The Vault of Poseidon (Joe Hawke Book 1)

by Rob Jones

  The Merc left the meadow, smashed clean through a chainlink fence and accelerated in a violent swerving weave until it hit West Drive.

  It chewed up great clods of frozen earth and muddy snow which sprayed up behind it as the powerful car raced forward. Finally it hit the tarmac and bounced violently up and down before settling into a renewed acceleration.

  One of the men inside was now leaning out the rear window, his hair blowing wildly in the cold wind as he recklessly aimed an Uzi at the hot rod.

  He fired off a few bursts. More screaming people dived for cover while others hurriedly dialled emergency services on their cell phones.

  With the gap closing, Lea leaned out the right side of the hot rod and took a couple of shots at the Merc, missing with the first but taking out the rear window with the second.

  Vetsch swerved in response but soon regained contol.

  “You’re getting there,” said Hawke with a patronizing smile.

  Lea was taking another aim and said calmly: “Were you smacked too hard as a child, Joe Hawke?”

  Before he could answer she fired another two shots, this time taking out the rear left tire in an explosion of black, shredded rubber.

  “Better,” Hawke said. “Better.”

  The Merc swerved violently across West Drive before plowing across the western strip of Central Park, skidding uncontrollably on some snow and narrowly avoiding a high-speed impact with the bough of an oak tree.

  Hawke smiled. “That’s more like it. He nearly lost it then.”

  Vetsch fought to maintain control, over-revved and smashed through a low brick wall before finally hitting Central Park West.

  He tried to corner too fast. His one rear tire broke traction and after a moment of terrifying oversteer during which Hawke wondered if some pedestrians might get killed, the Merc rammed into a U-Haul truck at a busy junction and its journey was almost at an end.

  The U-Haul’s cargo trailer was badly smashed, but the Mercedes came off worse, spinning around like a toy car against the impact with the heavy GMC truck.

  It slammed through a One Way sign before finally coming to a stop with its nose in the front window of a dry cleaner’s store, burst radiator steaming in the cold air.

  Realizing that the rot rod was only about five seconds from meeting the same fate as the Merc, Hawke hit the brakes and after an unsettling moment of sliding sideways in the snowy grass he steered into the skid until the tires got some traction back. He gently tapped the brakes and brought the hot rod to a stop.

  “Is it over?” asked Ryan, peering over their shoulders from the back seat.

  “Almost.” Hawke pointed at the Merc. “Just be thankful it didn’t catch fire.”

  Then the Merc caught fire.

  Flames flickered out from beneath the hood and Vetsch and his men screamed and started to scramble to safety.

  Hawke sighed. “Absolutely bloody fantastic. I hope the gold disc’s not in there.”

  “That’ll flush the bastards out though.” Lea checked the Smith & Wesson. “Only three rounds left.”

  “I’ve still got all seven,” Hawke said. “And Rupert here hasn’t fired any either, have you Rupert?”

  Pedestrians scattered away from the burning engine, but stayed close enough to film it on their phones.

  Meanwhile. the stationary U-Haul truck in the middle of the junction was causing heavy tailbacks along Central Park West. Drivers were getting out of their cars and leaning over their doors to see what was going on, expressing themselves with the usual New York niceties.

  “And you can fuck off, too!” Hawke said to one of them as he climbed out of the ageing Ford. The man began to remonstrate with him until the moment Lea and Ryan got out to join him and all three brandished their Smith & Wessons, at which point he bid them good day and shrank back into his Chevrolet.

  “They’re trying to escape!” Lea shouted.

  Vetsch and his men were now clambering dazed and confused from the burning wreck of the Mercedes. They fired a few shots randomly in the direction of the junction to keep Hawke at bay.

  Hawke, Lea and Ryan ducked down behind the hot rod and winced as they heard bullets slam into the other side of the car with a deep metallic plunking sound.

  “We have to get that golden fragment,” said Hawke.

  “Easier said than done,” Lea said, craning her head over the hood and firing another shot at Vetsch and his men.

  Hawke heard Vetsch screaming a command at his men, and seconds later they ran back to the burning car.

