Read Matt Drake 07 - Blood Vengeance Online
Authors: David Leadbeater
Drake hotfooted it back to the Hotel Lewison Park and Conference Room 1B just as Kovalenko’s latest demands were being discussed. The buck stopped with the VP, but all the Joint Chiefs and their aides, several Chiefs of Staff, the FBI, and others were involved in a hot debate.
“Let him go,” said the White House Chief of Staff. “We can track it and the President with ease. Where can they go?”
“With all due respect,” the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs muttered. “This is a military operation. You can’t—”
“John.” The Vice P
resident waved him down. “I asked everyone for their input here.”
“You can’t let the bastard go,” the Secretary of the Army said. “It’ll send a message to every potential
nutball out there—‘c’mon boys, it’s open season on the US’.”
“Where would it end?” someone else put in.
Drake saw the VP had now been joined in his secure location by various military leaders, not all of whom were on the monitor.
“Let it take off and shoot it down,” the Secretary of the Army
proposed, his face as hard as Kevlar.
Several faces blanched. The VP’s voice
rose an octave. “With the President on board? You can’t be serious.”
“They’ve tricked us more than once today,” the Secretary said. “Who’s to say what else Kovalenko has up his sleeve?”
“Does anyone have another suggestion?” the VP asked. “Preferably something that doesn’t involve killing the President?”
“Track it. Follow it.” Tom Liddell, the Commandant of the Marine Corps, said firmly. “And accept that Kovalenko isn’t finished yet. Not by a long way. But he will slip up. I believe we should try to contact Agent Marnich and offer him a deal.
It is possible he’s realized the error of his ways and is looking for a way out. And . . . the man does have family. I also—” Liddell paused as the VP gasped.
“Tom. Are you suggesting—
”
Liddell half smiled. “Sir, this is not television. I wouldn’t condone terrorizing a man’s family, no matter what he’s done. I simply meant that he may want to protect his family name.”
Drake leaned over towards Dahl. “Give Kovalenko some rope and he
will
hang himself.”
“It’s not in their playbook to risk the President’s life,” Dahl returned. “They’ll struggle with it. But eventually, they’ll agree
to track the chopper. There is no other choice.”
Drake looked around. “So like it or not, we’re redundant. Maybe it’s time to start looking after our own.”
Dahl pursed his lips in thought. “That actually makes sense. Which is strange, coming from you.”
Drake ignored the gentle ribbing as his cellphone vibrated. Quickly, he moved to the back of the room and fished it out. “Yes?”
“It’s me. Where the hell are you? I’m outside the Lewison. Even the SPEAR ID won’t get me inside.”
“Alicia? You’re in DC? Has it been that long?”
“I only came from Germany, dickhead. Now get your arse out here and find me.”
Drake listen
ed as she narrowed her location down. He didn’t try to cheer her up or console her, just took it all in and then signaled Dahl over. “Alicia’s arrived.”
“Shit. Now there’ll be trouble.”
The two men exited Conference Room 1B and left the hotel through a side door. Other members of the assault team were milling about outside, some staring at the skies or texting loved ones, but most were watching the eleventh floor of the Hotel Dillion, wondering what was going to happen next.
Drake breathed deeply, taking a moment to relax. He hadn’t even begun to assimilate most of the night’s events yet. And now here came a blue-eyed blond-haired warzone, stalking right up to him with half-a-dozen dilapidated bikers in tow.
“I’m sorry, Alicia,” he said straight away. “About Lomas.”
“Thanks. Sorry about Ben and . . .”
Drake knew there were too many casualties to list right now. He nodded at the bikers. “Did many survive?”
“Not even enough for a good fuckin’ orgy.”
Drake shook his head. “Well, not by your standards anyway.”
Dahl pushed past to pull Alicia into a hug. The blond woman allowed it for a few seconds,
then pulled away. “Hayden? Mano?”
“We don’t know.” Drake waved at the scene around them. “It’s been hell around here.”
“Shit. I leave you alone for one friggin’ week and you lose half of America.”
“Not quite.” Drake looked to his phone. “Now let’s—”
But at that moment a chopper blasted low overhead. Drake looked up, glimpsing what looked like a Sikorsky S-92: an executive chopper which could hold several men in luxury. He watched as the bird hovered over the Dillion; a perched beast.
“They gave him the bird,” Dahl said,
not surprised.
Drake tuned back into reality, dipping his head and tapping the ear mic. The transmissions were still
coming through strong and dispersed throughout the attendant teams.
“Chopper has arrived. Repeat, chopper has arrived. Wait ten. Wait ten.”
“Ground units, make ready. Teams Alpha, Bravo, Echo—ground units make ready.”
