Brothers In Arms (Matt Drake 5)

by Leadbeater, David

  *****

  Drake skidded the car to a sudden halt. The swinging gate gained momentum and flew from the top of the car, hitting the cabin doors with a loud bang and breaking windows. Glass shattered and cascaded to the gravel-strewn ground as Drake and Romero jumped out of the car, leaving the doors open and the engine running. Drake prepped his gun, a PKM variant Kalashnikov, 7.62 caliber, modernized for light use. Not the best weapon, but not bad at short notice.

  He hit the steps, Romero at his side, and kicked the door hard. It buckled immediately, locked from the inside. Another kick and it flew open.

  A man was running at him, bloody wood saw held high.

  “Fuck me.” Romero breathed.

  Drake blew him away with a quick burst. His body shot backward, slamming against a jam-packed rack of shelving. Screwdrivers and packets of nails rained down nosily. Hammers, tape measures and boxes of screws hit the floor and landed on the dead man. Drake hurried through an open archway into the back of the cabin. Three short rows of desks faced him. Beyond them was a big office, its walls oddly papered with what looked like old maps and diagrams.

  Big men in leather jackets and jeans were squeezing though a small door, hampered by their size. Once through, they came running at the intruders like huge grizzly’s, arms spread wide, mouths screaming above their bushy black beards.

  Behind them, an even bigger Russian appeared, stripped to the waist, more hair on his chest than any 80s rocker had on his head, flexing muscles and growling with disdain. Drake blasted the first wave. Romero stepped to the side and picked off the stragglers. Men fell everywhere, some landing right at Drake’s feet through momentum and just plain toughness, able to take more bullets than an armored car and still keep coming.

  One of them landed a blow. It glanced off Drake’s shoulder, but still numbed it. More men piled out of the office. Now, past them, a great round table could be seen as well as the man strapped to it. Arms stretched unnaturally, head pulled right back to expose the throat. The man was in agony. Blood dripped from all his limbs. Arranged around him were yet more men.

  Drake emptied his clip. A Russian tackled him around the waist, dead before he even hit the floor. But Drake staggered back and found himself stabbing at his next opponent with the barrel of his gun. It was a good prod, taking the man in the windpipe and making him double over, gurgling. Romero picked off the next two.

  The way forward was open, albeit littered with dead and half-dead bodies. Drake and Romero made it to the office door, at the same time trying to make sense of the strange maps that papered the walls, before the hairy Russian ambled out, grinning like a maniac.

  “So!” he rumbled. “The famous Matt Drake. Like your James Bond, no? Why you come to Mother Russia?”

  “You know me?” Drake faltered.

  “Like I said. You famous man. Bang, bang.” He made the motions of firing a pistol. “You take down Dmitry, am I right? You take away his dream as well. Don’t worry, Matt Drake. You are famous here. For that, I only kill you a little.”

  Drake sidestepped as the hairy Russian lunged, but the man was amazingly fast. One huge, meaty paw grabbed a handful of Drake’s jacket, and thumped him sideways against the flimsy wall. Drake hit it so hard the plaster caved in, sending white puffs of spray into the air. One of the ancient maps rolled down over his head.

  Drake’s gun clattered to the floor. Romero was busy holding off two more Russians as the monster came on, reaching for Drake.

  “Name’s Zanko!” The Russian sounded like the announcer at a circus introducing a new act. “Most days I eat an American for breakfast but for you. . .” A shrug made the crazy physique ripple and swell alarmingly. “I make exception.”

  Enormous hands grabbed the front of Drake’s jacket, lifting him into the air until his feet left the ground. Drake, still winded, could do nothing as the Russian pinned him to the wall. “Vladimir!” the man bellowed. “Vladimir! Bring me my hammer and nails!”

  Gunshots split the air as Romero took out his opponents. A third hit him hard, riddled with lead but still coming strong. Romero went flying across a desk, his gun clattering to the floor. They were hopelessly outnumbered, Drake thought furiously. This wasn’t a fucking satellite drop-off for a trafficking ring. It was the base of a major operation. Most likely the base for several major operations. Strength flooded back into his body and he started to struggle. The Russian, Zanko, knitted bushy brows that met in the middle.

