Brothers In Arms (Matt Drake 5)

by Leadbeater, David

  “Nice work.”

  “You too.”

  The car shot out of the timber yard, slewing dangerously as it joined the main road. “Close one.” Romero ventured.

  Drake shrugged. “Could’ve been worse. We could’ve both been smothered by that monster’s armpits.”

  Romero made a gagging noise.

  Drake reached for a cellphone. “You know something? The CIA surely knew that timber yard was a major HQ. And they said nothing.”

  “Welcome to the CIA. If they feel overlooked or ordered around, they ain’t gonna help you, dude. Crisis or not.”

  “Hayden was CIA.”

  “Nah. Not fully. Hayden Jaye was the CIA liaison to the Secretary of Defense. Different beast.”

  “We’ll need to deal with that later.” Drake tapped out a number. “But for now—I wonder how Alicia’s doing with that gang of bikers.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Shaun Kingston had heard and seen enough. “Your ‘sleepers’ failed.” He spoke softly, without the slightest hint of a threat, but still his words were menacing. “Your island has been attacked. It could be compromised. Even now, they don’t know if the enemy have vacated, are dead or are in hiding. This whole operation could be falling apart, General.”

  Kwang Yong shrugged. “Or your propaganda is just that, Mr. Kingston. I have heard nothing so dreadful. The victory will still be ours. The Republic does not fail.”

  “It’ll fail if you don’t get my weapons,” Kingston shot back before he could stop himself. Goddamn. Where was his usual reserve? Blown to hell, he thought. Along with all his dreams of unlimited wealth. But maybe not yet. And he couldn’t exactly suggest to the general that his own men were probably keeping schtum because of the time honored ‘shoot the messenger’ syndrome.

  “You would do well not to threaten me, Mr. Kingston. We Koreans do not respond well to threat.”

  Kingston nodded, accepting the rebuke. “Window’s short,” he said. “But we still have a play here.” For once, he was glad he’d included his bodyguards in this conversation and in particular his primary muscle—a man called Germaine. Tall, thin, built like a knife and just as sharp and deadly, he was a born killer. Easy to underestimate and almost impossible to hurt, he prided himself on always being that one lethal step ahead of his enemy.

  Now Germaine stood at his side, two other bodyguards by the high set of windows at his back. They faced the seated Kwang Yong and his own assembly of personal guardians. To Kingston it felt like a stand-off.

  “A play?” The Korean chewed on the phrase as if it had been delivered hard-boiled. “What do you mean?”

  “A balls-out finale. Anything goes. We have a good team in place—all ex-military who are willing to kill. We have to accept that since our spotters saw the hooker and that damn truck driver being taken into this new HQ, the team within are well on their way to figuring this whole thing out. Don’t you think?”

  “We do have more sleepers.” Kwang Wong grinned. “It is just the matter of a phone call.”

  “I know you enjoy destroying these people’s lives with a mere sentence, General, but please…” Kingston faltered. “Things have moved on.”

  “We could bring an army of sleepers. An army of brothers.”

  Kingston considered that for a moment. He hadn’t realized there were so many. An army might be useful one day. “Not now,” he said. “But be ready.”

  “Sir.” Germaine spoke at his side. The whip-thin man wasn’t one to request attention unless action needed to be taken, so Kingston instantly acknowledged him. “Yes?”

  “Two of them just left the HQ. The woman, Jaye, and her CIA partner. The Hawaiian.”

  It was the first enemy movement since the truck driver had arrived hours ago.

  “Shit.”

  “Actually that’s perfect, sir. Divide and conquer.”

  Kingston had never been able to think like a killer. He envied Germaine sometimes. “Alright. Time to put our affairs in order. General, this is my game now.” He turned to Germaine once more. “Give the go ahead. Take every last one of the bastards out and destroy everything.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Hayden felt a sense of excitement as she and Kinimaka left Washington alone. It wasn’t just the investigation or the new sense of purpose, or even the recent breakthrough—it was being with Kinimaka.

  Alone.

  Odd, in a way. They’d worked together for years, mostly alone. But now it felt different. Now it was different.

