Matt Drake 07 - Blood Vengeance (11 page)

Before Matt Drake entered the Hotel Lewison Park
, he took one more call. The initial plan was to ignore everything, get to the meeting, and find out what the hell was happening, but when he saw the caller ID he simply stopped and stared in disbelief.

“Bloody hell.
I don’t believe this.”

Dahl
looked over his shoulder like an annoying parrot. “You don’t believe what? Who is it this time?”

“Stop squawking.” Drake turned away and pushed the green button. The call connected instantly and, despite the distance, the voice that spoke
sounded crisp and clear.

“Is this Matt Drake?”

“Yes sir, Mr. Crouch. How are you?”

A moment of silence followed. Michael Crouch was
the highly respected leader of the British special ops unit known as the Ninth Division, a secret section that specialized in dangerous missions, usually involving traitors and extractions, and with the perpetual support of the SAS, though they could literally call on anyone inside the British Isles and more than a few outside the borders. Drake had not spoken to Crouch in eight years.

“Good, Drake, good.
We’re all gutted to hear about Sam and Jo. They were . . . stalwarts.” Crouch wasn’t a big speaker. What he had to say was usually summed up in just a few words. But the meaning behind them was always straight from the heart.

“Thank you, sir.” Drake wanted to say more, but with thoughts of Sam and Jo came thoughts of Ben and his parents, and Hayden, Mai and Alicia
, and everyone else who might be under threat from the Blood King. “They were.”

Crouch sighed.
“Been a while, Matt. Been a while. I’ve heard all about your latest exploits. Just remember, lad, you’re British.”

Drake knew Crouch wouldn
’t expand on that statement and, in any case, he didn’t have to. There was a certain reserve associated with and expected from a British soldier. The SPEAR team didn’t usually display it.

“Yes, sir.
Sorry, sir.” All the time he was thinking
what the hell are the Ninth Division calling me now for?

Drake waited. Crouch was the
deserved top dog of the supreme and most secret unit of the British Special Forces. He was the man everyone wanted on their side, many steps above what Wells had been. He hadn’t just called for a chat.

“What exactly are you into, lad?”

Drake stared at his reflection in a nearby window. He hadn’t expected that. “I’m not sure what you mean, sir.”

“We know about the Secretary of Defense, the President and Kovalenko.
But what’s the bastard’s plan? What’s the feel over there, Drake?”

The Brits were after an inside man
then, probably shitting themselves over in Whitehall in case the Blood King had any special plans for them. Crouch must be under immense pressure but, good man or not, Drake wouldn’t betray the people he worked for.

“We
’re heading into a meeting right now, sir,” he said. “After that, I’ll tell you what I can, but only that.”

Crouch sighed again.
“Thought you might say that. Here, you talk to him.”

Drake blinked at himself in the window.
What next?
Then the dulcet tones he remembered from many previous ops soothed their way across the airwaves.

“Hey, Matt.
Shelly here. How about lending us a hand on this one?”

Drake almost shivered. Shelly Cohen possessed the type of voice you might hear on a late night radio show
—sweet as honey, melodic and very comforting. She was the beating heart of the Ninth Division, warm but at the same time as hard as nails, your friend but always pushing you toward that next great goal. Along with Crouch the two were a formidable team.

“
Hi, Shelly. Always good to hear your voice. I told Crouch I’ll do what I can.”

“I see. Well, the PM has our balls in
a vice with this one. Anything you can do will help.”

Jesus,
he thought.
How can she make the phrase ‘balls in a vice’ sound so sexy?

“I will,” he said.
“For you. Um, for you all, I mean.”

“Of course.
Well, speak soon. And stay frisky.”

It was her motto, the phrase she used with the boys in the field when they were in harm
’s way. It was a double entendre of course, but one that helped endear her to every soldier. The other thing that defined her was her penchant to venture into the field quite regularly herself, often unsupported and on dangerous missions. Shelly Cohen was a bit of an unattainable legend back at the Ninth Division. Drake couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of her in eight years.

“Friskier than ever
,” he said, then realized she’d already hung up. Dahl was at his side, staring at him.

“Who are you talking to?
One of those sex-talk call centers?”

“Yeah
.” Drake pocketed the phone. “It was Swedish. Your wife answered.”

“Well, the VP is waiting
,” Dahl said impassively. “The wife will have to hang on.”

They trotted toward the heavily guarded hotel, IDs at the ready.

“Jesus, Drake,” Dahl said. “I thought we’d encountered almost everything. But this.” He shook his head. “All this that’s happening tonight. It just takes the fuckin’ gold medal for batshit crazy.”

