“Wait,” Dirty Sarah said. “Who made you Bitch Queen? This ain’t no democracy, dear.”
Lomas waved her off. “Stop. Any of you shitheads get accepted into the SAS?”
Most of the bikers shook their heads. A couple looked as if they were thinking hard, trying to remember their old lives.
“She did. Let her take the lead till we’re out of here.”
Alicia didn’t tell them again, just headed for the stairs. The stairwell was empty, the whole area as quiet as a mausoleum. She peered quickly over the rails, but saw no sign of movement.
“Come on.”
Lomas stayed close behind, followed by the veggie Ribeye, the young and pretty Trace, Whipper and several others. Whipper had no way of furtively carrying her whip, so she let it unfurl beside her, holding it close to her body.
Alicia led the way down three flights and put her face to the glass aperture in the door that led out to the lobby. “Nothing,” she said. “Stay close.”
With fingers wrapped around the butt of the gun in her jacket pocket, the Englishwoman stepped boldly out into the lobby. Silence greeted her; a silence wrapped in worry and stress. They heard the lifts ding and moved quickly to cover the automatic doors.
Nothing happened. The lobby was empty. Alicia crossed the carpeted floor, tense, expecting at any moment to hear the opening salvos of a fusillade of shots. The blackness of 0300 hours smothered every window, and the sparse pools of light outside shone on big puddles of nothing.
But beyond them . . . beyond them were landscaped gardens full of trees, bushes and undergrowth. And the major roads past that. She scanned the skies. No sign of movement.
Lomas took the time to check out. “That much for Pay-Per-View? Really?”
The woman behind the desk looked a little embarrassed. Lomas smiled. “Ah, I read your mind, honey, faster than you can say Jurassic Pork. That kind of Pay-Per-View? Well, we’re bikers. Unofficially, of course. We take it where we can get it.”
Alicia turned. “Time to go.”
She cracked the front door and walked out into the chilly night. The hotel’s parking area was right out front, which helped enormously. The gang picked their way among the silent cars, spreading out and taking different routes to where their crowd of two-wheeled machines sat waiting.
Alicia never stopped assessing. If anyone was out there they were good. She sensed nothing out of place, nothing that sent her radar twitching. And that radar had been fixed into her by the best mentors in the world. What could they be waiting for?
Nothing, she thought. They weren’t here yet.
Or spectacle, she thought again. Kovalenko was all about the spectacle. Well, fuck him. The more time they were given, the better their chance of survival. She watched as the gang slipped astride their bikes, weapons now exposed, and looked over to Lomas. The next step would be a noisy one.
Alicia climbed aboard Lomas’ Ducati Monster and squeezed his ribs. “Do it.”
“Which way?”
Alicia thought about it. A good adversary would already have the variables covered. “Head for the airport.”
Lomas inclined his head. The whole noisy ensemble started their engines en masse. The sweet music of throaty Sportster V-twins, Hondas, Suzukis, low-slung choppers and big Bark-o-loungers mingled into an earsplitting cacophony; a deafening roar and snarl of purpose. Lomas peeled out first, and the gang streamed after, satisfied to a man and woman now that they were back in their element. The night was dark, the lights low, and the long road was already beckoning.
The hotel stood at their backs, all but those occupants too drunk or drugged woken up and dragged out of bed by the noise, but by now everyone except Alicia barely remembered its name. Lomas guided his Ducati along a roaming path and through the hotel’s gates, out onto a wide service road. Two miles ahead stood a set of stoplights and a junction that led to Autobahn 8, a significant three-hundred-mile stretch of road that led from Salzburg to Luxembourg. Lomas powered down the two mile road, Alicia studying the blackness that blasted past. Every inch of tarmac that flashed by made her breathe a little easier. Within minutes, the entire gang had entered the Autobahn and were starting to open their throttles.
Lomas tipped his head back. “Looks like they couldn’t find us fast enough. We never actually registered under real names, you know.”
“Maybe you should have. Authorities wouldn’t know them.”
Lomas coughed. “Interpol might.”
