CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
Drake thought they’d advanced nicely during the last twenty minutes, mostly by utilizing New York’s varied street elements. He saw one more rumbling down the road ahead.
“There,” he said and sped up.
They raced from the small arcade of shops into a new street. To the left another new road headed north, crawling with traffic. The vehicles moved slowly, but they were moving. And Drake had pointed out a large flatbed truck with no load.
They reached the truck in seconds. Dahl jumped up to the first step as it trundled along and rapped on the window.
“Slow to a crawl.”
The driver must have flipped him off because Dahl brought the gun up next. “What did you say?”
The truck jerked to a halt and the driver jumped out. Dahl clung on, almost dislodged. Drake ran around to the driver’s side and climbed up into the cab.
Hayden stayed on the comms. “Wait thirty seconds, guys. We’re getting on.”
Drake familiarized himself with the controls. Inside, the truck was warm and sheltered. As he waited, Dahl knocked at the far window.
“Let me in,” he shouted.
Drake kept a straight face and cupped his ear. “What?”
“Open the bloody door before I—”
The rest of Dahl’s statement was lost as Drake reached over to unlock the door and help him in. The Swede glared for a second then scanned the street ahead.
“Looks good for a block or two.”
“That depends on our enemies, mate.”
Dahl nodded. Drake scanned the street through the grimy windows. Pedestrians lined both sidewalks, hurrying along under the downpour, their umbrellas fighting for supremacy in the crush. Shop windows reflected brightly as the skies became even more leaden. Ahead, jaywalkers passed between cars without much care, trusting New York’s drivers to make way. Drake heard a cacophony of horns and angry voices through the glass.
“We’re on board,” Hayden said.
Drake moved off immediately, easing into the traffic. It was slow, red brake lights blurring in the rain. He braked jerkily, throwing Dahl forward. Hayden complained in his ear. Drake threw his hands up in protest.
“If anyone else wants to drive . . .”
“They couldn’t do a worse job,” Dahl grumbled.
Drake was millimeters off the back end of the car in front. As it eased forward Drake did the same. Traffic lights turned to red fifty yards ahead.
“How we looking back there?” Dahl spoke into the comms.
“We have Alicia and Mai on lookout. All good so far.”
Drake braked again. “We could bloody walk faster.”
Hayden replied immediately. “Keep going. Kovalenko’s describing the Devil for us.”
“We know what he looks like,” Drake said. “We fought against him.”
“I don’t just mean his appearance. I mean his character, his profile, his likes and dislikes. His hobbies.”
“Has Kovalenko tried to find him these last few months?”
“Apparently not. Says he’s been too busy.”
Drake gritted his teeth as the traffic came to another sudden stop. The good news was that they were first at the red light. The road was clear ahead for a short distance. When the lights changed Drake gunned it, jerking at the gears and making the whole vehicle shudder. They traveled a whole forty feet before coming to one more abrupt stop. Horns were prevalent all around, their sharp, insistent sound echoing off buildings. Drivers tried using the wrong lane to make ten yards of headway before realizing they were stuck and then worming their way back in. Drake saw very little courtesy along the road ahead.
“It’s gridlocked all the way to forty-fifth,” Dahl said. “I can see that from here.”
Drake slammed the wheel. “Shit, why can’t we catch a goddamn break?”
The truck, whilst perfect for travel, was useless in making any real headway. Drake guessed they’d have gotten further on foot, but it had been a reasonable idea. Without waiting a moment longer, the team exited the truck, leaving it in the middle of the road, just one more obstruction in the day of a New Yorker.
“North,” Hayden told them. “Just head north.”
They joined the sidewalk crowd, drawing the now customary shocked stares from the majority and bland indifference to those with a higher sense of self-importance. Dahl pushed them out of the way, depositing them in shop doorways or, occasionally, on their asses in the gutter. Luther ran with him. As a team, they threaded through the wet bodies.
An ambulance screamed by to their left. Drake shook his head as it flashed by. “Now that’s what we really need.”