“Don
’t worry,” Drake replied, stress thickening his Yorkshire accent. “We’re gonna find Kovalenko right quick and stick a grenade down his gob.”

Drake entered Conference
Room 1B not knowing what to expect. The first thing he noticed was the heavy security; at least twenty Secret Service agents stood around the raised dais at the end of the room when only half-a-dozen normally surrounded the President. They wore black suits and blue ties, and bore little gold pins on their lapels. To a man, a white earpiece dangled from their lobes and disappeared under their collars. Even more stood about the room, automatic weapons in full view. Drake knew the Army was gathering outside—several of its highest ranking officers were already here.

The room itself bustled with agents from every division, many stood around in groups discussing the crisis. Drake just hoped they weren
’t already deciding which poor bastard would take the fall for all this.

Several large TVs and monitors had been hastily erected above the stage, each one showing the face of an important
-looking individual, depicted by their uniforms, medals and bearing.

Dahl pointed to the dais. “You know any of those men?”

“No more than you. Vice President Dolan in the flesh. Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, Sanford, on telly. I bet those guys are the other Joint Chiefs. Not sure about the rest.”

Dahl nodded to a sandy
-haired man to the far right. “I know him. Commandant of the Marine Corps, Tom Liddell. Good man.”

Drake glanced across the room and headed over to the water table. Several jugs were scattered about and he helped himself to a glass. As he drank
, the Vice President rose and called for quiet. The casual unceremonious way in which he did it confirmed as much as anything the level of threat they were up against.

“My friends, I don
’t have long here. The Secret Service are about to whisk me off.” He waited until every last murmur subsided. “They would rather I be long gone already. But I wanted to say—this will not stand. This is free American soil, my friends, and
no one
will dictate to us our way of life. This is free American soil, hard-fought for by every serviceman and woman every day of their lives. This is free American soil, and we
will
fight for it tooth and nail, blood and bone, until every last breath has been forced from our bodies. We will fight and we will never stop, for our way of life, for our dignity, our honor, and for our children.”

The Vice
President nodded and turned away, quickly surrounded by the Secret Service. The room erupted into applause. Drake put down his glass to join in, and Dahl clapped loudly at his side. After a minute, another man spoke, the Deputy Secretary of Defense, William Massey.

Massey
, on camera, held up a remote control and flicked it at his own screen. A blank TV at the front of the room glimmered into life. “This is what happened a few minutes ago.”

Drake watched as,
unbelievably, Dmitry Kovalenko, seated beside President Coburn, calmly laid down a four-word challenge to every serviceman, cop or gung-ho citizen in the United States.

“
Come and get me.”

Massey
leaned into the camera, but another voice spoke up first. The voice of the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, John Sanford.

“
It must never be said that the United States watched indolently when we were tested. We will not stand in disarray and watch a public execution. By God, we will accept that bastard’s challenge and go get our president.”

Now Massey held up a hand. “But first we need
your
input.” He acknowledged every man and woman in the room. “You were all brought here today—and yes, some are still en route—because of your past service to this country and the special skills you can bring to the table. This—” he clicked an unseen button. “Is the blueprint of the Hotel Dillion. It is overlaid with every known facelift and upgrade. Put your heads together, gentlemen. We’re going in to get President Coburn within the hour.”

Mai Kitano
turned her back on the small picturesque bridge where she had met Gyuki only when she was sure the master assassin had left the area. She made her way warily out of the park and around to the prearranged meeting point with Dai Hibiki. The terse little Japanese agent was waiting for her and spoke as soon as she approached the open window of his car.

“What did he say?”

Mai waited until she had climbed into the front seat and sat down. She remained suspicious. The parking area was very public, jam-packed with dog-walkers, shoppers and people on their lunch breaks, but such manic activity could just as easily hide a tail as reveal one.

“They have my parents. They won
’t let me go, Dai.”

Her friend gripped the bridge of his nose.
“Your parents? Good God. Even Chika doesn’t know where they are.”

“Chika disowned them when she found out what they had done to me.
That decision only piled one more heartbreak upon them. It doesn’t matter why or how, it only matters now that the Clan have them.”

“Where?”

“Their village.” Mai shrugged. “I have no idea where it is.”

“But you do have a plan?”

“Yes and no.” Mai sighed. “It’s not only my parents they are threatening. It’s Chika, and you. And me. If I follow my plan to the end, a lot of people will get hurt, and not all of them deservedly.”

