Theatre of War (Matt Drake 28) Tenth Anniversary Novel

by David Leadbeater

Drake stiffened. Ahead, a group of twelve youths surrounded a smaller group of five, who were seated on the floor. The youths carried knives and baseball bats; one held a burning torch aloft; another held a machete.

  They were yelling, screaming, shouting at their captives, baiting them, jeering at them. Occasionally one of the youths jabbed or swung his weapon, stopping it just inches from its intended target.

  Those on the floor cowered in fear, crying and pleading or just curled up into balls. It was hard to be certain through the moving bodies, but Drake guessed at two women and three men.

  He waited for the others to gather. When they were ready, he stepped out and approached the terrible circle. “Step away,” he called. “Stand down.”

  Figures whirled, faces surprised but creased in anger and hatred. Some of those faces were smeared in blood. Drake saw two prone figures lying beyond the circle, both young men with their burned faces staring up at the sky, both young men who had probably started out this day with no clue of the horror it would bring.

  “Looks like they’ve already murdered two,” he grated into his comms.

  The SPEAR team spread out. They all knew that the only things holding the youths back from attacking were the guns.

  Drake saw by their faces, their slavering mouths, and their eyes that they’d all been doing drugs when the latest wave of attacks hit America.

  “On your knees.” Dahl strode toward them.

  Not the best move, Drake thought, but imperative under the circumstances. They had to make that airfield rendezvous.

  The torch-bearing youth ran at Dahl, waving his blazing weapon like a flag. The Swede didn’t bother shooting him, he just stepped aside and clubbed him across the face with his rifle.

  When the youth hit the concrete, Dahl kicked the torch away and pointed the gun at his face. “Did you kill those guys?”

  “Fffffffuck you,” the youth snarled, practically slavering. He tried to get up, but Dahl kicked him hard in the side of the head. “Some people are better off unconscious.”

  Drake approached the rest of the youths. “Put down your weapons.”

  The captives in the middle of the circle were sitting up, hope on their faces.

  Drake, well versed in an enemy’s body language, saw a confrontation coming and motioned his colleagues to spread out further.

  “Stay down,” he told the captives. “Head shots,” he told his team.

  His words appeared to sober several snarling youths. A moment later, they broke away, running in several different directions. The problem was, some of the captives broke away too, jumping to their feet, screaming and running. Drake swore as a dozen figures scattered.

  There was a moment’s pause as they weighed up their best course of action, and then Hayden raced off as she saw a youth club a captive to the ground.

  Kenzie dashed after her.

  Hayden yelled as the youth held his baseball bat over the fallen figure. The attacker ignored her.

  The figure on the ground, a woman with long blond hair, put up an arm, taking the blow on the bicep. The attacker snarled, laughed and raised his bat again.

  Hayden fired in the air above his head. The youth barely twitched. The woman on the ground tried to crawl away. The youth brought his bat down again as Hayden prepared to shoot him in the arm but then a streak of fury crashed into his midriff.

  Shaw tackled him and fell, scraping along the ground atop his face. The concrete grater sobered him up nicely, making him scream out in pain. Shaw held onto the nape of his neck, keeping him face down as she climbed off. The blond-haired woman clambered to her feet.

  Hayden reached out to her, nodding at the arm. “You okay?”

  “Yeah, it still works. Just bruised.”

  “Just take a kick.” Shaw still held the youth down. “Take any part of this asshole you want.”

  “I know him,” the blond whispered, barely able to believe her own words. “I helped him. Something’s happened. I don’t know what, but something to draw the worst of the madness out. Since everyone started dumping fake news the other day, this town’s been on a knife edge.”

  “Human society is fraught and crumbling,” Hayden breathed. “With not enough law enforcement or respect among communities. If we don’t hurry up and stop this, the Scourge will win.”

  Drake, Dahl and the others arrived. “Managed to bag another three,” Drake said. “Left the wankers trussed up for the cops. You good?”