Alicia saw meager amounts of traffic behind them. A helicopter hovered in the lighter skies toward Stuttgart. It all looked perfectly normal.
“Just don’t spare the horses.”
****
Alicia allowed the winding road to take her attention away as the turbulent stream of bikes tore through the night. It wouldn’t do to stay perfectly primed every step of the way; she needed to find time to unwind. The rest of the crew was constantly surveying the area, though of course in the dark every light looks the same.
Alicia tried to quell a flustered feeling, something totally alien to her. Drake’s call hadn’t been long, but it had intimated that the SPEAR team was falling apart. Even now, people she had come to like, even care about, could be dying. And she was over here in freakin’ Germany hanging with a pack of knuckleheads. She should be over there, in the fray, fighting their greatest battle yet. She needed that release.
Well, maybe I can get there before it’s all done.
Glittering lights emerged out of the utter dark ahead. Alicia saw a long bridge stretching over a deep chasm, floodlit every few feet. Three lanes to both carriageways and a barrier down the middle. It stood like a glaring oasis in a land of shadow. As the growling procession poured across the bridge, a sudden shout rang out, passing through the gang’s hissing Bluetooth helmet microphones.
Lomas slowed and looked back. “What did he say?”
Alicia had already seen it. “Big black vehicle just blocked the bridge behind us.”
“Probably a BMW,” Lomas speculated. “Some of those Bavarian Motor Works car drivers can be real wankers.”
“Make that two.”
Alicia didn’t have to employ her sixth and seventh senses for trouble to know this was about to get way beyond ugly. The floodlit bridge was a spectacle Kovalenko and his men wouldn’t pass up. As the bikers powered on, it soon became obvious that the way ahead was also blocked.
“Shit.” Lomas pulled up. “There ain’t no way off this bridge, Taz.”
Alicia scanned in both directions, trying to discern their enemy’s intent. The biker gang gathered and formed a rough circle like the cavalry at Custer’s Last Stand. Laid-Back Lex was as calm as ever.
“What are we doin’ here, Lomas? Waitin’ around to be rat-packed by these fuckers? Tell us to do something!”
Lomas ignored him, along with everyone else. If Lex wasn’t bitchin’, politicians weren’t on the take and local councils were in it for the people. Alicia watched and waited and then both sets of vehicles parted no more than a car’s width and four powerful Nissan coupés shot through the gaps.
“Here they come.”
Front and behind, the fast cars blasted clear of the road block and spread out across the three lanes, attacking the circle of bikers head on. Men leaned out of every window, rifles in hand, taking aim.
“This ain’t gonna be pretty,” Ribeye said.
Alicia made eye contact with Lomas. “Not everyone will survive. Just do the best you can.”
Lomas revved up the Monster. “Take ‘em apart, boys.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Mai met the master assassin, Gyuki, in the green depths of Shinjuku Park, close to the Hilton in central Tokyo. At any other time, the scenery would have called to her. Multi-hued tall and short trees, sculpted bushes, temples, bridges and acres of lush greenery offered a tranquil place for her mind to dwell, but not on this day.
The place of their meeting was a low, arched bridge spanning a narrow body of water. Trees overhung
both sides, and natural vegetation had built up all around. It was a good place for a clandestine meet.
Mai saw the figure standing in the center of the bridge as she approached. It had been a long time since she had seen Gyuki; a long time since she had even heard of him. When he looked up, pinning her with his gaze, she saw the fire in his eyes was as furious and fanatical as ever.
“Your prayers were not answered,” were his first words to her in so many years she had forgotten. “I did not die.”
“Master Gyuki.” She inclined her head. “The years have not changed you, though perhaps the world has?”
“Is that your way of inferring that you have changed?” Gyuki spat the words, the deep furrows across his face creasing. “In what way? To consort with our enemy?”
Mai watched him very carefully, mindful of every fluid change in his body. His hands and arms were hidden deep inside a flowing black cloak which reached to his knees, and his face was partly shaded by a wide-brimmed hat. “I consort only with those I wish to,” Mai said evenly. “Just like any girl who is not owned. Tell me, Master Gyuki, do you have the same luxury?”