It pulled up twenty feet ahead. The back doors swung open and ten men jumped out, all armed. Drake didn’t waste a second; just ran out of the crowd, dropped to one knee and opened fire.
There was instant pandemonium. People dove for the ground or into shops and restaurants. Vehicles braked. Those behind slammed into them. Two attackers were jerked off their feet, blood spouting from their chests. The other eight realized how exposed they were. Two hunkered down and opened fire; the remaining six ran for cover.
Dahl and Luther, at the head of the team, picked the runners off, targeting those in front first. Those behind fell over those that fell, sprawling left and right. Molokai, Mai and Kenzie were already closing in on them.
Drake ducked behind a trash can just as a bullet struck it, pinging away to the left. The next bullet passed straight through the steel, to the right of his neck. Drake jerked away, spun and fired again. One bullet skipped off the floor in front of a prone shooter, bouncing up into his face. Another bullet smashed the shoulder of the second man.
That was enough. Drake ran out of cover. He saw Kinimaka crouched down, covering Kovalenko in front of a pizza joint, and rushed over to them.
“Anyone hurt?”
It was a rhetorical question. Injuries would have been reported across the comms. Kinimaka hauled the Blood King to his feet and shook his head.
Drake rushed over to the ambulance.
“Yes,” he transmitted. “It’s empty. Get over here!”
They ran for it, ten soldiers and Kovalenko. Dahl again jumped into the passenger seat as the others climbed into the back.
Hayden slammed the doors shut. “Move!”
Drake floored it. Dahl reached across and switched on the sirens. The ambulance sped off. Using his side mirrors Drake saw an approaching shape that poured ice water on the sudden fire of hope that had ignited in his heart.
“Bloody hell and bollocks,” he said. “They have another ambulance.”
It came up at speed, rapidly closing the gap. Drake drove as fast as he could, weaving in and out of traffic as it parted before him. The two ambulances clipped side mirrors and struck other cars, rebounding into traffic. They split the road in two as cars and trucks separated for them. The ambulances were inches apart—until Alicia threw open the back doors and started shooting.
The second ambulance’s windshield cracked. Its hood turned into churned up metal. To left and right, drivers and passengers gawked at the two racing ambulances and the sight of a wild blonde shooting from the rear of the first. Drake guided the vehicle as best he could, always watching out for what other drivers were about to do.
He squeezed through a gap between a Nissan and a Dodge, scraping the paint off both cars. Men started to climb out of the damaged vehicles until they caught sight of Alicia in the back. The second ambulance had slowed, falling behind, but still she fired, without mercy. The passenger was dead. The driver was hit. In the end, the ambulance came to a stop and disgorged its load of men who ran in pursuit.
Drake raced through a red light, across a busy junction, and collided with the front of a big SUV. Both vehicles spun. The ambulance ended up pointed in the right direction with Alicia clinging on to the doors at the back to stay inside.
“That’s thirteen blocks done,” Hayden said, her voice calm. “We’re over halfway.�
��
“An hour and fifteen minutes to go,” Dahl said.
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
Drake jumped on the gas pedal, pushing the ambulance forward, but an ominous juddering sound came from the front end. The vehicle leaned hard to the right. The earlier collision had caused a flat. Drake saw sparks flying up at Dahl’s side, spraying from the wheel and past the Swede’s window.
Dahl sighed. “Looks like we’re on foot again.”
They were out and running in less than twenty seconds. The rain continued to fall unabated, but a bright ball of gold pierced the overcast sky, sending diffused shards spearing down at the ground. The sight of the sun and the feel of it on his face lifted Drake’s spirits.
They ran up the city street, in between slow-moving and stationary cars and concrete skyscrapers, staying vigilant. Drake saw Kovalenko slowing and pulling to the left. Kinimaka grabbed him at first but then gave him his head.
The team was forced to veer in the same direction.
Kinimaka grabbed Kovalenko by the shoulders and shouted at him. Drake’s eyes were flicking everywhere, assuming they were being led into trouble. The Blood King was momentarily free, with his cuffed hands behind him, maybe four steps ahead of Kinimaka.
