Theatre of War (Matt Drake 28) Tenth Anniversary Novel

by David Leadbeater

  Kinimaka cut the lights and cruised forward, equally prepared to slam his foot on the gas or the brake pedal at a second’s notice.

  Drake’s first thought was: The Scourge have won. What else came to mind when presented with the scene ahead?

  Fires burned, blazing in trashcans lining the street. Thick, black smoke poured out of them, spiraling up at the sky. Several burned-out shells of cars stood to one side, most with people sitting atop them, jeering and waving an assortment of weapons. These people wore masks half-covering their faces and were dressed in combat gear. They waved burning torches like trophies.

  And they weren’t even half the problem.

  On the opposite side of the street, a grass verge sloped up from the sidewalk to a height of about twenty feet. Many more people were gathered on this grass verge, shouting, raising fists and spurring each other on.

  Two police cruisers were skewed toward the verge, both cars burning.

  At the top of the grass verge, using telegraph poles already in place, three rough, makeshift crosses had been formed. Three figures in police uniform were tied to the crosses, their heads slumped down, their clothes ripped. Drake saw blood streaming from their chests.

  He also saw one big man wearing a full lion mask, the kind you jam down over your head, screaming into a cop’s radio, no doubt describing the scene to these men’s colleagues.

  Even as he watched, Drake spotted blue flashing lights further down the road and then heard the sounds of gunfire.

  And it didn’t stop there.

  Two men and one woman roamed the grass before the crosses, filming the entire scene on their mobile phones.

  Dahl threw open the door of the second car and spoke through the comms. “No,” he grated. “No.”

  Drake knew better than to try to talk the Swede into an alternative strategy. Dahl approached everything head on.

  Instead, he flung open his own door and, as Kinimaka placed his foot on the brake, jumped out to join him.

  The others came too, ranging out. The burning cars were twenty feet in front of them, the gruesome crosses maybe ten feet further on. Four men carrying baseball bats with eight-inch nails hammered through the tips approached them.

  “Who the fuck are you?” one yelled. “You stupid or something?”

  “What are you doing?” Hayden pushed forward, desperate despite herself. “This is your country. Your home. Is this what you want it to become?”

  Drake admired her strength of character. Even after everything she’d gone through, all the ups and downs of being part of the SPEAR team for so many years, it hadn’t dulled her spirit of her love for her country one bit. She was still ready to put her life on the line for it.

  Or more precisely, he thought. The good men and women who live in it.

  These men, however, had put themselves beyond redemption.

  Dahl never slowed. The big Swede didn’t even pull out a weapon. The first man he approached had dull eyes and an expression that registered disbelief as Dahl got up in his face, snarled, and then wrenched the bat from his hands.

  Dahl brought the nail-studded end flying up between the man’s legs, where it stuck as the man collapsed.

  His next target had the presence of mind to swing his bat at Dahl’s head. The Swede didn’t duck, just dodged, allowing the bat to lightly skim his forehead, and then stepped in.

  Two devastating, rib-cracking punches to the man’s midriff sent him to his knees, the bat clattering to the floor. As the man stared upward, Dahl delivered a massive blow to the middle of his face.

  “A gun might be easier,” Drake suggested.

  “They’re not worth bullets,” Dahl growled.

  The third bat-wielder, clearly assuming Dahl’s first two victories had been flukes, swung his own weapon.

  Dahl was already close enough to grab the speeding bat below the nails, arrest its momentum, then step back and slam it back into its owner’s face. Even Drake winced when the weapon struck flesh.

  The final attacker stumbled away. He spun, preparing to run.

  Drake and the others were ready to step in, but Dahl had it covered. He picked up one of the discarded bats and flung it, end over end, at the back of the man’s head.

  Luckily for him, the handle struck first, knocking him unconscious and sprawling to the ground.

  Drake had been gauging the scene ahead. The cops were slumped on their crosses but still moving. Their arms and legs had been lashed to the timbers, not nailed, to his relief. Those standing around the grass verge, watching, hadn’t even noticed the newcomers, but those standing on the burned-out cars had.