  “You English,” he scoffed. “I could still hold you there with one hand. See?” And Zanko switched grips, now pinning Drake’s body with just his left paw, a grin stretching his face that went from ear to ear.

  Drake evaluated the situation whilst waiting for Vladimir to find Zanko’s hammer. The office at the back was clearly the hub of the place, the O.C. The tied and hopelessly stretched out man still lay across the table, panting shallowly. Half a dozen Russians still stood around his body, no doubt discussing methods of interrogation or assessing information already gleaned. Since the room had emptied somewhat, Drake could now see a grizzled old man sat right at the back below a heavily barred window, watching proceedings without movement but with sharp, hawk-like eyes.

  The eyes locked on Drake as if sensing the attention, but nothing changed in the face, not even the faint folding of a cavernous wrinkle. The old man’s exposed neck was a mass of dark tattoos.

  Two more big men stood at his side, assessing matters right along with him. Drake revised his appraisal of this place. Maybe it was the HQ for this organization. It certainly appeared important, what with all the old maps and diagrams everywhere. He noted now even more ancient-looking scrolls spread out over the desks. Something was definitely being investigated here. He recalled the Korean soldiers claim about the Russians making some great archaeological discovery lately. Something about the gods and ancient towers, something immense.

  Now Zanko shook him as if noticing his inattention. “It will get a little more interesting in just one minute, small man.”

  Romero groaned to his right. Drake saw a high spray of blood. Grief knifed through his gut. No! The marine was a good soldier and a good man, caught up Drake’s run of bad luck by mischance alone. He didn’t deserve. . .

  Then Romero rolled out from under the desk holding a knife, face and hair dripping. It was he who had struck the blow. He pulled a pistol and aimed it at Zanko.

  But the monster Russian was quicker than either of them gave him credit for. Without even looking—perhaps watching the reflections in Drake’s eyes—he swung out and backhanded Romero across the face. The marine literally flew, legs and arms flapping, the width of the office and smashed into the far wall.

  There he collapsed, unmoving.

  Drake began to kick wildly. He swung at Zanko with both arms, landing a strong blow across the jaw.

  A man came up to them carrying a well-used hammer and a packet of four-inch nails. “Here you are, Zanko. Don’t take too long. We’re due to open for business in one hour.”

  Zanko grinned even wider. “I only need one minute.”

  *****

  Hayden blinked at the truck driver. “You know what this is all about?”

  “Well, some of it, I guess. I met those three, your first victims.” He said the last word in a whisper, as if scared it might spell out his own doom. “We ran into each other one night, all complete strangers, in a bar at the Desert Palms. It were one of those once in a lifetime connections, ya know? Total strangers meet and bond and have the night of their lives. Done some good nights in my life, guys, but nothin’ like that ’un.”

  “What happened?” Kinimaka asked.

  Stevens stared into space, thinking back. “Y’know. Nothin’. Nothin’ bad anyways. It were all about the conversation, the jokin’ around, the beer. The stories. We didn’t barely leave the bar.”

  Hayden considered it for a while, then turned to Lauren. “Why don’t you tell us your story? Maybe we’ll get a link.”

  Lauren brushed
her hair back. “Well, sure. The agency booked the gig, if you know what I mean. We don’t do names, except stage names. For this I was Nightshade, a kind of dominatrix.”

  No one spoke. Lauren hurried on. “There were two clients. Not unusual. I was treated well and driven home the next day. The only remarkable event was that I was treated with complete respect by both men and nothing sleazy happened.”

  “Nothing sleazy?” Ben sputtered. “You just said you were a dom—”

  “That’s business.” Lauren interjected. “It’s expected. But there are rules that should be followed. Safe words. Guide lines as to procedure, tolerance and, frankly, when to stop. Usually. . .” She sighed. “They want to take it further than the parameters allow. They want nasty things which I ain’t about to go into. They push for more and it can get ugly. That’s sleaze.”

  Hayden glanced at the secret video camera that had been installed in the conference room high up in a corner. She knew Gates was watching from his office on the Hill. His interest in Lauren Fox was a little odd to say the least.

  Hurriedly, she quelled those thoughts. “Tell us more about the two men?”