  “Wonder if there’s a Hard Rock in Atlantic City.”

  Hayden had forgotten about his fetish for collecting shot glasses. “You mean you don’t know?”

  “Actually I do. It’s on the boardwalk.”

  “Not on our route, Mano.”

  Hayden felt a twinge as she shifted in her seat. The knife wounds were still far from fully healed. Her discomfort made Kinimaka press a hand to his own ribs.

  “Still sore?”

  “My mother sent me a traditional remedy. Lau Lapauu, she said. Some kind of healing herb, compounded with traditional remedies.”

  Hayden laughed, knowing what was coming. “Still sore, then.”

  “For sure.”

  “At least she cares.” Hayden thought back to her childhood days when her father had always been absent. The job always came first for him. Maybe that was why he’d been so good.

  The skies darkened into early evening. They continued the small talk for a few more miles and then Kinimaka finally manned up.

  “You and Ben are finished then?”

  “Yeah, he’s. . .young.”

  “He says his band want him back.”

  It was the first Hayden had heard. “The Wall of Sleep? I thought they had a new lead singer.”

  Kinimaka shrugged as he merged onto I-395 North. “Point is. . .you’re single.”

  “Well, for now.” Hayden hid a grin by staring out the window. “I’ve had to field a few calls. You know how it is.”

  “Sure I do. Those hula girls never leave me alone.”

  Hayden snatched a quick glimpse out of the corner of her eyes, but couldn’t tell if the big man was teasing her. Before either of them could say another word, her cell rang and Ben Blake came between them.

  “Hi. We’ve checked out the hotel. I managed to hack into its database. The most expensive rooms were registered to ‘VIP guests’ on Thursday, January, 10th. No names. Our victims were all registered there. The VIPs took an entire wing, most likely for bodyguards and stuff.”

  “Thanks, Ben.” Hayden sounded unhappy. “Listen. You don’t need to hack anything anymore. We’re official now.”

  Ben clicked his tongue. “Then why the hell do you need me?”

  The line went dead. Hayden turned to Kinimaka. “Sorry.”

  “You don’t need to apologize for him. It’s not—”

  The tones of her cell blasted out again, a standard ringtone to help formalize their new agency. “Yes?”

  “Karin here. What Ben forgot to tell you was that Drake just rang. He hit the Russians, got nothing from them but bruises and an address in Frankfurt. He’s en route there now.” Karin paused, breathing heavily.

  “What is it?” Hayden sensed more and braced herself.

  “Something he said sounded whacko. He told me to start researching the ancient city of Babylon and the Tower of Babel. He wondered if there might be some kind of link to the tombs of the gods.”

  “He asked you to do that now?”

  “Well. Not exactly. He said if I get chance.”

  Hayden opened her mouth, but Kinimaka’s low growl silenced her. “We’re being followed.”

  Hayden didn’t move. “How many?”

  “At least two. Hard to say.”

  “Karin. Track our position and call out the local PD. Looks like we got some company.”

  “Consider it done. I’ll stay on the line.”

  Hayden opened the glove box, took out two fully loaded Glocks and fil
led her pockets with extra ammo. Quickly, she tied back her hair. She’d purposely let it hang loose for Mano’s benefit.

  “Cops are on their way.”

  Kinimaka’s eyes were fixed firmly to the rearview. “This ain’t gonna wait, boss.”

  Hayden felt the jolt as a vehicle rammed them from behind. Kinimaka wrenched at the wheel to keep them straight, but even then, their car slewed across two lanes.

  “There.” Hayden pointed out the upcoming off-ramp and, below it, a row of flashing lights. “Go!”

  Kinimaka twisted the wheel again, this time toward the interstate’s exit. The chase vehicles followed suit. By the time they realized Kinimaka’s intentions, he was already among the approaching cop cars.

  Chaos ensued. Kinimaka jerked the wheel and came around. A black SUV clipped their wing, coming to an abrupt halt. Another SUV squealed to a halt behind it. And there, beneath the stark light offered by the high off-ramp lights and swinging traffic lights, men and cops piled out of their vehicles, armed to the teeth.

