Theatre of War (Matt Drake 28) Tenth Anniversary Novel

by David Leadbeater

  She recalled someone once telling her that there’d been a window in Alcatraz, a window that looked out toward San Francisco, and that the window had been installed for just one purpose—to increase a prisoner’s sense of despair. Maybe that was the purpose of this yard.

  Walking to the fence, she took hold of the metal and looked toward those hills, wondering if Alicia and Bryant were up there now, working on their distraction.

  “Fresh meat,” a voice growled at her back.

  Mai sighed inwardly and turned. She’d been expecting some kind of challenge. Nobody here knew her real identity, but every new convict would be tested by the prison’s hierarchy.

  The woman facing her was almost twice her size, with huge biceps, a bulging stomach and hanging jowls. Her eyes were tiny pinpricks in a fleshy face and every inch of skin Mai could see was inked.

  “Please,” she said. “No trouble.”

  “You want to challenge me?” The woman, inches away, stank of old meat.

  Mai backed away for more than one reason. “No.”

  “You think you could take me?”

  “No.” She didn’t have time for this. She needed to find the best way out of this place and talk to Zuki in time for Bryant and Alicia’s distraction.

  “I want to fight.” The woman held out both arms and rushed at Mai. As she did so a shout went up at her back.

  “Yuna! Stop that!”

  Mai sidestepped, evading the attack with ease. Yuna growled and stomped around to glare at a welcome figure.

  “Back inside.” The guard aimed a Taser toward her.

  Yuna grunted and stalked away, giving Mai deadly eyes.

  Mai was pleased to see a female guard facing her, now lowering the Taser as the threat faded. “Thank you.”

  The guard nodded and walked away.

  Mai completed her recce of the yard and the entrance gates, then returned inside. The first thing she saw was Yuna, a great, fleshy beast glaring at her from the western side of the room. The female guard gave her a suggestive wink as she passed, giving Mai yet another headache. The room was quite full now, groups of prisoners separated into factions, all watched closely by male and female guards.

  A siren went off.

  Ten minutes later, Mai was back in her cell. Zuki was nowhere to be seen. On the way back, Mai had managed to catch a glimpse of the time. 08:30 a.m. and she was still no closer to completing any of her tasks.

  She sat down, feeling the massive weight of Shin Kudo Prison all around her. It was not a material weight but something far harder to overcome.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Matt Drake sat beside a water cooler, staring at Torsten Dahl. The big Swede watched Kenzie, who was updating Patrick Sutherland—the Assistant Director of the FBI and their only ally outside Glacier—who had come over to apprise them of the latest news and events.

  Bryant, before he set off to Japan, had left orders to allow them free rein of Glacier’s offices in DC. Drake, Dahl and Kenzie were there now, making plans in relative security while the others conversed with dozens of contacts from their safehouse across the city.

  It had been a long, frustrating and dangerous few days.

  The capital city of America, the home of government, had always been a sneaky, back-stabbing arena of corruption, misinformation and jealousy but now—in light of the ongoing attacks—nothing and nobody was safe. The population didn’t know who or what to believe. The politicians didn’t know who to believe. Nobody knew if the events being portrayed through social media were real. It was the ultimate expression of a state ruled by virtual communities, where people relied on Facebook and Twitter and listened to someone called Roger or Barbara who professed to know their subject intimately, rather than rely on the qualified experts in their field.

  Drake poured himself a plastic cup of water, which Dahl swiped. He poured another.

  “Where are we?” he asked.

  Patrick Sutherland stared past Kenzie at him. “Confusion is at its highest level,” he said. “But there have been no physical injuries. Not yet. But whoever’s doing this can’t keep bombarding the Internet and social media with this crap forever. The President is only responding to events as expected, but that actually fuels the fires. It’s all very clever.”

  “And only a first attack,” Dahl said. “The FBI have no idea what’s coming next?”

  “None. How’s your agent doing?”

  “Mai?” Drake guessed. “We have no idea. Should know more tonight.”

  “We’re all praying it’s soon enough,” Sutherland said.

