“Hurry!” The leader of the assault party sounded agitated now. “We must leave!”
Drake backed up until he felt Mai behind him. “Ay up.”
“One day,” Mai flipped an assailant, guiding his flight so that he landed hard and struck a colleague on the way down. “You’re going to have to explain that crazy Yorkshire dialect to me.”
They broke for the escape route, leaving their attackers momentarily bewildered. The gap between the rear Escalade and the sidewalk was big enough for them to squeeze through without slowing down. Suddenly free, Drake chanced a look back.
“Why the hell are they using tasers? They could have had us . . . oh shit!”
Their attackers hadn’t given chase because they had been joined by two men carrying oversize, outlandish guns. The lead Russian screamed at them. Drake saw them kneel, take aim, and fire . . . then the pain kicked in and the road rose up to strike his face. The last thing he heard was a murderous whisper close to his ear, something about ‘prison food’.
CHAPTER THREE
It was Wednesday 30 January when Matt Drake woke. He was aware of lying on his back on a rock hard surface; of the pitted concrete ceiling above him; of the piercing chill in the air; of the stone walls that surrounded him; and of the headache that pounded his brain. He was aware of a distant commotion. His last memory was of running from the Russians, Mai at his side.
Mai!
He sat up too quickly. Lightning bolts of pain struck like blazing chaff inside his head. A sense of nausea made him sit stock still for long minutes, struggling to repress the urge to throw up. As he sat there, he studied the metal toilet bowl and adjacent sink that had been bolted to the far wall. When he managed to swivel his head more than an inch he saw the heavy bars that lined the front wall.
Jail cell. He was in some kind of prison. And now the distant commotion swam into better focus. It was the sound of many men together. A prison population.
Fear gnawed at his heart. Men had been known to disappear forever in the world’s worst prisons. Back in his SAS days, he had put several there himself. More recently, Dmitry Kovalenko had vanished into an American one.
How long had he been here? Where was he? Questions lined up like captives led in front of a firing squad. Tentatively, he jumped down off his bare bunk, little more than a long concrete block, and padded toward the bars. Gradual illumination stung his eyes, reviving the headache. He still wore the same clothes he had been abducted with, but his pockets had been emptied. No cell phone. No receipts. No wallet. When he approached the bars he slowed, inching his way onward until he could touch them.
Directly outside his cell ran a walkway, bordered by a thick iron railing. A great space lay beyond that, so deep that he saw nothing but air. Across stood a row of cells, no doubt a mirror to his own row. Over there, though, all the doors stood open.
The noise of an angry crowd echoed up from below.
Drake looked around. There was nothing he could drag over here, nothing he could use as a platform. The bunk was one big concrete slab, the toilet and sink were firmly bolted to the wall. He knew there were men who could actually extract those bolts and use them to dig an escape tunnel, but they were paid $10 million a movie in Hollywood.
He turned back to the bars and gave them a shake. Nothing rattled. Then a figure crossed his field of vision and blocked out all the light.
Drake backed away.
Zanko!
The cell door rattled. The giant squeezed inside, closely followed by another man. Drake recognized him as the starey-eyed individual he had briefly seen sitting in the back office when Romero and he had assaulted the timber yard.
“Little man!” Zanko greeted him with open arms. “I have brought the armpits! As promised, yes? And,” Zanko sniffed the air. “They have not been washed.” The Russian, as before, was bare-chested, the thick black hairs hanging limp.
“Where am I?”
“What? The famous Matt Drake doesn’t know? James Bond would know.” Zanko turned to his compatriot. “Wouldn’t James Bond know, Nikolai?”
The eyes remained wide and staring but the mouth spoke at last. “Welcome to our . . . concrete jungle, my English friend.” His voice was soft, menacing. “We reserved the five star suite just for you. In gratitude – for killing my men.”
“They attacked me,” Drake said evenly, watching the giant’s every move. “And Mai. Where is she?”