  “Nothing out of the ordinary. Both rich. One an American, the other Chinese, I think. The American was tall, well-built. The Chinese guy short and wide. One time—” She half-laughed. “As our session became more in-depth, another Chinese guy barged into the room and asked a question. It sounded like a request, you know? When the first guy answered—totally breaking character—the second saluted and rushed away.”

  “Wait.” Dahl held up a hand. “When you say Chinese. Could he have been Korean?”

  Lauren made a face. “I guess.”

  Hayden caught Ben’s eye. “Bring up a list of prominent Korean officials.”

  “Oh God.” Stevens suddenly began muttering. “Oh dear God. That’s it.”

  Kinimaka glanced toward Hayden before addressing the truck driver. “That’s what?”

  “It were earlier that night. Some kid told us ’bout a free private dining room. Hotel normally charges a bundle for ’em. We was drunk and happy enough even by then to think it a good idea. So we went looking.” Stevens sniffed. “Didn’t think nothin’ of it at the time. We barged into this room—a well-dressed American and a chinaman—or mebbe Korean. The Korean was wearing a jacket full of medals. Looked pretty official like, I dunno, an officer maybe? They seemed shocked when we rushed in. A few bodyguards herded us out like goats. We laughed about it, then went back to the bar, giving up on the idea of the private room. Oh crap. Is that it?”

  Ben turned his laptop around, the screen partially filled by a man’s face. “That him?”

  “I’m pretty sure that’s the Korean dude. Yeah.”

  Lauren stared. “Yes. That’s him. Is he important?”

  “General Kwang Yong, of the Korean People’s Army, is leader of the Special Operations Force. The KPA consists of five branches, with this being the most obscure. Naturally.”

  “What’s he doing in the U.S.?”

  “Well,” Dahl said, “he’s the leader of an important branch of the largest military organization on earth. Take a bloody guess.”

  *****

  Drake watched as Zanko waved one of the dull, galvanized nails before his eyes.

  “Hold still, Mr. Drake. The first nail? It will only tickle.”

  The point dug into Drake’s palm. Zanko fumbled with the hammer, his outsize, fleshy hand too big to maneuver it quickly and hang onto Drake at the same time. “Vladimir!” he cried. “Bystro!”

  Zanko nodded at Drake. “Just be moment, my friend. Did you know. . .?” His voice took on a matter-of-fact tone. “That I once did smother a man to death using my armpits?”

  He twisted his body so one was revealed. Drake almost gagged at the sight of thick locks of matted hair, glistening with sweat and hanging from his arm like a gelled-up sheepdog.

  Drake felt the pain of the nail being placed in the center of his palm. Vladimir pulled back the hammer. Romero rose behind him, shaking his head. The marine stared blankly, looking confused.

  But his presence distracted Zanko. Vladimir struck with the hammer. Drake shifted his hand aside as Zanko looked to the side, conscious of the enemy at his back. As the hammer hit Zanko’s smallest finger, Drake struck like a snake, grabbing its handle and twisting away, turning, and in one complete move buried the claw in Vladimir’s shoulder.

  The man screamed. Zanko grunted. Romero’s eyes began to clear. Drake might be a battler, but he knew a bad fight when he was in the middle of one.

  “Go!” He swore when Romero, still slightly befuddled, ran in the direction of the back office, toward even more trouble. Using every ounce of energy, he leapt free of the corner and put a precious few feet between himself and Zanko. The mountainous Russian roared at his heels.

  Drake ran hard for the office door and then suddenly stopped, flinging himself to the side. Zanko, fast but still unable to stop his freight train body fast enough, hit the frame like an elephant hitting a brick wall. The entire cabin shuddered, its far end disturbed so much it fell entirely off its brick supports, crashing to the ground and upending everyone in the office.

  Romero shouted. “Window!”

  Drake paused though, just for a second. A sixth sense told him a minute spared here might save them hours or even days of trouble later. He looked at the walls, really looked at them, trying to digest and divine some kind of meaning.

  A more recent map showed Iraq and its borders, its roads and towns. An older one showed ancient Babylon, mapped out by historians and experts, with several areas highlighted. Drake could make out the words “gate,” and “swords”, with the rest being obscured by a garish Post-it note covered in Russian scribble. A place called the Ishtar Gate was circled.

