Matt Drake 11 - The Ghost Ships of Arizona (22 page)

Hayden jammed her Glock under the tall man’s throat. “Tell me all about Path 26,” she said. “And how it caused this blackout.”

Terrified eyes blinked rapidly. “Yes, yeah. Well . . . Path 26 is a set of three power lines that form the main link for Southern California’s electrical power grid. There are other hubs at San Jose and Silicon Valley. To get into the Path you need access to all three hubs, and you can’t remote it. It has to be done on site. That’s why we needed the three backdoors.” As the geek explained his work he began to relax, warm up even. “Path 26 can transmit 3700MW to Southern California which only needs 3000 at full capacity. Accessing Path 26 was the key to causing the blackout—turning off the power. It gave us access to the whole system. The Z-box made it all easier, cracking that system’s codes within seconds and allowing us free reign. That . . .” he started to stammer again, realizing he was out of words. “That’s it.”

Hayden didn’t take her eyes off the geek. “Dahl?”

“They’re working on it. Looks good, though.”

“Stand up and put your hands behind your backs. All of you. Alicia, tie these men up.”

“Ah, words I love to hear.”

Hayden faced the woman. “You. Stay handy. We might need you.” In another second she turned toward Kinimaka.

“And Mano?”

“Uh huh?”

“Give Drake a call. Tell him we’re on our way. The gang’s getting back together.”

“Fucking A.”

CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR

Lauren Fox felt rather like a fish out of water. The deserts of Arizona and California were a far cry from the penthouses and luxury suites of thousand-dollar-an-hour clients. This new job—hazardous though it may be—was sure granting her some crazy opportunities.
A breath of fresh air?
Well, maybe, but the danger involved made it an unlikely outlook as well as being intoxicating. Go figure.

Now, as the team led her in the direction of the Pythian camp, she again turned her mind to infiltrating it on her own little lonesome. Back into the jaws of extreme jeopardy. Yes, Smyth would shadow her as far as he was able, but not even the super soldier could save her if Nicholas Bell proved to be a devil. Add to that the presence of Clifford Bay-Dale—the other Pythian present on this escapade—and the odds weren’t really stacked in her favor. But then she was a New York girl, through and through. She was used to bad odds.

Now, as darkness started to creep across her peripheral vision, the team halted and Drake confronted her once more.

This time, his words were silent, unnecessary.
You don’t have to do this, love.
She added the “love” part because she figured he’d be ramping up the Yorkshire accent a little bit.

Her gaze never wavered, her eyes pure steel. She even laid a hand on Smyth’s shoulder. “We’ll make this work.”

Drake studied the sky. “Ten more minutes. We’re gonna position so we’re minutes away. If you’re in there for more than ten—we’re coming in to get you, like it or not.”

It sounded good to her.

“And I’ll be listening in,” Smyth said.

She knew all this. She was ready. With a last glance toward Karin and Jenny she straightened out her clothes as best she could, ran a finger-comb through her hair and took a deep breath.

Time to earn your keep.

Lauren followed Smyth’s lead, creeping around the dunes toward the camp and staying low. They stuck to the lees and valleys, courting every shadow. No words were needed. Smyth crouched until a disinterested guard walked past, giving him time to reach the top corner of the camp. With a wave he urged Lauren along, boots crunching a little as they struck sand raised along the bottom edge of a large tent. Now he knelt, listening.

Lauren already had a hand on her small pistol, but nothing happened. The sky above had turned black, the clouds scudding across the moon. A moaning breeze put her in mind of an old loyal john she used to service maybe once a week—the young guy moaned like a banshee throughout the entire hour-long session, making her seriously consider the implementation of noise-suppressant earphones. Smyth caught her attention, pointing to the third tent along—Bell’s tent—and she nodded.

Softly, they slipped around the canvas side, pausing once more before reaching Bell’s tent. Lauren tried to penetrate the shadows behind her where Drake and the others were waiting, but saw only a thick slab of darkness. It made her feel isolated.

Smyth indicated this was as far as he could go. Lauren nodded and crept to the front of the tent. There was a small gap between the front flaps. She steadied her heart and peeked inside.

Nicholas Bell hadn’t changed a bit. He sat at a makeshift desk, writing in a notepad, head down. He wore a dirty T-shirt, brown jacket and cargo shorts. Boots were unlaced but covering his feet. Within reach of his right hand was a small tumbler filled with a golden liquid and an oversized cellphone.

