Read Matt Drake 07 - Blood Vengeance Online
Authors: David Leadbeater
The Blood King knelt inside the rear container of a large transport vehicle, thinking the roll and sway of the truck wasn’t unlike the heave and swell of the ocean waves he had been used to for the best part of his life. They were rattling down a dark US highway somewhere in between Crapsville and Shittown, and the hard nucleus of his team lounged all around him. The inside of the container was fully insulated, wired, furnished, and contained everything Kovalenko’s super-hacker required to achieve the tasks he had been set earlier that night. A mobile ops center was always much harder to track down than one that was fully grounded.
Kovalenko allowed the events of the night to pass through his mind, filtering the best parts for review. The President’s face when the Blood King had stepped out to greet him. The disgust he had shown at
Marnich’s betrayal. As if it should come as a surprise. Betrayal was one of the better parts of human nature, and something men like him thrived on.
And all the rest.
Particularly those moments when news of the vendetta’s ongoing triumphs reached his ears. A member of his somewhat decimated German unit had sent him an admittedly scary picture of Alicia Myles’s death-defying charge over in Germany. Someone who lived in York had facebooked about Ben Blake’s dead girlfriend lying in the streets. Mordant had recounted details of the skirmish he’d had with several SPEAR members. Hayden Jaye lay in a hospital bed, almost dead but sadly out of his reach.
But this day, as they said, would live in infamy.
The night of the Blood King,
he thought,
Has a nice ring to it.
A wave of disappointment crashed through his mind, making the tips of his fingers itch and the edges of his teeth ache. Had it all been for nothing? Still the Blood Vendetta remained unfulfilled. What were the chances of him mounting this kind of detailed operation again? The Blood King peered around inside the truck, needing something to kill. At times like this only pure fresh red blood sated his outrageous desires.
“Sir.”
Mordant knew that expression. “Would you like us to stop at the next town?”
Kovalenko allowed a twisted grin to raise the edges of his thin lips.
“Dah, my lieutenant. That is very good idea. Bring me anything, I do not care, so long as it is fresh meat.”
Mordant radioed the driver, delivering the instructions. Kovalenko managed to relax a little, anticipating the pleasure soon to come. He watched as Mordant settled back, eyes reduced to thin slits. The man almost appeared to be asleep but Kovalenko knew that to be far from the case. Mordant saw and heard everything, and the laid-back sleeping po
se was one of the ways he accomplished that. Gabriel, beside him, was quite the opposite, always grinning like a circus freak, always upbeat and nodding along to his own internal annoying beat. Right now he put a hand on his ‘twin’s’ arm, grinning at something Kovalenko didn’t want to know about.
“So,” a voice interrupted his musing. “What happens next?”
The Blood King regarded Agent Marnich carefully. The traitor sat with both legs drawn up, worry etched across his face. Such body language spoke of insecurity and was a sign of weakness to the Russian.
“Stay sharp, stay useful, American,” he said. “And you will live to see your payment.”
Marnich nodded, lapsing into silence, but his question did have some merit.
What next?
Kovalenko entertained the notion of just waiting. It would be fun to maybe set up some sort of shadowy surveillance and watch as his targets grew more anxious as the weeks and months passed, always looking over their shoulders. Occasionally, he could remind them of his presence, lift the shroud a little, to heighten their terror. Such amusement might even see him through happily to the end of his years.
But one thing rankled above all others.
Drake.
He held a deep hatred for the ex-soldier.
From his ridiculous accent to his pathetic humor. From his privileged training to his infuriating confidence. Drake was the only man who had ever really gotten under Kovalenko’s thick skin.
“Vodka,” he suddenly said, waving at Marnich.
The American passed him a bottle of Southern Cross, one of his own superior brands. Kovalenko twisted off the top and upended the bottle, letting the cold liquor pour straight down his throat. He listened hard as the truck’s engine tone changed, feeling the vehicle start to slow.
Mordant reached out for the bottle. “He’s leaving the highway for the town. It will be soon now.”
