Matt Drake Book 9 - The Plagues of Pandora

by David Leadbeater

  Trent was staring into space. “I know one thing about the bubonic plague,” he said. “It’s supposedly where the rhyme ‘ring-a-ring-of-roses’ has its darker roots. The children’s nursery rhyme?” He intoned, “Ring-a-ring o’ roses, a pocket full of posies, atishoo, atishoo, we all fall down’. Associated with the plague and Black Death, though I do believe true folklorists disagree. But, come on. Sneezing and falling down? A rosy rash was said to be a symptom of plague. And posies of herbs were often carried as protection to ward off the stench of the disease. And they still sing it to this day.”

  “Shit.” Silk looked wide eyed. “Ain’t you a ray of sunshine? How do you know all this?”

  “I went to school. Didn’t you?”

  “Actually, no. Not really.”

  “Oh, yeah, sorry. Child thief and all that. Well, I also know that the line ‘atishoo, atishoo’ was in fact originally ‘ashes, ashes’. A reference to plague-ridden corpses being burned. Then again,” he smiled grimly, “it might just be a happy singing game.”

  “Okay, so maybe I could draft Susie in to help?” Susie Brewster was Silk’s new cop girlfriend.

  “Oh yeah, the more I see of Susie the better my day becomes.” Radford said, then realized his gigolo days were over and blushed. “ ‘Cause she’s a good cop,” he added lamely.

  “Maybe your wife could help too,” Silk hit back. “Since she’s slept with the majority of LA’s elite.”

  “Hey, that was mostly movie and music stars,” Radford protested.

  “So that’s acceptable now?” Collins wondered. “I realize some couples have a laminated card with ‘approved’ celebs on it but Amanda’s would have to be the size of a billboard.”

  The room fell into laughter, Radford taking the ribbing good-naturedly because he knew his own slept-with list was just as long, but then Trent rose to his feet, no hint of a smile on his lips.

  “Whilst we talk, our enemies grow stronger,” he said. “Let’s get to it.”

  Collins saw her phone light up and clicked the ‘accept’ button. “Yeah?”

  “Are you ready for this?” a voice asked. It was Armand Argento, their Italian Interpol contact.

  “Ready for what?”

  Collins saw every eye swivel toward her, sensing trouble.

  “You should sit down. It is not good. Oh, no it is not so good.”

  “Armand! Just spit it out!”

  “Am I on speakerphone? I don’t want to have to say this twice, amico mio.”

  Collins pressed the button. “Shoot.”

  “Word has just come in of a terrible development that concerns you.” Argento said. “Oh, I am sorry. So sorry. The word is—that the Moose is working for the Pythians.”

  Not a breath was taken, not a hair stirred.

  At last, Trent spoke. “Are you sure, Armand?”

  “As sure as an Italian man can be. No we are not without our failings but we do find it hard to recall them.”

  “The Moose?” Radford recalled every moment of horror from their recent contact with one of the world’s greatest contract killers. “Then this is personal.”

  Trent’s face was like carved granite. “It’ll never be more so.”

  The Moose had recently kidnapped Trent’s young son, aided in the murder of his wife and tried to blow up Radford and Amanda. The killer had been contracted to Blanka Davic for a ridiculous sum of money, and had sent Trent on a terrifying chase across Los Angeles. After Davic fell, the Moose disappeared. Most had thought to retire—never to be heard from again.

  Collins thanked Argento and then got to work. Her first call was to Hayden. “How close are you to London?”

  The CIA agent’s voice was tense. “Just coming in to land. London’s sitting on a knife-edge now. We’ll be . . .”

  *

  “. . . in touch soon.” Hayden stared out the window as she spoke, admiring the city’s shimmering lights. All seemed calm down there, made more so by the manifestation of a faint early morning mist, but she knew it was anything but.

  Cops and secret agents, terrorists and mercenaries roamed the streets. The public had no idea of the secret war about to erupt all around them.

  Airplane tires squealed against tarmac.