Lauren gave Smyth a final thumbs-up and slipped inside. It was now or never, and she didn’t like to show a moment’s weakness. As she moved inside the tent Bell looked up, the expression on his face changing from questioning to shock and then to outright fear. Lauren moved closer.

Bell stammered. “Wha . . . what are you . . . shit.”

Lauren put a finger to her lips. “Shhhh.”

“Are you here to . . . kill me?”

“No, you dope. I’m here to help you.”

Now Bell looked utterly confused, shaking his head slowly. “What? How?” His hand inched closer his cellphone.

“My friends want to kill you,” Lauren whispered, moving over to the table and within grabbing distance of the cellphone if required. “I told them you were a good man. I told them you’re trapped inside an organization where you don’t really want to be. Was I wrong?”

Bell stared for a moment, brain working. “Go,” he said then. “Just get out while you can.”

Lauren liked that comment. “You see? You are good. Any other Pythian would be shouting for the guards right now but you just want to help me escape.”

“I don’t know who or what you are. A hooker? A government agent? Is your name actually really your name?”

“Well, it’s not Nightshade if that’s what you’re asking.”

“You certainly wield a whip well.” Bell smiled in fond recognition.

“Okaaaay. Well, there’s
something
on the table, Nicholas, but it’s not my body this time. It’s an offer. Are you listening?”

“You’re in incredible danger,” Bell hissed. “Go. Just go.”

“Do you want out?”

“It’s
complicated.
The things I have been a party to . . .” Bell drank deeply of the amber liquid. “I never imagined. But once you’re in—”

“Like I said. There’s now a way out. Total immunity.”

“Is that a joke?”

“No, it’s a promise. But you have to tell us everything. If your information helps takes Webb and the rest of the Pythians down you get your deal.”

Bell drained the last of the liquid, then reached under the desk. Lauren couldn’t stop a flinch when he moved; her left hand questing for the hidden weapon. Bell frowned, but came up with a bottle of Jack Daniels Firewater.

“And if I say no?” he said, pouring the drink and watching her face. “Do you shoot me?”

Shit! Why are men always so fucking dumb?

“I’m offering you a deal,” she said. “If your answer is ‘no’, then I walk away. But it won’t ever come around again, Nicholas, I can promise you that. I mean, shit, it’s surely a no-brainer, ain’t it?”

Bell closed the notebook he had been writing in and sat back. “Tyler Webb is more than a megalomaniac. He’s unhinged. No way in hell do I want to show up on his radar, and even I dread to think what might happen if he’s successful at Ramses’ last bazaar.”

“Okay. We’ll talk about that later. First—we have to get you out of here.”

Bell exhaled fast and hard, then finally managed a small smile. “If I say yes do I get to date you?”

Lauren winced as she heard a growling cough from outside the tent. That would be Smyth, already prepping his weapon. “Let’s talk about that later,” she said, oddly flattered. Despite his mistakes, Bell was at heart a nice man. His only problem was the lack of courage to do the right thing.

“You coming?”

“They will shoot you. Shoot me. Perhaps it’s best staying put.”

“Never good advice,” Lauren said. “You should move with life and life never stops.”

“But, the consequences of leaving . . .”

Lauren watched him drain the tumbler again and knew she was in trouble.

*

Smyth bounced quietly on the balls of his feet, ear to the canvas, listening to Lauren’s coaxing and Bell’s whining. Smyth had known some pussies in his time—some of them in the military—but Bell was starting to rank with the weakest of them. Shit, if Lauren Fox walked toward him
anytime
he’d follow her into hell itself and without a fucking excuse.

Four minutes passed and then the guard came past, staring mostly at the ground in front of his size-ten clown feet. Smyth could have taken him with a noisy suppressor, a knife or even a rock, but the mission was all about stealth. Realistically, they should escape without leaving a single mark of their presence, and that was something he had been well-trained to do.

As Lauren continued to persuade her mark, Smyth became aware of another presence stalking toward the front of the tent. He recognized Clifford Bay-Dale, the jumped-up, arrogant Pythian, the energy boss.

Fuckboy!

Smyth crept low, a slinking shadow. He saw Bay-Dale pause and then lean forward as if listening. Yes, the reptile had heard Bell and Lauren talking and was now eavesdropping on their conversation. There was no doubt in Smyth’s mind what Bay-Dale would do with the new information.

