Matt Drake Book 9 - The Plagues of Pandora

by David Leadbeater

  She watched him advance, feeling a new surge of respect for the man. Buildering, known as urban climbing, counted on an individual being able to climb any vertical wall, finding the correct foot and handholds to complement the perfect body positioning. The body did not always go forwards, but moved around an axis, gaining ground. The skill, concentration and the strength required was phenomenal, although these days only older buildings could be properly scaled.

  Alicia made sure the door was locked and her weapons were ready. By the time she returned to her position, Yorgi had gained the first window and was peering inside. What he saw had to be positive for he took out the wrecking bar and inserted its thin end into the window frame. Then, seconds later, he reached inside and struggled with the window itself. This was potentially the trickiest maneuver, since the window was clearly stuck and required pressure to force it free. Too much pressure would result in Yorgi losing his balance and plunging to certain death. Too little and he wouldn’t gain entry.

  Alicia found her knuckles had turned white before Yorgi dropped inside the first hotel room. Without delay his voice spoke inside her head, perfectly calm. “Empty room. Messy bed so someone was here. Bottles of whisky and used glasses. No gear though. I move on to next.”

  Alicia watched his head re-emerge, knowing there was little chance the mercs would have left the precious sample unguarded. Caitlyn’s voice came over the comms. “I can see you, Yorgi, and I can see into the second room.” She paused. “Seems empty. The problem is the third room is jam-packed. Almost as if the lot of them have been called to a meeting before moving out.”

  “Makes sense,” Alicia said. “It’s what we would do. Can that scope you’re using pick out a number?”

  “Hard to say. Five, maybe six. I can’t see the whole room.”

  Yorgi climbed carefully across to the second window. Alicia took a moment to make a plan. “Line ‘em up in your sights,” she said. “Sorry Michael, your wish for peace and quiet just ain’t gonna work out. You fire on my word.”

  She waited for their thief to gain access to the second room. “Yorgi, I counted eighty four seconds from room to room. You capable of making the third in that time too?”

  “I say give me ninety.”

  “All right. As soon as I see your head I’m starting counting.”

  “Make sure I can hear you.”

  A minute later, Yorgi appeared. Alicia began the count, scooping up her weapons and readying herself for war. She wondered briefly why teams she got involved with could never complete a mission discreetly, but then concluded that it was down to the desperate, often time-sensitive operations they became involved with. Her count reached fifty and she exited the room, wedging the door open in case something went wrong. The corridor was eerily quiet, her footfalls softened by the plush carpet and thick paneled walls.

  “Seventy five . . . seventy six . . .”

  Healey, Russo and Caitlyn appeared out of the elevator bank ahead, both panting slightly. Russo shrugged at her. “Crouch is the sniper,” he said. “I thought we’d be more useful alongside you.”

  Alicia hid a smile. When they first met, Russo had acted more like a hot chili in her bolognese, resentment boiling through every comment and movement. Now, after they had shared battle and even saved each other’s lives, there had grown a mutual respect that would only become deeper. She nodded at the three of them.

  “Well met. Be ready on eighty five. And Caitlyn, you stay in the corridor. Watch out for escapees.”

  “Ready.”

  “Eighty . . . eighty one . . .”

  She stopped outside the room in which all the mercs were gathered and knocked loudly. Three more seconds and she motioned toward the comms.

  “Fire twice!”

  Instantly, windows shattered. Voices roared and yelled out in shock and anger. Alicia told Yorgi to wait and then shot out the lock.

  “Go!”

  The trio surged through the door in tight formation, guns up, squeezing shots off as targets rose like fairground dummies. As if through telepathy they split in three directions, staying low as they raced for cover. The mercs were in total disarray. Alicia saw three down and three standing. Through a half-open door to a small bathroom she saw a flash of Beauregard, but her vision focused hard on the largest mercenary in the room.

  The one with the backpack.