  “Here we go.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Armed with crucial new information the SPEAR team hit the quiet streets of London. A pair of extra-large taxis whisked them from Heathrow toward the city center at 3:30 a.m., finally stopping behind a tactical mobile HQ. The team’s chief combatants were outfitted with weaponry, to the surprise of most of the assembled Brits, many not knowing of the deal agreed between the British Prime Minister—James Ronson—and the American Secretary of Defense. In these beleaguered times no sane country would decline an offer of such vital, multitalented help as the SPEAR team could provide. Not only that, their members consisted of ex-SAS and Swedish Special Forces, and Michael Crouch, their other benefactor, possessed influential contacts within the British government on a par with the country’s leader.

  Kitted out, wired up, they made their way over to Marble Arch, eleven stalwarts stalking what was left of the night. The first they saw of Marble Arch was the large green sign pointing their way ahead to the ring road, A4 and A3 and with Notting Hill Gate to the right. Beyond that they saw the Odeon cinema and then yellow and green trees emerged from the slowly dissipating mists. Drake caught just a glimpse of the famous white pillars and the great arch itself before Dahl turned their seven-seat Ford S-MAX off the four-lane road onto a relatively narrow side street.

  “Eyes peeled,” Dahl said.

  “For what?” Drake joked. “Men wearing Pythian-monikered bomber jackets?”

  “A few hours ago the exchanges between mercs known to be working for our new worst public enemy rose by 800 percent. Here,” he waved his arms, “in hotels situated around Marble Arch.”

  “I know that. I also know they pinned it down to an area consisting of fourteen hotels.”

  Hayden tapped the comms unit attached to her right ear. “Latest is they’ve narrowed it down to two,” she said. “Take a right up ahead.”

  Drake felt a surge of enthusiasm. “Two? Now that’s more bloody well like it.”

  Dahl slowed as he turned the wheel. Cars were parked on both sides of the street, the entrances to hotels set back from the road. Underground car parks could be accessed down steep slopes, but most were gated off for the night. Small bakeries and eateries stood around, lights out in all but the hardiest.

  “Now there’s something you don’t see every day,” Kinimaka said, rubbing at his window. “A closed Starbucks.”

  Dahl idled along the ill-lit street, taking his time as their second vehicle closed up to the rear. Smyth was driving, his grumpy face hanging over the wheel and scrunched as if with road rage, no doubt being ignored by his vehicle’s passengers—Karin, Komodo and Lauren. Drake adjusted the body armor he wore and glanced into the back seat.

  “All ready?”

  Affirmations came back, all except Mai. Drake suddenly longed for Alicia’s return—at least the feisty warrioress could get something out of Mai, even if it was only uncontrolled anger.

  “I think we should stop,” Dahl said. “And scout out these hotels on foot. Get the lay of the land.”

  Within minutes the group were treading the quiet, gloomy streets after pulling voluminous black single-layer jackets over their combat gear. The first hotel was an upmarket, classy affair, made all the more apparent by having a Ferrari and an Aston Martin parked outside. Drake could also make out the front end of an orange Lamborghini through the lower car park bars.

  “Just be a minute, guys.”

  Dahl clucked at him. “Leave it alone. They’re just cars.”

  “Oh good God, you sound like Alicia. And they’re not just cars. They’re exquisitely designed masterworks of engineering.”

  “Can we focus?” Hayden drawled. “For just a second?”

  The hotel reared up by the side of the
road, a sweeping double-door entrance the only obvious way in. A service road ran down the left-hand side. As they watched, a car park attendant came to the open lower entrance as if in query. Drake waved him away. The hotel, though clearly staffed and operating through the night, was calm.

  “I feel a little conspicuous,” Kinimaka said.

  Hayden gave him a knowing grin. “So what’s new? But in all seriousness, I’m happy to be spotted out here. It’ll spook the bastards into action.”

  They drifted along toward the next hotel. This one appeared even more opulent, with an entrance designed much like the Marble Arch and gold filigrees around the lower windows and entrance doors. A doorman with a top hat stood in the shadows, head down, checking his cellphone. The wide, sinuous parking approach held two more supercars that grabbed Drake’s attention—a new Jaguar F-type Coupe and a Mercedes SLS AMG.

  Drake stopped again, tongue practically hanging out.

  Dahl stared along with him. “Must admit I do like the Jag.”

