Table of Contents
Title page
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
THE GATES OF
HELL
(Matt Drake #3)
by
David Leadbeater
Other books by David Leadbeater:
The Bones of Odin (Matt Drake #1)
The Blood King Conspiracy (Matt Drake #2)
Chosen
Walking with Ghosts (a short story)
Connect with the author on Twitter: @dleadbeater2011
Visit the author’s website: www.davidleadbeaternovels.com
Follow the author’s Blog http://davidleadbeaternovels.blogspot.co.uk/
All helpful, genuine comments are welcome. I would love to hear from you.
[email protected]
Copyright © 2012 by David Leadbeater
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher/author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.
All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
DEDICATION AND AUTHORS NOTE
First of all, I would like to say a huge thank you by dedicating this book to all the wonderful readers who have stayed with me to this point, and to everyone who has emailed me and contacted me on Twitter and Facebook expressing your fantastic support. It is hugely appreciated and is the major reason I carry on writing.
At this stage in proceedings, I thought a few lines of explanation might be helpful.
The Matt Drake series has always been planned as a four-book arc—what I have come to think of as ‘the Odin Cycle’. That isn’t to say there won’t be more in the series—there definitely will be—just that the continuing mysteries unearthed in Books 1, 2 and 3 will all be solved by the time we reach the extremely explosive end of book 4! Thanks for bearing with me. It certainly has been a rollercoaster ride and I am going to try to make sure book 4—The Tomb of the Gods—finishes it in style. Release planned for January 2013.
Oh, and as you know by now, I just can’t guarantee everyone will survive...
CHAPTER ONE
The hate in his heart burned brighter than molten steel.
Matt Drake went up and over the wall and landed in silence. He crouched among the swaying shrubbery, listening, but sensed no change in the stillness around him. He paused for a moment and re-checked the Glock ‘subcompact.’
All was ready. The Blood King’s henchmen would go down hard tonight.
The house before him stood semi-dark. The downstairs kitchen and lounge was ablaze. The rest of the place was in darkness. He paused a second longer, carefully going over the layout he’d obtained from the previous now-dead henchman, before moving soundlessly forward.
His old training served him well and ran hot again in his veins, now he had a highly personal reason and requirement for it. Three of the Blood King’s henchmen had died horribly in three weeks.
Regardless of what he told him, Rodriguez would be number four.
Drake reached the rear entrance and checked the lock. Within minutes he had turned the handle and slipped inside. He heard a blast from the television and a muffled cheer. Rodriguez, bless the old mass-murderer, was watching the game.
He paced across the kitchen, not needing the light of his compact torch because of the glow emanating from the main room ahead. He paused at the hallway to listen intently.
Was there more than one guy? Hard to tell above the noise of the damn TV. No matter. He would kill them all.
The despair he’d suffered during the last three weeks since Kennedy’s death had come close to overwhelming him. He’d left his friends behind, making only two concessions. First, he’d called Torsten Dahl to warn the Swede about the Blood King’s vendetta and caution him to get his family to safety. And second, he’d enlisted the help of his old pals in the SAS. He’d entrusted them to look after Ben Blake’s family because he couldn’t.
Now, Drake fought alone.
He rarely spoke. He drank. Violence and darkness were his only friends. There was neither hope nor mercy left in his heart
He moved noiselessly up the passage. The place stank of dampness, sweat and fried food. The beer fumes were almost visible. Drake made a hard face.
Easier for me.
His intel said one man lived here, a man who had helped kidnap at least three of the Blood King’s infamous ‘captives.’ Since the sinking of his ship and the man’s clearly well-planned escape, at least a dozen high-profile figures had tentatively and covertly come forward to explain that a member of their families was being held by the underworld figure. The Blood King was manipulating the decisions and actions of the United States by preying on its figurehead’s love and compassion.
His plan had been truly superb. No single man knew that any other man’s loved ones were in jeopardy, and the Blood King had influenced them all with a rod of iron and blood. Whatever was necessary. Whatever worked.
Drake figured they hadn’t even scratched the surface of who had been kidnapped yet. They couldn’t understand just how far the Blood King’s depraved control actually went.
A door opened to his left and an unshaven, fat man walked out. Drake acted instantly and with deadly force. He charged the man, drawing his knife and burying it deep into his gut, then forcing him with sheer momentum through the open door and into the lounge.
The fat man’s eyes bulged with disbelief and shock. Drake held him tight, a wide, screaming shield, burying the blade hard before letting it go and drawing the Glock.
Rodriguez was quick, despite the shock of Drake’s appearance. He had already rolled off the sagging couch to the floor and was fumbling at his belt. But it was the third man in the room who captured Drake’s attention.
