Matt Drake 14 - The Treasures of Saint Germain

by David Leadbeater

  “Don’t men still piss on lampposts up in Yorkshire?”

  “Oh aye, lad, they do. The women too.”

  “Lovely.”

  Drake saw a rider up ahead, black clad, trying to steer his way through a crush of bodies. He stood little chance and fell to the floor, but a wave of his gun sent dozens of people running. Drake saw Webb enter a rotating door ahead and finally saw where the man was headed.

  And why.

  The Barcelona International Motor Show.

  It’s gonna be so crowded in there you couldn’t find a giant wearing an octopus hat. Webb’s next backup. Another chance to slip away. But wait . . . maybe not. Could Webb finally have made a mistake?

  The football match would divert thousands for its duration. Drake ran flat out to try to keep eyes on Webb. The flashing lights, rather than grab his attention, annoyed the hell out of him and made him look away. Droves roved outside the entrance, discussing the cars or the city or the match, or a multitude of alternate entertainments. Drake pushed through the doors and flashed a temporary ID badge at the guard.

  Don’t stop me . . . don’t stop me . . . I don’t want to cause any incidents—

  Then Dahl was behind him. “Are we in? Or do I have to plant him with the hydrangeas over there?”

  Drake winced, eyes still locked on Webb but only seconds away from losing the madman. The guard stared at Drake and then Dahl, catching sight of their cuts and bruises.

  “Come on, man,” Dahl said. “We’re in pursuit of an international terrorist who just entered your friggin’ showroom.”

  The guard took another look at their badges and then ushered them through, calling on security. Drake hurried along the same route he’d seen Webb take. “You know it’s a motor show, right? Not a car showroom.”

  The pair didn’t wait, but rushed through the acceptably slender throng, grateful now for the gargantuan event not too far away. Kenzie and Smyth caught them up and then Hayden, who reported the rest were just behind.

  “Any sign of the gunmen?” Dahl asked her.

  Hayden shook her head. “No, and that’s not a good sign. They will be seeking a different entry point, that’s all. And then . . .” She exhaled with a worried look. “It could be bad in here. I’ve already alerted the locals.”

  “There!” Drake cried.

  “What? Webb? The cultists?” Dahl stared over in anticipation.

  “No. It’s the new Ferrari F12 TDF. See the new side vents and enhanced wheel arches? The—”

  “Fucksake, Drake.” Alicia sauntered up on his left. “I know cars are the greatest love of your life, but. . .”

  Hayden paused as the crowds again became overwhelming. The vast hall was filled with splendor and gold and glitter at every turn; manufacturers showing off their latest offerings and draping them with striking colors, banks of lighting and half-dressed models. People gathered at the best vantage points, taking their photos and discussing the finer points of what was on offer. From German to Italian, English to Japanese, the whole gamut parked their wares on rotating turntables and invited special guests to cross the red-rope barriers and sip champagne whilst trying to look cool and extremely wealthy. The walkways between such brands as Lamborghini and Porsche were full to capacity, whilst the paths between less extravagant brands were much more navigable. Hayden switched the group past the Toyota offering and Drake quickly followed.

  Webb was ahead, two stands away, the man and his backpack standing out from the milling crowd as he pushed through. The first gunshots echoed terribly inside the motor show, blasts resounding around the high ceiling. Immediately, Drake saw the running gunmen coming down an aisle that crisscrossed Webb’s, their guns aimed straight at him. He jumped over a rope barrier and ran among a display of Mitsubishis, bullets marring the metal all around him. Lights shattered and exhibition stands blew apart. More shots ripped the excited ambiance to shreds.

  Drake drew his gun now, having no qualms about taking the shooters out for good. He ran fast and stooped, Glock held low. Webb’s head popped up briefly amongst the Mitsubishis, followed by a volley of lead and several smashed windscreens. A tower of paper cups flew through the air. A bottle of champagne exploded along with a pile of brochures, the whole collective shooting up and showering the area.

