Brothers In Arms (Matt Drake 5)

by Leadbeater, David

  BROTHERS

  IN

  ARMS

  (MATT DRAKE #5)

  BY

  DAVID LEADBEATER

  Copyright © 2013 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.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  This book is for all the readers who send the emails and connect on social media. The ones past, present and future. The ones who stay in touch and make my day with their kind words and enthusiasm.

  You know who you are. . .

  Other books by David Leadbeater:

  The Bones of Odin (Matt Drake #1)

  The Blood King Conspiracy (Matt Drake #2)

  The Gates of Hell (Matt Drake 3)

  The Tomb of the Gods (Matt Drake #4)

  Chosen (The Chosen Few trilogy #1)

  Walking with Ghosts (A short story)

  Connect with David on Twitter - dleadbeater2011

  Visit David’s NEW website – davidleadbeater.com

  Follow David’s Blog - http://davidleadbeaternovels.blogspot.co.uk/

  All helpful, genuine comments are welcome. I would love to hear from you.

  davidleadbeater2011@hotmail.co.uk

  Contents

  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

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  CHAPTER ONE

  The old man stared hard through the grimy window, liver spotted hands gripping the neck of the half-empty wine bottle with a shaky chokehold. His eyes were wide, the fingers of his left hand trailing slowly down the pane as if following a mysterious pattern.

  Outside, demons stalked the night.

  He knew these demons. He’d seen them before, many times. He was safe. They wouldn’t come for the likes of him. Like the hounds of hell, they rampaged through his unstable home, singling out fitter, younger specimens, always the sort who wouldn’t be missed and could be put to some future, diabolical use.

  From his lofty and secluded vantage point, he watched, his fear and disgust jaded from untold years of existing on the streets. A tall demon, dagger in one hand, pistol in the other, strode carelessly among the fragile dwellings of the street people, smashing and crashing and hurling their precious belongings out of his path. His minions followed him with glee, cackling and capering, their tiny eyes alight with the reflected flame of the growing fire.

  The homeless—the vulnerable and the lost—cowered in their wake, hoping the storm would pass them by. The old man brought the lip of the bottle to his mouth and drained the last dregs, making a deep sucking sound as he coaxed every last drop of liquid from the liter bottle. His gaze strayed momentarily across the rooftops, only a few hundred yards to where the Spanish beaches lay glittering under the moonlight, awash with surf. Soon they would be carefully groomed and raked, piled high with deck chairs and parasols, resources reserved for shameless tourists but never for downtrodden- locals.

  Back in hell, the prey were scattering. The old man watched as the tall demon examined man after man, casting most aside like the rag dolls they were, not caring where they landed. The old man counted himself lucky that on this night, of all nights, he had chosen a different place to sleep and drink his wine, a place where no one might disturb or rob him in his sleep. The bad men down there didn’t care what damage they did. Hurt and pain and even death meant little to them. If ordered and paid handsomely enough, they would do the same in broad daylight at a popular beach.

  The old man crossed himself, at the same time wishing his bottle hadn’t run dry. He might be lucky this time, but it hadn’t always been so—and it wouldn’t be in the future. The demons visited infrequently, but at least twice a year, seeking their candidates before moving on, taking the fittest kicking and screaming along with them. Where they went on other nights, he didn’t know. Did they visit other such places? He suspected they did, but it was not his job to speculate. Life had shredded his hopes and dreams long ago and he had no wish to jeopardize his long-accepted position by challenging what most considered the norm.

  Once, months ago, he remembered being caught in the purge. He still recalled the feeling of bone-shaking fear and the metallic taste of dread that had filled his mouth. The tall demon had taken hold of him and shook him hard, making all his limbs dance like a possessed marionette. The stink of evil had clung strong to this man. Close up, he was Satan—the Devil incarnate.

  The old man had been thrown to the ground, discarded for being all used up. Luckily, his limbs had only been bruised, not broken, or he might’ve died from his injuries. The demon had passed by, boot heels dragging through grit and dirt, scraping across the ground with a metallic rasp. And then, they had stopped. A menacing exclamation had scraped through the air.

  “This one will do.” A thick, guttural accent. Others spoke Spanish, but this demon sounded Russian. Or one of those new breakaway states. The old man had no real grasp of facts anymore. It didn’t matter anyway for the demon’s next words froze both the blood and the marrow in his old bones.

  “Do not fret, little rabbit. You have a little time left, yet. There is more than one country you must pass through before you end as — a lab experiment.” Harsh laughter tore at the very fabric of the air, echoing around the makeshift campsite long after the minions of hell had gone, leaving nothing but mayhem and despair in their wake.

