three quarters of the way to the top. He squinted up at the tangerine moon and shifted his focus to the ladder.
“That should be good enough.”
“Is that broken glass along the edge?” Drake asked.
“I’ll let you know in a second.”
Spencer climbed the rungs with ease. He hesitated at the top and then pulled himself up and over the wall without a word. Another whistle sounded from nearby, and a light beam tracked along the hedge toward Drake’s position. Drake forced himself up the ladder as a cry of alarm went up from the hotel, and a voice yelled from the nearby trees.
“Stop or I’ll shoot!”
He momentarily froze in the beam and then continued up the rungs. The officer blew his whistle and called to the others, and Drake hauled himself over the rim, ignoring the scraping from glass shards worn smooth from decades of exposure to the elements. The very real threat of a bullet provided ample motivation to coax more speed from his tired limbs. A pistol barked from the trees and a slug ricocheted off the mortar, missing him by several yards, and then he was on the far side of the wall, lowering himself before losing his grip and falling the remainder of the way to the moist ground.
Drake landed on his side with a pained grunt. Spencer leaned over him and offered his hand. “You hurt?”
Drake shook his head and probed his ribs. “Don’t think anything’s broken.”
Spencer pulled Drake to his feet and motioned to where a group of street urchins were watching them with curious stares. “Let’s go. We can lose them in the alleys.”
“Spencer…”
“Save it until we’re in the clear,” Spencer snapped, and then bolted across the road without waiting for a reply, dodging a retired school bus painted every color of the rainbow that was stuffed to capacity with passengers. Drake watched him fade into the shadows and blinked away sweat. What was going on? An hour ago he’d been ensconced in his first class pod, pampered in climate controlled comfort, and now he was running from the police, who were shooting at him?
Drake drove himself forward, ignoring the pain in his chest as he followed his friend. He managed to avoid an auto-rickshaw that appeared out of nowhere, its headlight extinguished or broken, and made it across the road to where Spencer had fled into a scattering of shanties. The jeers of children blended with sirens from the front of the hotel as the police mobilized, the shot fired signaling that there would be no holds barred in chasing them down.
Drake found Spencer by a rundown market. Its interior was illuminated by a single overhead bulb, and a score of faces stared out at them from inside: two muddy Caucasian males were an uncommon sight in the slum. Several tough-looking youths eyed them from a doorway across the narrow way, and Spencer motioned Drake nearer.
“We need to put some distance between us and the hotel. They’ll have a manhunt going soon enough,” Spencer said, never looking away from the thugs.
Their discussion was interrupted by the whoop of a siren from behind them, and Spencer pulled Drake down an alley that paralleled the road, electric wiring spanning overhead like black spaghetti. They hurried along, pushing past locals loitering on their rear stoops, all the while ignoring the occasional pull on their clothes from children pleading for handouts.
“Whose bright idea was it to come to New Delhi again?” Drake asked.
“Trust me, if I could turn back the clock…” Spencer went silent for a moment. “You got any money?”
“Some.”
“How much?”
“About four grand.”
“Cash?”
“I cleaned out my safe. Got a few credit cards, too.”
Spencer shook his head. “Too risky. They’ll figure out we’re together sooner or later.”
“Are you going to tell me what this is
all about?”
Another siren wailed from the far end of the alley, and Spencer’s tone hardened. He indicated another pathway between the buildings, too narrow for anything but pedestrian traffic. “Down this way. Hear the music?”
“No. My ears are still ringing from gunshots and sirens.”
Spencer took off at a fast trot and Drake struggled to keep up. He had no idea where all the people had come from, but when they turned into an intersecting tributary he found himself in a swarm of locals, all jostling to get to where he could now make out the dissonant strains of a melody. Spencer was taller than the majority of the throng, so Drake had no problem keeping him in sight. When they finally emerged onto a wider dirt street, Spencer waited for him to catch up before pressing on.
The aroma of exotic spices greeted them as they neared a junction, where tarps were strung in a procession along one of the roads. Thousands of people wandered along the open air market, lighting provided by illegal taps of the street lamps by entrepreneurial merchants selling every imaginable sort of merchandise.
“We’re not out of the woods yet,” Spencer grumbled, and shouldered through a group of women haggling with an elaborately bearded man demonstrating a battery-operated herb grinder, his turban bobbing as he enthusiastically assured them the device was foolproof and would last forever.
The howl of a motorcycle approached through the shoppers, and Spencer ducked into a stall selling bags and hats. He selected a black baseball cap and tossed a few notes at the merchant, who wordlessly pocketed it before returning to his newspaper. Spencer pulled on the cap and stepped out of the far side of the stall, and then led Drake further into the labyrinth of vendors. They passed a stall with car stereo speakers blaring what sounded like monkeys banging on pots, and Spencer angled his head toward Drake. “We should be able to lose them in this maze.”
“Why are the police after you, Spence?”
“It’s a long story.”
“What did you do?”
“Nothing.”
“They were shooting at me, Spencer.”
The Day After Never - Retribution (Post-Apocalyptic Dystopian Thriller - Book 4) Page 27