He slid as close as he dared, right to the front edge of the tent’s side, then rose silently. Bay-Dale was three feet away. Smyth prayed that the guard’s rounds wouldn’t send him past now and ruin everything. He could hear Lauren’s voice enticing Bell over to the noble side, but the effort was taking valuable time. Bay-Dale grunted as he listened, the sound outraged and disgusted. Destiny and fate suddenly hung in the balance.

It all hung on Smyth’s next decision. Wait too long and Bay-Dale could sink them all. Let the energy boss inside the tent and his inevitable demise might then put Bell off. Trying to turn him was out of the question. In the end, there was only one course of action.

Smyth pounced like a desert phantom, as black as night and deadly as original sin. Bay-Dale cringed on sensing the shadow, perhaps already weirded out by the desert and its ghost stories of ships, bottomless sand pits and enormous worms. His mouth froze in a rictus. By then, Smyth was on him, cupping his mouth and throat, and dragging him deeper into shadow, a lethal spider hauling its victim back to its den. Bay-Dale started to struggle. Smyth couldn’t let go of his mouth or vocal chords. His hands were fully occupied. Bay-Dale kicked, feet striking the side of the tent and sending up a flurry of sand. Smyth bore down.

“Naaagh.”

It was all Bay-Dale could manage and it was at a very low pitch. It wasn’t enough. Smyth held on and played the only move he had—he pushed Bay-Dale’s face into the sand; nose, mouth, cheeks and all. Grimacing himself, he strained hard, feeling no sympathy for the immoral, murderous Pythian but experiencing some distress for the plight of his fellow man. Being smothered by sand couldn’t be an easy death. Nonetheless, Smyth knew his mission and leaned on Bay-Dale’s head until all movement stopped. Then, he rolled the lifeless body into deeper shadow.

Where the hell is Lauren?

*

Time flew inside the tent and Bells’ little standoff was proving costly. Lauren had heard a small struggle and could only guess what was going on outside, mere feet away. Bell was now swigging from the bottle.

“I can’t . . . can’t go with you. Too . . . too dangerous.”

“Fuck me!” Lauren finally exploded. “I thought you were a harassed, bullied
good
man, not a whimpering bitch. Get out of that chair and stop drinking reality away. Take a look at what’s right in front of you!”

Bell focused, abruptly and scarily sober. Lauren’s words had struck the right chord in him. “You’re saying . . .”

“I’m saying let’s go and live for tonight. We can work everything out later.” She extended a hand. “Come on, Nicholas.”

The wealthy builder rose, bottle in hand. “I sure hope that I can help you.”

“Put the whisky down. I like my men sober, fully functioning and not at all premature.”

The bottle bumped to the sandy ground.

“Yes, Miss.”

Lauren almost laughed. If she’d known it would be that easy she’d have adopted the Nightshade persona straight away. Smyth popped his head into the tent, ruining the ambience of the moment.

“We ready?”

Bell flinched. “Who is that?”

“My bodyguard.” Lauren enfolded Bell’s hand in her own. “Follow me, tiger.”

Smyth couldn’t stop blinking. “Bodyguard?” He sounded hurt. “Tiger? What the hell have you two been doing in here?”

“Nothing beyond what I was asked to do,” Lauren said. “And Nicholas is now on our side.”

“We’ll see about that.” Smyth pulled them put of the tent and into the shadows. “Stay close, both of you. The Pythians will know we’re here very soon.”

“What? Why?”

“Tell you later. But we need to know more about that friggin’ ship first. And then the rest. Got it?”

Bell nodded. “Sure.”

“Then let’s go before all hell breaks loose. ’Cause it’s gonna.”

CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE

Drake watched proceedings aboard the galleon with fascination, actually impressed with how someone had molded the motley mercenary force into a relatively competent work crew. His other thought—not so impressive—was of the sheer number that made up the mercenary army. It had been hard to make out in the gloom last night but the tent-filled camp stretched way back from the ridge and well into the desert. He counted hundreds. Dawn had risen an hour ago and, so far, nobody had discovered Bay-Dale’s body or noticed that Bell was missing. Business as usual then, over at the ghost ship. Now that he had a better chance to study it, Drake drank in the entire spectacle—the wonder of the ship in the sand, the rarity of such a find, the convergence of so many random events that must have transpired to send a galleon this far inland.