“Good.”
A squawk drew his attention to the front of the long container. It was there that the super-hacker sat on a chair bolted to the floor, facing a daunting arrangement of consoles, mini-TV monitors, keyboards and portable tablets. The man went by his nickname, Salami Bob—SaBo for short—and it was said he had once hacked the Pentagon, the NSA and NORAD in the same day. One of his past accomplishments had been to take down the security system of Fort Knox, but the ground team had made a mess of the infiltration, getting
themselves caught. SaBo had been on the run ever since, until the Blood King’s men had found him and offered a secure sanctuary with all the money and perks he could ever need. And even that was not enough. Salami Bob’s skills were now required over in the UK for a forthcoming project, and once the Blood King’s men were aware of the project leader’s identity they had agreed to let him go by tonight.
Coyote.
The name struck fear into the hearts of anyone who knew her history, or even a part of it. Even men like Mordant and Gabriel. The Blood King himself had contacted her recently, through a third party, offering a lucrative contract in the event of his death or disability. The future was not rosy for Drake and his team.
Kovalenko’s humor turned at the thought of that smug little crew. They were good, to be sure, but to be the best you had to be a loner. Like the Blood King had always been. They were a family, and that was their ultimate weakness. Something both Kovalenko and the Coyote would turn against them.
They already had. The Blood King enjoyed a moment of self-satisfied superiority.
The list of their current losses was a gratifying one. It would only get longer.
His faraway eyes finally focused on the piece of now useless material that lay in a shapeless, discarded lump to one side of the van. The nano-vest, the outstanding piece of work Mr. Tyler Webb had supplied him with, now seemed pointless, futile. Nano technology was the ‘new thing’, apparently, the manipulation of matter on an atomic and molecular scale, and Webb’s multi-billion dollar company was at the leading edge of the new technology. A good thing in some hands, but not so much in Webb’s. His research also extended to weapons and the fusion of nano-explosives and this clever vest was an experiment which should have been carried out on the President of the United States in the tunnels under DC. The final and most crushing blow. Unfortunately, Drake and his annoyingly enthusiastic play-friends had short-circuited that particular event. Webb wouldn’t be best pleased. To him it was a major trial. But there were others planned, he knew. Kovalenko would have to deal with him, or maybe join the New Order to save some face
.
He snorted. Another bunch of megalomaniacs getting together in the wake of the Shadow Elite’s demise.
But then they do have some major clout
, Kovalenko reflected,
and at least one highly placed official on their side. Perhaps they will succeed.
But Pandora’s Box?
Really? Wasn’t that just a myth, an ancient mystery made up to scare the kids?
Just like the ancient Gods.
The Box contains all the sins of the world . . .
The Blood King thought back to Hawaii and the Diamond Head
mountain. Captain Cook’s seven Hells underneath, so carefully catalogued.
I beat Cook, got further than the old explorer until . . .
again he cursed and slugged vodka.
His mind
turned again, flicking across the drone and its procurer. All thanks to the
New Order.
Kovalenko snorted again and threw back more vodka.
Just then
SaBo turned around, red face screwed up in ecstasy, a long strand of greasy hair stuck across his chin. “I think we got something. I really think we got something.”
Kovalenko’s voice, already rougher than a cheese grater, came out even harsher after the glugs of vodka. “What is it?”
SaBo blanched, probably thinking the Blood King was angry. “I believe you will like this, sir. I have been monitoring all channels as requested. Two of the most secure government comms channels just relayed the message that the SPEAR people are being sent to the facility at Death Valley to investigate your, um . . . breakout. They hope to find something you might have overlooked, clues as to who helped you and where you might go next.”
“Secure channels?” Mordant questioned. “How secure?”
“One of them is linked to the Special Agent Grid I cracked. They won’t find my hack. It’s too good. I can also say that both these channels have been transmitting genuinely throughout the night.”
Kovalenko took a moment, but then fel
t his pulse start to race. “It is genuine? No trick?”