  Kenzie plucked Dahl’s water from between his fingers before he’d had chance to sip it. “Praying won’t help,” she said. “You need good soldiers.”

  “Any luck with finding the Scourge?” Drake asked.

  Sutherland shook his head. “They’re Russian,” he said. “And small in number. One theory is that they could be connected to the royal families. You know, the secret bloodlines?”

  Drake nodded and frowned at the same time. “Yeah, you mean the Japanese ones? Zuki was—or is—the leader of one of Japan’s greatest and most ancient secret royal families. They’ve been warring for centuries, competing for top spot. I think she’s the first of them ever to go to jail.”

  “It’s not just Japan that has these royal families though,” Sutherland said. “They exist all over the world. I’m sure you’ve come across some of them in your time. There are secret bloodlines in Europe, Russia, America... everywhere. It’s not a club either. There are no new entries, nothing like that. This is old, old money, power garnered long ago by railroad pioneers, by the first bankers, by those who laid foundations in Washington and London, Paris and Geneva. You sure won’t find any oil sheiks.” He chuckled.

  “And the Scourge are part of this clique?” Dahl asked.

  “We don’t know for sure.” Sutherland said. “It’s a guess. But an educated one. You see, the Russians have a secret, existing royal bloodline but, in the early 20th century, their royal family were murdered by communist revolutionaries. They were the last of the Tsars. It’s possible that these secret bloodlines orchestrated their murders, getting Lenin and co. to wipe out the Tsar bloodline.”

  “But if they were wiped out...” Dahl said. “How can they strike back now?”

  Sutherland made a face. “It’s always been said that some of the Romanovs escaped.”

  Drake blinked. “The Romanovs? Jesus, mate, you think this is some kind of century-old revenge plot?”

  Sutherland shrugged. “Depends on what these other, upcoming attacks are supposed to consist of. Another reason we’re depending on your—”

  “Mai,” Drake said. “Her name’s Mai.”

  “Right.”

  Kenzie was staring out the second-floor window as they talked, taking in an early morning sunrise. “America’s under a misinformation attack and there’s nothing we can do. What about the NSA? Isn’t there normally a huge increase in activity right before events?”

  “It’ll be masked by this huge fake-news dump,” Sutherland said. “Chatter has risen a hundredfold since that began. If that was part of their plan, it’s working.”

  “The Devil,” Drake said. “He did this. He’s the only one with the right kind of warped brainpower. Where did he operate from after his island exploded?”

  Dahl screwed up his face as he tried to remember. “Some place in the desert. He set it up after Devil’s Island got nuked.”

  “Devil’s Junction,” Kenzie said, still looking out the window. “That’s what it was called. Did you guys ever find it?” she asked the assistant director.

  Sutherland frowned. “I’ll check. Are you thinking he might have left plans there?”

  “Either that, or it could be the control room for this whole attack,” Drake said. “Could even be the reason he set up the desert HQ in the first place. Thinking ahead.”

  “Well, he wasn’t planning on getting shot to death.” Kenzie smiled.

  “You never
know...” Dahl said ominously.

  Kenzie frowned, about to question him, but then her body language changed. Drake saw a stiffening of her shoulders as she leaned toward the window. “Shit,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Glacier’s compromised,” she said. “Someone told the Scourge we’re here.”

  “How do you know?” Dahl walked over to join her.

  “I count thirty.” Kenzie sighed. “How about you?”

  “Shit,” Dahl echoed, arriving at the window. “And bollocks. This will not be a clean, precise hit. They’re gonna kill everyone.”

  Drake agreed. A certainty based on the scale of the attack so far and what was expected to come. Acting fast, he raced out of the office and hit the nearest fire alarm. “Go!” he shouted, as people stared up at the strident bells and then at each other. “Get the hell out of here.”

  “They’re coming for us.” Dahl rushed past him, headed for the stairs. Kenzie was a step behind, Sutherland following her.

  Drake grabbed his arm. “Hey, mate, just stick with us.”

  “No problem,” he said.