  Drake saw people ducking and diving, and fired at the first running gunman. He flew sideways, colliding with a temporary display and smashing it to pieces, streaks of red blood marring the exclusive designs. The team spread all around him. Dahl leapt up two revolving platforms to gain the dizzy heights of a Peugeot stand and crouched behind a silver car. Alarm bells resounded, clearing the public out. The crowds that once stared at and admired the shining vehicles now streamed for the red exit signs.

  Dahl fired his weapon from atop the stand and another cultist went down. More followed though, swiveling and firing up at the Swede. Drake saw him duck behind a wheel, and lay down some cover fire.

  Hayden was crouched low, keying her comms system. “Webb’s heading for the rear exits. Anyone there?”

  Only the local cops answered, not sounding entirely sure.

  Drake crept closer to the running men. The team all opened fire now, causing their enemy to scatter, duck and hide behind vehicles and metal stanchions. Dahl crept down the other side of the Peugeot stand, moving on all fours. Alicia popped up and fired at Drake’s side, keeping the enemy hemmed in.

  “Move closer,” Hayden said. “I count eight remaining. Speed wins the day here, guys.”

  Drake wondered if that was an intentional double entendre.

  Lauren was the only one to remain behind as the rest of the team stole ever closer to their enemies’ positions. Two cultists tried to bolt after Webb, but Smyth and Kinimaka made short work of their mad dash. Webb himself appeared to remain cautious, keeping his progress steady and watchful, not risking anything but aiming inexorably for the rear of the enormous hall.

  Drake changed the clip in his Glock. Gleaming lights shone down from floating ceilings above their heads, designed for the cars but picking out the firefight in every detail. The cultists had chosen to take cover among a shining spectacle of highly polished Jaguars, an SUV and a blue sports car now fully peppered with holes. Drake groaned as bullets flew overhead, hitting displays behind them with the flags of Italian marques.

  “This is not good,” he said.

  Alicia knew him. “You mean for the event or the bloody cars?”

  Drake gave her a ‘duh’ glare.

  “Such beautiful bodywork and machinery being destroyed,” Drake said.

  “Shall we concentrate on the terrorists?” Mai asked.

  Argento’s voice filled the comms, strikingly high-pitched and different. “It is important that you protect the Alfa Romeo brand. Do you hear? Highly important. It is our great heritage, our undying passion, our—”

  A flurry of gunfire shut him up. The cultists were well dug in now, the Jaguars listing badly, a bullet-strewn pair of vertical light-stands rising above them. A small fire had started to the right of the stage. Another man rose to take a pot shot at Webb, and Drake missed his forehead by an eighth of an inch.

  Hayden cursed. “They’re helping him escape.”

  The team evaluated, gauged distances, gaps and lines of cover. Then Torsten Dahl made a positive sound. “Just give me a minute,” he said. “And I’ll save the day.”

  Drake started to say: “Oh, yeah, very droll—” but then the Swede was moving and the team scrambled to give him shelter. Their bullets tore apart front wings and all remaining panes of glass, burst tires and shattered rear lights. Drake managed to sever the cords of a hanging light which smashed down among their enemies.

  Dahl bounded down a few steps and onto the floor, an eager guard dog, switched over to the right, and approached an adjacent podium. It took Drake only a moment to figure out what was about to happen.

  “Oh, shit. Get ready—”

  Dahl broke apart a two-meter-wide stand dedicated to the un
veiling of a new style of alloy rim. The heavy, eight-spoked rims crashed to the ground hard, but Dahl reached down and took one under each arm. As the cultists looked over to assess the threat, Drake, Mai and Alicia rose firing, racing up the steps of the Peugeot stand to get a clearer line of fire. Cultists collapsed, groaning. Three aimed at Dahl and another charged the Swede.

  Dahl spun fast then let go. An enormous, incredibly heavy rim arced through the air and hit the running man chest-on, its force crushing everything it touched. The second rim then went flying, smashing into the cultists’ main position, glancing off a head and a shoulder, causing total mayhem. Guns went flying. Heads smashed metal or each other. Dahl picked up a final rim and hurled it before anyone thought to move.

  Drake, Mai and Alicia ran down the steps, still firing hard. Blood began to seep under the chassis of the ragged looking Jaguars.