The assassin’s eyes widened. Mai slipped into a defensive stance. She knew her friend, Dai Hibiki, was observing the exchange through the lens of a high-powered rifle, but Gyuki was quick.
Was he quicker than a bullet?
Of course, she thought. A man didn’t become the greatest Ninja assassin of all time through tardiness in battle.
It isn’t being faster than the bullet. She remembered his teachings. It is offering the person behind the barrel many distractions.
“The Clan made you,” Gyuki said. “Yet you show your disrespect.”
Mai shook her head. She had been determined not to get into a slanging match with Gyuki, it would do her no good, but his visionless words spoke purely of blind faith. Here was a man who had never loved anything, owned anything, or experienced the happiness of childhood, even his own. Here was a machine, made by older machines that should have died out long ago.
Extinction would be good for them.
“The Clan bought me. Imprisoned me. Molded me into a killer with no soul, no heart. They killed with impunity and, I daresay, probably still do. Some of those old jobs I heard about, and the one I observed,” she shook her head, “still haunt me.”
“It is our life,” Gyuki said simply. “It is what we were born to do.”
“Not me,” Mai said. “I was dragged from the arms of my penniless parents. I, who had known only adoration and love, was suddenly told it was fight or die. Survive or perish in adversity. You had no right to impose that law. You still don’t.”
“You will return to the Clan for the rest of your life,” Gyuki told her harshly. “And you will do our bidding, whatever that may be. We own you and always have. There will be no other life for you, Mai Kitano.”
“And how do you intend to enforce your words?”
Mai faced off the master assassin, confident in her own ability, but knowing he was probably better. The odds still stood at two-to-one, though. She was sure he hadn’t spotted Hibiki.
Gyuki didn’t move. His fiery glare bored into her own eyes as if he was trying to set her on fire. Maybe he could do that. Mai wondered if she’d played too many video games in her past. Then Gyuki did move, but it was only a step toward the edge of the bridge. He clasped the rails, deliberately not looking at her.
“Your parents are with us now.”
Mai gasped. Nothing could have shocked her more. Chika had disowned her parents when she found out about Mai, and Mai herself had not known them since she was a child. Neither sister knew of their whereabouts and had privately thought they might have passed away. The broken hearted tended to die young.
Mai grasped the rail, trying to steady herself. “You mean you have them imprisoned? In your village?”
“They reside in the Clan village,” Gyuki acknowledged. “We have a job for you.” He produced a manila folder from deep inside the folds of his cloak. “Everything is in there. Do this job, Mai Kitano, or you will never see your parents alive again. And even after them we would sacrifice Chika, and Hibiki, and then you. For the Clan”
Gyuki turned to walk away. “The quicker you get it done, the quicker you will see your parents.”
“You must let them go!” Mai called after him. “If I do this you must let them go.”
Gyuki did not answer.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Lomas gunned the Ducati forward so hard Alicia was thrown backwards and almost dismounted. Blood lust coursed through the man’s veins, mixed with more than a little fear. Alicia steadied herself and yanked out her pistol. She leaned around her boyfriend’s bulk, sighting down the barrel. A blue Nissan sped toward her with a man hanging out the passenger side, rifle in hand. The driver toted a small handgun through his own window. More Nissans stretched across the three-lane Autobahn. Half of Lomas’s biker gang peeled out beside him, filling the road; the other half shot off in the other direction.
“Crash an’ burn, boys,” Lomas breathed into his helmet mic. “It was always gonna come down to this.”
Both enemies raced toward each other at reckless speed, the cluttered row of bikes grumbling toward the screaming pearl-blue line-up of cars. Lomas shouted over the uproar, “So here’s another first for you!”
“Oh, I’ve been in a charge before,” Alicia said, remembering Czechoslovakia. “But never whilst riding a Monster!”
Lomas ducked his head even lower. “Crazy beautiful,” he mumbled. “Now I know what Slash meant.”