The other man showed no signs of recognition. He stepped forward, holding out a veiny hand. “I am Nikolai Razin.”
Drake studied him up close. The man was past his best years, probably in his early sixties, but still looked fit and healthy. His unnerving gaze was both severe and searching, the eyes as emotionless as a corpse’s. The knuckles of the hand he held out were twisted and badly callused, as if he’d spent a lifetime hitting things. But the suit he wore and the watch that dangled from his wrist both spoke of wealth.
Drake ignored the gesture. “So what happens next?”
Razin stepped past him and went to sit on the bunk. Zanko stayed by the door, still grinning.
“I run this jail,” Razin said. “I own it and the guards who work here. I own the government official who oversees it. I own the official who oversees him. You see?”
“So I guess I’m in Russia.”
Zanko again spread his arms wide. “Welcome home.”
“Now I own you.” Razin studied him. “What do you think about that?”
Drake shrugged. “It’s been said before. Yet,” he smiled a little, “here I am.”
“Ah, yes, of course. Well, if you answer some questions, I’ll make your stay less unpleasant before your inevitable death.”
“I thought I was here because I killed your men,” Drake said. “After hitting your timber yard.”
“Not exactly.”
Drake thought back to that day. “Babylon then. You think I saw your operation, is that it?”
Razin pursed his lips. “Babylon is only part of the puzzle.”
“The Tower of Babel?”
Razin watched him closely. “How about the Tomb of the Gods?”
Drake didn’t feign the surprise that swept across his face. “What?”
“The third tomb, to be exact. I want you to tell me all about the third tomb, Mr Drake, and about the device inside it.”
Drake thought for a moment. He could buy time if he explained a few meaningless details. “The device was Odin’s path to Armageddon. He could resurrect Ragnarok any time the thing was set off, survive it, and return. The thing with Odin’s shield is what set it all in motion. This time.”
“But how does the device work? What energy does it feed off?”
Drake frowned. “No idea.”
“Was it ever turned on?”
“Are you crazy? Why would anyone ever switch the bloody thing on?”
“To harness its power. To switch if off again. To see if it works. To have their finger on the trigger. The Americans weren’t interested in this?”
Drake flicked his mind back over Jonathan Gates’ actions. He didn’t think the Secretary of Defense wanted any further investigation of the device, but Gates wasn’t the only big dog out there. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “But why would someone turn it on if they weren’t sure how to turn it off?”
“Men with too much power sometimes believe they themselves are gods.”
Drake started to feel disconcerted. He sat in Razin’s jail, a prisoner, with the monster Zanko beside him, and was starting to think that the Russian actually made sense.
“The Shadow Elite,” Drake said. “They would switch it on in their arrogance.”
Razin motioned rapidly. “As would the Chinese. The French. The English. Perhaps even the Russians. Do not think our governments are any better.”
“Still,” Drake said. “It’s all conjecture.”
“Conjecture, yes. You said it, Mr Drake. Did you see the device or the place where it stands?”
“No.
But I was in the tomb.”
“Did you feel . . . an energy . . . to the place?”
At first, Drake pulled a face, sure Razin had blown a fuse, but then he remembered. “Actually, yes,” he said, surprised. “The whole place felt charged. We thought it was because it was filled with evil gods. We felt chills. Unaccountable fear. We put it down to some kind of evil resonance.” He shrugged. “Too many vampire movies, I guess.”
“Earth energy,” Razin said, almost to himself. “So our professor knows what he talks about, dah.”
“What?”
“It seems there may be another way to turn the device on.”
Drake’s body went cold as if he’d been drenched in ice water. “Are you joking?”
Razin met his eyes. “The gods had a failsafe. They must have. Because if everything ever written about the seven swords tells us that they can always stop the device, then there must be more than one way to turn it on.”
“Wait.” Drake shook his head. “Swords? What swords?”
