She had originally made contact with General Stone during the Babylon affair, prepared to use her wiles, but later been told to stand down by Gates. Almost past the point of no return, Stone had guessed something was off and had made stronger enquiries. That was until Kovalenko struck at the capital. Tomorrow, if Kovalenko vanished . . . who knew?
Now Lauren looked around. The team was about to split up. Yorgi the Russian, Sarah Moxley the Washington Post reporter and herself would be dropped off at the hospital where Hayden was being treated. The place was heavily guarded, totally secure, and if Kinimaka had allowed Hayden to be taken there then Lauren had no problem joining the wounded team leader. Plus, Kovalenko was on the run and so were his various cells. Maybe he had a plan for another day and maybe he didn’t.
Anyway, she thought. Life’s at its best when it’s unpredictable.
The team gathered together. To a person they looked disheveled, shell-shocked, even downtrodden, but sparks of life and hope still lived in their eyes. They would learn to live with their losses and come fighting back.
Literally.
Kinimaka took a moment. “Look,” he said to Yorgi, Moxley and her. “I know you three guys have stuff that needs sorting out. Stick with us, and we’ll get into it right after we fry Kovalenko’s ass. Please, just give us a few days.”
Yorgi nodded vigorously. “I really have nowhere else to go. I’m good.”
Sarah just nodded absently. Lauren untied then retied her dark hair. “Only Gates knew how to help me.” She said. “It’s . . . very sensitive.”
Smyth looked up from his phone, thumbs suddenly still. Lauren wondered who he was texting in these significant moments. “Sensitive, huh? Can I help with some ointment?”
“Do I even know you?”
“I guess not. But there’s always tomorrow.”
Lauren looked away. “Not for some.”
Smyth looked down. Before the mood sobered any further, Kinimaka pointed to the door. “Let’s move out.”
Lauren followed Karin and Komodo, keeping her thoughts to herself. The morning light hit her like a balm, the chill wind like a cold shower. People were moving around outside. Civilization, it seemed, had returned to the world after taking the night off.
News reports blared from open windows. Entire families sat around listening. Lauren could see them as Komodo drove them down the block. Newsstands were open, papers racked up out front with glaring headlines designed to sell thousands of copies. The brave few who wandered the streets did so with sad, subdued faces.
The nation was in mourning.
Komodo drove ten city blocks and pulled up to the hospital entrance. They were challenged almost instantly and made to show their IDs. Kinimaka called about Hayden’s progress and received the same unhelpful answer.
She’s in surgery right now. No change.
Lauren exited the car without saying goodbye, not sure what to say, and stood and watched as Komodo drove Karin, Kinimaka and Smyth away.
Yorgi, at her side, voiced her exact feelings. “I wonder if we’ll ever see them all together again.”
CHAPTER FORTY
President Coburn and the Secret Service had made the decision not to relocate immediately to the White House or any secure bunker, but to safely address a select few decision makers whilst Kovalenko was still thought to be actively on the run.
So, although Kinimaka was now the acting head of SPEAR, and Drake was and always would be a gnarly Yorkshireman, it was still the ex-SAS soldier who was invited into the hastily assembled inner circle. Even Drake was surprised, but mitigating factors included the rationales of speed and Kinimaka’s absence and the fact that Drake had been part of the team which helped saved Coburn’s life—even fighting alongside him.
A government building on 23rd Street was taken over, swept, secured and prepped in under an hour. All lingering students were quickly relocated. Policy dictated that the President should not stay in the area, but all the military men and minds present applauded the decision whilst the dyed-in-the-wool politicians dithered and moaned.
As Coburn had said, “We now have need of a military leader, not a political figure. Only the future can truly judge my next actions, but I believe they should be powerful, swift and severe.”
Drake waited amid a knot of executives, the majority present purely because they were there, on site and in charge at a moment of crisis. When the Secret Service ushered them into a windowless holding room one by one, Drake fell into line. He took a seat and watched while the meeting was hastily called to order.