Alicia fired, destroying her enemy’s windscreen. Shots drilled back, zipping overhead. A single bullet clanged off the engine block, ricocheting harmlessly away. Alicia switched her aim to the tires and fired twice, mindful that she only had one spare clip. Both her shots bounced off the tarmac.
To their left a bike went down, scraping along at high speed with a noise like a felled leviathan. Its rider, JPS, spun beside it, shredding his leathers as he went. He was one of the unarmed bikers, but determined to help distract their attackers. In seconds, the bikes and cars ate up the ground separating them and came together. One bike struck the side of a car, bouncing off and sending its rider screaming over the parapet of the bridge. Lomas cursed heavily. The car veered across the path of another, sending both vehicles into a slide. Two more bikes went down, one with its rider shot, the other through sheer bad luck.
Lomas hung low over his engine as his bike shot through the gap between two cars. Bullets flew horizontally. Alicia ducked to the left, firing blindly to the right. They were past in less than two seconds. When she breathed again and turned around, all four cars were already lining back up, preparing for another charge. Beyond them, the rest of the bikers hustled through their own bullet-strewn gauntlet, taking fire.
The blue Nissans screamed in unison. The vehicles spurted forward, laying down acres of rubber. Clouds of bluish smoke obscured the scene behind them. Lomas blipped the throttle of the Ducati, looking across the line at his men and women.
“Hit it.”
The column surged ahead. Whipper’s bike ran next to theirs, letting her notorious weapon unfurl behind as she took off. Alicia popped a Nissan’s driver-side tire with her first shot this time, then the tire of the one running beside it. One of the cars started to swerve crazily toward them.
“Shit,” Lomas all but yelped, speculating on the best way to go. The Nissan swung sharply about. Alicia took out a rear tire and then suddenly the whole vehicle flipped, its occupants rattling crazily around the interior as the three-ton runaway killing machine bounced straight for them.
Alicia saw Whipper to her right unleash her whip expertly toward the arm of the driver who sought to shoot her. The hard twined rope slashed through the air at the speed of sound, lashing the gun from his hand and severing two fingers. The man’s scream was lost as that car also turned sharply.
Now Alicia had two death traps tumbling toward her.
And no
way to save herself. It was all in the hands of Lomas, a situation she rarely faced and absolutely detested. The biker leader laid it down, leaning the bike over hard and sliding, scraping the big machine along the ground. Sparks flew from the bike, the fairing, and from the metal heel-tips of his boots. The first Nissan slammed down with an almighty crash no more than six inches before them, then rose just enough for the Ducati to slide right under. The spinning car bonnet glanced off Lomas’s helmet, knocking his head back hard. Alicia saw the Nissan’s occupants with their faces pressed hard up against the windscreen and bodies hanging loosely. Already dead.
She fought to help Lomas, angling her weight so the bike ground its way beyond the path of the second Nissan, but their combined weight wasn’t quite enough. The blue car struck the ground hard just as the Ducati grated by, smashing down on its front wheel and flipping both Lomas and Alicia into the air.
Alicia flailed as she flew and landed heavily, tucking on impact. The air rushed from her lungs. The biker’s suit saved her flesh from being churned to Swiss cheese; the helmet protected her skull. She rolled with the momentum, decreasing the impact, and came up on one knee.
Both vehicles smashed into one another with a thump like a house falling down. Debris scattered across the carriageway. She spotted at least two unmoving bodies and several rifles. But that didn’t matter for now. Quickly, she turned to Lomas and shook his shoulder.
“That was close. C’mon, this ain’t no time for a nap, dickhead.”
Lomas rolled over, but only through the momentum caused by Alicia’s shaking. His form lay inert, still. Alicia pulled his helmet off and stared at his face.
“No.”
She slapped his cheeks before thinking to check for a pulse. As her heart rose into her mouth, Alicia Myles did the one thing she had shunned since childhood.
She prayed for another person.
“Please, God. Please, God. Please . . .”
Lomas’s eyes flickered open. The pulse beneath her finger was weak, but tangible. “Christ,” he muttered. “That hurt.”
The Matt Drake Series Books: 7-9 (The Matt Drake Series Boxset 2) Page 8
