Theatre of War (Matt Drake 28) Tenth Anniversary Novel

by David Leadbeater

  “Then stop working for them,” Cassidy said.

  Drake held up a hand. “We don’t work for them,” he said. “Not in here.” He tapped his chest. “We work to save those that can’t save themselves, to protect innocent, hard-working men and women. We preserve a way of life.”

  “Admirable,” Lucie spoke up. “But where’s it taken you?”

  “That depends on how you look at it,” Dahl said. “We don’t do it for anyone else. We don’t do it to get promoted. Physically, we’re going nowhere. But, emotionally, morally, we’re exactly where we want to be.”

  “And there are options,” Mai added. “Private security firms. You just have to get your CIA issues untangled.”

  “And how do you propose we do that?” Bodie asked.

  “One big job?” Drake suggested. “Something only you can do. And something they can’t. Get to the big dog in charge, the main boss, and find something he wants above all else. Find out what that is, fulfil it, and he’ll have to let you go.”

  Bodie nodded, glancing at Cassidy. The redhead gave him a meaningful look, as if she already had ideas.

  “We’ll see you again,” Alicia said. “I’m sure of it.”

  Drake backed away from the Relic Hunters as the stark moon slid out from behind a cloud and cast several gleaming shafts of light around the edge of the canyon. The last image he got of the Relic Hunters was of five faceless shadows standing against the dark abyss. Rays of moonlight played at their backs.

  Drake raised a hand and received a salute from Bodie in return.

  And then they were gone.

  CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

  Las Vegas was a vast, glittering oasis in a sea of sand.

  A three-strong team approached the city fast, knowing the police had much more to worry about tonight than a speeding Maserati. The car roared between concrete verges, its raucous engine note blasting around and enhanced by the urban canyons. The road swooped toward and then past the back of Caesar’s Palace, the great old casino and hotel remaining resplendent and resolute among the newer towers that challenged it.

  Ferret, Albino and Sniper didn’t speak as their target came into sight. The great fountains out front were dancing to a tune, the booming water jets shooting high into the Nevadan night. All three thieves stared for several seconds before turning their attention back to the road.

  “Parking garage.” Ferret pointed.

  Albino, the driver, nodded. “Got it.”

  The plan, while complex, was laid out like a plain satin sheet in their minds. Simple to follow. Made up of several stages, an ingenious and unforgettable tapestry they’d put together over several months of testing.

  Sniper, her long black curls tied neatly under an official casino cap, took a long swig from an open water bottle. She was going hands-on, the risk taker for this job. Albino and Ferret were plowing the field, so to speak.

  Nobody had ever heard of Ferret, Albino and Sniper. To the world at large they were relatively normal, wealthy individuals who owned small but hugely profitable companies. Most wealthy individuals made their money from boring-sounding jobs.

  Ferret owned a coat-hanger business, from which he made millions of dollars per year. Albino made gym equipment with a similar outcome. Sniper offered everything from eyebrow plucking to all kinds of waxes to Hollywood celebs who were obliviously happy to spend thousands of dollars per hour for her employees’ attentions.

  Their businesses were run by managers and required little of their time. In truth then, they were the best thieves on the planet and were employed full time by royalty, carrying out any nefarious task required of them.

  Shadow royalty.

  Sniper readied herself as Albino threaded the car through the garage and parked near an obscure door marked: Private. The casino’s blueprints revealed that this was the fastest route to the room where the Fabergé eggs were stored.

  No words passed between the three. No communication was needed. Their upcoming actions had been planned to the second, and each stage would be carried out precisely at the faint buzzing of a smart watch.

  Albino and Ferret left the car, slamming the doors shut behind them.

  Sniper kept her face down, not wanting to be seen. In her head, she copied the actions of the two men and counted down the seconds to the moment she was due to enter the action.

  Albino wore a rumpled, designer-outlet suit, the kind that screamed he was trying too hard. Ferret wore expensive jeans and a Gucci jacket, an outfit that might peg him as a rich man, or at least a man trying to get rich.