“My friends, I don’t have long,” Coburn began, walking to the front of the room. “We have the White House, the VP, and other leaders on teleconference call, and we have you. The terrorist Dmitry Kovalenko and his men are on the run, and I have to make a public address within the hour. I need options, gentlemen. What have you got?”
Drake kept an eye on his phone. Kinimaka would text when he arrived, indicating that Drake could present his proposal with the full backup and commitment of his team.
Reports came in thick and fast. The NSA were monitoring all signals and reporting that overall chatter was quiet. The CIA stated that all of its foreign assets were on full alert, but had so far learned nothing. At domestic level, the FBI had alerted every one of its agents and was out in force. Other agencies and forces gave more details, but actual suggestions remained thin on the ground.
The Chiefs of Staff soon stepped in through the teleconference call, all speaking at once. The FAA and NORAD took the opportunity and attested to the safety of the skies. The first person who actually stood up to be counted was the DC Chief of Police, who stated that although every available officer was being utilized in the search for Kovalenko and in scrutinizing the Metro stations and other egress points from the tunnels, it should be assumed that their quarry had already escaped by means of a carefully pre-planned route. Hundreds of thousands of square feet of abandoned tunnels ran beneath the city at varying points and, although some were monitored, it also had to be said that some were not.
“If his escape plan is as formidable as his plan of attack,” the Chief said. “Then he may have already left DC and its environs.”
Coburn didn’t bat an eye. He’d no doubt already been informed that might be the case. “One thing is clear cut,” the President said. “He will not be allowed to escape this country.”
The Director of the FBI spoke up. “Before any of you smart people think of tracking the rogue agent, Marnich, through the Special Agent Grid, let me tell you right now that it’s a dead end. The Grid has been compromised.”
Drake knew the Secret Service and several other agencies wore trackers which allowed a central command point to know their exact location at all times—most called it ‘the Grid’. He listened as the CIA Director explained that every single one of Kovalenko’s old contacts were being monitored and none had received any form of contact.
“He has money,” a man seated in front of Drake said. “This damned operation of his has been financed from somewhere. Can’t we follow that?”
The FBI Director took that one. “Without laboring the point, sir, we never did find all of Kovalenko’s accounts. And perhaps he has a new backer. We’ll start to follow the trail but it’s going to take some time.”
Drake thought he might as well start the ball rolling. “Have we retaken the prison yet?”
“Recently,” the Chief of Staff of the Army said. “The prison is now ours.”
Coburn looked directly at Drake. “Are you thinking he may have left something behind? Some kind of information?”
Drake pursed his lips. He really wanted to wait for Kinimaka, but his natural enthusiasm had risen and jumped the gun. There was no delaying the President.
“Kovalenko’s goal is the fulfillment of his ‘Blood Vendetta’,” he said. “For any of you who don’t know what that is—it’s the murder of anyone connected in any way to his original downfall. The President. The Secretary of Defense. The SPE
AR team. I say we give him the chance to realize his dream.” He paused expectantly.
Kinimaka texted at last. Drake relaxed.
Coburn sat forward. “Tell me more.”
****
Drake left the meeting early, called Kinimaka’s cell, and let himself be guided to their position. When he saw the Hawaiian he felt a sudden urge to hug the big man.
“Thank God you made it through, Mano.”
“We were lucky.”
“And Hayden?”
“Still in surgery. There’s no word yet.”
Drake steeled his heart. He couldn’t show too much emotion right now. The stakes were still space station high. His gaze moved to Karin, and when her bottom lip started to tremble that decision went out the window.
“I’m so sorry about Ben,” he said. “And . . . and your . . . I’m so sorry.”
“I know.” Karin came forward and buried her head in his chest. “I know.”
