Drake watched as the team leader raised his hand, then paused as a new sound reached their ears. It was a sound every single man on the stairs knew by heart and by experience.
An explosion ripped through the hotel.
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
Drake dropped to the floor.
“Hold position! Hold position!”
“Ya don’t fuckin’ say!” The unnerved team leader shouted into his mic.
Drake heard the deep rumble die away. The explosion had come from the other side of the hotel, barely shaking the structure and doing little real damage. A frantic exchange was taking place over the comms.
“Team Echo, come back. Team Echo, come back.”
Two teams, including Drake’s, had returned the summons already, but the third had not responded. Their comms channel was still open though, its airwaves thick with the muffled sounds of pain and distress. Drake listened while staring up the staircase as the survivors finally managed to speak.
“Trap. Goddamn pressure pad or something triggered a shaped charge down the staircase from the landing above. We have wounded—”
Suddenly the comms system and its operators changed their dispositions from anxious to hysterical.
“Kovalenko! It’s Kovalenko. He’s calling the emergency number right now.”
“Jesus Christ! Get a fix on it!”
Drake settled back on his haunches, feeling helpless. He began to creep back down the staircase, each man following in the others’ footsteps as the team leader retreated from his highest point—three steps from the landing. Maybe Team Echo had been the first to make it to that level.
“We’re piggybacked onto the call! Listening in . . .”
Drake couldn’t hear what the Blood King said, but the sudden deathly silence on the line attested to its magnitude. Every man stopped moving, fingers to their ears, weapons lowered, listening. Every fist was clenched, every ounce of breath held. The tension soon became as thick as jungle heat.
“No . . .” an operator breathed.
“Alpha team here,” Drake’s team leader spoke gruffly. “What the hell is going on up there?”
“Kovalenko has Coburn . . . I mean, I mean the President. They’re pulling him . . . across the room. No—”
Drake gritted his teeth. The Blood King stood not five floors above him, yet stayed firmly beyond his reach. Hot blood and a thirst for vengeance surged through his body, making him want to run up every stair and burst in through the bastard’s door, all guns blazing, but one simple booby-trap had stopped any chance of that happening. Men were dead, and now Kovalenko was revealing the next part of his master plan. It was all staged, Drake knew. Every part of Kovalenko’s plan would have been thought through to the finest and bloodiest detail.
“Oh no . . . the President is now positioned before the window. The commandos are around him. Kovalenko just put the phone down, said something like ‘you want to test me? Here’s what I do.’ And . . . and . . . my God!”
“What is it?” most of the team cried. “What’s happening?”
“That madman just threw President Coburn out of an eleventh story window.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
The Blood King evaluated the mood of his men. The focus was still high, the expectancy soaring. They had made it this far, but the toughest part of the plan was about to unfold. He looked to Gabriel behind the bar, pleased to see the African’s ever-present malicious optimism. If luck and success could be garnered through sheer will and belief, then the African would see them through a hundredfold.
Kovalenko made another call, this time to an FBI number. When the operative answered he asked to be put through to the leader of the on-site Hostage Rescue Team. Within minutes the call was live.
“You had to test me, you American assholes, didn’t you?” he said. “I warned you, did I not? Will you now try to test me again?”
“Our teams have been ordered to stand down,” came the expected reply. “What is it you want?”
Kovalenko paused for a second. Why aren’t they asking about Coburn? “Did you recover the body?”
“We know it wasn’t the President. In fact, it was an English book critic, in town for the East Coast Book Fair. Congratulations, you murdered an innocent civilian.”
“Ah,” Kovalenko waved it away. “You see, in my war there are no innocents. You people,” he spat. “You live in a world where everything is taken for granted. You shop at your food markets and whine at an empty shelf. You complain about stale bread. You have,” he paused to think, “Reality TV? You assholes need to learn that you know nothing about reality. Nothing.”