“It’s genuine, sir. The SPEAR
team are on their way to the Death Valley prison facility right now.”
Kovalenko fought the urge to punch the air. “Call our Nevada compound!
Prep the men. Send choppers to pick us up. I want to be there. How many men do we have left?”
Mordant frowned.
“In total? Maybe a hundred or so.”
“Send them all. Use any means possible. Do it.”
“It’s risky, sir. We have no plan.” Mordant, despite his callous penchant for murder, was a careful man.
“For this, we do not need a plan
. Just send everyone, you hear?
Send everyone!”
During the flight to Death Valley, Drake gave Mai a call. It was early morning in Tokyo, but the Japanese woman didn’t sound at all sleepy.
“It is not easy,” Mai told him the opposite of what he wanted to hear, “But I have friends in Tokyo too. We will take down the Clan together.”
“You called in some help?” Drake whistled softly.
“Must be bad.”
“The Clan
are international murderers. Global assassins. They are formidable.”
“Well,” Drake murmured.
“So long as it’s not Dai Hibiki. I’d almost rather have you working with Smyth than that guy.”
“Really?”
Mai laughed lightly. “Are you so jealous of all my admirers, Matt?”
“No.” Drake said it quickly and venomously, making her
laugh out loud once more. Through the connection, Drake heard the sound of her text message tone and then another quieter laugh. He glanced suspiciously over at Smyth as the man’s own very realistic gunshot text alert went off.
“Seriously, mate.
Are you for real? You’re texting my bird while I’m actually talking to her?”
Mai instantly quit laughing. “I am not your
bird.”
“
Sorry, love. It’s just a saying.”
Smyth scowled. “It’s been a rough couple of days.”
Drake relaxed. “That it has.” He sighed. “That it has.”
“And you have nothing to worry about where Hibiki is concerned,” Mai went on. “He is dating my sister.”
Guy’s a player all right.
Drake shook his head.
First Mai. Now Chika.
“What’s his secret?”
“Do you really want to spend this call discussing Dai Hibiki’s assets?”
Drake blinked. “Not when you put it like that, no. What’s your timescale?”
“The
Coscon is today. The plan is to go there first, seek out the Yakuza, and then head to the village. It should all be over by tonight.”
Drake remembered the original
Coscon and the now world-renowned events that had occurred there. He hoped today’s episode would turn out far less dramatic but, knowing Mai, it was unlikely. He could spend an hour saying all the things he wanted to say to her but knew there were no words, not between soldiers such as they. The meaningful things went unsaid, but were no less heartfelt.
“I’ll see you soon,” he said.
“Aye, lad,” Mai said in a terrible mock-Yorkshire accent. “That y’will.”
He cut the connection. In more ways than one, Mai did not sound herself.
He forced his attention back to the mission. Ahead, and soon to be below them, lay Death Valley, the lowest, hottest, driest area in North America, with the spectacular Panamint Mountains ranged along its western border. To his right, Dahl was just finishing up with his wife, Johanna. To his left, Kinimaka was talking softly to Kono, his sister. Karin leaned in to Komodo, whispering softly. Alicia fended off the calls from her biker gang, every member of which had wanted to accompany the SPEAR team on this desperate mission. If Death Valley had been closer to Washington, Drake knew they would have organized their own transport and found a way to help. But not this time.
They were heading into the Blood King’s trap.
Kinimaka’s cell chirped. He quickly checked the screen, blanched, and ended the call with Kono. His first words chilled every heart in the cabin.
“She’s what?”
The Hawaiian’s face fell even further, desperation never so plain on a man’s features. When he ended the call he took a few minutes to collect himself.
No-one spoke.
Finally, Mano Kinimaka looked up. “She died. Hayden died and they managed to revive her. Another surgery. But she’s failing. . .” his voice broke. “Failing bad.”
The pilot’s voice cut ha
rshly through the grief. “Choppers are coming in hard from the left, folks. We’re under attack!”
Dahl sniffed
and whispered. “About bloody time.”