  “Don’t worry, Sutherland. You’re not going to die today. You’re with us.”

  Dahl spun as he reached the foot of the stairs. “Does this place have an armory?”

  Kenzie nodded. “The last Glacier HQ did. The one that burned down. But...” She glanced around. “The staff have all gone.”

  Dahl made a swift decision and started up the stairs. Drake followed last, taking the risers as fast as he could. The strident alarm bells reverberated inside his head. Hopefully, the outpouring of staff would help slow down the Scourge’s mercs.

  “We’re vulnerable anywhere,” he said as he ran. “This proves it. The Scourge have a million all-seeing eyes. They know we’re working against them.”

  “Which means they also know there are factions within the FBI—and other agencies—also working against them,” Sutherland said. “We have to be more careful.”

  “Let’s concentrate on living through this first, shall we?” Kenzie said. “They’re coming up the stairs.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Across town, Hayden stepped out of the shower straight into Mano Kinimaka, who grabbed her in a wet bearhug. The big Hawaiian lifted her off her feet and swung her around, offering a welcome distraction to the seriousness of their situation. If only for a minute, some light-hearted recreation was just what she needed.

  “Are you finished?” she asked with mock-seriousness as Mano swung her around for a second time.

  “Can’t see the bed,” Kinimaka’s voice was muffled.

  “We don’t have time—”

  “I’ll be quick.”

  “I don’t want you to be quick. Now put me down.”

  Hayden punched his arm as he gently deposited her on the soles of her feet. She toweled herself dry and donned fresh clothes. Mano drifted back out of the room to talk to Cam and Shaw.

  The old safehouse had been their refuge for the last day now, supplied by the FBI. It was by no means comfy, or well equipped, but it was enough for what they needed: a series of rooms with interconnecting doors on the third floor of an apartment building, accessed by a long balcony.

  Hayden followed Mano out into the main room.

  “Who’s turn is it to go get lunch?” Kinimaka asked.

  “Mine,” Shaw said. “But I’m trawling through the latest batch of misinformation uploads. Did you know they’re driving at a theory that the last president, Coburn, wasn’t real? That he was an alien or something. And there are people that actually believe it. They’re commenting, fueling the fire. Other theories—that DC is controlled by Nazis, that Snoop Dogg secretly rules the world, that 9-11 was a Hollywood publicity stunt—are spreading rapidly. I’m sorry, but social media just muddies the world. It never clarifies anything.”

  “So what’s new?” Hayden said. “Always been the same. I guess, in the aftermath of these attacks, something might change to catch trolls and hackers, but I wouldn’t bet my pants on it.”

  A shuffle outside the door alerted them. Hayden’s immediate thought was to check with Mano: “You order a pizza?”

  Kinimaka’s face was serious as he looked from the main door to the interconnecting one. “They would knock—”

  Cam and Shaw were already in motion. Shaw, wearing her ubiquitous leather jacket and tight black jeans, and sporting a long ponytail, slipped two knives from her waistband. Cam, still looking younger than his years despite all that had happened in Romania with his family and the Carnival of Curiosities, had his knuckles clenched, the bruises from recent battles still apparent. They both ran toward the interconnecting door as it burst open.

  A man crashed through. He held a shotgun in two hands and fired. The heavy, reverberating shot blasted into the room, narrowly missing Hayden’s right leg, and passing between her and Kinimaka.

  The intruder, on seeing Shaw, swung the shotgun around but it was too late. Shaw hit him like a bus, crashing into his body and, at the same time, slicing up and outward with both hands, ripping apart his abdomen.

  The man fell in shock and died without ever realizing how.

  A second man, also with a shotgun, crowded in after him and tripped on the body, falling headlong.

  Cam fell on the man’s back like a cheetah onto a gazelle, swiping down at his exposed neck with hard, heavy fists.

  Hayden and Kinimaka ran for the front door. Taking cover behind the wall, Hayden wrenched the door open, simply because it was the last thing their enemy expected. A man stood outside, surprise on his face. He was even more surprised when Kinimaka ran at him, arms out, grabbed him in a bearhug, and launched him into space over the third-floor balcony.

