The Last Bazaar
Authors: David Leadbeater
The Last Bazaar
(Matt Drake #12)
By
David Leadbeater
Copyright 2015 by David Leadbeater
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher/author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.
All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
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Thriller, adventure, action, mystery, suspense, archaeological, military, historical
The Matt Drake Series
The Bones of Odin (Matt Drake #1)
The Blood King Conspiracy (Matt Drake #2)
The Gates of hell (Matt Drake 3)
The Tomb of the Gods (Matt Drake #4)
Brothers in Arms (Matt Drake #5)
The Swords of Babylon (Matt Drake #6)
Blood Vengeance (Matt Drake #7)
Last Man Standing (Matt Drake #8)
The Plagues of Pandora (Matt Drake #9)
The Lost Kingdom (Matt Drake #10)
The Ghost Ships of Arizona (Matt Drake #11)
The Alicia Myles Series
Crusader’s Gold (Alicia Myles #2)
The Disavowed Series:
The Razor’s Edge (Disavowed #1)
Threat Level: Red (Disavowed #3)
The Chosen Few Series
Chosen (The Chosen Trilogy #1)
Guardians (The Chosen Tribology #2)
Short Stories
Walking with Ghosts (A short story)
A Whispering of Ghosts (A short story)
Connect with the author on Twitter:
@dleadbeater2011
Visit the author’s website:
www.davidleadbeater.com
All helpful, genuine comments are welcome. I would love to hear from you.
Kono Kinimaka placed her empty sandwich wrapper carefully beside her on the step and weighed it down with a plastic bottle of water. The sandwich tasted good. She’d prepared it before stepping out earlier and purchased the water on the way. The morning’s walk to the Lincoln Memorial and Reflecting Pool was her compromise to a day off the gym and several hours of contemplative quiet.
Not everything was about top speed and sweat, although some guys she knew would disagree. Her years in Hawaii had taught her that peace of mind can be just as important as physical comfort. So she had tied her long, dark hair back, tucked it beneath a
Malcolm Reynolds
baseball cap, shrugged into a pair of joggers and a hooded jacket, then carried her small bag of food all the way down to Constitution Avenue. She hid her doe eyes behind blue reflective Oakleys. It was only after she set out that she remembered to convince herself that the camouflage gear was to ward off the sun and unwelcome male gazes rather than a dangerous stalker’s eyes.
Kono had been living with the attentions of a stalker for some time now, culminating recently in an attack that was barely thwarted. Nothing transpired since, and Kono was starting to feel almost human again. It would be even better though when Mano returned from whatever mission the SPEAR team were currently undertaking. Kono had lost track of the madcap adventures her brother and his colleagues constantly accepted.
She had smiled at the cop outside her house and wondered just how much longer the surveillance would stay. Yes, it made her feel safer but God it was so oppressing.
“Jim,” she said in acknowledgement as she passed the parked car.
“Ma’am,” he murmured as she continued on, the title making her both smile and frown at the same time.
Now she sat basking under the sunlight, a dozen steps down from Lincoln’s immortalized feet, content to contemplate and observe and people-watch with the rest of the locals and the oft-bemused security guards. The Reflecting Pool lay ahead and below her, ever changing and yet so very still under the drifting clouds and sparkling sun. Kono tried not to gauge the eye of every passing person—it didn’t help and that was what
they
wanted. And anyway, those days were over weren’t they?
The first indication she had that something was wrong came from far away—a bright glint catching her eye. She remembered those movies where the target only knew they were under surveillance when sunlight caught a distant lens, but immediately shrugged it off. Tyler Webb liked his stalkings up close and personal—that had always been his way. Kono finished her sandwich and took a swig from the water bottle. Again the distant glint flashed across her vision. Of course it could be anything—a watch, a car windshield, a bottle.
Unable to help herself, Kono fished out her cellphone.
Then jammed it back in her pocket, breathing deeply and cursing that such an innocent incident could so easily ruin her morning. Brushing off and disposing of the sandwich wrapper, she rose and started the walk back to her apartment, sparing a last look for Lincoln.