  Their costumes—for they were precisely that—were carefully calculated.

  Ferret was tall, with dark sideburns and a scrub of stubble covering his cheeks. His eyes were piercing blue—an effect created by contact lenses—and the wig he wore was long and artfully scruffy. Albino was broad-shouldered and tattooed in places that couldn’t be hidden. His bullet-shaped bald head only served to enhance the white pigment of his skin.

  Together, the two men entered the casino and went straight up to the security desk to the right of the check-in counter.

  “We need to talk to Danny Bennett,” Ferret said. “The security overlord.”

  A brunette with suspicious eyes scanned a computer screen in front of her. “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No,” Albino said.

  “I’m so sorry. Mr. Bennett is tied up all evening. Perhaps you could call to schedule at a later date?”

  Ferret raised an eyebrow. “That won’t be good enough. Tell him that we have information that this place is about to be robbed. That, if he doesn’t listen to us, he won’t have a job in the morning.”

  The clock ticked. They’d allowed a certain amount of time for this to process, having shaved off as many unknown variables as they could. The royal family they worked for had even arranged Danny Bennett’s female “company” for the night. At this moment, she would be making sure Bennett kept his clothes on, his ardor down, and his phone close, using whispered promises for later.

  “Wait a moment.” The brunette had clearly run through several scenarios in her mind, everything from calling the cops to telling Ferret and Albino to leave, but had come to the conclusion that her job wasn’t worth a mistake.

  As Ferret had anticipated.

  Tonight, everyone was working by the book. They had to. The unrest that had stricken most of America, but somehow failed to make its way to Sin City, was a guillotine blade poised above people’s heads, a sense of doom they couldn’t shake. Some were here tonight partying the hours away as if it were their last night on earth, taking chances and emptying their bank accounts as though they wouldn’t need them tomorrow. Some were here to hide. Many others to taste the bright lights just one last time.

  The brunette spoke into a phone for thirty seconds, then looked relieved. After she hung up, she barely looked at Ferret but said: “Mr. Bennett will be down in just a few minutes.”

  Ferret nodded, drifting away from the security desk so that he created a bit of space between the brunette and themselves. They didn’t want anyone overhearing the next stage of their plan.

  They counted down the seconds. Bennett took forty longer than he should have.

  Ferret hurried things along, seeing a blond-haired, pasty-faced man of around fifty appear from a concealed door. He wore a black suit and a casino-branded tie. Danny Bennett looked like a walkover, but Ferret knew he was anything but.

  “The hell you guys want?” He stared at them with obvious distaste. “I’m a busy man and we’ve had no threat indication this week.”

  “America’s under attack,” Ferret said. “Assuming you watch the news channels, you’ll know that. Las Vegas is next.”

  Those words, coupled with what Bennett was being fed by the media outlets, hit the man like a bolt to the head.

  “Are you sure? How do you know? Who the hell are you?”

  Ferret waited.

  Bennett managed to compose himself after having blurted out the
questions.

  Ferret twisted the screw. “Because we work for the people doing it,” he hissed.

  Bennett blinked, studied them closer and then narrowed his eyes. “Wait... what?”

  He was a man of the world. They’d researched him carefully. Bennett should see through their disguises pretty quickly and assume they were here to rip him off.

  “You guys aren’t attacking America. You’re just assholes trying to take advantage of the situation. What do you want?”

  “Let me show you.” Ferret held out a small digital tablet with a diagram on the screen.

  Bennett took it.

  The instant he grabbed the tablet, digital images of his thumb and fingerprints were captured and downloaded by a special program, then sent to Sniper.

  *

  It was what she’d been waiting for. She tapped a button, storing the prints on her phone, then unfurled her body from the Maserati’s back seat, clicking open the door and exiting into the syrupy, petrol-laden heat of the underground parking garage.