Drake allowed a few moments of mourning. It was hard to believe but as he looked over his gathered colleagues, his team mates, and more than that – his new family – he saw pure iron resolve. There stood Alicia, battered and devastated; Kinimaka, mourning his mother’s loss; Smyth, trying not to show how deeply he had loved Romero; Karin, who had lost her entire family; Komodo, who would also have to deal with her losses for the rest of his life; and Dahl. The Swede’s family had remained mercifully untouched but Drake knew every single death would have driven spikes through the man’s heart and soul.
But the steel in their eyes was as resolute as the hardiest warship, as resilient as the strongest sword, and ready to be put to work. Drake nodded at Kinimaka.
“They’re still debating half a dozen other plans. But essentially they went for ours.”
Karin pulled away. Komodo put his beefy arms around her. She wiped her eyes. “So we’re going to Death Valley? Now?”
Drake nodded.
“We getting any cover?” Smyth growled. “Not that I give a shit anyway.”
“Area 51’s close by,” Drake said without inflection. “Whatever else that place may be, it’s still a big military base. They’re flying a fully equipped fuckin’ army into there.”
“So we’re really doing this?” Kinimaka took a huge breath.
Drake nodded grimly. “The Blood King started a war. He’s about to get one. It’s game on, motherfucker.”
CHAPTER FORTY ONE
The Blood King knelt inside the rear container of a large transport vehicle, thinking the roll and sway of the truck wasn’t unlike the heave and swell of the ocean waves he had been used to for the best part of his life. They were rattling down a dark US highway somewhere in between Crapsville and Shittown, and the hard nucleus of his team lounged all around him. The inside of the container was fully insulated, wired, furnished, and contained everything Kovalenko’s super-hacker required to achieve the tasks he had been set earlier that night. A mobile ops center was always much harder to track down than one that was fully grounded.
Kovalenko allowed the events of the night to pass through his mind, filtering the best parts for review. The President’s face when the Blood King had stepped out to greet him. The disgust he had shown at Marnich’s betrayal. As if it should come as a surprise. Betrayal was one of the better parts of human nature, and something men like him thrived on.
And all the rest. Particularly those moments when news of the vendetta’s ongoing triumphs reached his ears. A member of his somewhat decimated German unit had sent him an admittedly scary picture of Alicia Myles’s death-defying charge over in Germany. Someone who lived in York had facebooked about Ben Blake’s dead girlfriend lying in the streets. Mordant had recounted details of the skirmish he’d had with several SPEAR members. Hayden Jaye lay in a hospital bed, almost dead but sadly out of his reach.
But this day, as they said, would live in infamy. The night of the Blood King, he thought, Has a nice ring to it. A wave of disappointment crashed through his mind, making the tips of his fingers itch and the edges of his teeth ache. Had it all been for nothing? Still the Blood Vendetta remained unfulfilled. What were the chances of him mounting this kind of detailed operation again? The Blood King peered around inside the truck, needing something to kill. At times like this only pure fresh red blood sated his outrageous desires.
“Sir.” Mordant knew that expression. “Would you like us to stop at the next town?”
Kovalenko allowed a twisted grin to raise the edges of his thin lips. “Dah, my lieutenant. That is very good idea. Bring me anything, I do not care, so long as it is fresh meat.”
Mordant radioed the driver, delivering the instructions. Kovalenko managed to relax a little, anticipating the pleasure soon to come. He watched as Mordant settled back, eyes reduced to thin slits. The man almost appeared to be asleep but Kovalenko knew that to be far from the case. Mordant saw and heard everything, and the laid-back sleeping pose was one of the ways he accomplished that. Gabriel, beside him, was quite the opposite, always grinning like a circus freak, always upbeat and nodding along to his own internal annoying beat. Right now he put a hand on his ‘twin’s’ arm, grinning at something Kovalenko didn’t want to know about.
“So,” a voice interrupted his musing. “What happens next?”