  She fired. He ducked, instinct honed. She swept forward, still firing, and slid across a polished coffee table, her feet striking his knees and toppling him over. Bullets struck his chest. Alicia wasted no time or conscience on the man, knowing what he carried, and ripped the backpack away from him. Other mercs started immediately toward her.

  “We should get this out of here.” She held their ultimate prize in her hands.

  She leaped over to the window and handed it to the waiting Yorgi. The backpack had always been imperative to this mission and her plan had always been to utilize Yorgi’s skills to escape with it, no matter what happened to the rest of them. The Russian thief immediately made his way down the side of the building, away from the mercs. Alicia protected the window, Crouch the street. Now she turned to find Russo strangling a merc into unconsciousness and Healey heading toward the bathroom. The remaining mercs appeared to be panicking.

  No. Her heart leaped into her mouth. Healey!

  Two mercs blasted past Russo, making no attempt to fight, just heading for the door. Alicia noted the big man engaging in pursuit and trusted him to help Caitlyn take them down. In that moment Healey yelped and Alicia sprinted for the bathroom.

  Beauregard slipped around the door frame, as sinuous as smoke and shadow. Alicia came to a sudden stop.

  “You tricked us, Frogface.”

  “Did I? Plans change quickly. And here you are.”

  “You’re saying they accelerated the operation?”

  Beauregard glided around her as a limping Healey approached his back. “They do that when they have everything they need.”

  “Bad sign.”

  Beauregard inclined his head, creeping toward the door.

  Alicia had had enough. “Whose bloody side are you on anyway?”

  “Today?” Beauregard shrugged. “Tomorrow?” He smiled craftily.

  “Tomorrow, you’re gonna be thrown into the Bastille, in chains. Life’s about to get real, Beauregard.”

  “Do you think?”

  The Frenchman sprang forward at a low angle, twisting as he came, somehow managing to entangle both her legs in his and jerk them out from under her. Alicia went down, the gun clattering away, and Beauregard danced past. She noticed a knife in his hand, but also noticed that he didn’t try to use it.

  Healey yelled for him to stop.

  “Oh yeah,” Alicia rolled to her feet, “that’ll work.”

  She gave chase, stopping at the door to take in the scene. It wasn’t all she had hoped. Russo and Caitlyn had nailed one of the mercs, the other was nowhere to be seen but at least her two colleagues were safe.

  Relatively speaking.

  Russo was sitting on his ass, a look of deep surprise creasing the crags around his eyes, a bruise already forming across his right cheekbone. Caitlyn was far worse off, held in the clutches of Beauregard. He stood behind her, pulling her into him, the knife across her throat.

  “Don’t you dare,” Alicia hissed. “Don’t you fucking dare hurt her.”

  Beauregard pulled her closer. Caitlyn winced. Alicia pulled up short.

  “Stand back,” the Frenchman said. “And I will let her go. Little minx almost took me down.”

  Alicia blinked in shock and swelled with pride at the same time. Then she remembered who she was and wondered why these foreign emotions had begun to haunt her of late. Something clearly wasn’t right.

  “Let her go,” Alicia said. “And we’ll let you go.”

  “Your word?”

  “My word. Put down your weapons, boys.”

  Beauregard waited for Healey and Russo to comply and then smiled. “A good
day’s work, non? You retrieved your sample. You killed some bad men. You even got to tussle with the great Beauregard Alain. Well, until we meet again!”

  He shoved Caitlyn into Alicia, making his way like a cat down the corridor. Healey and Russo gave a half-hearted chase but they were never going to catch the man.

  “You okay?” Alicia asked Caitlyn.

  “I’m good. He didn’t hurt me. But it’s always me,” she said. “Always me that gets bloody caught.”

  Alicia frowned. “You’re referring to your beating, torture and escape during our Aztec adventure? Don’t worry. It’s all good experience.”

  “Oh, thanks for that.”

  Healey and Russo came up then, the former looking at the floor, the latter with a wide grin on his face. “So,” Russo said, tapping his ear. “Since the comms are still open and you two are finished nattering shall we call in Yorgi?”