  Cops ducked down behind their doors and tires. Men dressed all in black and wearing full face masks leapt over obstructions, advancing with terrible force, loosing bullets in a non-stop, deadly wave. Hayden rolled out of her door as their windshield cracked and disintegrated. She hit the ground a second before Kinimaka, the big Hawaiian almost breaking his back as he twisted in an effort not to land on top of her.

  With no time for thought, Hayden scrambled behind the big rear tire. The cop cars to their left were getting shredded, ragged holes being torn through hard metal and glass, safe havens being demolished. The cops hadn’t even dared raise their heads yet. The fury of the onslaught was stunning, razing all hope from the entire area.

  “How many?” Hayden shouted above the blitz.

  “Ten. At least. All armed.” Kinimaka bellowed back.

  Hayden heard Karin’s voice over the car’s Bluetooth cell system, calling in air support. Good move.

  Hayden squeezed herself into as tiny a target as she could as bullets even began to fizz off the road beneath the car, skimming like rocks thrown at still waters. “We have to do something. We’re gettin’ killed here!”

  Kinimaka grunted. Without ceremony, he laid his gun down and tackled a nearby road sign, hitting it hard and upending its thick, metal pole and rough concrete base. Hayden gawped. Kinimaka hefted the sturdy sign and literally threw it over the roof of the car straight among the ranks of the approaching enemy.

  “What the fuck, Mano?”

  The Hawaiian shrugged. “You called it, not me.”

  The gunfire wound down for a moment, replaced by the gruff cries of shocked and wounded men. Hayden risked a peek through the nearest shattered window. Scenes of disarray met her eyes. The signpost had flown true, actually hitting the enemy soldiers and knocking some of them to the ground. The shock of the moment had destroyed the focus of the others. Maybe their leader had been hit.

  “Go.”

  She motioned furiously and brought her gun up. At the same time, a dozen cops imitated her. The sound of police issues and Glocks barked at the night, not as imposing as the machine-gun fire, but just as deadly. The enemy line crumbled, men falling to their knees, pin wheeling or scrambling for cover.

  Hayden slipped around the rear of the car, Kinimaka in her wake. The full face masks and body suits of the enemy gave no indication as to their identities. Hopefully, if they left someone behind, that might. But as Hayden pressed forward, squeezing her Glock and maintaining a deadly accuracy, the retreating force scooped up their injured and dead and laid down a hail of covering fire.

  Hayden hit the dirt again. No matter how much she wanted to know who she was dealing with, she couldn’t disrespect the kind of firepower these guys had brought to the fray. Someone sure as hell wanted both Kinimaka and her dead. Some of the cops tried to match hardware with the enemy. Bullets clanked and sparked and fizzed off cars, Kevlar and signposts.

  The Hawaiian hunkered down beside her. “There they go. What now?”

  “We check out that friggin’ hotel, and quick.” Hayden told him. “And warn the guys back at HQ. If these soldiers came after us, they might just try to hit our base next.”

  Kinimaka grunted. “Bad luck for them if they do. The caliber of people back there—”

  Then the radio squawked. It was Karin’s voice. “Hey, Dahl. Komodo? You seein’ this? I can’t believe the base is under attack.”

  Hayden dove back into the car, amazed that the Bluetooth system still worked and offering up a prayer. “Don’t fuck about!” she cried. “These bastards are fully loaded, believe me. Just kill ’em all!”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Matt Drake hadn’t seen Alicia for some time, but the moment when they reunited in Germany contained no more emotion than two workmates meeting at a coffee shop, a bit of backslapping, a few innuendos about Mai, and many leading questions. Drake did his best to field them all. Alicia did spare a handshake for Romero and the look in her eyes spoke volumes for how much she appreciated him helping keep Drake and Mai alive.

  “Trouble with this team,” she told him privately, “is it gets under your skin. You don’t wanna let go. Keeps me awake at bloody night.”

  “One day,” Romero told her, “I hope to meet the rest of your team.”