“Hey, I hate that shit as much as the next guy. What is it you want, Kovalenko?”
“You failed to stop me so now I will leave. You must have a kind of infra-red or tracker wired to President’s heart? You have something, that I do know, otherwise you would have asked about his welfare. Now, a chopper is approaching Washington airspace. My chopper, dah? Let it pass through. Let it land on hotel roof or President dies. You hear me? I read President Coburn earned his wings in battle. We will see if they help him fly out of the fucking window, dah?”
“We can’t just let a chopper through. The chain of command goes all the way to—”
“Let it through,” Kovalenko hissed. “Or Coburn dies right now. On this open channel.”
“If you kill the President you lose all bargaining power.”
Kovalenko signaled Gabriel. The African moved faster than a puma, slinking around the wet bar and hauling Coburn up by the neck. The President yelled in surprise and pain, unnerved by the sudden violence.
“Do you want death of President on your head?” Kovalenko whispered into the phone.
“Just . . . just wait. Hang on.” The fearful voice cut off.
Kovalenko smiled. “Happy to.”
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE
Drake hotfooted it back to the Hotel Lewison Park and Conference Room 1B just as Kovalenko’s latest demands were being discussed. The buck stopped with the VP, but all the Joint Chiefs and their aides, several Chiefs of Staff, the FBI, and others were involved in a hot debate.
“Let him go,” said the White House Chief of Staff. “We can track it and the President with ease. Where can they go?”
“With all due respect,” the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs muttered. “This is a military operation. You can’t—”
“John.” The Vice President waved him down. “I asked everyone for their input here.”
“You can’t let the bastard go,” the Secretary of the Army said. “It’ll send a message to every potential nutball out there—‘c’mon boys, it’s open season on the US’.”
“Where would it end?” someone else put in. Drake saw the VP had now been joined in his secure location by various military leaders, not all of whom were on the monitor.
“Let it take off and shoot it down,” the Secretary of the Army proposed, his face as hard as Kevlar.
Several faces blanched. The VP’s voice rose an octave. “With the President on board? You can’t be serious.”
“They’ve tricked us more than once today,” the Secretary said. “Who’s to say what else Kovalenko has up his sleeve?”
“Does anyone have another suggestion?” the VP asked. “Preferably something that doesn’t involve killing the President?”
“Track it. Follow it.” Tom Liddell, the Commandant of the Marine Corps, said firmly. “And accept that Kovalenko isn’t finished yet. Not by a long way. But he will slip up. I believe we should try to contact Agent Marnich and offer him a deal. It is possible he’s realized the error of his ways and is looking for a way out. And . . . the man does have family. I also—” Liddell paused as the VP gasped.
“Tom. Are you suggesting—”
Liddell half smiled. “Sir, this is not television. I wouldn’t condone terrorizing a man’s family, no matter what he’s done. I simply meant that he may want to protect his family name.”
Drake leaned over tow
ards Dahl. “Give Kovalenko some rope and he will hang himself.”
“It’s not in their playbook to risk the President’s life,” Dahl returned. “They’ll struggle with it. But eventually, they’ll agree to track the chopper. There is no other choice.”
Drake looked around. “So like it or not, we’re redundant. Maybe it’s time to start looking after our own.”
Dahl pursed his lips in thought. “That actually makes sense. Which is strange, coming from you.”
Drake ignored the gentle ribbing as his cellphone vibrated. Quickly, he moved to the back of the room and fished it out. “Yes?”
“It’s me. Where the hell are you? I’m outside the Lewison. Even the SPEAR ID won’t get me inside.”
“Alicia? You’re in DC? Has it been that long?”
“I only came from Germany, dickhead. Now get your arse out here and find me.”
Drake listened as she narrowed her location down. He didn’t try to cheer her up or console her, just took it all in and then signaled Dahl over. “Alicia’s arrived.”
“Shit. Now there’ll be trouble.”