  Hayden nodded, her aims clear in her head. “Hurry. We can’t let them attack New York.”

  Kinimaka brought the Cadillac closer, allowing them to climb in before accelerating away from the scene.

  Drake didn’t like leaving it so unfinished, so ambiguous, but saw no other option. It was an odd feeling, being abroad in America tonight. The whole dynamic of the country felt like it had shifted, the bonds of society tumbling over a precipice. Part of the problem was that nobody in charge was trying to hold it together. But part of it was that the cracks had always been there under the surface.

  “It’s falling apart,” he said. “How could it happen so quickly?”

  “Normal people are waiting for the authorities to act,” Kenzie said. “To them, the worst of it only started an hour or so ago. Some won’t even have noticed yet, to be fair. The criminals, the drug addicts, the dregs of society—they’ll be thinking about taking advantage of it while they can. Anything from murder to stockpiling goods and selling them on eBay. Those that can help won’t know where to turn.”

  “She’s right there,” Drake said. “Even the Assistant Director of the FBI’s bloody struggling.”

  “The hope is he assembles a trustworthy team that can help,” Dahl said. “A big team. The next will only be the third attack and look how hard we’ve already been hit.”

  “And we’re cutting it too close.” Hayden glanced at her watch. “Hurry, Mano.”

  Drake held on as the Cadillac took to a rutted field, the most direct route to the airfield.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Seconds later, things grew worse.

  Drake sat forward, holding onto the headrest for support. “What the hell?”

  “They’re hijacking our plane,” Shaw shouted.

  Kinimaka accelerated. Ahead, Drake saw a long, tarmacked runway bordered by wide, flat fields. A private plane sat with its lights blinking, close to an open hangar. The plane’s jets were still roaring as if it had only just landed.

  A group of figures carrying weapons were hurrying toward the plane, some brandishing their guns, others pointing them at the cockpit and cursing at the pilot to open the door.

  “Pilots might think it’s us,” Drake said.

  Dahl gave him a stare. “They might think it’s you. Not me.”

  “Who are they though?” Cam wondered. “Chancers?”

  Drake imagined they were either well-armed locals or maybe a militia looking for every opportunity to further their own desires. “A private airfield might appear to be easy pickings for these guys,” he muttered. “Cowards all.”

  Kinimaka didn’t slow. The margin between stopping the pilots from opening the door and being fired on was down to seconds. The team made ready, grabbing weapons and door handles as Kinimaka skidded to a halt, just thirty yards from the plane.

  Men turned, glaring toward the car and aiming their weapons.

  Drake leapt out, letting the door swing wide to act as a shield. The side window above him shattered as a hail of bullets struck it.

  “They mean business,” Dahl said over the comms. “Let’s show them we’re meaner.”

  Drake and Dahl lifted their heads, took aim and squeezed their triggers. A man fell backward in a puff of red. The others dived for cover. Drake, careful to avoid the plane, took out a man who was trying to run underneath it, leaving him sprawled next to one of the huge wheels.

  Hayden, from behind the SUV, fired a rapid burst. Bullets hit the hangar opening close to where most of the men had ducked. The plane was already st
arting to turn, preparing to get the hell out of there.

  Drake span to Hayden. “We need that plane. Can you contact them?”

  “Only through Bryant.” She ducked and pulled out her cell.

  Drake laid down covering fire. Cam and Shaw ran from the back of the car to a nearby stack of old, used wheels, crouching behind the barrier. Drake concentrated on another shooter who’d managed to dash around the rear of the plane. It was a tricky shot, especially with the plane moving, but Drake managed to tag the guy’s shins, sending him crying out to the floor.

  Heads popped out from the warehouse seconds before shots were fired. Cam and Shaw kept up a precise barrage of fire, designed to keep them at bay. Hayden shouted into her cellphone.

  The plane continued to turn. Drake got a brief glimpse into the cockpit as it revolved past, seeing two men working frantically at their controls, no doubt expecting their windows to be blown in at any moment. The men in the hangar stepped out, deciding force was the best way forward.