Drake pinched the bridge of hi
s nose. “That’s us. We’re part of Team Bravo,” he said. “Bollocks. Looks like they want us to track the chopper’s progress from the ground.”
Dahl shrugged.
“Makes sense, mate. It’s another failsafe. They have plenty of other ways to track it through the air.”
“I’m coming with you.” Alicia looked prepared to knock out the closest SWAT team member in order to get his kit. The man saw her eyeing him up and warily backed away. Drake radioed for another set of gear.
“You can’t bring the Motherfuckers.”
“That’s
not
their name. Don’t let ‘em hear you calling them that, Drakey.”
The chopper slowly settled onto the roof of the Dillion, its huge rotors in constant motion. Drake assumed Kovalenko, his men, and the President were heading topside, but the command center would know for sure. They could follow Coburn through the tracker implanted in his body.
Minutes passed. Alicia quickly suited up and then went to speak briefly to the remainder of the gang. The ground units began assembling around the plaza surrounding the Lewison Park, checking weapons and gear. Dawn had broken over DC and the skies were lightening by the minute. Clouds sped overhead, chased by chill errant breezes. A severe moon watched over it all, as desolate as the heart of the country. Drake imagined how many Americans were waking up right now and going straight to their TVs, ignoring preparations for the school run and the morning commute; and how many others had persisted through the night; and how many more around the world.
The ex-SAS man braced himself against a sudden shiver, not sure if it was the creeping cold wind or the state of his mind. On top of all this he was still snowed under with unresolved questions. How was Mai faring in Tokyo? How the hell could she hope t
o defeat a clan of Ninja assassins? Were their friends and team mates in DC still alive? How was Hayden? The last they’d heard, she’d been close to death.
And on the back burner, still a raging craving inferno of need, were the unanswered questions surrounding Coyote. Did clues remain in Zoya’s house? Every minute they spent not investigating was another minute when evidence might disappear. And did it all really matter? Through the last six months they had faced one crisis after another. He had started to wonder if the emergencies would ever end.
But Jonathan Gates’ death changed everything. The Secretary had been the driving force behind the construction of the SPEAR team and the primary glue that held it all together.
What next?
“Hustle up,” the comms barked in his ear. “Chopper’s lifting off.”
Drake sprang into action. Dahl and Alicia ran by h
is side as he re-joined Team Bravo and hurried toward a cluster of parked vehicles. Humvees all, they had been provided by the Army and were military spec, all with Up-Armor capabilities. Drake caught a glimpse of the tracking system as he climbed in. It seemed even the President of the United States could be reduced to a flashing red dot these days.
“Wait a minute,” Alicia said as she settled. “They can’t have sealed off every road in DC. What happens when the chopper flies over a traffic jam or something?”
“That’s why there are three teams,” a man seated beside her said. “And more birds in the air than kites at the Blossom Kite Festival. Plus re-tasked satellites, infra-red, and some toys that ain’t even been made public yet. We won’t lose the President again.”
Drake kept his silence. One thing was certain, if Kovalenko could snatch Coburn from under the noses of the elite Secret Service, then he could get him out of DC. “You know,” he said. “If Kovalenko hadn’t hit our HQ and our team we’d know the bastard’s plan by now
. Karin would have used his own men to get close.”
“We’re all hopping
around on our back foot,” Dahl agreed. “But the FBI will be on top of that, mate, I’m sure.”
“Let’s hope.” Drake peered out the window and saw the Sikorsky lifting off. Straight away it veered onto a northwesterly course and the comms system yowled into life.
“Ground units. This is command. Take Constitution to Virginia and await further instructions. All roads as far north as F Street and east to 21
st
are clear.”
In addition, more teams were ordered back into the hotel, this time to perform a meticulous sweep. Every scenario had been imagined.
The Humvee lurched forward, propelled by a heavy nervy right foot. The seated men clutched their weapons harder, muttering. The black vehicles, five in total, blasted up the wide road between stately buildings and rows of bare trees, aiming for the fork that would take them to Virginia. A convoy of vehicles followed, many loaded with men in army uniforms. All around them stood empty streets, empty sidewalks, and closed buildings; to their left stood the floodlit, scaffold-surrounded Washington Monument, stunning by night or by day; on every roof sat an ‘eye in the sky’, a sniper with a spotter beside him, ears attuned to the comms. The route of the chopper was being tracked at every level and by every means. Drake started to wonder what Kovalenko would pull next to cover his escape.
The possibilities scared him. One thing was sure—it would go down in history.
The Sikorsky flew unhindered through the dawn skies, carrying with it the nightmares, hopes and immediate future of the United States.
Drake watched it fly straight as they sped up Virginia Avenue.