  Hayden slipped outside, barely resisting the urge to shout: “Thanks for flying Hawaiian air!”

  The coast was clear to both sides. Behind, Cam and Shaw were done with their attackers.

  Hayden surveyed the balcony running in a wide rectangle around the apartment block. Empty. She stepped to the rail to check the ground below. A shot rang out, the bullet passing barely six inches to her right.

  “Six more down there,” she said. “There’ll be more coming up.”

  They were all aware of their safehouse, its position in relation to other buildings, and all means of escape.

  “Back inside,” Shaw said with a catch of anxiety in her voice. “We have to make this quick.”

  *

  Drake followed Dahl, Kenzie and their FBI accomplice, Sutherland, out of the stairwell door and onto the roof of Glacier’s ten-story building. Their pursuers pounded up the stairs about five floors further down. Drake made a quick survey of the roof, seeing an open space and no nearby buildings of the same height.

  Nowhere to hide. Nowhere to run.

  “Shit.”

  “Worry not,” Dahl said. “The great Swede is here.”

  “You gonna build us a bridge to the nearest bloody building?”

  “If I have to.”

  Dahl ran to the far side as Drake and Kenzie barricaded the door as best they could, using a few iron bars and scraps of steel that had been thrown in a heap nearby. Drake chose one of the bars as a weapon. Kenzie eyed the remains of the pile.

  “Thinking of filing one down for a sword?” Drake asked.

  “How’d you guess?”

  Dahl’s shout caught their attention. “Over here!”

  They raced across the roof, both carrying iron bars, and stopped when they reached the edge. Dahl was standing on the precipice, head down, as if preparing to take a swan dive off the building.

  “Are you fucking crazy?” Drake winced, following the direction of his stare to what lay below.

  “I have to say,” Kenzie said softly. “That does seem extreme.”

  “Better than fighting machine guns with iron bars,” Dahl said, smiled at them, then jumped.

  Drake’s heart leapt into his mouth as his hands unconsciously reached for Dahl.

  The big Swede pl
ummeted for about eight feet before his boots landed heavily on the planking of a window washer’s cradle hugging the side of the building. Landing surefooted, he reached for the cable holding the controls and dragged it toward him.

  Drake eyed the roof’s door. “It may get us off the roof,” he said. “But there’s no way it’s gonna go fast enough to get us to safety.”

  Kenzie winced as they saw the roof door shake under pressure. “Wish there was another choice.”

  Dahl started the railed platform up toward them. Drake decided it would be quicker to jump. He leapt first, followed by Sutherland.

  Kenzie, jumping last, had nowhere to go. The cradle was full. Still, she leapt, trusting that someone would catch her.

  Her flying body struck Dahl, pushing him hard against the railing and making space. Drake steadied Dahl as the Swede breathed heavily.

  The FBI agent was as white as a sheet.

  Drake held on to the railings. “Go.”

  Dahl started the descent. Motors whirred but their progress was painfully slow.

  Drake couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so exposed and unsafe, dawdling down the side of a building in an open platform ten-stories high with a gang of armed mercs about to spot them. And all he had for protection was an iron bar. “Of all your daft ideas,” he muttered. “This takes the bloody cake.”

  “I know that phrase.” Dahl eyed him. “Did I scare the Yorkshire right out of you? At least we’re moving.”

  “You wish,” Drake said. “But I suppose owt’s better than nowt.”

  The platform crawled down the side of the building. Drake couldn’t tear his eyes away from the ledge above as endless rectangular windows passed them by.

  Of course, Dahl was doing the exact opposite and keeping up a running commentary. “Empty. Empty. Two guys, hiding under a desk. Both ignoring me. Actually, they never saw us,” Dahl laughed. “Don’t worry, I’ll bang on the window next time. Another empty office. Hey! Hey!” The Swede banged hard on the window, stopping the platform for eight seconds before starting it again. “Damn, they’re ignoring us.”