****
Out of the searing light they came, three matt-black helicopters without munitions, but when doors had been torn off to allow groups of gun-toting, harnessed men to hang upright in the empty gaps, what need did they have of integral armament?
Drake hung on as
their own chopper veered away. His view of the sky became a view of the ground: scorched desert and barren badlands, plus a brief glimpse of the small facility from which the Blood King had escaped a few days ago.
How did a man plan a campaign like this from prison?
With crucial aid,
he thought,
with one or more key figures backing you.
Somebody had helped grease the wheels. Somebody had helped procure a drone which had turned out to be the main facilitator of Kovalenko’s escape. And drones, Drake knew, didn’t exactly come easy. Not even for a man like Dmitry Kovalenko.
He needed to consider the whole picture, including Jonathan Gates’ death. Someone was benefiting immensely from all this. The SPEAR team just had to figure out
who.
The chopper
swooped nose first, almost sending Drake’s stomach through his mouth. A wave of bullets flew through the space they had just vacated. Alicia swore as the ground rushed up to meet them, but then the pilot tugged on the collective, taking the chopper out of its dive. In another second he had jerked the machine sharply to the right, but even so the edge of a fresh wave of bullets clanged off the bodywork.
Alicia twisted and turned, trying to keep track of their enemy, cursing them with every breath. Dahl regarded her curiously.
“You okay, Al? You seem a little . . . jumpy. Not like yourself.”
“I’m fine, Torsten. And did I say you can call me Al?” She blinked,
then shook her head, realizing what she’d said.
Dahl smiled.
“Got you. God, you’re easy.”
“So
it’s been said, but rarely to my face.”
Drake stared at them as bullets peppered the chopper’s body. “Wait. What’s this?
Something new?”
Dahl nodded, holding onto a strap with his right hand and swaying with the sharp movements of the chopper.
“My idea. All you have to do is trick someone into speaking a song title.”
“Where’d you learn that?” Drake poked.
“Shiny-arse school?”
“It’s a damn sight better than
Dinorock.”
Drake didn’t answer. Ben Blake had been his main Dinorock conspirator, Mai his second. Now one was dead and the other in the fight of her life. The open wounds were as raw as they were painful. Drake closed his eyes tight and whispered a silent prayer for Ben. He could barely imagine the lad’s eyes without life; unseeing, all thoughts and memory and purpose, all his experiences, lost and forgotten forever.
Goodbye, my friend,
Drake said to himself.
I’ll maybe see you soon.
There was no worse a death than the end of hope. Throughout his life, Drake felt like he’d always fought an uphill struggle with hope. As a child, the battles with his dad had all been about ‘becoming better’, taking responsibility and striving to be the best. This
was almost before he’d started school. Had he joined the army to please his father, or to get away from him? Drake didn’t know for sure, but in his heart suspected it was the latter. It didn’t matter now, of course. His father was long dead, his mother too. Later, his adversities had been with the army itself: fighting promotion, fighting shiny-arse rich boys for their privileges, fighting himself to overcome weakness and be the very best, fighting the enemy.
All his life.
More recently, the fight had become more personal. Since the Odin thing had happened, Drake had actually found himself able to take charge of the fight, instead of watching it happen to him. It felt good. But the line between personal battle and personal tragedy was a thin one and, it seemed, an unavoidable one.
The battle continued. He had the worst feeling that it would continue for the rest of his life. Would he ever find peace? Maybe . . . but Kovalenko and Coyote needed to be taken care of first. The road to Coyote had always been a dead end, but recently he had uncovered the slimmest of leads—Zoya, Zanko’s crazy grandmother, had once been in contact with the world’s greatest
secret assassin. Nothing more. It was barely a straw, but one that needed to be clutched.
Soon . . .