  “What is this?” Hayden asked. “Motor Show week?”

  “No,” Drake answered. “But it is London in the spring and summer. Foreign rich kids and mega-wealthy playboys, ambassador’s sons, Saudi dignitaries and the like, all tend to migrate here for several months, bringing their specially prepared, one-off vehicles with them. It’s becoming a kind of annual event.”

  Hayden was eyeing up both hotels. “Time is ultimately against us. What do you say we split up and check both at the same time? Mercs like these, they have to have some kind of security protocol in place, unless they’re completely incompetent. A double breach should shake something loose.”

  Dahl nodded. “Sounds good to me.”

  Drake stood with Dahl, Mai and Smyth whilst the others retraced their steps. As one the SPEAR team pushed through both hotels’ doors, ready for anything. Drake assessed the lobby with its gleaming floors and white walls, its marble-topped desk behind which a pretty receptionist sat smiling, the empty area of plush seating and the entrance to the bar. Nothing appeared to be out of place.

  Still evaluating, he crossed the open space, sensing his companions at his back. If the receptionist noticed their sense of anticipation she gave no sign. Drake stopped before her, smiling.

  “Callan Dudley.” The name of a particularly skilled and vicious mercenary they knew had made several recent calls from this area. “Or Charlie Egan.”

  His voice was loud, carrying beyond the lobby. For a moment the receptionist looked blank, then asked if they were meeting someone.

  Drake nodded, keeping his voice at a steady boom. “Callan Dudley.”

  Dahl leaned into his shoulder, whispering, “I’ve seen better acting at a school play.”

  Drake managed to swallow his retort, squeezing his lips together.

  “I can’t confirm the name of anyone staying here.” The receptionist smiled. “But you could check the bar to see if your friend is there.” She lowered her voice. “Been quite a few asking for Mr. Dudley tonight.”

  Drake saw how it must look. The receptionist had already fielded the same question a dozen times judging by how many phone calls Dudley had made. He turned toward Dahl and then saw a figure standing in the doorway that led to the bar.

  “Yer lookin’ for me?” Dudley’s accent was pure, broad Irish. First impressions were daunting. Though whippet thin and tall, Dudley’s bare arms were thick with corded muscles and covered in tattoos. The man’s reputation was much worse. More than a shoot-first-ask-later kind of merc he was a trouble-causer, a hell-raiser, and nowhere more so than in his home country with his older brother and five other gang members, none of whom were even in the UK.

  Dahl started to close the gap. “Are you Dudley?”

  “So what if I are?” Drake struggled to understand the brogue. Jesus, now he knew how Dahl felt.

  Smyth backed the Swede up with Mai drifting around the side. Their approach was too ordered, too aggressive. Dudley saw through it in seconds. His eyes darkened and he shot back into the bar. Drake and his three teammates converged on the opening as Dudley and his men surged through.

  “Have ‘em!” Dudley sneered.

  A fracas broke out, a pure brawl. Instantly on top of each other, mercs and soldiers piled in. Drake ducked a haymaker and felt knuckles crash into the top of his head. Although seeing stars straight away he ignored the lightheaded sensation and tackled his opponent around the waist. The two fell to the ground in a powerful tangle.

  Dahl shoulder-barged his first merc back the way he had come, the man seemingly shot out of a rubber band and crashing into the door frame, cracking it from side to side.

  Dahl shrugged. “Don’t make ‘em like they used to.”

  Mai skipped between her adversaries, dealing blows where she could but maintaining a small gap. Her strikes were debilitating, sending mercs to their knees or making them clutch at tender areas only then to be hit by a whirlwind called Smyth. Growling, he proved he could brawl with the best of them, taking the punches and returning them with more than an equal measure.

  Drake rolled clear, using a side wall to pivot and jump to his feet. Another man came straight at him. Drake employed the Dahl technique, dropping his shoulder and striking at the throat. The man crumpled. Drake leaped off his falling back, using it as a platform to attack the next.

  Dudley reared up before him. “Gonna tear yer feckin’ arms off, mate.”

  Drake knew of this man, knew the reputation. On any given day he’d happily take his time teaching the maniac the error of his ways but not now. Not today. Too much was at stake. The man beyond Dudley was pulling out a gun. Drake smashed Dudley aside and reached for the weapon.