  The third rim came down like a descending meteor, denting a bright red wing and then deflecting onto a skulking, black-clad chest. The lurker let out a screech, but was afforded no mercy as a running Smyth finished him off. Dahl flexed his muscles to give them a little relief and then drew his own gun, flanking Drake.

  “I think we now have your new online ID,” Drake mouthed. “Rim Tosser.”

  “I was The Beach Runner last week.”

  “Oh aye, but I think this one suits you better.”

  The two men crept to the front of the Jaguars.

  “Better than Office Bike, I suppose.”

  “Hey, that’s Alicia’s.”

  “Fuck off, you two.”

  They sobered as the scene unfolded. The cultists were lying dead or dying, some with guns still clasped in their hands and still attempting to point them at the SPEAR team.

  “Really?” Alicia said. “Even now? You people must be off your heads.”

  “They belong to a cult,” Mai said. “Which is everything to them. They would rather die than betray its secrets.”

  Drake remembered Mai had been sold into her own hell, not exactly a cult, but something close. He felt a pang of sorrow at moving on from their relationship so quickly. Had he done the right thing?

  That’s me alright, he thought. Having to choose between two of the most dangerous women in the world. What could possibly go wrong?

  Hayden shouted over the airwaves: “I’m not so sure these men are actual cultists, guys. More like hired mercs.”

  Kenzie put a hand on Dahl’s shoulder. “You okay, Torst? I think you owe Jaguar a new car.”

  Mai and Beau passed among the downed men, disarming and restraining for the cops. Another shot rang out then and Drake looked to the rear of the hall.

  “Still some out there chasing Webb.”

  Hayden panted over the comms. “We’re in pursuit. Webb’s close to freedom.”

  “Not today.” Dahl clenched his fists and mock-glared at Drake. “Maybe this time you could even help.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Drake ran again, ignoring the aches and pains and bruises of battle. Experience helped him scan the plethora of hiding places from nearby to far ahead, and he noted only three remaining adversaries.

  And Webb, the figure vague and approaching the auto show’s back doors, where metal overhangs, wide stanchions and high ceiling walkways cast everything into indistinct shadow.

  “Bloody ’ell!”

  Drake saw Hayden and Kinimaka, and sprinted along the aisles. The pair had halted alongside half a dozen motor show models, trying to instil some kind of calm among the women. It didn’t help when one of the cultists turned to take a pot shot. Alicia fired back amid the screams, scaring her enemy into flight.

  They ran on, the bright lights glimmering and making them sweat, the shiny vehicles and vivid colors a pure assault on the senses, the remaining pockets of hidden civilians a heavy deterrent to engaging the cultists. They kept low, less threatening. Hayden climbed a podium belonging to Aston Martin to keep an eye on Webb.

  Drake then saw the answer. Some of the cars at these shows were so unique, so secret, their success reliant on hype and expectation, that they were exhibited just a few short hours before being whisked away to private showings. Especially in the early evening prior to the show’s closing, cars were rolled and then driven out the back. Drake saw one such car at the side of the hall now, having been abandoned by the manufacturer’s representatives when the gunfight broke out.

  Chiron, he thought.

  Screaming for attention it drew him to the left as the others carried on. Drake keyed the comms.

  “Two minutes.”

  Now praying the firefight would have made even the most dedicated technician abscond without a second thought, Drake approached the outlandish car and reached down for the door handle. Glad to see it was at least open, he let the door swing wide and took a look inside. Unable to help himself, he took that extra second to revel in the utter luxuriousness of it all, the flawless interior art.

  No keys dangled from any ignition, sending his heart sinking until he spied the butt end of a curved object protruding from under the steering wheel. Jumping in, Drake knew the starting procedure for this car’s predecessor and tried the same technique.

  Demons roared from the back end, the tailpipes spewing forth hellfire and madness. Drake felt his face crack into a crazy grin, engaged drive, and set the hypercar into motion. Feeling more nerves than he ever did in battle, he guided the car around the back end of the auto show, passing between metal stanchions that loomed threateningly close. As he cleared the two pillars he got a look ahead.