Dahl was close too. And Drake knew that if Dahl caught him Kovalenko was going to hit the ground nose-first and slide for about a block on his face.
But the Swede didn’t reach him first. The Hawaiian did, just as Kovalenko darted to his left and crashed into a light blue door. The door crashed inward, its locks already broken, and slammed against a wall. Drake saw no light in the interior, just pitch blackness.
Kovalenko ran for it full-pelt.
The team gave chase. They ran up the sidewalk and entered the building, reaching for their flashlights. Drake pulled out a small flashlight and strapped it to his head, then a larger one, which he held in his left hand. The others chose whichever way was comfortable for them and pushed further into the building.
A long, unlit corridor opened onto a wide, unlit room. Drake couldn’t hear Kovalenko’s footsteps anymore and had to check periodically to see if the Russian had fallen. They shone their flashlights into the room, trying to get a feel for where they were.
It soon became clear.
This was a drug den, a place where drug users of all sorts came to forget their worries, to fall into a stupor and shed the trials and tribulations of real life. Drake saw glazed eyes in white faces spaced all around the walls and corners of the room. He saw litter on the floor along with countless syringes, spoons, tubes and needles.
Dahl tore ahead, going for the only exit door.
Drake backed him up. The others kept a wary eye on the room’s occupants, watching carefully for any peculiar behavior and, in particular, for enemies planted among the junkies. Drake’s flashlight lit the walls of another corridor, light and shadow playing off the yellowing wall as if locked in combat.
They emerged into another large room. This one was dimly lit. Drake saw more down-and-outs sprawled everywhere. Dahl picked his way among them.
Ahead, the Blood King appeared, face lit starkly by Dahl’s flashlight, standing in the middle of a large group of men. Kovalenko’s face split into a grin.
“They’re here,” he said.
Drake raised his weapon. The men surrounding Kovalenko were situated toward the back of the room, close to another door. Drake guessed they were here to rescue him. The drug den had been a prearranged point along the way. Drake guessed that if Kovalenko had missed it, others were arranged further north.
The men charged. Kovalenko was left with one woman and one man—a broad male bruiser with a topknot and dark-complexioned face, who wore a black, cut-off T-shirt and Reebok shorts. Drake also saw bright red training shoes and white socks pulled all the way up. There was a man that sought attention.
The woman was tall, with exquisite features and long, black hair in a braided ponytail. She carried a knife in each hand and two more at her hip.
Kovalenko leaned on the man with implicit trust.
Drake waded into the attackers with the rest of the Strike Force team. They weren’t focused on incapacitating the men—they were focused on grabbing Kovalenko back.
Drake and Dahl threw men aside. They drew Glocks to use up close. Drake became stuck, tangling with a man more than a head taller than he was. Alicia slipped past with Kinimaka at her side. The Hawaiian literally smashed men aside like they were bowling pins, taking several blows in the process but powering on. Alicia backed him to the right. Gunshots rang out around the room. Drake staggered to his knees, aware that he was landing amid a clutter of used needles and infected syringes. A fist smashed into his temple. He fell sideways but prevented his hands from hitting the ground. When his opponent raised his arm to strike again Drake pivoted upward, lifted him at the waist and deposited him onto his back.
Drake left the man squirming among the drug debris and ran for Kovalenko.
“Spartak!” Kovalenko yelled.
The man next to him barely reacted, just looked up and locked lazy eyes with Drake. Another second passed as Spartak pushed the Blood King behind him. But Drake wasn’t in the mood for games here; this was a do or die situation. He aimed between Spartak’s eyes and fired.
Only, at the last second, his gun arm was struck painfully by an object—an object that jabbed into exposed flesh and fell away. The black-haired woman had flung a knife at him. Drake yelled and dropped his gun, the bullet flying wide, then he collided with Spartak.
Both men fell to the floor, Spartak hitting with his back, Drake surfing him for several feet. Dirty debris piled up around them. As they came to a stop, white arms reached from the shadows, grabbing for them, reaching for their lifeblood.