Now Dahl smiled cheerfully as the chopper swooped lower and lower through its evasive strategies. Alicia whirled and spun, keeping her eyes firmly on the enemy. Komodo gripped a strap with one solid fist, the other arm held like a rod of iron across Karin’s stomach to help keep her from falling around the cabin despite her belts. Smyth sat expressionless, like a man waiting to appear on stage and show off his outstanding skills. And Kinimaka . . . well, the huge Hawaiian conveyed a mixture of emotion. One expression displayed raw will and hatred—he wanted to finish this whole endless grisly battle with the Blood King and move on. The next radiated pure longing—he wanted to be with Hayden, sat by her side, holding her hand and never having to let go.
Drake wondered if it could ever be that way between him and Mai.
We’re such specialist soldiers, can we ever let go?
A chopper, matt black in color, suddenly dipped into their flight path ahead, weapons blasting. This time the strafe of bullets shattered the windshield and riddled the outer cockpit, making the pilot execute another emergency dive.
“Going down!” He screamed the words. “Brace for impact!”
The chopper dived hard and its occupants shouted, grunted, complained or set their faces to stoic; whichever method they used to gather their courage. Even Dahl put two hands to the straps, but the grin remained genuine. Screw Six
Flags, this was his kind of ride. Three choppers dived after them, deadly birds of prey lunging through the skies, never once letting up their raking lines of fire. The pilot hauled up as the salt flats dramatically enlarged, the nose of the chopper and the stomachs of its occupants lifting a little, but the first impact was still a heavy one, its force shattering overstressed steel. The landing skids tore away. The nose cone crumpled. The chopper bounced and rose, leaving a deep cleft in the earth and a wide spray of white salt in its wake. Drake’s head struck a metal strut and he cursed. Alicia mumbled something about the impact being unable to do much harm. The chopper bounced again, rending the tail boom and part of its rotor from the rest of the body. It began to slew, the front digging in, but thankfully by then its lessening speed meant it didn’t start to roll over. It came to a shuddering halt, obscured by rising clouds of dust, salt and churned-up earth.
Smyth was first to react. “Don’t know ‘bout you guys, but I ain’t goin’ out as
no sittin’ duck.”
He kicked open the side door and swung
himself out. Drake pounced next, eyes already scanning the surroundings as he jumped to the ground. Kovalenko’s birds blasted overhead, full to the brim with mercs and commandoes and whatever other killers-for-hire his men had managed to purchase since Christmas. He ran forward, giving the rest room to escape and tracking the birds as they changed direction.
“Get ready,” Smyth said, taking aim.
But the birds suddenly lost momentum, started to hover, then began to lose altitude. They were landing.
Smyth stared, letting his rifle hang loose.
“Thought they’d at least have tried to take a few of us out.” He looked at Drake. “Isn’t that Kovalenko’s way? Sacrifice the many to slaughter the few?”
“He’s all about the spectacle,” Drake said. “But I have to agree—”
“It’s not about that,” Dahl said as the rest of the team came up behind them. “Whilst we were playing Wall of Death in the back, our pilot here had full view of the rest of the valley. Tell ‘em, Lewis.”
The pilot nodded.
“Coming along the road. Cars. Many armored vehicles. A truck or two. Heading along here.” He pointed to the thin snake of road cutting through the flats. “Maybe five, six miles out.”
“He has an army,” Drake said.
“Close to the prison. I guess that makes sense. There’s any number of ghost towns and abandoned businesses out here, not to mention old ranches, Indian villages, gold and silver mines. Christ, you could easily hide a small militia outside the National Park.”
“Been doing your homework?” Alicia leaned in.
“Always do. Kovalenko’s men could have gathered the bulk of his weapons and intel systems there. I wonder if he controlled the drone from around here?”
Everyone turned to Karin. The girl with the genius level IQ shrugged. “How the hell should I know? I’m no weapons expert. I guess it’s possible.
Depends on the operating system.”
“Look,” Smyth growled. “Can we concentrate on what we can actually see for a minute? You think that’s possible? We got three choppers full o’ mercs
comin’ in and a mobile army as backup. What’s the plan? This area ain’t called a salt
flat
for fuckin nothin’, you know.”