  “Hey!” one was shouting. “Hey, hey, we got company!”

  Drake again allowed himself a moment to accept this was America right now, and that the Scourge were winning. They had successfully isolated towns and cities, sown mistrust from sea to shining sea, installed a destructive leader and given the crazies the opportunity to reveal themselves.

  America was not only under attack from its enemies, but from the very people who lived and prospered under its guidelines and tolerances.

  Figures jumped down from cars and walls, their dark shapes moving against a backdrop of lurid flames and hideous shadows. The SPEAR team didn’t slow. Dahl veered left, toward the crosses. Drake, Alicia and Kenzie went with him. Hayden, Mai, Cam and Shaw confronted the advancing shapes.

  “Stand back,” Hayden shouted. “And stand down. We don’t want to hurt you.”

  They swore and they cackled. They brandished their weapons. They came on, as blind to reality as the day they were born—a rabid mob bent only on destruction, on spoiling and damaging the very place where they lived.

  Hayden pointed her semi-auto at them. “This is not gonna end well for you.”

  “Fuck you,” came the universal reply of fools and clowns the world over.

  They attacked, flinging weapons, bricks and anything they could find. Some carried axes and nail-studded bats and cleavers. Others waved handguns threateningly in the air.

  Hayden’s training kicked in, but she confined herself to shooting low.

  Drake backed Dahl up as closely as he could, knowing the Swede was engulfed by the red mist.

  The first angry figure Dahl came to—a man screaming and laughing at the cops’ misfortunes, was lifted and dumped onto his own face. Blood spattered the ground.

  The second man was spun and throat-punched. He fell, clutching his neck, gasping desperately for breath.

  The third saw what was happening and called out a warning, seconds before Dahl broke his ribs, his cheek bones and then the hand holding a weapon.

  Drake, Alicia and Kenzie had their guns in their hands. When dozens of figures turned toward them, they shot above their heads as warning. Drake didn’t expect anyone to capitulate and was surprised to see at least half a dozen scarper into the shadows.

  “Handle them.” Dahl half turned. “I’ll see to the cops.”

  Drake stared at the glut of half-shadows starting toward them. “Oh, all right then,” he said. “Giving us the easy part, huh?”

  Once more he fired into the air. “Stand down. Walk away while you still can.”

  Several men took his warnings as a call to arms. With bellowing shouts and snarling faces they came, and sporadic return gunfire rang out.

  Drake dropped down to the grass, shooting bullets into a sea of oncoming legs and stomachs. They dropped as they ran, tangling, screaming. He tried to target the shooters but, in the mass, couldn’t see them all.

  To both sides, his colleagues fired telling shot after shot.

  Dahl raced to save the cops.

  CHAPTER THIRTY SIX

  Dahl ran up the slope toward the line of telegraph poles as his team watched his back and sought to scatter the crowd by taking out the worst of the aggressors. Beyond them, Kinimaka guided the lead SUV along the center of the road in case they needed the extra cover.

  Two men stood close to the first makeshift cross, alternately star
ing up at the injured cops with greedy eyes and then glancing toward Dahl as if the big Swede were putting them off their dinner. Both carried machetes stained with blood.

  As Dahl watched, they chopped at one of the cop’s calves with their blades. Dahl bellowed and sprinted hard, hitting the first in the face with a stiff arm that sent him reeling backward.

  Dahl spun to meet the second’s attack, kicking out at his knee, breaking it and leaving him to fall into the grass. The first had recovered and swung his machete at Dahl’s face. The Swede wasn’t quite quick enough to dodge it. The blade sliced through Dahl’s cheek.

  Warm blood washed down his face. Ignoring it, Dahl bludgeoned the man with two heavy fists until he collapsed in a heap, barely breathing. Next, Dahl was able to kick the other attacker in the face and then turn his attention to the first cross.

  The cop was staring down at him, hope in his eyes.

  “Don’t worry,” Dahl said. “You’re safe now.”

  Reaching down, he grabbed a discarded machete and cut the ropes binding the cop’s legs. The pole’s step rungs weren’t low enough to climb on to, so Dahl piled his two groaning attackers on top of each other and jumped up onto their backs. Still, he couldn’t reach the cop’s arms.