“This may help.” Hibiki switched the car
’s radio on. A news channel, NHK World Radio Japan, was reporting that the President of the United States had been abducted and played a recording of Dmitry Kovalenko’s challenge. Mai stared through the car’s windscreen and into the middle distance, unseeing.

“I should be there.
It is bad enough that I do not know the fate of all my friends. Now, they also have to deal with this.”

Hibiki squeezed her shoulder. “There is no shame in fighting here
too. You are still fighting for your family and friends.”

Mai nodded. “You
’re right. My fear is unfounded.” She put a hand out and patted his knee. “Be careful, my friend. Keep Chika safe and look after yourself.”

Hibiki scowled. “What does that mean? Surely you can
’t—”

“I
’m doing this alone.” Mai said quietly and forcefully. “For one, you need deniability. And more, I need you with Chika. If this goes down the way I see it . . . you may never see me again, Dai.”

Hibiki swallowed hard but said nothing.

Mai reached for the door catch, still clutching the file Gyuki had given her and already planning her next move. She paused as Hibiki began to speak.

“I remember you,” he said softly.
“From the first few months around the office to that damn Coscon where you took out the whole of the local Yakuza. I was there, I know, and I helped, but you came through, Mai. You took the risks, you stole the show. Deservedly, you became a legend.”

“Thank you.”

“That damn costume,” he chuckled. “When you walked into the station dressed in that cosplay outfit there wasn’t a stick of work done for a whole six minutes. And even when you were kicking the Yakuza from here to hell and back, not one of them knew whether to worship, fight or photograph you. An honorable respectful real-life super hero.”

Mai cracked open the door.

“Whatever you have to do,” Hibiki said to her back. “Make it moral and honorable, and make it count.”

*****

Mai travelled by taxi to Tokyo Bay, ignoring the file Gyuki had provided, instead gazing through the grimy window at the busy sidewalks and streets she knew so well. Barely an inch of road was visible beneath the myriad buses, cars, bicycles and minivans which flew in all directions. Trees lined the streets, masses of scooters parked beneath their overhanging branches. Long, colorful banners hung down the side of every shop front and from the buildings above, advertising everything from sex to sushi. The noise was filtered by the closed window, but Mai’s ears still reverberated from the din outside. The taxi driver had the radio tuned into NHK so Mai asked him to turn it up.

“No further details at this point, though it is known that Vice President Dolan is currently in
crisis talks with the Joint Chiefs and members of the Cabinet. To recap, the YouTube broadcast by the man known as the Blood King, Dmitry Kovalenko, subsequently removed, is thought to be genuine. We—”

Mai tuned out, her thoughts with
Drake and the rest of the team. By the time the taxi had threaded its way over to Tokyo Bay, her calm center was anything but. Of all the times for something so critical to happen . . .

Mai comforted herself with the knowledge that she had been able to save Chika, and that Hibiki too was safe.
She paid the taxi driver and stepped out into a stiff Tokyo breeze blowing in across the bay. A tiny coffee shop stood forlornly on a nearby corner, scruffy tables and chairs, and indeed the entire trashy façade, in need of enhancement, but offering just the kind of anonymity Mai needed. She paid for a bottle of water and sat down, opening the file. An initial glance had already told her where her target was likely to be for the next three hours. Now it was time to read and digest the rest.

Akio
Hayami was a local businessman, chiefly an accountant, who laundered money for the Clan. They wanted rid of him because of ‘anomalies’. It was that simple, except Mai knew it would be anything but. The Clan would not furnish her with the full picture, only with what they thought was in their own interests. The Clan would never change for the better.

Mai read the information, scrutinizing every last detail of the man,
Hayami. On paper, he looked guilty, just as much a criminal as most of the inmates of Fuchu, but Mai held her judgment. The problem was, what other choice did she have? The job, according to the file, was to isolate Hayami and make him ‘disappear’. That was it. No questioning, no investigation. They were, quite simply, ordering her to commit murder.

Mai
sat back, casting her gaze across the bay. Blue water rolled and undulated out there, the wave tops caught by the sun and made to glitter. White yachts dotted its surface, tacking into the wind. Closer at hand, dozens of various-sized vessels lay at rest, tied up to the nearest dock. Hayami would be on one of these, alone, working for the Clan. Mai cast her own eye down the figures. Hayami was well paid for his work. If he was cooking the books, he was a greedy, stupid man who probably deserved all he got. But then, he was helping one of the most ruthlessly efficient and murderous groups in the world. Mai wondered if Hayami even knew what they did to survive. He was not one of their vicious bunch, and was far removed from their terrifyingly bloodthirsty inner circle.
Did he deserve to die?