  “They’re trying to get the golden arc out,” he said. “Now’s our chance.”

  “What are you going to do?” Ryan asked.

  “I want you two to put as much fire as you can on them,” he said, handing Lea his pistol. “I’m going to get that piece of gold back. Whatever it is, we need it, and we don’t want Zaugg to have it.”

  Ryan stared at his gun with incomprehension, while Lea leaned confidently over the hood, a gun in each hand, and started firing at the men.

  She hit the man who had returned to the car, and he collapsed screaming to the ground, clutching his upper leg. Seeing his comrade fallen, the other man retreated, despite Vetsch screaming for him to return.

  Hawke was in a forward position now, covered by a parked Toyota just a few yards from the Merc. He heard the sirens of the emergency services as they closed in on them, and doubted Sir Richard Eden had all that much influence with the NYPD but guessed he’d find out one way or the other.

  One of the men stepped forward, but Hawke lunged toward him and grabbed the man’s weapon in one hand, disarming him, while thrusting his other hand forward in a lethal tiger-punch which landed with a sickening crunch in his windpipe. He fell to the ground wheezing, purple-faced as the pedestrians looked on with a mix of horror and entertainment.

  Another man ran toward Hawke, but the Englishman whirled around just in time to fire a classic double-tap into him and he lurched forward like a tailor’s dummy, tumbling onto the sidewalk and rolling into the gutter.

  Vetsch fired at Hawke, but he was prepared for the volley of Uzi fire and ducked behind another car for some instant cover. He raised the gun over the hood to return fire when he saw Vetsch was trying to take a passer-by hostage to save his own skin.

  Vetsch’s heavy hand gripped the woman around her waist and pulled her toward him with the ease of a bear flipping a salmon out of a river.

  But seconds later she spun around, effortlessly slipping out of his grasp and brought her right knee up into his groin with eye-watering power and accuracy while simultaneously raising her clenched fist into the downward trajectory of his face.

  The results weren’t pretty, but she cleared things up with a well-aimed crescent kick that launched him backwards down the ramp of a multi-storey car park.

  Hawke was speechless.

  The woman shrugged her shoulders. “Self-defense classes,” she said, and picked up her bag.

  Hawke knew they had to get the golden arc and get the hell out of there before the cops came or they would be in jail until cockroaches took over the earth.

  Lea fired and struck Vetsch’s last man in the upper body, exploding his chest and throat and propelling him through the air like a doll until he crashed down on the hood of a silver BMW. Hawke whistled through his teeth: “Remind me never to get on the wrong side of that girl.”

  With all of his men down and Lea’s fire now turned on him, Vetsch cursed and ran deeper into the underground car park.

  Hawke seized the moment and sprinted toward the burning wreckage. Dozens of people were filming him on their phones as he shielded his eyes from the heat and smoke and peered into the Merc for the golden fragment.

  The sound of the sirens grew louder – almost at the junction, he thought. Then he saw the gold, lying on the rubber mat in the front passenger’s footwell. The flames were now inside the car, licking at the walnut-veneer dashboard and leather steering wheel, and the cab was filling with pungen
t, toxic fumes.

  He dropped the gun and leaned in to grab the fragment, shoving it into his pocket, and then turned to the pedestrians. “Get out of here before she blows, you bloody idiots!” And with that he sprinted back to Lea and Ryan who were waiting back with the hot rod.

  He held up the piece of gold and smiled. “They were actually very obliging in the end.”

  “Are you sure about that, cowboy?” Lea gestured over his shoulder.

  Hawke turned to see Vetsch exiting the car park at speed on a vintage Harley-Davidson. He skidded to a halt alongside the body of his dead comrade and picked up his Uzi before turning the handlebars in the direction of the hot rod, his face a rictus of hatred and revenge.

  CHAPTER NINE

  “So you were right there and you forgot to pick up the Uzi?” Lea asked.

  Hawke gave her a sideways glance, but said nothing.

  “But I thought you were perfect, Joe Hawke. I’m so disappointed.”

  “I got this thing, didn’t I?” he said, waving the strange golden semi-circle at her.