The two men exited Conference Room 1B and left the hotel through a side door. Other members of the assault team were milling about outside, some staring at the skies or texting loved ones, but most were watching the eleventh floor of the Hotel Dillion, wondering what was going to happen next.
Drake breathed deeply, taking a moment to relax. He hadn’t even begun to assimilate most of the night’s events yet. And now here came a blue-eyed blond-haired warzone, stalking right up to him with half-a-dozen dilapidated bikers in tow.
“I’m sorry, Alicia,” he said straight away. “About Lomas.”
“Thanks. Sorry about Ben and . . .”
Drake knew there were too many casualties to list right now. He nodded at the bikers. “Did many survive?”
“Not even enough for a good fuckin’ orgy.”
Drake shook his head. “Well, not by your standards anyway.”
Dahl pushed past to pull Alicia into a hug. The blond woman allowed it for a few seconds, then pulled away. “Hayden? Mano?”
“We don’t know.” Drake waved at the scene around them. “It’s been hell around here.”
“Shit. I leave you alone for one friggin’ week and you lose half of America.”
“Not quite.” Drake looked to his phone. “Now let’s—”
But at that moment a chopper blasted low overhead. Drake looked up, glimpsing what looked like a Sikorsky S-92: an executive chopper which could hold several men in luxury. He watched as the bird hovered over the Dillion; a perched beast.
“They gave him the bird,” Dahl said, not surprised.
Drake tuned back into reality, dipping his head and tapping the ear mic. The transmissions were still coming through strong and dispersed throughout the attendant teams.
“Chopper has arrived. Repeat, chopper has arrived. Wait ten. Wait ten.”
“Ground units, make ready. Teams Alpha, Bravo, Echo—ground units make ready.”
Drake pinched the bridge of his nose. “That’s us. We’re part of Team Bravo,” he said. “Bollocks. Looks like they want us to track the chopper’s progress from the ground.”
Dahl shrugged. “Makes sense, mate. It’s another failsafe. They have plenty of other ways to track it through the air.”
“I’m coming with you.” Alicia looked prepared to knock out the closest SWAT team member in order to get his kit. The man saw her eyeing him up and warily backed away. Drake radioed for another set of gear.
“You can’t bring the Motherfuckers.”
“That’s not their name. Don’t let ‘em hear you calling them that, Drakey.”
The chopper slowly settled onto the roof of the Dillion, its huge rotors in constant motion. Drake assumed Kovalenko, his men, and the President were heading topside, but the command center would know for sure. They could follow Coburn through the tracker implanted in his body.
Minutes passed. Alicia quickly suited up and then went to speak briefly to the remainder of the gang. The ground units began assembling around the plaza surrounding the Lewison Park, checking weapons and gear. Dawn had broken over DC and the skies were lightening by the minute. Clouds sped overhead, chased by chill errant breezes. A severe moon watched over it all, as desolate as the heart of the country. Drake imagined how many Americans were waking up right now and going straight to their TVs, ignoring preparations for the school run and the morning commute; and how many others had persisted through the night; and how many more around the world.
The ex-SAS man braced himself against a sudden shiver, not sure if it was the creeping cold wind or the state of his mind. On top of all this he was still snowed under with unresolved questions. How was Mai faring in Tokyo? How the hell could she hope to defeat a clan of Ninja assassins? Were their friends and team mates in DC still alive? How was Hayden? The last they’d heard, she’d been close to death.
And on the back burner, still a raging craving inferno of need, were the unanswered questions surrounding Coyote. Did clues remain in Zoya’s house? Every minute they spent not investigating was another minute when evidence might disappear. And did it all really matter? Through the last six months they had faced one crisis after another. He had started to wonder if the emergencies would ever end.
But Jonathan Gates’ death changed everything. The Secretary had been the driving force behind the construction of the SPEAR team and the primary glue that held it all together.
What next?
“Hustle up,” the comms barked in his ear. “Chopper’s lifting off.”