  Alicia grimaced. In the heat of the moment both she and Caitlyn had forgotten about the comms.

  “Here I am,” a voice whispered over their comms and also sounded out behind them. Yorgi was there, backpack in hand.

  “You have the samples?” Alicia asked.

  “We do.” The Russian thief smiled. “We sure do.”

  “Are they safe?” Caitlyn looked abruptly concerned.

  “I guess. All are locked up in a strong medical box of some sort.”

  Crouch’s voice rang in their ears. “Then stop talking and leave. Now. The Pythians are prepared to destroy cities in order to possess those samples.”

  Alicia gathered the troops with a sweep of her eyes. “You heard the man. Move it.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

  Aaron Trent waited for news and stared unknowingly at Agent Claire Collins. The Disavowed had been saddled with this ballbuster a few months ago and had quickly gone from dislike to acceptance to massive respect, and more. At work, she had criticized them all, hauling them well and truly over the coals. At play she had kissed them all, danced with them all, but she had settled on him for something more.

  Trent blinked as she met his stare. The smile in her eyes spoke of play but the look on her face was pure work.

  “Got a tip,” she said. “The Moose has been spotted at a trailer park off Highway 1, toward San Diego.”

  “Already?” Trent stayed suspicious.

  “That man’s face was all over the news just a few weeks ago. There’s not a good Angelino wouldn’t give him up after those terror atrocities. I’m surprised it took this long.”

  Silk was already at the door. “What are we waiting for?”

  A car was waiting, a driver too. The new and improved Razor’s Edge took their seats and sat back, bathed in early morning light. At this time, especially in the hills, Los Angeles was a gift from God, the angels’ own masterpiece in progress as the rising sun threw brushstrokes across the skies. A ball of fire filled the basin, crept across the hills and dappled the trees, creating wonder in all those who jogged or slid early from their beds to watch, or headed for the long commute. Trent, in the window seat, turned his head toward the rising ball and thought of better times.

  “The new dawn always makes it better,” Collins said.

  “Not always,” Trent said. “There are some tragedies a thousand rising dawns could never fix. But if you think your life is over,” he turned to her, “always take one last look.”

  Her eyes sparkled. “You just never know,” she said.

  “I’ve heard that said about songs too,” Silk said from the other side of the car. “Susie and I have one of our own.”

  “As do Amanda and I.” Radford checked his hair in the mirror. “Shadows of the Night. Pat Benatar. Seems fitting.”

  “You Shook Me All Night Long.” Silk grinned. “Very fitting.”

  Trent basked in the glow from Collins’ eyes. “Do we have a song?”

  Her gaze drifted. Collins was the social butterfly, the dancer, the singer of the group. Trent realized that something like this would be very important to her.

  “When we have one, we’ll know,” she said. “We’ll know.”

  The vehicle blared its sirens and cut through swathes of traffic. Collins relayed reports as they came in. Trent put his game face on and listened to incoming details as they neared the site.

  “They practically emptied an entire precinct,” Collins breathed. “Trailer park’s surrounded. SWAT will arrive three minutes before us, give them time to set up. FBI response teams are en route, and even the goddamn Marines from Camp Pendleton! This is the big one, guys. Ain’t nothing been wanted more in Los Angeles than the head of this murdering bastard. Not for a long time.”

  The car slewed to a halt, dispensing the Razor’s Edge who checked their weapons and looked for the man in charge. Collins led them to the staging area and into the presence of a big dark-skinned cop with a gray beard and enormous flak jacket that almost doubled his size.

  “Collins. FBI,” she said. “What do we have?”

  The cop deadpanned her. “You in charge? Who the hell’s in charge? All I know is it sure as hell ain’t me. Got so many goddamn teams on the way here might as well hold a goddamn party.”

  Trent almost pitied the cop. Collins never took shit. She was the most driven woman he had ever known. “Stand the fuck down,” she growled into the cop’s face. “And either help me or get out of my way.”