Mai put her morals aside.
What choice do I have?
The only way into their village was with Gyuki, and the only way to fool Gyuki was not to fool him at all. She had to go through with this.

Mai finished the last of her water and rose, eyeing the slips where yachts were docked.
Signage told her that Hayami’s boat was moored behind the coffee shop to the right, and her careful surveillance of that area whilst drinking the water told her that only one CCTV stanchion overlooked it. Mai wandered warily over, eyeing the camera and trailing wire as she approached. The coaxial cable dangled loose and flapped intermittently against the metal stanchion. Mai leaned against it, pretending to look through her mobile, and quickly cut through the wires with a small foldaway knife.

One thing about the advent of mobile phones
, she reflected,
They make loitering around appear so much more authentic.

She continued
along the dock, unsure how quickly the guards would respond, if indeed there were any live guards and the whole thing wasn’t run by automaton. Hayami’s yacht swayed and swelled a little way down, gleaming white under the lowering late-afternoon sun. The deck was empty, but she thought she could spy lights on inside. She cast about, seeing no signs of anyone but figures in the distance. Gyuki, she was sure, would be somewhere around, but she held out little hope of being able to spot him.

Mai walked down the slip alo
ngside the yacht, secured the file, and pulled herself aboard. Without sound she padded toward the back of the boat, careful to stay low and cast no shadows across the wide windows. At one point she ended up crawling, but eventually came around a blind corner and saw the rear sliding doors standing slightly open. To her right, a winding staircase led to the upper deck. Mai crawled forward, waiting behind a conveniently located potted plant, and tried to peer through the smoked glass. Beyond the doors was a small aft deck, dominated by an eight-sided table, more flowers and a small leather sofa. If Mai’s yacht knowledge was any good, the doors beyond the aft deck would lead to the saloon and wet bar. Hayami probably liked to drown his sorrows in there while working for bad men.

Quickly, she slipped through the smoked
-glass doors and skirted the polished table. Through the second set of doors, she discerned the bright glow of a computer screen and the shadow of a man sitting in front of it. The man’s head was bowed, held between both hands, and the crystal tumbler at his side was empty but for a few cubes of ice.

Mai cracked the last set of doors, poised in case they made any sound, mindful that the
Clan may even have devised this scenario as an elaborate trap. The fastest way out was by following a chair through one of the side windows and out into the bay, but no one stepped forward.

Mai advanced all the way until she could almost touch
Hayami on the shoulder. She paused, riddled with doubt, but there was no going back now. She prepared to punch one of the nerve clusters at the base of Hayami’s neck, took a breath, and then paused.

The file had not mentioned children.

Nestled beside Hayami’s computer, inside a tiny silver frame, sat a photo of the man and two teenagers. The resemblance was undeniable. Hayami swung around at that point, perhaps sensing her presence or catching a reflection. The man’s eyes were huge.

“Who
. . . who are you?”

“
You have children?” Mai remained poised.

“Y
. . . yes. Emiko, my girl, and Jien, my boy.”

“How old are they?” Mai was playing for time, thinking hard.

“Emiko—she is sixteen. Jien is eighteen. Why?”

Hayami
raised his hands and stood up slowly. There was nowhere for him to go, and he didn’t even try to conceal his work.

Mai fought to
hide her trepidation. “You know why I’m here?”

“The
. . . the Tsugarai?”

Mai felt a rush of distaste at the very mention of the name. For her, it remained unspeakable. “You have angered them.”

“I’ve done nothing wrong!” Hayami looked flustered. “For them, I mean. I clean their money. I don’t even know what they
do.”

“Then you should ask more questions
,” Mai hissed. “If only to test your conscience. If only to ensure you don’t end up in Hell.”

Hayami
’s mouth worked but no sound came forth. Mai set her jaw. “What did you do to anger them?”

“Nothing!
I swear, I would never do anything to upset the Tsugarai.”

“I thought you didn
’t know what they did. You are lying to me.”

“I don
’t. But, the men they send—” Hayami shuddered. “I would not want to upset them.”

Mai studied the man. For the most part she thought he was telling the truth, but
Hayami wasn’t being completely honest. If he’d met several clan members he must have guessed they weren’t exactly video game programmers. If he was capable of one lie to her face he was capable of more.

She shook her head.
“I don’t believe you.”

She struck and he fell, dead before he hit the floor. All she was left with was
utter silence, the gentle sway of the yacht, and the face and eyes of his children, staring almost accusingly from within the confines of their small frame.

Her
thoughts turned to Gyuki and the clan village where her parents were being held.