Razin blinked, as if realizing he’d said too much. “Oh, I’m a rambling old man.” He sneered, clearly not believing his own statement enough to back it up. “We’ll talk more tomorrow, Mr Drake. That is . . . if you are still alive.”
He nodded at Zanko.
“Let him join the population. Then leave him. We’ll watch on the monitors.”
“There’s lots more to tell about the tomb,” Drake tried.
“Ah, I’m sure. But the prisoners are waiting for you. They’re looking forward to welcoming you to the Motherland. I am sure a few broken bones will not faze a man like you, dah? Now, Zanko.”
The monster Russian grabbed Drake’s arm and thrust him through the cell door. “Don’t die too soon, little man. I want my time with you.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Mano Kinimaka stood back and watched as the world went crazy around him. His heart went out to Hayden as she juggled Gates on the phone with Dahl firing questions on her other side, and tried to cope with Mai in her face, all at the same time. The small but deadly Japanese woman had been left in the road, face down, no injuries except those done to her deep sense of pride. The Russians had clearly been given a single mandate – to snatch Drake. They probably hadn’t even known who Mai was. They had clearly expected an easier time of it though, using tasers instead of guns to minimize the backlash. They had planned it well – even down to using a localized mini-EMP to kill Drake’s car engine, and long-range taser guns to stop a getaway.
But they hadn’t figured on the illustrious team of Drake and Mai. The Russians had lost twelve men in the attack. The rescue teams had missed them by minutes. As soon as Mai came round she identified the attackers as Russian and remembered the last comment she had heard before passing out, a threatening sentence whispered to Drake.
“Zanko sends you a message, ‘Little man, you will enjoy our prison food’.”
Kinimaka watched as Hayden, at Mai’s request, put Gates on speakerphone. The Secretary was assuring them he would clear a plane to fly through Russian airspace and land near Moscow. This despite the current cold relations over the Syrian problem, but then Gates would know the man in charge of the man in charge.
“I’ll talk to them,” Gates was saying. “And explain the situation. They remain extremely grateful to your team for taking out the Blood King. His organisation has all but vanished from the streets. And, as you know, there’s nothing like a past good deed to foster a future favor. Agent Jaye.” His voice rose commandingly over her next question. “Just get going.”
Kinimaka moved out of the corner and, conscious of his size, threaded a careful path through a disarray of tables and chairs and half-unpacked gear. His size was a constant sensitive point for him. It was why he had been in the corner to start with – there was more room and less chance of bumping into something he hadn’t seen. He was proud of his size; proud of his physique, but it could also be a nuisance.
“Big lad coming through,” he said. “Watch yer scrawny backs.”
He saw Hayden glance up as he walked past, stared at her and walked straight into Komodo. “Hey.”
“Put your tongue back in, Mano. Listen.” Komodo leaned in. “You and the boss lady seem awful close these days. You . . .?” He let it hang.
Kinimaka was fiercely loyal and would never divulge. “I don’t gossip about family, friends or girls, Trevor. You know that.”
“Hey, it’s jus’ Karin who’s asking, man. She’s English.” He whispered the last word as if that explained the gossip request. “Me, I don’t care.”
“Good.” Kinimaka strode past, finally reaching his gear. The team had raced quickly to their new HQ on Pennsylvania Avenue, oblivious to the bare rooms and barren walls, knowing only that they needed to get together, form a plan, and save Drake.
Dahl was doing the work of two. “If these are the same Russians that Drake and Romero pissed off, then we know they’re based in Moscow.” He packed his gear as he spoke rapidly to Mai and Hayden. “Can we be sure?”
“What other Russians has Matt pissed off lately?” Mai asked.
“The Blood King,” Dahl said pointedly, shaking his head.
“Bull. That was months ago. Plus, Kovalenko’s in jail. And you just heard – his organisation has vanished.”
“I heard,” Dahl assured her. “And that’s what worries me.”
