Brothers In Arms (Matt Drake 5) (18 page)

The marines who had died on the
airplane. The pilot. And so many more.

“So far. . .we haven’t stopped
,” he said. “And it’s served us well. We’ve still a long way to go so. . .fuck it.”

He swerved the car, revved t
he accelerator, and tore toward the shabby gates. Metal shrieked as they smashed apart, bolts and hinges sent skimming across the roughly concreted yard. The car crashed through. Part of the left hand gate caught on its luggage-rack, flapping to and fro and scraping across the trunk.

Drake
blasted toward the main cabin.

*****

Hayden stared at the truck driver. “You know Audrey Smalls?” Could it be coincidence?

“Yep.
Lovely woman. I met her at the Desert Palms hotel in Atlantic City. She didn’t mention what she did for a living I can’t believe she’s dead.”

“Wait.” Now Lauren sat rigid. “The Desert Palms? That’s where
I
stayed. Bit ritzy for an ordinary trucker though. No offense.”

“Well,
offense taken. So fuck right off, lady. The place offers a discount to regulars like me. ”

“She’s no lady
. . .” Ben must have agreed with the trucker, but Hayden held up a hand that immediately stopped his flow.

“The Desert Palms.” She stabbed a button, progressing
the information at a fast pace until Walter Clarke’s schedule came up. A tremor of delight shot through her.

“
Our insurance salesman did his east coast run that week too.” She pointed though she didn’t have to. “Stayed at the Desert Palms on January 10
th
. He was victim number two.”

“Dunno when it was
,” Stevens said. “Sounds good. And yes, I remember Walter too. Tell me, is the next victim a bank clerk named Michelle Baker? She used to visit A.C. once a year for a big casino blowout.”

Hayden stared, dumbfounded.

The truck driver looked sad. “I think I know what this is all about.”

*****

Drake skidded the car to a sudden halt. The swinging gate gained momentum and flew from the top of the car, hitting the cabin doors with a loud bang and breaking windows. Glass shattered and cascaded to the gravel-strewn ground as Drake and Romero jumped out of the car, leaving the doors open and the engine running. Drake prepped his gun, a PKM variant Kalashnikov, 7.62 caliber, modernized for light use. Not the best weapon, but not bad at short notice.

He hit the steps, Romero at his side, and kicked the door hard. It buckled immediately, locked from the inside. Another kick and it flew open.

A man was running at him, bloody wood saw held high.

“Fuck me.” Romero breathed.

Drake blew him away with a quick burst. His body shot backward, slamming against a jam-packed rack of shelving. Screwdrivers and packets of nails rained down nosily. Hammers, tape measures and boxes of screws hit the floor and landed on the dead man. Drake hurried through an open archway into the back of the cabin. Three short rows of desks faced him. Beyond them was a big office, its walls oddly papered with what looked like old maps and diagrams.

Big men in leather jackets and jeans were squeezing though a small door, hampered by their size.
Once through, they came running at the intruders like huge grizzly’s, arms spread wide, mouths screaming above their bushy black beards.

Behind them, an even bigger Russian appeared, stripped to the waist, more hair on his chest than an
y 80s rocker had on his head, flexing muscles and growling with disdain. Drake blasted the first wave. Romero stepped to the side and picked off the stragglers. Men fell everywhere, some landing right at Drake’s feet through momentum and just plain toughness, able to take more bullets than an armored car and still keep coming.

One of them landed a blow. It glanced off Drake’s shoulder, but still numbed it. More men piled out of the office. Now, past them,
a great round table could be seen as well as the man strapped to it. Arms stretched unnaturally, head pulled right back to expose the throat. The man was in agony. Blood dripped from all his limbs. Arranged around him were yet more men.

Drake emptied his clip.
A Russian tackled him around the waist, dead before he even hit the floor. But Drake staggered back and found himself stabbing at his next opponent with the barrel of his gun. It was a good prod, taking the man in the windpipe and making him double over, gurgling. Romero picked off the next two.

The way forward was open, albeit littered with dead and half-dead bodies.
Drake and Romero made it to the office door, at the same time trying to make sense of the strange maps that papered the walls, before the hairy Russian ambled out, grinning like a maniac.

“So!”
he rumbled. “The famous Matt Drake. Like your James Bond, no? Why you come to Mother Russia?”

“You know me?” Drake faltered.

“Like I said. You famous man. Bang, bang.” He made the motions of firing a pistol. “You take down Dmitry, am I right? You take away his dream as well. Don’t worry, Matt Drake. You are famous here. For that, I only kill you a little.”

Drake sidestepped as the hairy Russian lunged, but the man was amazingly fast.
One huge, meaty paw grabbed a handful of Drake’s jacket, and thumped him sideways against the flimsy wall. Drake hit it so hard the plaster caved in, sending white puffs of spray into the air. One of the ancient maps rolled down over his head.

Drake’s gun clattered to the floor.
Romero was busy holding off two more Russians as the monster came on, reaching for Drake.

“
Name’s
Zanko!”
The Russian sounded like the announcer at a circus introducing a new act. “Most days I eat an American for breakfast but for you. . .” A shrug made the crazy physique ripple and swell alarmingly. “I make exception.”

Enormous hands grabbed the front of Drake’s jacket, lifting him into the air until his feet left the ground. Drake, still winded, could do nothing as the Russian pinned him to the wall.
“Vladimir!” the man bellowed. “Vladimir! Bring me my hammer and nails!”

Gunshots split the air as Romero took out his opponents. A third hit him hard, riddled
with lead but still coming strong. Romero went flying across a desk, his gun clattering to the floor. They were hopelessly outnumbered, Drake thought furiously. This wasn’t a fucking satellite drop-off for a trafficking ring. It was the base of a major operation. Most likely the base for several major operations. Strength flooded back into his body and he started to struggle. The Russian, Zanko, knitted bushy brows that met in the middle.