  A shot went off. The receptionist, reaching for a phone, screamed and scrambled away. The bullet passed through the marble-topped counter before shattering a PC screen, sending computer fragments everywhere. Drake slammed down on the man’s gun arm, releasing the weapon, then elbowed him in the face. Mai jabbed at his neck from behind, sending him to the floor faster than a sack of rocks.

  Drake looked around. Dahl, predictably, had picked his opponent up and was holding him by the scruff of his neck. The man’s legs were kicking ineffectively. Drake shook his head as Dahl launched the man against a wall.

  “Show off.”

  The mercs were beyond the SPEAR team now, closer to the door of the hotel. Mai advanced, picking her way through the mayhem of groaning bodies and flexing legs.

  “What a mess.”

  Drake shrugged. “Not too bad, love. I’ve seen worse Black Friday events at Tesco.”

  Smyth struggled in a far corner. With a snarl he hefted his opponent over a shoulder and hurled him among his teammates. Luckily for the man he landed well and rolled to his feet, none the worse for wear.

  Smyth glared.

  Dudley and most of his crew reached for weapons.

  Drake sprang at them. More blows were exchanged. The mercs crashed into the hotel’s front doors, nowhere to go. Even immersed in the intense concentration of battle Drake felt a momentary rush of elation.

  A good win. They would be able to . . .

  Sudden gunfire shattered his senses. The glass doors of the hotel and the windows above blew in, shards dropping and exploding across the lobby. The mercs yelled and dropped as Drake and his colleagues did the same. Sharp fragments showered among them. Harsh yells blasted in from outside.

  “Get the fuck out, Dudley! Fuckin’ Five-O’s here!”

  Drake heard the sound of approaching sirens. As he looked up the mercs were backing out of the destroyed front entrance toward their comrades outside. Drake’s immediate fear was for Hayden and the others who’d accompanied her into the adjacent hotel. Rolling to the right he tried to see beyond the running men.

  “C’mon!” Dahl was first up to join the chase, feet crunching across the glass. Drake rose in his wake, wincing as a bullet whizzed within a whisker of the Mad Swede. The mercs pounded down the hotel steps and out into the road, most glanci
ng left and right with frustrated eyes. But Dudley was not finished yet.

  “The feckin’ plan still stands!” he yelled. “Just earlier. Move it!”

  Instantly the men, reined in and motivated by their leader, poured toward the slope that led to the joint underground car park. Drake was momentarily distracted as Hayden ran up.

  “You all okay?”

  “We’re good. Assholes were packing enough firepower to assault Fort Knox. Took us by surprise.”

  Drake cast his eyes over the group. “Yeah, I’m thinking some of us should stay behind. Safe at the hotel.”

  Dahl was chomping at the bit. “Stay here if you like, ya damn Yorkshire sissy. I’m going!”

  Drake bit back a tawdry reply. Instead he nodded toward Hayden. “Just you and Mano come with us. These bastards don’t care about collateral damage.”

  Hayden nodded quickly. “Komodo, look after them.”

  The big soldier acquiesced with a grunt, clearly wanting to join the action but accepting his responsibilities. He ushered Karin, Lauren, Yorgi and Grace back toward the lights of the hotels.

  Drake heard the roar of a powerful engine starting up, and then almost instantly, two more.

  “Shit. That can’t be good.”

  A swift assessment of their situation followed. Drake found his eyes continually drawn toward the vehicles parked outside the hotel. “We can do this,” he murmured, then: “This way!”

  He took off at speed, down the slope toward the roar of the approaching engines. Even Dahl shouted that he was crazy, but not one of his teammates hesitated for a second. They had his back. Drake powered down the sharp incline, skidding to a halt at the entrance to the car park and spying the attendant down on his knees, bleeding from the temple.

  “Hey, mate. You okay?”

  The attendant scrambled away. Drake was at his side in less than a second. “We’re the good guys,” he said. “Look. Just look. Help us. Those bastards are terrorists, and they’re taking guns onto the streets of London. Look!” Drake brandished his SPEAR identification.