  And now, the old man watched soundlessly as history repeated. His eyes would not see; his mouth would not speak. His heart would break.

  These days, the world was an uncaring, selfish place, not for the needy and dependent. Who out there would stoop down to help them?

  CHAPTER TWO

  Homeland
Security HQ is located in the Nebraska Avenue complex in Washington DC. Though not thought of as a primary port of call for intelligence alerts, it is nevertheless heavily concerned with terrorist threats, both domestic and abroad. On January 14th, 2013, it received a message that, whilst surprising and urgent, had no one screaming or reaching for the panic button.

  Not like they would be in a little over a week.

  The message originated out of Asia, somewhere off the coast of Korea. Speculation was that it came from one of the deserted islands out there. The body of the message, though short, was ultimately stunning.

  “Our warship returned to the curious island I previously spoke of today. This time, I was allowed to disembark and go ashore. Saw everything unexpected. A vast, well equipped lab. Bodies of European descent. And worse—experimentation. Many weapons—American made, state of the art. Some futuristic. And one other thing—the briefest mention of a possible target. US Senator James Turner.”

  It came from a Japanese agent named Dai Hibiki, a man who had been deep undercover with the Koreans for many years. This man was buried so deep that it had been rumored several times that he’d been turned. Or murdered. His messages were few and far between, so any contact from him was given the highest priority.

  It was routed through a Japanese intelligence agency to Homeland and then immediately to a small, covert agency because of a recent agreement between the Japanese and American governments.

  The small, covert agency was brand new, and had a big new name. Special Response and Recon. Some of its members had taken to calling it SPEAR for short.

  The new agency was in its infancy, still seeking agreements with some governments—the Swedes were playing major league hardball, and even the British were proving surprisingly prickly. Something to do with an unresolved matter concerning an SAS base that didn’t exist on European soil. Other agencies, like the Japanese, who were quick to sign an agreement, were more than likely playing for an angle. Offices had been rented, cleaned and furnished on tree-lined Nebraska Avenue, Washington DC, with park views on one side and a University campus on the other to help promote a relaxed ambience. The space was large, and roomy, but would take a long time to feel comfortable. Computers were up and running, a new mainframe buzzed with activity, and the telephone system was online. Other than that, operational systems and physical hardware was still being installed. Several much anticipated “toys” had not yet appeared. Offices were cluttered with discarded boxes and reams of flayed wire. An interrogation room was being built along with a secure parking garage and a state-of-the-art warning and ventilation system.

  But the transition was always going to be hard. The sheer diversity of the team members was a recipe for disorder. In Mai Kitano and Alicia Myles, there was both brilliance and instability. In Hayden Jaye and Mano Kinimaka, there was discipline and restraint, which, of course, led to limitation. In Ben and Karin Blake, there was both genius and a kind of broken insecurity. In Torsten Dahl, there was the superman you could always count on. Komodo was a soldier and a strong friend.

  And then there was Matt Drake. Destroyed by the death of his wife, rebuilt by the love of Kennedy Moore and then ripped apart again when the Blood King arranged her murder, he was a man struggling to cling on to the blasted pieces of his life. Constant action and mayhem had helped him cope, but the last two sluggish weeks had him asking some major questions.

  By day, the team was organizing their new HQ and starting to monitor handpicked communications, by night they tried adjusting to a brand new situation, a fresh life in an unfamiliar city. They were still living out of hotel rooms, the powers-that-be never quick to assign housing.

  Now, Mai cut across the main communications room of their new HQ, nodding to Drake and tucking her hair behind both ears. “Bored?”

  “Aye.” Drake had stopped trying to lighten up his broad Yorkshire accent around her. They were becoming closer by the day. He wasn’t trying to hide anything anymore. He pointed to the banks of TV screens. “A hundred channels and nowt to bloody watch.”

  Alicia chuckled. “You that desperate to dive straight back in, Drakey? The battle in the Czech Republic not big enough for you?”

  “It had its moments.” Drake acknowledged. “But inactivity kills nearly as fast as a bullet. You know that.”

  “I’d hardly call this ‘inactivity.’” Mai gestured around her. Engineers were installing the special insulation and ventilation system. There was currently a lot of head scratching going on. Some of the specs didn’t measure up.

  “He means action.” Alicia narrowed her eyes. “I’ll take one of ‘em out if you like.”

  “When you say it like that”—Drake sighed—“I don’t know if you mean you want to shoot him or shag him.”

  Alicia nodded in agreement. “Either’s possible.”