  Webb stood before a red-marked exit door, looking over at him as if drawn by the incredible thunder spitting from the car. Three enemies loomed close behind, their guns not pointed at Webb but being forced to protect their own backs. Alicia, Mai, Dahl and Smyth bore down upon them like avenging demons, straight at the readied barrels of three weapons.

  Drake floored the accelerator, letting out a yelp and a cheer at the instant turn of speed. The beast pounced, burning rubber, slewing slightly as it ate up the distance between it and the cultists. Unable to ignore the impending threat, they turned.

  The car plowed into them. One flew over the low hood, taking flight as his arms and legs pinwheeled faster than a skier falling down the seventy-meter slope. Another rebounded, the thump bone-jarring, the sudden stop and reverse momentum mind-blowing. The third somehow landed hard on the hood, denting it enough to make Drake wince as the two shared a look through the sparkling windscreen.

  “Get. Off. My. Car,” Drake mouthed.

  The man’s eyes bulged as Dahl grabbed his ankles, pulled him clear and swung him across the floor. He skidded further than expected, the high gloss complementing the slide, ending up far enough away to shake his head and then start reaching for his gun. Mai finished him off with a single shot, then rolled her eyes at Dahl.

  Drake flung open the door, now opposite the exit Tyler Webb had used only a minute ago. The chatter through his comms tripled, excited voices exuding information at a rapid rate. He joined Alicia and Smyth at the door.

  “Thought you’d fucked off ’ome,” Alicia greeted him.

  Drake wrenched the door open. “And choose between you and the car?”

  Smyth shouldered through the gap, ignoring them both, game face on. Drake followed, knowing the soldier expected instantaneous backup. Surprisingly, they emerged into another hall, this one much smaller though nonetheless high and spacious, and filled with trailers, vans and every mode of car transportation, either en-masse and cheap, or private and overpriced. Offices bordered the building, with gantries and metal bridges spanning the gap. Drake stopped in the face of uncountable obstacles.

  “We’re gonna need a bigger—”

  Hayden joined them. “How many exits?” She spoke into the throat mic.

  Drake heard the reply. “Eight, plus three double doors.”

  “You have people on them?”

  “We’re . . . trying.”

  Drake shook his head. “Split up,�
�� he said, without much hope. “We may get lucky.”

  Alicia hadn’t the spirit left to summon up a double entendre.

  “So that’s it?” Smyth growled. “Webb gets away. Damn it!”

  “Not yet,” Dahl said, ever the optimist. “Not bloody yet.”

  But outside the skies were blacker than a killer’s heart, the streets as helpful as a call center. Webb could have gone a dozen different ways, and then a dozen more. Drake took a breath and waved at his colleagues.

  “We’re not done yet. Webb’s here for a reason, and it wasn’t to watch football or ogle high-end brands. He’s not finished here yet, and we still have a good lead.”

  “What?” Smyth rasped.

  “The woman.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  With Mai and Smyth double-checking their perimeter, the SPEAR team strode back around the side of the arena toward the front doors. Conversation was passed, the most significant part of which for Drake, was a comment made by Beauregard.

  “The cultists’ men, they are slow. Lacking, due to years of watching and no action. Perhaps they are complacent, but have now become aware that they will have to step it up.”

  “These are mercenaries,” Hayden said. “Not true cultists.”

  “That is exactly what I mean,” Beau told her. “That their bosses are slow, lacking. Inactive. They will have to improve and amplify their skills if they are to achieve their own goals.”

  Hayden nodded slowly. “You could be right. Idleness breeds complacency. They can’t remain idle.”

  “One more reason for a trip to Dubai,” Drake appended.

  Upon returning to the front entrances, Drake began to wish they hadn’t. The unsure masses had congregated and milled around whilst being told what to do. The clamor drowned out all conversation. Hayden waved them all back again.

  “Argento.” She tapped the comms. “Where are we?”

  “No facials. Webb has gone. The dead terrorists are simply that at the moment. No identification. On a much brighter note our new female friend just started to sing higher and longer than Pavarotti. She—”