“The message included the name Zanko,” Mai said softly. “That’s the name of the Russian they encountered in Moscow.”
“Right.” Dahl nodded. “Right. Then we need to find the jail. And we have a place to start looking.”
Kinimaka felt his cell vibrate. He fished the small device out of his pocket, wrists as usual stretching the material to breaking point. The screen flashed with a single name, Kono.
“Damn,” he whispered.
“Hope you ain’t thinking of texting,” Hayden’s voice whispered softly at his side. “With them big jumbo fingers you’d either break the phone or spell out one of those long Scandinavian names Dahl likes so much.”
“I’ve done that before,” Kinimaka admitted. “I was trying to text, cool. Came out as abdojaminn.”
Hayden laughed. “You gonna speak to her this time? Might be your last chance for a while, Mano.”
“Damn. How can you hate someone and love them so much at the same time?” Kinimaka slid the screen to answer. “Hi, Kono. How are you?”
“Okay, baby brother. Okay. Hey, I need—”
“You know something, Kono. That’s how you always start your calls. I need.”
“Sorry. But Mano, are you anywhere near me?”
“California? I’m in Washington D.C., so that’s a big no. Why?”
“You said to call if I needed help. Well, I always need help. I know that. I’m a fuck-up, Mano. I fucked it up for you and Mom and Dad. Sometimes – I even think someone’s following me.”
It had been his sister’s way of getting his attention when she needed it in the past, but had always been just a ruse to wangle money out of him.
Kinimaka was very conscious of the team speeding around him, urgency firing their every movement. “I have to go, Kono. I’ll call when I get back.”
She started to talk, but Kinimaka ended the call. He ignored Hayden’s look and glanced at Dahl.
The mad Swede was hefting his pack, anger and determination written across every solid inch of his features. Kinimaka almost pitied the enemy who would have to face that.
Dahl spoke. “Well, we managed almost two days off! Now let’s go and teach these bastards a lesson they’ll never forget.”
Kinimaka said, “I wonder how big this prison is.”
“Who cares?” Dahl muttered. “One thing’s for sure – it won’t be big enough to stop us.”
Hayden turned to the team. “Karin and Komodo will stay here and set up the new HQ. They’ll work the technology magic that we might need in the field. Now, let’s finish tooling up and go get our man back.”
CHAPTER FIV
E
Drake was led along the walkway and toward a set of stairs. The tumult below grew louder as he approached. Zanko padded along at his side, a gleeful gorilla, promising even worse endings to Drake than the dreaded unwashed armpit smothering. The boss, Nikolai Razin, came last, saying nothing. Drake wondered what the man had been fishing for. His only hope here in this bleak and hopeless place was to play for time until the team arrived, which he had no doubt would happen. It was just a question of when.
“So how do your seven swords figure in with the history of the Tombs of the Gods?” He paused at the top of the stair.
“Ah, do not worry about that. We will talk again later if you can still function. Eight hours is a long time to be alone in a Russian prison, my friend.”
Zanko patted his head, almost breaking his neck. “Tough man like this? He’ll be giving the orders by tonight.” His guffaw rang out stridently. “Now get moving, little man. Or maybe you need the toilet first?”
Drake felt himself pushed, and flew down three steps before managing to stay his fall. As he descended, the prison mess hall came into view and, closer by, the makeshift gym. Big men sat around on low benches, pumping iron, lifting loaded arm weights, toweling off, or psyching themselves up for the next big lift.
As Drake approached the ground floor, every hooded pair of eyes lifted to take a look at him. A thick wave of loathing arrowed across the spaces between them, drenching him in revulsion. This was so much more than intimidation. Despite all his training, Drake found it almost impossible not to show fear.
Do not look away. He repeated it to himself as a mantra. The trick was to not look directly into their eyes, which would give the impression of a challenge, but also not to let his own eyes turn downcast, which was a sign of weakness and submission. Although here, in this jail, none of that would make a difference.
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