Drake flinched away, head brushed by a bony hand, fingers grasping at him. Spartak heaved him off in their direction. Drake rolled but came up fast, unsure which way to turn.
To the right, despairing white faces were crawling out of the shadows as bodies inched toward him. To the left, Spartak was bunching his fists and rolling his shoulders, ready for a fight.
Kovalenko was gone through the rear door, hustled away by the black-haired knife-wielding woman.
Drake leapt away from the vampiric faces looming toward him and straight into Spartak’s arms. The man was surprised at first, but then wrapped Drake in a bear hug and squeezed. Drake found himself pressed against the cut-off T-shirt, the shorts and the white socks, as freaked out as he could remember.
Alicia skidded to a halt at his side. “What the fuck are you doing with that freak?”
Drake wrestled and heaved but couldn’t break the other man’s hold. It wasn’t the most graceful moment of his life. He was pretty certain that if New York City hadn’t been at stake Alicia would have pulled up a chair and sat down to watch the show.
As it was, she gave it an extra five seconds and then smashed Spartak across the head with the butt of her rifle. Spartak fell away, groaning.
“Thanks,” Drake muttered.
“No worries. It looked like you two were having a wedgie battle. Didn’t want to interrupt.”
Drake dashed for the door at the back of the room. Dahl and Kenzie were already there. The others were coming. The battles were spread out now, two or three Strike Force people fighting through a knot of enemy combatants. All around them, the heavily inebriated and hopelessly drugged were shambling out of their shadows, coming forth to investigate this disturbance and maybe to try putting a stop to it. Drake saw pale faces and reaching arms, slack jaws and bloodied bodies. Their feet slid through trash, dirt and dust, scraping forward one step at a time. Some held syringes in their hands, needle first. Others held clubs, baseball bats or knives.
When one moved, they all moved.
Unnerved, Drake shouted at his colleagues. They couldn’t shoot these people, but if they came much closer, they were going to form an impenetrable barrier between his teammates and the far end of the room.
“Drake! C
ome on!” Dahl shouted. “They can take care of themselves.”
He knew it was true. Alicia was fighting the Blood King’s men with Cam at her back, shooting and using knees and elbows. Drake saw one man’s cheekbone shatter under Cam’s powerful onslaught and another enemy wilt under a flurry of jabs from Alicia. He saw Molokai and Luther throwing enemies into the oncoming shuffling figures, scattering them. He saw Mai using her incredible agility to break a man’s arm and then pivot off his chest with both feet straight into another attacker.
They were all aware of the zombies in the creeping dark.
Drake chased Dahl through the far doorway. They came out into a much larger space; not a room but perhaps an auditorium. Drake found that he was at the back of a stage with hundreds of broken seats facing him, a rotted and ripped black curtain piled in heaps to his left.
“An old theatre of some sort.” Kinimaka was with them.
Drake saw Kovalenko running up one of the aisles between the seats with the black-haired woman. Beyond that, the Blood King was alone. They started forward, but then Spartak came out of the shadows, stabbing at Drake and kicking at Dahl.
Drake jerked backward. Dahl dived away. Spartak drew a gun. Drake shot him in the chest, the bullet slamming Spartak off his feet and sending him crashing down onto the stage. He groaned. Kinimaka was standing above him.
The Hawaiian spun. “You finish him. I’ll get Kovalenko.”
Kinimaka ran off. Drake and Dahl got to their feet. The respite gave Spartak precious seconds to recover and start pounding his chest with a closed fist.
“Kevlar,” he said in a Russian accent. “Under shirt.”
“Ya don’t fucking say.” Drake raised his gun again but Spartak was fast, coming in low with a sweeping kick that connected with Drake’s ankles and knocked him off his feet. Spartak continued the spin and rose up, striking Dahl under the chin and making him stagger.
Drake kicked out, missing Spartak. Dahl held his ground as the Russian flew at him, dipping his head so that Spartak struck point-blank at the top of the Swede’s skull.
The Blood King Takedown Page 13