  She pushed past, making the cop grunt. Trent followed her. The cop grumbled at her back. “Initial sighting was around that blue van over there. That was . . . thirty minutes ago. Ain’t nothin’ moved since but trailer folk.”

  “The Moose won’t hang about,” Silk said. “He’s too clever for that.”

  Collins looked around, surveying the cluster of metal trailers and dirt track roads, the haphazardly parked vehicles, the makeshift washing lines strung from roof to roof, the still-open doors of people that had been evacuated. “Fuck. We’re gonna have to evacuate the entire site, not just around here. And we need more men. Get choppers on the perimeter and CHP at every road. Manpower will draw the bas—”

  Radford, who had been closer to the Moose than any of them, face to face, saw him first. A man stood in the road ahead, wearing a leather coat, with a bandanna around his head and a shiny silver belt buckle reflecting the sunlight.

  “I’ve never known the Moose to hide,” Radford said quietly as the others saw the motionless figure. “All I do know is that he’ll have a plan.”

  Trent stared, not moving. The Moose stared back, eyes steady. This was the man that had indirectly killed their mentor Doug the Trout, and Trent’s wife; the man that almost killed Mikey before Doug took the boy’s place; this was a man that loosed sorrow and a flood of tears over the great, scorching city—and he deserved to end his days screaming.

  But Trent remained motionless, eyes never breaking contact. Radford, at his side, breathed raggedly.

  “It’s the diner all over again,” he murmured. “Distract us whilst . . .”

  Collins raised both hands to show they were empty. “Let’s talk,” she shouted. “We can come to some agreement.”

  “Murdering piece of shit,” she added under her breath.

  Trent made no move. The Moose stood stock-still as the breeze whipped up around his leather coat, making it billow. The man’s lips, even from where Trent stood, could be seen to form a sneer, a deep mocking expression.

  “I say shoot and ask questions later,” Radford, always the impulsive one, breathed. “One less Moose in the world ain’t gonna be a problem.”

  “Don’t forget why we’re here,” Collins hissed. “The samples.”

  The Moose whirled and his coat surged around him like a giant black bat, engulfing his body. Trent saw his hand for one split second, and the black device there.

  “Down!”

  But Collins fired. She would not concede defeat so easily. Bullets blasted from her swiftly drawn gun as trailers to both sides of the road exploded. To the left a bright metallic van, shining with reflected su
n, burst into flame and heaved to the side, spitting fire. To the right a Caribbean-blue van shuddered as its windows exploded and then its top blew off, rising up into the sky. Further ahead, deadly debris, a confusion of metal, iron, glass and timber, crisscrossed the road with multiple blasts one after the other. Trent, Silk and Radford hit the dirt, staying low through it all, but Collins remained on her feet, firing hard as lethal wreckage made the air bristle all around her.

  Seven, eight shots fired at a fleeing shadow. The first definitely caught his jacket, the second a wooden post at his side. The third, as a shard of metal grazed her cheek, flew through his hair, the fourth grazed his scalp. She saw it all in slow motion, as if witnessing her own death, and maybe she was, but the Moose had to be taken down. Such a man could not be left to walk this earth. The fifth bullet took him in the shoulder, the sixth jarred wide as razor sharp splinters jabbed at the hand that held the gun. The seventh took out his elbow as heavy fragments battered her flak jacket.

  The eighth took out his ear, blood exploding.

  Trent looked up, unable to believe his eyes. His scream went unheard as Collins fired and fired her weapon, focused on the job like a woman possessed by desire and drive and determination. In the end, as the eighth bullet struck, Trent swept her legs from under her, seeing her head turn as a piece of door frame hit, the movement saving her life as it glanced away.

  Collins fell into his arms, barely conscious.

  Trent screamed.

  Silk and Radford scrambled and ran as fires blazed. They leaped through gouts of flame, hurdling the blasted ruins of trailers and furniture, televisions and microwave ovens. The Moose was on his knees, hand to his head, but he was far from finished. The man hadn’t survived decades of bloodshed to go down so easy.