“You English
,” he scoffed. “I could still hold you there with one hand. See?” And Zanko switched grips, now pinning Drake’s body with just his left paw, a grin stretching his face that went from ear to ear.

Drake evaluated the situation whilst waiting for Vladimir to find Zanko’s hammer. The office at the back was clearly the hub of the place, the O.C. The tied and hopelessly stretched out man still lay across the table, panting shallowly. Half a dozen Russians still stood around his body, no doubt discussing methods of interrogation or assessing information already gleaned.
Since the room had emptied somewhat, Drake could now see a grizzled old man sat right at the back below a heavily barred window, watching proceedings without movement but with sharp, hawk-like eyes.

The eyes locked on Drake as if sensing the attention,
but nothing changed in the face, not even the faint folding of a cavernous wrinkle. The old man’s exposed neck was a mass of dark tattoos.

Two more big men stood at his side, assessing matters right along with him. Drake revised his appraisal of this place. Maybe it was
the
HQ for this organization. It certainly appeared important, what with all the old maps and diagrams everywhere. He noted now even more ancient-looking scrolls spread out over the desks. Something was definitely being investigated here. He recalled the Korean soldiers claim about the Russians making some great archaeological discovery lately. Something about the gods and ancient towers, something immense.

Now Zanko shook him as if noticing his inattention. “It will get a little more interesting in just one minute, small man.”

Romero groaned to his right. Drake saw a high spray of blood. Grief knifed through his gut.
No!
The marine was a good soldier and a good man, caught up Drake’s run of bad luck by mischance alone. He didn’t deserve. . .

Then Romero rolled out from under the desk holding a knife, face and hair dripping. It was he who had struck the blow. He pulled a pistol
and aimed it at Zanko.

But the mons
ter Russian was quicker than either of them gave him credit for. Without even looking—perhaps watching the reflections in Drake’s eyes—he swung out and backhanded Romero across the face. The marine literally flew, legs and arms flapping, the width of the office and smashed into the far wall.

There he collapsed, unmoving.

Drake began to kick wildly. He swung at Zanko with both arms, landing a strong blow across the jaw.

A man came up to them carrying a well-used hammer and a packet of four-inch nails. “Here you are, Zanko.
Don’t take too long. We’re due to open for business in one hour.”

Zanko gr
inned even wider. “I only need one minute.”

*****

Hayden blinked at the truck driver. “You know what this is all about?”

“
Well, some of it, I guess. I met those three, your first victims.” He said the last word in a whisper, as if scared it might spell out his own doom. “We ran into each other one night, all complete strangers, in a bar at the Desert Palms. It were one of those once in a lifetime connections, ya know? Total strangers meet and bond and have the night of their lives. Done some good nights in my life, guys, but nothin’ like that ’un.”

“What happened?” Kinimaka asked.

Stevens stared into space, thinking back. “Y’know. Nothin’. Nothin’ bad anyways. It were all about the conversation, the jokin’ around, the beer. The stories. We didn’t barely leave the bar.”

Hayden considered it for a while, then turned to Lauren. “Why don’t you tell us your story
? Maybe we’ll get a link.”

Lauren brushed her hair back. “Well, sure.
The agency booked the gig, if you know what I mean. We don’t do names, except stage names. For this I was Nightshade, a kind of dominatrix.”

No one spoke. Lauren hurried on.
“There were two clients. Not unusual. I was treated well and driven home the next day. The only remarkable event was that I was treated with complete respect by both men and nothing sleazy happened.”

“Nothing sleazy?” Ben sputtered. “You just said you were a dom
—”

“That’s business.” Lauren interjected. “It’s expected.
But there are rules that should be followed. Safe words. Guide lines as to procedure, tolerance and, frankly, when to stop. Usually. . .” She sighed. “They want to take it further than the parameters allow. They want nasty things which I ain’t about to go into. They push for more and it can get ugly.
That’s
sleaze.”

Hayden glanced at the secret video camera that had been installed in the conference room high up in a corner. She knew Gates was watching from his office on the Hill.
His interest in Lauren Fox was a little odd to say the least.

Hurriedly, she quelled those thoughts.
“Tell us more about the two men?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary
. Both rich. One an American, the other Chinese, I think. The American was tall, well-built. The Chinese guy short and wide. One time—” She half-laughed. “As our session became more in-depth, another Chinese guy barged into the room and asked a question. It sounded like a request, you know? When the first guy answered—totally breaking character—the second saluted and rushed away.”

“Wait.” Dahl held up a hand. “When you say Chinese. Could he have been Korean?”

Lauren made a face. “I guess.”

Hayden caught Ben’s eye. “
Bring up a list of prominent Korean officials.”

“Oh God.” Stevens suddenly began muttering. “Oh dear God. That’s it.”

Kinimaka glanced toward Hayden before addressing the truck driver. “That’s
what?”

“It were earlier that night. Some kid told us
’bout a free private dining room. Hotel normally charges a bundle for ’em. We was drunk and happy enough even by then to think it a good idea. So we went looking.” Stevens sniffed. “Didn’t think nothin’ of it at the time. We barged into this room—a well-dressed American and a chinaman—or mebbe Korean. The Korean was wearing a jacket full of medals. Looked pretty official like, I dunno, an officer maybe? They seemed shocked when we rushed in. A few bodyguards herded us out like goats. We laughed about it, then went back to the bar, giving up on the idea of the private room. Oh crap. Is that it?”

Ben turned his laptop around, the s
creen partially filled by a man’s face. “That him?”