Maybe tomorrow.
The return journey didn’t last long; Kono was walking fast. Jim looked surprised to see her, then resumed his cop’s gaze and merely nodded. Kono strode past up to her front door and pushed the key into the lock.
Her cell rang. “Mano? I was just about to call you.”
“Where did you go? I had you in my sights and then . . .
pshh.
All gone.”
Kono stared at the screen as a rush of ice water flooded her veins. “What?”
“Where did you go, Kono Kinimaka?”
The screen read:
Caller Unknown.
The voice turned to laughter that was neither happy nor menacing—just . . .
neutral.
Odd. Weird.
Kono turned the key, glancing back toward Jim as she did so. The thought of police backup was suddenly much more comforting.
Jim’s head sat on top of the car, his body still inside.
Kono screamed, unable to see the man that had murdered her bodyguard, unable to see anything but Jim’s terrified, frozen, unseeing eyes. She barged open the door and leapt inside, only remembering at the last moment to reach around for the key . . . terrified that a strong hand might then close over her own . . .
It didn’t. Kono slammed the door behind her, now remembering she still held the cellphone and the channel was open. The voice came again:
“Nice to see you made it.”
The words echoed strangely; both cellphone robotic and crystal clear as if . . .
as if the words were
being spoken by someone standing right next to me . . .
Kono experienced shock like electrocution and staggered ungainly into the large front room. She flicked at her shoulders, her hair, her scalp, as if a tarantula had just landed there. She clutched her water bottle like a weapon.
And the man stared at her, chuckling, from the couch. “Good you could join us.”
Us?
She spun. More figures stepped out of the kitchen. Too many to count. The front door—which she hadn’t even locked behind her—swung open and another man stood there, black-gloved hands dripping blood.
“Tried a choke hold,” he growled. “Head just came right off in my hands. I hear that can happen when you reach a certain age.”
Kono backed away, a cornered animal staring between a dozen primed sights. The man still connected to her cellphone rose slowly, lips curling into an evil smile.
“Webb wants it done messy,” he said quite amiably. “You gonna run, or what?”
Kono bolted before he finished speaking, hoping to gain even a fraction of a second, which she did. The stairs were at her back and she whirled, hitting them hard, expecting enemies to be lying in wait above but knowing she had no choice but to move forward. It would be a cold day in hell before she just lay down to die. With help, she had thwarted these attacks before. Now, alone, she could do so again. The knowledge was in her blood. To her disappointment and fear the men didn’t stand around laughing and jeering as she had hoped—they pounded after her, grim-faced. A hastily thrown knife slammed into the door jamb she passed through, at head height, proving she’d be offered no quarter. Messy was just messy after all. She didn’t have to be alive. Kono gained the top of the stairs and ground to a halt, panting, face and hair wild, posed with a terrible choice and no time in which to make it. Footsteps thumped hard behind her. Crazily, she recalled Mano regaling her recently with a story about the team’s two new catchphrases.
One sprung to mind:
What would Drake do?
The shit that just popped into your head . . .
well, what would he do?
She had an advantage here, but it was a small one, easily lost. Before that could happen, Kono whirled and booted her closest attacker in the middle of the chest. As hoped for, he looked surprised, then staggered back, right into his colleagues on the narrow staircase, driving them all downwards. Not the domino effect she’d been hoping for, but a gain to her advantage. Kono now had two desperate choices—the small toilet or the bedroom. Only one of those places offered a way out.
Angling sideways she edged into her room. The window stood wide open, a welcome invite. She quickly decided that chancing a broken leg from the high jump was worth the risk. Once outside, her options opened wide up, and wouldn’t just end with screaming. It was only as she started moving toward that avenue of freedom that she saw the small coffin on the bed.
“It’s for you,” came the quiet voice from behind her. “Yeah I lied about it being messy. He wants you all folded up and delivered to your brother. It’s a bit small, but it’s all we could get at short notice. Don’t worry.” He cracked his knuckles ominously. “We’ll make some adjustments.”