The road was like most in DC: wide and practical and straight. The way forward was perfectly clear as they passed statues and offices, heading into the university area. As far as F Street the way stood clear, but beyond that the driver was already calling for the DC cops to stop more traffic. The operation was entirely fluid; the chopper could change course at any time but, unless the VP and his advisors wanted to sacrifice President Coburn, this was as tight as it was going to get.
Alicia craned her neck. “Dammit. We’d have been better off taking the bikes.”
“Bikes already had riders,” Dahl told her. “Trained ones.”
The five-vehicle convoy shot up Virginia past
Anniversary Park and the F Street turn-off without slowing down. Not surprisingly, the streets were quiet this morning. Drake stared. “Is it starting to come down?”
Instantly, every man and woman slid over to the right-side windows. The Sikorsky was losing altitude and fast. Drake watched the tracker and the blinking red dot, overlaid by a 3D map of Washington DC. The dot was descending into a wide green
ish circle.
“What is that place?”
The driver clicked his fingers and threw the vehicle up New Hampshire Avenue. “That’s Washington Circle Park. Good cover. Four exits. And then a shitload of roads leading away. A ton of getaway scenarios. Can’t believe that madman’s coming down in DC.”
Dahl leaned forward. “How many roads
is a shitload exactly?”
“
Dunno. Eight maybe.”
“That does qualify as a shitload. Get your foot down, driver.”
Dahl sat back, stroking his chin. Drake shook his head. “From now on you should start all your sentences with ‘I’m sorry, I’m Swedish, but . . .’”
“Only if you start yours, ‘I’m a dumb Yorkshire knob’.”
The Sikorsky continued to descend. All eyes were fixed to the hovering chopper and its vague, indistinct payload. Team Bravo had hands on every door, weapons ready, and total focus. Their driver squealed to a stop at the top of 23
rd
Street outside an orange-signed Burger Tap and Shake, on the crosswalk between black iron glass-topped signal poles. The seven-story brick edifice of the George Washington University Hospital stood to their left, identified by its big black signage and fronted by holly trees and planters. The Washington Circle was empty of traffic, a surreal sight even at the quietest of times, but the park inside the sizeable roundabout was anything but.
Drake leapt out of the vehicle, chasing the first two teams who were already pounding across the road and through the nearest
wide entrance. Broad grass strips and big sycamores and oaks stood all around, barren but still hampering their efforts and obstructing their vision. A four-foot-tall, chain-link fence ringed the interior of the park. Drake saw the usual water fountains, black trash cans, and black iron benches as he rushed along, all apparently designed to complement the tall broad-based street-lights that had colonized most of central DC.
Gunfire erupted ahead, bullets flying in all directions. Drake doubted it was the attacking force and flung himsel
f behind the nearest waste basket. When he chanced a momentary glance, a scene of bizarre and deadly chaos met his eyes.
The chopper rested on its skids, its rotors spinning at full speed, the resulting wash buffeting
hard at anything nearby. The horsed bronze statue of George Washington stood just behind, sword bared, the horse’s green nostrils barely out of rotor range. Six men knelt in a circle around the chopper, guns raised, firing indiscriminately. Four more men stood by the open chopper door.
Everyone wore identical
black suits, gloves and balaclavas. It was impossible to tell who was who. The shooters might be prime targets, but Drake knew it would be a brave man who fired on them for fear of a luckless ricochet or even a through and through that might strike Coburn.
Before the attackers had time to settle or take stock, a shout went up from one of the men surrounding Kovalenko, maybe even the Blood King himself. Instantly, the whole contingent started to run.
“What the—” Alicia blurted.
But Drake was watching carefully. The four men nearest the chopper were joined by one shooter and broke to the south, the closest point to his position. Two other men broke to the northwest, and the remaining three to the southwest. All ran for park exits, firing hard as they went. Two unlucky soldiers took bullets, folding where they stood. In each fleeing group one man did not fire. Even now, they couldn’t tell each man apart. Would the techs at command be able to pinpoint the President’s signal?
“Hold fire!” the call screamed through the comms.
“Hold yer damn fire!”
Fleet of foot, the Blood King and his men disseminated through the park. Reports came in through the comms from all surrounding areas, between the snipers and spotters on the roofs and the teams on the ground, the FBI trackers and the countless army patrols. It was more a case of too much information than too little.
Drake watched the craziness unfold, making a fast decision. “That group.” He indicated the cluster of five men, but looked to the Team Bravo leader before moving. The man nodded quickly, not consulting his comms. It was fast becoming clear that someone’s decision-making capabilities were somewhat lacking.
“Trust the goddamn suits,” he muttered as he pushed past Drake. The team crossed a paved area and ran onto a concreted exit path. Bullets slammed into a man’s vest, sending him to his knees with a grunt. Drake understood it was an unusual situation. No one could fire on Kovalenko’s men, but at the same time Kovalenko couldn’t directly threaten the President. What the hell else did the man have up his sleeve?