  Next, she entered through the door marked Private, kept her head down and strode along a narrow, unadorned passage. In marked contrast to the casino’s exterior and tourist areas, the staff tributaries were plain and basic. That suited Sniper just fine.

  She reached the end of the passage, turned right and joined a vast walkway that sloped upward, a wide, linoleum-lined highway along which dirty linen trolleys, food carts and other big items were constantly wheeled. Sniper walked for eight minutes before taking a set of unassuming stairs at a sharp angle that she knew led to the vault.

  But she didn’t go to the vault.

  The Fabergé eggs hadn’t been stored away, as most believed; they had been set aside in a viewing room, a small annex adjacent to the vault where VIP guests and politicians were allowed to fawn as a sad condolence for losing their millions in the gaming rooms upstairs.

  Sniper laid her phone screen over the fingerprint scanner that accessed the room. The door slid open. She ducked inside, closed the door behind her, and admired what she saw.

  Eight Fabergé eggs perched on shiny titanium display stands, lit from above and below by soft, shifting hues. The eggs were flawless, catching every pinpoint of light and lancing it back at the eye of the beholder. Sniper forced down her wonder to attend to the only job that mattered—securing the eggs for her employer.

  There was no subtle way to do that.

  She checked her watch, saw the seconds ticking down. Eleven... ten... nine... She took a deep breath and braced herself.

  *

  In the lobby, Ferret and Albino reached for their guns, taking aim at Danny Bennett and the brunette behind the security desk.

  Roaring up the curving driveway leading to the busy front doors of the casino, came a dozen black motorcycles.

  CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

  Kenzie stepped out of the Hard Rock Café, somewhere along Las Vegas Boulevard, a paper-wrapped shot glass with a unique design clutched firmly in her hand. It was for Mano Kinimaka. The Hawaiian would appreciate the effort but at the same time never let them hear the last of it if they passed a Hard Rock without securing him a souvenir.

  She, Cam and Shaw had been scouting the casino for more than a day. They’d probed the security, spoken to some of the more approachable staff members. They’d kept an eye on the city for attacks. They’d watched out for the Relic Hunters possibly scouting the place and now, after Drake’s phone call, were looking out for two very different sets of thieves.

  Kenzie led the way down the Strip, back toward the casino. It didn’t hurt to nose around different areas near the one you were watching. The bad guys were prone to doing the same. Now however, the fountains were cavorting, catching her attention, the traffic was rumbling up and down the Strip, and the sidewalks were crammed. Despite the situation America found itself in tonight, and for good or bad, Las Vegas wasn’t part of it.

  Kenzie wondered at the local government’s reasoning. Of course, the directives came down from the President and the governors chose whether they wished to enforce them. This president was deliberately misleading the public for his own means, following a destructive agenda. Commands from on high were vague and inflammatory. It should be no surprise to anyone that the nation was divided and confused.

  Kenzie keenly felt her seniority. Both Cam and Shaw were new to the team, still finding their feet in the Special Forces unit. Not only that, but they’d joined around time their—and other—teams had been ghosted, cast aside. Kenzie sometimes longed for her old job back—relic smuggling across Europe and the Middle East came with its perks—but found herself enjoying running with this band of crazy characters, sometimes staggering from one adventure to another.

  And there was Torsten Dahl too.

  The big Swede had grown close to her, more important than any man she’d ever known. It wasn’t just physical. As the months of their relationship wore on it was becoming much more... everything, she thought.

  She was getting to the point where, if she didn’t run, she was going to stay forever. And that scared her. That kind of commitment was for crazy, normal people.

  Not Bridget McKenzie.

  They headed for a set of stairs that led to a bridge crossing Las Vegas Boulevard. A huge, shiny CVS store stood to the right, selling everything from souvenirs to groceries, clothing and alcohol. Kenzie led the way to the bridge and started across. A welcome breeze struck her face.