  “Can’t see why.” Alicia turned away. “They’re a bunch of boring bastards.”

  Drake surveyed the area. Alicia had organized the meeting. It was an empty airfield situated about two miles out of Frankfurt. Most of the place was overgrown, brown grass and barren trees were whipped by a stiff wind out of the east. A broken down hangar stood like an imposing old man, barren and desolate against the bloody dawn. A weed-strewn, pitted runway was the only road out.

  “Forget something?” Drake turned to Alicia.

  But the Englishwoman was already texting. Drake shook his head. “Next thing you’ll be a Facebook celebrity.”

  “Always been a social media flirt.” She smiled a little. “Now I’m just a social whore.”

  Romero turned to Drake. “Did she mean to miss out the word media at the end there?”

  “Believe me, mate, nothing Alicia does or says is by accident.”

  Then the roar of many engines starting up made a mockery of the quiet morning. Drake watched as a stream of big bikes poured out of the hangar’s open doors. Like a gleaming metal torrent, it twisted and snaked around until it came alongside them. Then, as one, every engine shut off, leaving nothing but a tremendous, overwhelming silence.

  Alicia stepped up to the lead biker, leaned over and placed an arm around his big shoulders. “Meet Lomas. My newest friend.”

  Drake nodded. “We’ve met before.”

  “The big guy there’s called Tiny. That’s JPS. Fat Bob. Knuckler.” Alicia pointed the first few ranks of bikers out with a grin. “The lady there’s called Whipper. Oh, and this is Dirty Sarah.”

  Drake didn’t know where to start. He knew enough about bikers to know how they got their nicknames. Generally it referred to a person’s attitude or character, sometimes to their physical appearance. So a big guy became Tiny. A fastidiously clean woman became Dirty Sarah.

  But Whipper?

  “Thanks for helping out,” he managed, feeling a little bit spotlighted before the two dozen bikes and riders.

  Lomas, their leader, removed his sunglasses, fixing Drake with bright, blue eyes. Drake saw a hardness there that had nothing to do with life on the road. “Gig pays well,” he said in a British accent. “Or so I’m promised.”

  Alicia whispered something in his ear. The biker tried hard not to smile. Romero leaned in. “I’d love to know what she’s saying. Even the guy’s beard’s twitching.”

  Drake made a warning face. “Cos I like you, I’ll say this just once. My advice—stay clear of Alicia Myles. I’d tell the bikers the same thing but we need their help.”

  Drake turned to the assembled men and women. “We’re talking about taking down a criminal he
adquarters. A human trafficking ring. If it’s anything like the last one Romero and I just saw in Russia, it could get messy.” Nobody moved a muscle as he looked them over. “Just so you know what you’re letting yourselves in for.”

  Alicia came over, unzipping her jacket and pulling out a sheaf of papers. “Lomas and Tiny printed off some Google maps.” She winked. “We’ve already planned the attack. Question is, Drake, you ready to saddle up with the Slayers?”

  Drake trusted her skill and training without question. “So long as I don’t have to join the bloody gang. The name’s not the most original I ever heard.”

  Alicia shrugged. “Your choice. It’s actually short for Bitchin’ Motherfuckin’ Hellslayers. But they couldn’t fit the whole thing on their business cards.” She slowly climbed astride Lomas’s Ducatti Monster. “Life’s a twat, sometimes.”

  *****

  Drake and Romero followed the biker pack as they came through the hills and down into the streets of Frankfurt. Drake, in the passenger seat, checked out the weapons Lomas and his gang had brought for them, grunting a sigh of approval as they neared their target area. Quickly, he tried calling the Washington HQ, but the call failed. Perhaps the lines were down at their end.

  The address proved to be one of the many buildings and warehouses that littered the train yard and container yards around Frankfurt’s railway station. He wondered briefly if these people somehow manipulated space on various trains, but then the procession of Moto Guzzi’s and Ducatti’s and Harley’s pulled up, its riders reluctantly climbing off their mounts, most already looking eager to get back on. For a biker, life was about the journey and the ride, everything in between was mere chaff and static.