  Looking up, he saw that the crosspiece the cop was tied to was a rough plank of wood, held in place by two nails. Dahl glanced around.

  Two more men and a woman were already running at him.

  Out of time, and with the cop’s welfare in the forefront of his mind, Dahl leapt as high as he could, caught hold of the crosspiece and jerked his whole weight toward the ground. The timber snapped, crashing down with the cop still attached. Dahl landed to his left, rolled and saw a smoke-filled sky an instant before it was filled with a sneering face.

  “Gonna really fuck you up, man,” the woman growled.

  Her entire body then stiffened and fell away. Dahl sat up to see the other two attackers also collapse as Drake shot them dead. Trusting his friends, the big Swede turned to the cop.

  “Hey, are you okay? How do you feel?”

  The cop was struggling against his bonds—a good sign. His face was bruised and battered, his lips bleeding. But through the pain, he nodded and met Dahl’s eyes.

  “I’m okay,” he said. “Help them.”

  He didn’t care about his wounds, or the fact that Dahl would have to leave him to fend for himself. His concern was only for his colleagues. Dahl gave him a nod of respect and rose, scanning the grass verge.

  Drake and the others were scattering the worst of the attackers. At least a dozen were down. Alicia and Kenzie ran among them, kicking their weapons away and scooping up firearms.

  Dahl growled, put his head down and ran. He sprinted straight at the two men protecting the second cross. He didn’t waver, didn’t slow, but hit the first chest on, driving him back so that his spine smashed into the telegraph pole between the cop’s legs. There was a heavy snap, like something breaking. The man slithered to the ground as Dahl bounced off, spun, and kicked the other guy full in the face.

  Clear, he cut the leg ropes, then jumped and grabbed the crosspiece, wrenching it free, tearing his flesh in the process but not noticing.

  The second cop fell to the ground, this one already struggling to untie himself. Dahl nodded and helped. Together, they turned and faced the final cross.

  Dahl surveyed the scene. Most of the mob, cowards all, had vanished, flitting back through dark alleyways to whatever pit they’d crawled from. A few were hiding behind the cars they’d damaged, exchanging fire with Mai, Cam and Shaw. Dahl ran with the cop to the base of the third cross.

  Dahl was about to jump up for the crosspiece again, despite his bleeding hands, but the second cop put a hand on his arm. “No bud,” he said. “Let me.”

  Dahl left him to it and set about finding all the discarded mobile phones lying around. After gathering them he gave them to the grateful cop, hoping that at least some faces might be identified from the footage. Looking left and right, he saw that the SPEAR team was almost ready to continue their journey east.

  “When will this all end?” the cop asked him fearfully.

  “When we get to DC,” the Swede said with confidence. “We’re going to chop the head off the snake.”

  With that, the Swede strode away.

  Further up the road, cop cars wound their way through the steel carnage. Kinimaka was turning their vehicle around and Kenzie was already back behind the wheel of the other SUV.

  “The snake?” the cop shouted out tentatively.

  “Batten down for another few days,” Dahl said. “And stick together. Protect your families. This isn’t over yet.”

  Nodding his respect, the Swede turned and ran for the burbling SUVs. The others were already inside.

  Drake nodded as he jumped in and closed the door behind him. “Don’t worry,” the Yorkshireman said. “We covered your arse out there.”

  Dahl sniffed. “Didn’t see you. Thought maybe you were stroking a whippet or something.”

  Alicia frowned. “Is that a euphemism?”

  Dahl relaxed as Kinimaka headed once more into the dark, through a bruised and burning America, and his friends lightened the air with their banter. It took away the sense of catastrophe that pervaded the air, filled their minds with a lighter aura, and enabled them to focus on what was to come.

  The capitol was waiting and that, above all, in any year and in any circumstance and under every leader, and in politics or conflict, had always been America’s primary theatre of war.

  CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN

  Washington DC was a vast eye at the center of a country-wide hurricane, the genuine storm of the century. It was functioning and working against the odds and as busy as ever, but it was essentially feeding the immense, violent twister threatening to engulf the country.