  Still another picture was an ancient representation of something called The Tower of Babel, an old legend Drake was barely aware of. Far back in time, didn’t the people and the priests try to construct a tower of stone high enough to reach God?

  Romero’s shouting and crashing tore his attention away. Zanko was already picking himself up off the floor, but his body was currently blocking the office door. The old Russian boss just knelt among his men, fixing Drake with an emotionless stare that made the Englishman shiver.

  Such detachment in this situation was unreal.

  Then Romero smashed the window and Drake dived out after him, bullets strafing their heels.

  *****

  “So, the five of you stumbled across a Korean general on U.S. soil. The man never appeared dressed as a soldier to you, Lauren, giving you no reason to question him. You shouldn’t have mattered. That changed after Stevens and the other victims saw him. A decision must have later been taken to tie up all loose ends.” Hayden glanced from eye to eye. “Sound about right?”

  “It most certainly does.” Dahl clicked his fingers. “But who’s the American?”

  “His host.” Hayden turned briefly to the hidden eye. “An influential man, I presume.”

  The conference phone rang immediately. Hayden answered and Gates spoke. “Time is of the essence, Jaye. Get them to make a photo fit of this guy. If the Koreans are here on U.S. soil trying to make a deal. . .”

  Hayden flashed back to Dai Hibiki’s original message. “This could be all about arms, sir. Futuristic weapons.”

  “It usually is, Jaye. It usually is.” Gates signed off, sounding weary. Hayden tapped the desk. “Lauren. Stevens. We need a picture of that American and we need it last week. Ben will help you with the photo fit. The rest of you—the Korean general clearly gives us a link to the island, but what about the strange assassins? They’re American—no doubt. And how does it fit in with Drake’s kidnapping ring? If it is somehow tied to the Koreans then why draw attention to themselves?”

  “The deal on the table,” Kinimaka offered. “Might be humongous.”

  “Then God help us.”

  *****

  Outside, Romero threaded between big pac
ks of timber. Hundreds of cubes of the stuff sat in the Russian yard, waiting to be picked over and sold, and the marine used the bulky, piled-high pallets as cover. Drake followed a step behind. Bullets sent wood chips flying in all directions; sharp splinters littered the ground.

  “Go left!” Drake cried.

  Romero ducked down an aisle, heading around the back of the big office now and toward their car. The shooting had momentarily stopped as men piled out of the broken window behind them. Romero jumped through the open car door without touching the sides. Drake looked up to see Vladimir, hammer still hanging from his shoulder, pushing out of the cabin door.

  Just got time. . .

  Drake leapt over the car hood, sliding off the other side and landing right in front of Vladimir. The Russian looked pained and surprised. “Off to the doc were you?” Drake took hold of the man’s jacket and threw him against the car. Vladimir hit the hard metal wing with a metallic clunk and screamed. The hammer wavered as blood poured from the wound.

  Romero revved the car’s engine.

  “Hold yer friggin’ horses.”

  Vladimir groaned. Drake punched him in the nose. “I don’t give a shit about this place.” The Englishman hissed. “Seriously. I have no interest in you or God-Zanko or your creepy bloody boss. But give me the address in Frankfurt. Give it to me now. And I’ll let you live.”

  Vladimir looked momentarily confused. “The traffickers? Your business is with them?”

  “Just them.” Drake sounded convincing even to himself. “Be quick. I still have time to take your Russki head off with that hammer, Vlad.”

  “That is small time for us. We don’t need that anymore.”

  “Then give me the address.”

  Vladimir quickly reeled off an address that sounded German. Drake lingered another moment as Romero started to reverse the car.

  “If you’re lying to me. . .”

  “Why would I lie?” Vladimir shrugged, making the hammer bob up and down. “As you say—you have no interest in us.”

  Drake ran for it. Men wearing leather jackets and lethal-looking frowns were pouring out of the timber aisles. Drake dived headlong into the car as Romero forced it into a yawing one-eighty-degree turn. The second Drake’s head hit the dashboard Romero slammed the accelerator through the floorboard. Tires squealed and the smell of burned rubber stung the air. Sparks flew from the bodywork as bullets bounced off the chassis. One of the wing mirrors exploded. Drake fell back into the passenger seat.