  Drake watched as Hayden drifted over to listen to the conversation, the ever-watchful Mano Kinimaka at her side. The last fortnight had seen both of them pussyfooting around some serious issues. Neither one, it seemed, was willing to make the first move. For Mano, it was because the whole thing was so important to him. For Hayden, it was something else all together. Something that combined the melancholy around her breakup with Ben, the pressures of her job—she had been appointed team leader of SPEAR—and the demands she levied against herself because of her father’s great name. It didn’t matter that she had probably already surpassed the greatest deed he ever did. He made her believe she would never live up to his legend—no matter what she achieved.

  Drake stepped out of the room and wandered into the small canteen. Komodo, in addition to being a remarkable warrior and Karin’s sensitive boyfriend, had also proven to be a kick-ass cook and coffee connoisseur. He’d already saved them from starvation more times than Drake could remember with his quick culinary genius.

  Komodo squeezed the garlic press as Drake entered. The Englishman took a whiff. “Smells lovely.”

  Komodo blinked. “It’s just spag bol, man.”

  “To you maybe.” Alicia had walked in behind him. “But after weeks of field rations that taste like Odin’s arse, I’ll tell you, Trevor, your sweet fare tastes divine.”

  Komodo shook his head at her. “My girlfriend has a lot to answer for, telling you—of all people—about that.”

  Alicia emptied the coffee pot. “We’re all friends here, mate. No hidden agendas. I’m sure you’ll find a way to make her pay, eh?”

  Drake concentrated on the bubbling contents of the pan. The fact that Alicia raised the question of hidden agendas only brought attention to her own. If indeed she had one. . . But Drake had known her a long time. He could not pinpoint a time when she hadn’t been secretly working for herself.

  He squeezed past her, leaving Komodo to fend for himself. Across the narrow corridor, the conference room stood empty, deemed the least important area to make ready. Farther down the hallway, he knew workmen and technicians were working on secure offices, an interrogation room, and a basement bunker for the arms cache. Maybe even more clandestine things he wasn’t party too. Who knew what top-secret, hush-hush ideas Jonathan Gates really had for this place?

  Not even Hayden Jaye, Drake was sure.

  He paused for a moment, alone in the empty conference room. His life was in tatters, his past naught but ashes. But dreams could arise from ashes as easily as they could be born in glory. His future was a blank slate, purposely so. Mai Kitano remained an enigma, but a desirable one.

  He ran his knuckles across the rough walls, the texture like sandpaper, harsh to the touch. The room’s single window looked out on to a busy street. Cars flashed past and pulled into the strip mall opposite, odd to someone who’d lived in the UK his entire life. The White House stood resolutely to the south east, an awe-inspiring sight he’d never even seen, Langley and the CIA to the west.

  His future was a blank slate.

  But the past had to be dealt with. Many layers of profound regrets and deep-rooted guilt had to be raked through, e
valuated, and faced. The saner part of his mind asked, what can you do now? What good will dwelling do? But the darker side wanted more. It craved action.

  And so did his body to help dissuade and deflect the dark side. It offered a promise that said the harder he threw himself into the present, the farther his guilty nightmares would recede. Someone once said time heals all wounds. What a load of crap. Time would only cover it with scar tissue. The heart and mind would actually deepen the loss.

  A hubbub erupted across the hall. Hayden’s voice and then Gates’s and then Torsten Dahl’s. The big Swede didn’t sound happy. Someone—it sounded like Karin—was trying to shush him. Good luck with that one.

  Drake sighed. The so-called experts had probably installed the wrong ventilation system. A little depressed, he drifted back into the operations room and was surprised to see Mai, usually the picture of reserve, arguing animatedly with their boss—Jonathan Gates.

  His radar perked up.

  On one of the big screens a message was repeating:

  “Our warship returned to the curious island I previously spoke of today. This time I was allowed to disembark and go ashore. Saw everything unexpected. A vast, well equipped lab. Bodies of European descent. And worse—experimentation. Many weapons—American made, state of the art. Some futuristic. And one other thing—the briefest mention of a possible target. US Senator, James Turner.”

  A blue flag attached to the message symbol on the screen indicated that it had come direct from Homeland. When Karin used her keyboard to open the internal message, Drake saw it had been forwarded from the Japanese Defense Intelligence Headquarters in Shinjuku, Tokyo.

  Mai touched Gates on the shoulder. “I know this man. I know Dai Hibiki very well. Years of his life have been devoted to this mission. You can’t—”

  “You got it, Mai. My point exactly. Years of his life. Even the Japanese aren’t entirely sure Hibiki hasn’t been turned.”