  To the right, Caesar’s Palace raised multiple towers toward the skies, and digital billboards announced restaurants, celebrity shows and room rates. To the left, the huge Bellagio sprawled to either side of its great lake, both hotels vying for attention. Kenzie descended the other end and made her way toward the Bellagio. Cam and Shaw walked closely at her side.

  “This is incredible,” Cam said.

  Kenzie realized it was his first time in the spectacular city. “Yeah, it’s an eye opener,” she said. “Try to block out the display and look for anything unusual.” She shrugged. “Though I have to admit that here, the unusual is pretty damn normal.”

  She heard the roar of high-pitched engines, like struggling lawn mowers, a minute later. She slowed and whirled toward the noise. A row of bikes was puttering along the Strip. Most were black, like the ones that had exploded in New York, others were silver, green and multiple colors. But they were all riding together, and they were occupying the lane leading to the casino.

  Kenzie ran into the road, holding her hands in the air. It was reckless, but instinctive. She couldn’t tackle thirteen bikes in one go, but she could slow them down. Cam and Shaw were with her, one to each side, helping to block the road.

  Kenzie faced a blacked-out visor over a midnight black helmet, seeing only a reflection of her own features. The head didn’t move at all, remaining fixed in her direction as the bike came to a halt, which was even more unnerving.

  “Hey, guys, can I see your passports?”

  She effected a haughty, suggestive look, put one hand on her left hip and pretended to laugh. For all she knew, this might be thirteen guys on a stag night. They played their hand immediately, however, when the second man in line planted both feet on the floor and reached into his left pocket.

  He pulled out a battered Glock.

  Kenzie stepped to the left, putting the lead rider between herself and the gunman. There was a roar of tinny engines and the entire row of bikes broke ranks, every rider gunning their machine toward the gap that had just developed. A gunshot rang out.

  Kenzie balanced on the soles of her feet as the lead rider reached into his own pocket.

  He pulled out a long blade, which was both surprising and heart-warming. Kenzie grinned.

  The guy thrust toward her. She grabbed his wrist, broke it, and relieved him of the knife.

  Bikes roared past to her right, flying up the curving driveway leading to the hotel and casino’s front door.

  Kenzie threw her knife at the first rider. The blade slammed into his ribs, maki
ng him spasm violently and the entire bike wobble. One bike slipped by, but the next two crashed into his rear tires before slewing across the road, bikes and riders sliding in different directions.

  Cam and Shaw ran amongst the upright motorcyclists, grabbing their clothing and wrenching them to the ground. It was a noisy melee of engines, screams and crunching metal. Leather-jacketed figures swung their fists, iron bars and knives. Cam and Shaw blocked and ducked, and forced them to the ground.

  Two more bikes slipped by.

  Kenzie leapt atop the first man she’d felled, checking him over for weapons or detonators and then carefully scanned the bike.

  “C4,” she shouted. “Strapped underneath the seat. Probably more in the back pannier. I think...” She studied the sidewalk, looked up at the bridges over Las Vegas Boulevard and other roads. She stared at the crowds that had gathered to watch the carnage. “I think we need to move. Now!”

  Five bikes were approaching the hotel’s front doors.

  Kenzie sensed the mood change, saw riders starting to forget her, Cam and Shaw, and run for safety. Without thought, she stood up and waved her arms.

  “Take cover!” she cried. “Get down now!”

  She ran, heading for the nearest concrete pillar after first checking that Cam and Shaw were heeding her advice. She ducked behind the three-foot-wide stanchion, knowing she was out of time.

  The explosion occurred seconds later, centered mostly around the pile of bikes she, Cam and Shaw had made. Every discarded bike detonated simultaneously. Deadly metal and plastic parts sheared apart, shooting in all directions. Flames leapt into the air.

  Kenzie huddled down as searing hot sheets of flame shot past both sides of the concrete pillar.

  The ground shuddered. Kenzie heard the distant roar of other bikes detonating, not only those that had made the front of the hotel but still more—other bikes that had ridden up to other hotels along the Strip. The assault on Las Vegas had well and truly begun.