  “Er, guys,” Ryan said, pointing at Vetsch. “Psychotic gunman on a Harley coming this way fast.”

  “Sometimes he makes a good point,” Hawke said.

  They climbed back into the battered hot rod and mounted the sidewalk in order to get away from the traffic. A block later they were in another car park, which they traversed with as much speed as they could, but Vetsch was behind them and closing fast.

  Hawke drove onto Columbus Avenue amidst a hail of automatic fire from Vetsch, almost upon them now as he easily outmaneuvered them in the faster and more agile Harley.

  “Brace yourselves!” Hawke shouted. He slammed on the brakes, slowing rapidly and causing the Harley almost to go into the back of them.

  “Get down, Ryan!” Lea shouted.

  He ducked and a second later she blew out the back window. “Only two more shots left,” she said coolly.

  “And with your aim that’s no joke,” replied Hawke.

  Vetsch dropped back, the deep tones of the Harley’s shovelhead V-twin engine roaring against the Columbus Avenue Brownstones. Somewhere behind him they heard yet more sirens as the NYPD worked out where the trouble was and gave chase.

  They weaved the hot rod neatly in and out of the traffic on Columbus and then Hawke swung the wheel hard to the right and skidded into West 86th Street so fast they nearly tipped the thing over.

  The Harley made the corner more easily, and seconds later was alongside them. Vetsch was laughing maniacally as he casually pointed the Uzi at the Ford.

  Hawke waited a split second then skidded into the Harley. The gun fired, spraying bullets up the front wing and into the cab before they collided with the bike and sent it flying off haphazardly toward a line of parked cars on the right side of the road.

  “Newton’s First Law of Motion, baby!” Ryan shouted through the window at Vetsch who was now struggling to maintain control of the Harley. “You gotta love it!”

  “Don’t speak so soon, Ryan.” Lea craned forward to look in her rear-view. “It's not over yet.”

  Hawke heard the rasp of the Harley as it accelerated once again.

  “He’s a determined little fellow,” he said. “I’ll give him that.”

  Vetsch pulled alongside a second time and fired a long burst of bullets up the side of the car.

  “Everyone get your head down, now!” Hawke screamed.

  A second burst – what the SBS called the old ‘lead wasps’ – smashed the rear window and whistled past Hawke’s ear before thudding into the windshield with incredible velocity.

  Ryan screamed again and put his head between his legs.

  “Checking to see if you wet yourself, Rupert?” Hawke said.

  “No I am not!” came the muffled reply. “And my name is Ryan!”

  Lea sighed. “What is this, a dick-measuring competition?”

  “He started it!” Hawke protested.

  “I don’t think so – I think Mr Testosterone here started it.”

  “Just pack it in, you two,” she said. She turned to Hawke to reply, but something caught her eye. “You’re hit!”

  Hawke leaned forward to look in his mirror. “That’s nothing,” he said, wiping a line of blood off his cheek. “Just a flesh wound.”

  “Sodding hell, Joe,” said Ryan. “You got shot in the face with an Uzi!”

  “It’s nothing,” he repeated, keeping an eye on the traffic ahead while at the same time monitoring Vetsch’s progress behind them.

  Thanks to a UPS truck parked up with its hazard lights flashing, the road ahead narrowed and they only just got through the gap.

  Lea took out her iPhone and flicked to maps. “Nothing ahead but water, Joe.”

  “Eh?”

  “Those trees up there – see – that’s pretty much where Manhattan ends and the Hudson River begins.”

  Hawke looked down at the speed – seventy-five miles per hour now, and racing in and out of traffic on West 86th. Behind them Vetsch kept pace, swerving from side to side like a madman, and then he fired another burst into the rear of the hot rod.

  Behind Vetsch, Hawke saw the unmistakeable blue flashes of the police.

  “When in doubt, go faster,” Hawke said, and stamped harder on the throttle. They all felt the jolt as the large engine instantly produced more power and the hot rod shot forward like a drag car. Hawke was beginning to enjoy himself again.

  “Did you actually pass your driving test?” Ryan said.