Drake sprang into action. Dahl and Alicia ran by his side as he re-joined Team Bravo and hurried toward a cluster of parked vehicles. Humvees all, they had been provided by the Army and were military spec, all with Up-Armor capabilities. Drake caught a glimpse of the tracking system as he climbed in. It seemed even the President of the United States could be reduced to a flashing red dot these days.
“Wait a minute,” Alicia said as she settled. “They can’t have sealed off every road in DC. What happens when the chopper flies over a traffic jam or something?”
“That’s why there are three teams,” a man seated beside her said. “And more birds in the air than kites at the Blossom Kite Festival. Plus re-tasked satellites, infra-red, and some toys that ain’t even been made public yet. We won’t lose the President again.”
Drake kept his silence. One thing was certain, if Kovalenko could snatch Coburn from under the noses of the elite Secret Service, then he could get him out of DC. “You know,” he said. “If Kovalenko hadn’t hit our HQ and our team we’d know the bastard’s plan by now. Karin would have used his own men to get close.”
“We’re all hopping around on our back foot,” Dahl agreed. “But the FBI will be on top of that, mate, I’m sure.”
“Let’s hope.” Drake peered out the window and saw the Sikorsky lifting off. Straight away it veered onto a northwesterly course and the comms system yowled into life.
“Ground units. This is command. Take Constitution to Virginia and await further instructions. All roads as far north as F Street and east to 21st are clear.”
In addition, more teams were ordered back into the hotel, this time to perform a meticulous sweep. Every scenario had been imagined.
The Humvee lurched forward, propelled by a heavy nervy right foot. The seated men clutched their weapons harder, muttering. The black vehicles, five in total, blasted up the wide road between stately buildings and rows of bare trees, aiming for the fork that would take them to Virginia. A convoy of vehicles followed, many loaded with men in army uniforms. All around them stood empty streets, empty sidewalks, and closed buildings; to their left stood the floodlit, scaffold-surrounded Washington Monument, stunning by night or by day; on every roof sat an ‘eye in the sky’, a sniper with a spotter beside him, ears attuned to the comms. The route of the chopper was being tracked at every level and by every means. Drake started to wonder what Kovale
nko would pull next to cover his escape.
The possibilities scared him. One thing was sure—it would go down in history.
CHAPTER THIRTY TWO
The Sikorsky flew unhindered through the dawn skies, carrying with it the nightmares, hopes and immediate future of the United States.
Drake watched it fly straight as they sped up Virginia Avenue. The road was like most in DC: wide and practical and straight. The way forward was perfectly clear as they passed statues and offices, heading into the university area. As far as F Street the way stood clear, but beyond that the driver was already calling for the DC cops to stop more traffic. The operation was entirely fluid; the chopper could change course at any time but, unless the VP and his advisors wanted to sacrifice President Coburn, this was as tight as it was going to get.
Alicia craned her neck. “Dammit. We’d have been better off taking the bikes.”
“Bikes already had riders,” Dahl told her. “Trained ones.”
The five-vehicle convoy shot up Virginia past Anniversary Park and the F Street turn-off without slowing down. Not surprisingly, the streets were quiet this morning. Drake stared. “Is it starting to come down?”
Instantly, every man and woman slid over to the right-side windows. The Sikorsky was losing altitude and fast. Drake watched the tracker and the blinking red dot, overlaid by a 3D map of Washington DC. The dot was descending into a wide greenish circle.
“What is that place?”
The driver clicked his fingers and threw the vehicle up New Hampshire Avenue. “That’s Washington Circle Park. Good cover. Four exits. And then a shitload of roads leading away. A ton of getaway scenarios. Can’t believe that madman’s coming down in DC.”
Dahl leaned forward. “How many roads is a shitload exactly?”
The Matt Drake Series Books: 7-9 (The Matt Drake Series Boxset 2) Page 13