A thick-set, long-haired man was grooving in the corner, a set of big black headphones clamped to his ears. But even as he grooved, even as he tapped out the beats of an anthem with his dirt-caked fingers, he was reaching for a sawn-off shotgun.
Drake made himself small. The deadly shot ripped into the fat man. Drake pushed the convu
lsing body aside and came up firing. Three shots took most of the music-man’s head off and sent his body crashing into the wall. The headphones flew away independently, arcing through the air and coming to rest on the enormous TV, perched nicely over the edge.
Blood trickled down the flat screen.
Rodriguez was still scrambling across the floor. Discarded chips and beer bounced and sprayed all around him. Drake was beside him in a heartbeat and shoved the Glock hard against the roof of his mouth.
“Taste good?”
Rodriguez gagged, but still scrabbled at his belt for a small knife. Drake watched with contempt, and when the Blood King’s lackey brought it around in a vicious slash, the ex-SAS man caught it and buried it hard into his assailant’s bicep.
“Don’t be a fool.”
Rodriguez sounded like a pig being slaughtered. Drake spun him around and leaned him back against the couch. He met the man’s pain-masked eyes.
“Tell me all you know,” Drake whispered, “about the Blood King.” He withdrew the Glock but kept it highly visible.
“The... the what?” Rodriguez’s accent was thick, hard to decipher due to his race and the pain.
Drake smashed the Glock hard into Rodriguez’s mouth. At least one tooth snapped off.
“Do not fuck with me.” The venom in his voice disclosed more than just hate and despair. It let the Blood King’s man know hard death was truly imminent.
“Alright, alright. I know about Boudreau. You want me to tell you about Boudreau? That I can do.”
Drake tapped the Glock lightly against the man’s forehead. “We can start there if you like.”
“Alright. Be cool.” Rodriguez rambled on through obvious pain. Blood coursed down his chin from his shattered teeth. “Boudreau’s a fuckin’ freak, man. You know the only reason the Blood King let him live?”
Drake ground the pistol into the man’s eye. “Do I look like a man who answers questions?” His voice grated like steel on steel. “Do I?”
“Aggh. Alright, alright. There’s a lot of death to come. That’s what the Blood King said, man. A lot of death to come, and Boudreau will be happy to be in the meat of it.”
“So he’s using Boudreau to clean up. No surprise. He’s probably destroying all the ranches.”
Rodriguez blinked. “You know about the ranches?”
“Where is he?” Drake felt the hate grab him. “Where?” In another second he was going to lose it and start beating Rodriguez to a pulp.
No loss. Piece of crap doesn’t know anything anyway. Just like the rest of them. If one thing could be said for the Blood King, it was how well he concealed his tracks.
At that moment there was a flicker in Rodriguez’s eye. Drake rolled as something heavy passed where his head had been.
A fourth man, probably passed out in a nearby room and roused by the noise, had attacked.
Drake whipped around, flicking out a foot and nearly taking his new assailant’s head off. When the man crashed to the ground, Drake appraised him quickly—the heavy eyes, the tram-lines down both arms, the filthy T-shirt—and shot him twice in the head.
Rodriguez’s eyes bulged. “No!”
Drake shot him in the arm. “You haven’t been helpful to me.”
Another shot. His knee exploded.
“You know nothing.”
A third bullet. Rodriguez doubled-over, holding his gut.
“Like all the rest of them.”
A final shot. Right between the eyes.
Drake surveyed the death around him, taking it in, letting his soul drink the nectar of vengeance for just a moment.
He left the house behind, escaping through the garden, letting the deep darkness take him.
CHAPTER TWO
Drake woke deep in the night, bathed in sweat. Eyes caked together with partly shed tears. The dream was always the same.
He had been the man who always saved them. The man always first to utter the words ‘trust me.’ But then he failed.
Failed them both.
Twice now. First Alyson. Now Kennedy.
He slipped out of bed, reaching for the bottle he kept beside the gun on the nightstand. He swigged from the open top. Cheap whisky burned a path down his throat and into his gut. The medicine of the weak and the damned.
When guilt threatened to bring him yet again to his knees, he made three quick calls. The first to Iceland. He spoke briefly to Torsten Dahl and heard the sympathy in the big Swede’s voice, even as the man told him to stop ringing every night, that his wife and kids were safe and well and that no harm would come to them.
The second was to Jo Shepherd, a man he had fought many battles alongside during his days in the old regiment. Shepherd politely painted the same scenario as Dahl, but didn’t comment on Drake’s slurred words or the raw croak in his voice. He assured Drake that Ben Blake’s family was well guarded and that he and a few of his friends sat in the shadows, proficiently guarding the guards.