The Blood King regarded Agent Marnich carefully. The traitor sat with both legs drawn up, worry etched across his face. Such body language spoke of insecurity and was a sign of weakness to the Russian.
“Stay sharp, stay useful, American,” he said. “And you will live to see your payment.”
Marnich nodded, lapsing into silence, but his question did have some merit.
What next?
Kovalenko entertained the notion of just waiting. It would be fun to maybe set up some sort of shadowy surveillance and watch as his targets grew more anxious as the weeks and months passed, always looking over their shoulders. Occasionally, he could remind them of his presence, lift the shroud a little, to heighten their terror. Such amusement might even see him through happily to the end of his years.
But one thing rankled above all others. Drake.
He held a deep hatred for the ex-soldier. From his ridiculous accent to his pathetic humor. From his privileged training to his infuriating confidence. Drake was the only man who had ever really gotten under Kovalenko’s thick skin.
“Vodka,” he suddenly said, waving at Marnich.
The American passed him a bottle of Southern Cross, one of his own superior brands. Kovalenko twisted off the top and upended the bottle, letting the cold liquor pour straight down his throat. He listened hard as the truck’s engine tone changed, feeling the vehicle start to slow.
Mordant reached out for the bottle. “He’s leaving the highway for the town. It will be soon now.”
“Good.”
A squawk drew his attention to the front of the long container. It was there that the super-hacker sat on a chair bolted to the floor, facing a daunting arrangement of consoles, mini-TV monitors, keyboards and portable tablets. The man went by his nickname, Salami Bob—SaBo for short—and it was said he had once hacked the Pentagon, the NSA and NORAD in the same day. One of his past accomplishments had been to take down the security system of Fort Knox, but the ground team had made a mess of the infiltration, getting themselves caught. SaBo had been on the run ever since, until the Blood King’s men had found him and offered a secure sanctuary with all the money and perks he could ever need. And even that was not enough. Salami Bob’s skills were now required over in the UK for a forthcoming project, and once the Blood King’s men were aware of the project leader’s identity they had agreed to let him go by tonight.
Coyote. The name struck fear into the hearts of anyone who knew her history, or even a part of it. Even men like Mordant and Gabriel. The Blood King himself had contacted her recently, through a third party, offering a lucrative contract in the event of his death or disability. The future was not rosy for Drake and his team.
Kovalenko’s humor turned
at the thought of that smug little crew. They were good, to be sure, but to be the best you had to be a loner. Like the Blood King had always been. They were a family, and that was their ultimate weakness. Something both Kovalenko and the Coyote would turn against them. They already had. The Blood King enjoyed a moment of self-satisfied superiority.
The list of their current losses was a gratifying one. It would only get longer.
His faraway eyes finally focused on the piece of now useless material that lay in a shapeless, discarded lump to one side of the van. The nano-vest, the outstanding piece of work Mr. Tyler Webb had supplied him with, now seemed pointless, futile. Nano technology was the ‘new thing’, apparently, the manipulation of matter on an atomic and molecular scale, and Webb’s multi-billion dollar company was at the leading edge of the new technology. A good thing in some hands, but not so much in Webb’s. His research also extended to weapons and the fusion of nano-explosives and this clever vest was an experiment which should have been carried out on the President of the United States in the tunnels under DC. The final and most crushing blow. Unfortunately, Drake and his annoyingly enthusiastic play-friends had short-circuited that particular event. Webb wouldn’t be best pleased. To him it was a major trial. But there were others planned, he knew. Kovalenko would have to deal with him, or maybe join the New Order to save some face. He snorted. Another bunch of megalomaniacs getting together in the wake of the Shadow Elite’s demise. But then they do have some major clout, Kovalenko reflected, and at least one highly placed official on their side. Perhaps they will succeed.
But Pandora’s Box? Really? Wasn’t that just a myth, an ancient mystery made up to scare the kids?
Matt Drake 07 - Blood Vengeance Page 17