  A salvo of lead struck the car. Drake jumped up into the back seat as bullets crashed around him, lying flat, almost bumping heads with Dahl as he did the same from the other side.

  “You again,” the Swede sighed. “Always butting heads with me.”

  “Grin and bear it,” Drake muttered, wincing as the windshield shattered.

  Kinimaka, lying across the front seats and covered in glass, stared at them through the central tunnel. “You two are worse than a married couple.”

  “He’s just so bloody annoying,” Dahl said.

  Drake shook his head as he waited for the barrage to subside. A second later, it did so.

  The three of them took a quick look and then moved, sliding out of the car and racing across eight feet of open space to a ditch leading down to another hangar. They landed on the grass in their new position and waited for their enemy to show themselves once more.

  The plane taxied forward.

  “Someone’s gonna have to stop that thing,” Cam said through the comms.

  As if it were a true calling, Dahl rose, shrugged his gun over his shoulders, and ran.

  Drake cursed the Swede’s stupidity—again—and opened fire on the warehouse. Bullets clanged and smashed off the steel frame.

  Hayden continued to shout into her phone.

  Cam and Shaw raced from the stack of tires to the side of their opponents’ warehouse, crouching just around the corner to the entrance.

  Seconds passed. Dahl ran in front of the plane, waving his arms.

  The pilot didn’t slow.

  The men popped out again, guns aimed.

  Drake and Kinimaka were poised and ready, shooting immediately, their bullets taking two men out.

  Cam and Shaw slid around the corner, hitting more men in the legs and chest. Those that survived pulled back.

  Dahl held up a hand, now standing right in front of the plane, as if threatening to stop the ninety-foot-long beast with his bare hands. The pilot kept going, ignoring the Swede.

  Dahl backed up just a little but mostly held his ground.

  Drake waved frantically at Hayden. “You got anywhere? If you don’t stop them Dahl’s gonna kill that plane just like he did the submarine.”

  Hayden nodded, holding up a finger.

  The men in the warehouse reached out to grab their downed friends. Cam picked off another man, shooting him in the arm.

  Drake stared at the airfield, the hangar, the town in the middle-distance. It’s like the end of the world. An apocalypse movie.

  The plane slowed.

  Drake jumped up and ran, firing at an angle to keep the shooters at bay.

  Cam and Shaw broke cover too, running for the rear of the plane.

  Hayden helped cover them all as she ran the distance from the car to Kinimaka.

  “You have some of those flash bangs?” Cam asked Drake as he approached.

  Drake threw them to him.

  The plane coasted as the door was flung open.

  Cam and Shaw prepared themselves to run back toward the shooters, heading into danger to safeguard their team.

  Dahl ran alongside the plane, waiting for the stairs to drop.

  Drake watched Cam and Shaw’s backs as they dashed toward the warehouse. It had been quick thinking on their part because, if they boarded the plane and prepared for take-off, they’d all be sitting ducks even to a single well-armed gunman.

  The flash bangs were thrown, detonating loudly.

  The light, makeshift steps descended just as the plane rocked to a halt. Dahl made sure they were fixed in place and then ushered Kinimaka and Hayden up.

  Drake waited for Cam and Shaw before ducking under the plane and dashing to the other side.

  They flew up the steps.

  Dahl was waiting at the top, banging on the bulkhead as he hefted and hauled in the steps. With the door still open, the plane picked up speed. Its engines roared.

  The flight attendant slammed the door shut and wrenched the locking mechanism into place, standing over the horizontal Dahl.

  “Right,” she said, hands on hips. “Who’s ready for the pre-flight safety briefing?”

  *

  Drake sat back, nursing a couple of bruises and an aching spine. The knocks these days didn’t fade away so easily. Even the cuts seemed to take longer to heal.

  The flight attendant, dressed in a blue skirt, white blouse and formal blue jacket and even wearing a flight hat, brought around trays filled with miniature bottles of alcohol and bowls of nuts.