  The SPEAR team rolled in from Interstate 66 and took the Theodore Roosevelt Bridge into the city. At first, high foliage and trees obstructed their views but soon, as the bridge ended, landmarks grew visible.

  Drake sat back, lulled by the unending flow of traffic.

  Hayden contacted Sutherland for what might be the last time. “We’re approaching,” she said. “What do you have for us?”

  Sutherland called her back twenty minutes later. “Listen to me,” he said. “I’m in a crowded place on a burner phone. Five minutes and I’m back in hiding. For now, we can talk freely if we’re careful. Washington DC is tottering on the brink, trying to hold on. The Scourge appear to be saving it for last. Have you located them yet? What about Zuki?”

  Hayden explained a little of what they’d encountered between Vegas and DC. “The country is falling apart. All the Scourge needed to do was light the touchpaper.”

  “We knew that,” Sutherland said. “We’ve always known that. A country of over 300 million souls is never going to be united. But we work with what we’ve got, right?”

  “I like to have a little more belief in people and their moral compass,” Hayden said. “But I take your point. The trouble is, in a country of 300 million, even a small percentage can make a huge difference on what’s perceived to be correct. What do you have for us?”

  “President Lacey is in the Oval Office. He crawled there the moment the wider troubles began. He’s orchestrating events from within with impunity, it seems. The president’s office seals off all good emotions as well as good people. In there, they only have the images they’re being fed. Lies they’re being told.”

  “By the Scourge,” Hayden said. “Where are we with Madame Davic?”

  “Ah, of course, you’ve been out of touch. Your friends in Los Angeles... you know the ones I mean?”

  Drake smiled as he thought of Trent, Silk and Radford, also known as the Disavowed.

  “We do,” Hayden said.

  “They led an attack on the Hollywood Hills where Davic was staying. This woman had rented a multi-million dollar mansion at the far end of one of the canyons and surrounded herself with bodyg
uards. In the full glare of a Californian noonday sun, your friends attacked openly. They had managed to assemble a large squad made up of the various Strike Force teams that had been ghosted. And as you know, these guys are the best of the best. Outnumbered five to one, they cut through the Russians like sharks through shoals of fish. They left nothing alive. The mansion ended up devastated by rocket fire and grenades. In one afternoon, your friends and their allies took down Madame Davic’s operation and blocked a huge new flow of misinformation before it hit social media sites. We owe them a huge debt.”

  “And the guys?” Kinimaka asked. “Are they okay?”

  “A few cuts and bruises,” Sutherland admitted. “But otherwise fine. The same can’t be said for five other men that went in alongside them, I’m afraid.”

  Drake lowered his head out of respect for his lost comrades. A few moments’ silence filled the car.

  “And Madame Davic?” Dahl asked after a while.

  “They destroyed her operation. Cut down her men, took eight prisoners. But Davic herself? She’s as slippery as the Pacific. Washed right through their hands.” Sutherland sighed. “We have no idea where she went.”

  Drake held in a curse. He didn’t blame Trent and the boys. He blamed a hierarchy so divisive and intent on attacking itself that it had failed to see this coming. Or rather—it hadn’t acted to stop it happening.

  “It took everything we had just to get here,” Hayden said. “We’re no further forward with the Scourge or Zuki. What’s your plan regarding our DC-based friend?”

  Sutherland took a breath. “I managed to get two of you onto the safe list. Hayden and Mano. Being ex-CIA and recognizable figures to certain elements of DC life helped. The two of you are cleared for the White House.”

  Hayden took a breath. “Are you sure?” she asked. “The first thing he did was revoke our special forces status.”

  “That’s true. But, without revealing too much over the airwaves, your old statuses weren’t exactly dead and only required the gentlest kiss of life to revive. There’s a great deal of confusion in Washington right now, and particularly around that house. The safe lists are changing literally by the hour. Adding a couple extra names already cleared wasn’t a great issue. especially—” he coughed “—when they’re going in with the Assistant Director of the FBI.”