Drake closed his eyes as he made the last call. His head spun and his gut burned like the lowest level of hell. It was all welcome. Anything to draw his attention away from Kennedy Moore.
You even missed her damn funeral. . .
“Hello?” Alicia’s voice was calm and assured. She too had lost someone close to her recently, though she showed no outward sign.
“It’s me. How’re they doing?”
“All fine. Hayden’s healing well. Another few weeks and she’ll be back to her saintly CIA self. Blake’s okay, but pining for you. His sister just turned up. Quite the family reunion. Mai’s AWOL, thank God. I’m watching them, Drake. Where the hell are you?”
Drake coughed and wiped his eyes. “Thank you,” he managed before he broke the connection. Funny she should mention hell.
He felt he was camped outside those very gates.
CHAPTER THREE
Hayden Jaye watched the sun rise over the Atlantic Ocean. It was her favorite part of the day and one she liked to spend in solitude. She slipped gingerly out of bed, wincing at the pain in her thigh, and padded carefully over to the window.
A relative peace settled over her. Creeping fire touched the waves and for a few minutes all her pain and worries melted away. Time stood still and she was immortal, and then the door opened behind her.
Ben’s voice. “Nice view.”
She nodded at the sunrise and then turned to see he was looking at her. “You don’t need to get fresh, Ben Blake. Coffee and a buttered bagel is enough.”
Her boyfriend brandished a drink carrier and paper bag like a weapon. “Meet me on the bed.”
Hayden took a last look at the new dawn and then took a slow walk over to the bed. Ben placed the coffee and bagels within easy reach and gave her puppy-dog eyes.
“How—”
“Same as last night,” Hayden said quickly. “Eight hours ain’t gonna make a limp go away.” Then she softened a little. “Anything from Drake?”
Ben settled back on the bed and shook his head. “No. I spoke to Dad though, and they’re all doing well. No sign of— ” He faltered. “Of. . .”
“Our families are safe.” Hayden laid a hand on his knee. “The Blood King failed there. Now all we have to do is find him and get the vendetta lifted.”
“Failed?” Ben echoed. “How can you say that?”
Hayden took a deep breath. “You know what I meant.”
“Kennedy died. And Drake . . . he didn’t even go to her funeral.”
“I know.”
“He’s gone, you know.” Ben stared at his bagel as if it were a hissing snake. “He won’t come back.”
“Give him time.”
“He’s had three weeks.”
“Then give him three more.”
“What do you suppose he’s doing?”
Hayden gave a half-smile. “From what I know of Drake… Covering our backs first. Then he’ll be trying to find Dmitry Kovalenko.”
“The Blood King might never turn up again.” Ben’s mood was so depre
ssing, it leached away even the bright promise of the new morning.
“He will.” Hayden shot the young man a glance. “He has an agenda, remember? He won’t go to ground like previously. The time displacement devices were just the beginning. Kovalenko has a much bigger game planned.”
“The Gates of Hell?” Ben mused. “You believe that shit?”
“Doesn’t matter. He believes it. All the CIA has to do is figure it out.”
Ben took a long swallow of coffee. “That’s all, eh?”
“Well…” Hayden slipped him a sly smile. “Our geek forces are doubled now.”
“Karin is the brains,” Ben admitted. “But Drake would break Boudreau in a minute.”
“Don’t be too sure. Kinimaka didn’t. And he’s not exactly a poodle.”
Ben paused as there was a knock at the door. His eyes betrayed terror.
Hayden took a moment to reassure him. “We’re inside a secure CIA hospital facility, Ben. The layers of security surrounding this place would put the President’s inauguration parade to shame. Chill.”
A doctor popped his head around the door. “All good?” He entered the room and proceeded to check Hayden’s charts and vitals.
When he closed the door on the way out, Ben spoke again. “You think the Blood King will try for the devices again?”
Hayden shrugged. “You’re assuming he didn’t get the first one I lost. He probably did. As for the second one we recovered from his boat?” She smiled. “Nailed on.”
“Don’t be complacent.”
“The CIA aren’t complacent, Ben,” Hayden said immediately. “Not anymore. We’re ready for him.”
“What about the kidnapping victims?”
“What about them?”
“They’re certainly high profile. Harrison’s sister. The others you mentioned. He’ll use them.”
“Of course he will. And we’re ready for him.”
Ben finished his bagel and gave his fingers a lick. “I still can’t believe the entire band had to go into hiding,” he said wistfully. “Just as we were beginning to get famous.”
The Gates of Hell (Matt Drake 3) Page 1