Choppers thundered overhead. Army vehicles screeched to a halt at hastily erected police barriers all around the Circle. Like gasoline on fire, this was a situation fast raging out of control. Drake pursued the fleeing group, Dahl and Alicia at his side. When he turned to them he noticed, for the first time since she’d returned, the fresh scars on Alicia’s face.
“Looks like you put up a major battle.”
Alicia’s eyes were windows looking onto a black death. “These,” she said, rubbing a hand across her cheeks. “I’m proud of.”
Drake jumped off a curb, now crossing the road. The fires of dread burned bright in his heart. They couldn’t care for all
of their people right now.
He
couldn’t care for them. Not even Mai. Sometimes silence was seen as inaction, but today it was an imperative.
The five-man terrorist group r
an carefully but quickly alongside buildings. If the President was one of them, then he was under a constant threat of some kind. Drake rounded a corner, ducking back as gray stone exploded where bullets struck. Another team member went down, wounded.
“Orders?” the team leader repeated into his comms. “What are my orders?”
Kovalenko’s men slowed alongside the big hospital building and threw a grenade at a shop front, blowing out the doors and proving they had more than just guns in their arsenal. The team charged inside. Drake pulled up close by, noticing the green Starbucks sign.
“This part of their plan?”
“Good friggin’ idea,” Alicia said. “An extra-hot latte might just save my bollocks from freezing off out here.”
On
e of the other team members studied her strangely, as if wondering whether to call her on that one. Wisely, he held his peace and looked away. Drake listened as the team leader consulted a digital blueprint on his handheld scanner.
“Shop exits onto a parallel street,” he said. “Yeah, they planned this one.”
The soldiers dashed inside, knocking over chairs and metal tables. Almost without thought, Dahl grabbed a handful of caramel waffles as he passed a big brown wicker basket, throwing one each to his colleagues. The mirror-clean pastry case was empty. Once through the café they exited onto a narrow street just in time to see Kovalenko’s men blowing their way into another shop.
“We have them,” the team leader reported. “They’re not exactly trying to hide their movements.”
Drake glanced at Dahl. This wasn’t right. Kovalenko’s men couldn’t do this all day. It felt more as if they were waiting for something to happen.
Something big.
Drake entered the next shop on the escapees’ boot-heels, surprised to find it was a large bookstore. They quickly crossed the open-plan area where big publishers paid small fortunes for their books to be stacked on tables designed to attract the eye and the wallet of incoming, unwitting consumers—the nearer the door the more expensive the table—and started to thread through the high stacked shelves beyond. With a high-pitched whistle, bullets began to thud and fly into the bookshelves, shredding wooden surrounds and paper pages alike. Drake hit the deck as books fell and spun all around him. One of the larger cases, shredded, collapsed into a tumbling pile, shedding heaps of mashed up books like trickling sand. The team leader muttered into his headset.
“Keep ‘em in sight,” came through the comms system.
“Taking heavy fire!”
“All these
freakin’ books,” Alicia put in. “Don’t they sell Kindles in Washington?”
“Apparently,” Dahl said, inching forward on his elbows. “Some people still prefer paper.”
“Dinosaurs in a digital age,” Alicia said.
Dahl laughed. Drake peered around the edge of a sturdy looking bookcase. Paper still fluttered all around, fighting clouds of dust for airspace. The rear of the store was empty.
“Go.”
Running again,
Team Bravo was now down to a total of five. None of the men they had left behind were seriously injured, but all had sustained some kind of wound. The damaged bookshop exited through a constricted back door which led to an alleyway, still within the shadow of the George Washington University Hospital building. The Blood King’s men were already racing along the alley’s length, heading for the sliver of daylight that beckoned from its far end like the exit of a tunnel. Drake could see men running parallel along the rooftops above, tracking the runaways.
The team took off in pursuit, using dirty doorways and grimy dumpsters to duck behind when they came under fire.
Bullets clanged and fizzed from every surface. At one point they were forced to take cover behind a big Dodge truck. Drake shook his head sadly as gunfire riddled its front end.
Alicia noticed the gesture.
“For fucksake, Drake. Don’t worry. It’s not one of those Cobra things.”
“
You mean an AC Cobra.” Drake glared. “Like the one you shot up in Hawaii.”
“Whatever.”
The alley gave onto another wide thoroughfare. By the time Team Bravo reached daylight, Kovalenko’s men were over a hundred yards ahead, but it was immediately apparent where they were heading.
“Metro,” someone said. “Shit.”
“Metro’s closed,” the team leader said. “Don’t worry.”
Drake rac
ed on. Something was coming and rushing headlong toward them at a terrible pace, but what?