  “I’ve been driving since you were in nappies,” was Hawke’s blunt response. “If you don’t like it you can always get out and walk.”

  Hawke dropped a gear and accelerated the Ford once again, haphazardly steering the old hot rod in and out of the busy Manhattan traffic in an attempt to lose the much faster Harley on their tail. The suped-up engine roared noisily as the car thundered forward.

  “Watch out, Joe!” Lea shouted. “Lights!”

  “Yes, thanks – I am looking out the same window as you are.”

  They burned through a red light and skidded across a junction with seconds to spare, but Vetsch, insane in his pursuit of the golden disc fragment wasn't so lucky.

  A Maybach pulled out on a green light and Vetsch rammed into it. As the old bike smashed into the front of the tank-like car, it stopped with a simple crunching sound and smashed into the wing.

  Vetsch didn’t share the same fate. He was propelled from the seat of the Harley, Uzi still gripped in his hand, and flung like a stone from a caterpult through the air. He sailed across the junction and landed in the back of a passing garbage truck.

  “Good riddance to...”

  “Don’t even say it, Joe,” Lea said, sighing. “Don't even think about saying it.”

  “Sorry. But at least that’s one problem out of the way.”

  They watched as Vetsch tried to scramble out of the garbage in the back of the truck, his face twisting into a scowling mask of humiliation and revenge. His death threats were drowned out by the roar of the truck’s engine as it accelerated away from the junction.

  “So what’s next?” Ryan asked.

  They watched the garbage truck fade into the traffic beyond.

  Hawke’s eyes returned to the road ahead. “We go and take a look at that golden fragment. Then I want a steak and some beer before I go and take out every one of those bastards who have been trying to ruin my day.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Thanks to Vetsch’s team infiltrating them at the hotel Eden had booked, they were forced to book a new room for the night, and it was several stars south of the Athenee, with a view of a side street and a brick wall instead of Manhattan’s skyline, and a vending machine half-full of Dr Pepper replacing the luxury restaurant.

  “I never met anyone like you before,” said Lea as she dabbed Hawke’s grazed temple with an alcohol wipe.

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “Well don’t. You’re a total idiot who’s going t
o get himself killed one of these days.”

  “I’ll say,” Ryan added.

  “You attract bullets like you were a magnet, Mr Hawke.” Lea gently cleaned the wound.

  “Actually,” Ryan said, perking up a little, “most bullets are made of lead, which doesn’t have any magnetic qualities to speak of.”

  “Shut up, Ryan,” Lea said. “I know that. It was just an expression. Weasel.”

  “Yeah,” added Hawke. “Shut up, Rupert.”

  “Let me look at the fragment,” Ryan said. He picked it up off the bed and turned it in his hands. It reflected the light of the lamp dully in the low light of the room.

  “Anything?”

  “There’s writing on it, but it’s in what I presume is ancient Greek.”

  Lea sighed. “And your language genius doesn’t extend to that, am I right?”

  “Partly. I can tell you this word here probably means acropolis, but other than that even I can't help on this one.”

  Hawke looked at the line of foreign letters neatly carved into the gold, unfamiliar and alien to him.

  “Acropolis? That’s in Athens, isn't it?” he said.

  “There are many acropoles all over Greece as a matter of fact,” said Ryan. “But yes, I suppose most ordinary people would leap to the one in Athens.”

  “I swear I’m going to punch him, Lea.”

  “Please, Joe – no. It’s just what he is – like it or leave it.” Lea turned to Ryan and shook her head at him, frowning. “I left it.”

  “No, I left you!”

  “Not this again.”

  “Just, please Ryan,” Lea said, “would you start working on the translation for us? Just for me?”

  Ryan mumbled something about people using him only when they wanted something, and opened the MacBook, bathing his face in a bluish glow in the corner of the hotel room. “Luckily for you heathens, I happen to know an excellent yet sadly unvisited Ancient Green translation engine on here, and will endeavour to convert this to English for you.”

  “Thanks Ryan,” said Lea, yawning. “It’s been a long day.”

  “Yeah,” said Hawke, “I’m being sincere when I say thanks too, Rupert.”