  Surreal wasn’t even close.

  Drake had seen how quickly and strongly she’d acted, and how she’d then held out a hand and pulled Dahl to his feet, so guessed she was military trained, but then the way she slipped back into the role of air hostess made him doubt his own eyes.

  “Christie,” she said, smiling and holding out a hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

  Drake was enamored. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I’m... umm...”

  “A wanker.” Dahl leaned over from the seat behind, grasped Christie’s hand and shook it. “Thanks for the assist.”

  “You’re welcome.” Christie did a slight curtsy and laughed.

  Drake took a handful of miniatures, a diet coke and a fistful of nuts. He was about to turn and make an extremely insightful and poignant comment to Dahl—as per usual—when Hayden’s voice cut through the low hum that permeated the cabin.

  “Oh, guys, this is worse than we ever imagined.”

  Drake looked over. Hayden was holding her phone at arm’s length as though it might be heating up. He could tell just by the look in her eyes that the reports were ominous.

  “What is it?” Cam asked.

  “Look at your phones. Look at the news channels.”

  Drake fished his phone out with the others, activated the screen, and checked the headlines. Most of them were dominated by events in the United States. There were reports of road blockages in every major city, on the highways, and in several minor places that, Drake assumed, were the hubs of major supply chains.

  Bridges had been collapsed, interstates jammed. Those stuck in the traffic were probably in a strange kind of hell, reading the reports on their phones and having no idea what was real and what was not. News channels had become so sensationalist that none were now trusted, even before today.

  Drake saw live pictures of civil unrest in Denver, Albany and dozens more capitols. Fires were raging across fifty states. The moon had been turned red over America tonight as the entire country was swept by panic and turmoil.

  “These are scenes from the end of the world,” Kenzie murmured. “If they’re true.”

  Hayden shook her phone. “Yeah, we know what’s going on and we’re still frustrated. I see Delaware on fire. Baton Rouge beset by gangs. I know this is happening, we’ve seen it, but is it so widespread? So violent?”

  Drake read a note out loud about the Army being mobilized and dispersed across the States. He didn’t think it was enough.

  �
�No bad news reports from Manhattan,” Kinimaka said. “Or DC, Vegas and a couple of others.”

  “It seems Zuki’s information was bang on,” Drake said. “And even if we do stop them in DC, who’s gonna prevent America from going up in flames? She’s right. We don’t have the influence and reach to stop this.”

  “I still think we should be focusing on the Scourge,” Hayden said. “But civilians come first. We just need more people, more boots on the ground.”

  “Which isn’t going to happen in any significant number,” Dahl said. “The placement of traitors in power has seen to that.”

  A long silence followed. In the end they pocketed their phones, sick of seeing the doom and gloom, the violence they couldn’t stop, and the terrible, deadly misinformation being passed on by unwitting and complicit news channels.

  Drake looked at the others without speaking. God help us all.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Mai Kitano watched the city of New York from a twelfth-story window. Though she wasn’t a native of the famous city, and had only been there a couple of times on missions, she had to assume it was pretty much business as usual down there.

  Although the sidewalks and the roads might be a little quieter, they were still jammed with people and cars. Up here, the noise was muted, but Mai could still hear the steady hum of industry punctuated by the incessant blaring of car horns.

  Bryant was sitting cross-legged on the couch in the corner of her hotel room. The boss of Glacier Private Security had been catching up on the state of his business, the welfare of his influential friends, and, more importantly, the position of the SPEAR team.

  “Mid-air,” he said. “Somewhere over Nebraska. They’re making good time.”

  “You’d think nothing was happening,” Mai said, still staring out the window, her breath fogging up the glass. “Elsewhere, I mean. This is... unreal. People are ignoring the slow death of a great nation.”

  “They’re not ignoring it,” Alicia said from her position close to the mini-bar. “They’re being fed crap, and their years of conditioning to this social media bollocks has left them in an impossible situation—they simply don’t know what to believe. So... they get on with life until something directly affects them.”