The Matt Drake Series Books: 7-9 (The Matt Drake Series Boxset 2)

by David Leadbeater

  The mercs had seen that they were losing, dying. Death didn’t offer a pay packet, nor a second chance or day release. Not like the British penal system. Some of them were already surrendering.

  “I don’t see a way out for you, Shelly.”

  “Coyote,” the woman growled. “Call me Coyote.”

  And she stepped back, pulling her jacket wide open, to reveal the nano-vest buckled to her chest. The light in her eyes was crazed but the look on her face was almost blissful.

  “I’m so glad my torture is at an end,” she said and detonated.

  CHAPTER FORTY ONE

  Drake flew backwards, slammed off his feet by the blast. Blood and other things struck his body and face as he went airborne. Coyote’s lone hand slapped his cheek, thwarting him for the last time. Even as he bounced to the ground he knew that, in her final moments, Shelly Cohen had returned and made Coyote take that all important step back.

  Any closer, and they would all have been dead.

  His first job was to check on his teammates—all of whom were stunned and blooded but in good shape—and then turn to check on Alicia. The sight of her straddling Beauregard didn’t really surprise him. He did a double-take when she threw a punch at the injured man though.

  “You still softening him up?”

  “Quite the opposite,” Alicia said. “I think he likes it.”

  Mai groaned.

  Alicia climbed off the prone Frenchman. “You gotta see this thing, Mai. The tights really don’t do it justice. It’s huuuu—”

  Three soldiers mercifully approached them just then, shutting Alicia up as they waved their guns. Crouch raised his hands and diverted them, no doubt establishing protocols.

  Dahl surveyed their surroundings. “Well, we lost Coyote and captured Beauregard. The Frenchman is a link to the Pythians. Could be worse. I wonder what happened to the hacker.”

  Drake clicked his tongue. “We learned only what they wanted us to learn,” he said. “It’s how and when we find out why that worries me.”

  Crouch turned to them. “We all have a rather large amount of explaining to do, but we’re good here. Carry on.”

  Drake motioned for a phone. “We’ll call Karin and Komodo and catch up with the guys in DC.” He turned to Mai. “Surprised you haven’t heard from Smyth.”

  “Phone’s on silent,” she said, fishing it out and then making a face. “Oh hell. Looks like he’s filled it up.”

  “Damn. Well, we’d better call them first.”

  Drake made the call. As he did so he turned full circle and surveyed the fiery skies and the scorched earth; the place where his long-held nemesis, Coyote, had died; the bruised and bloody SPEAR team and Mai Kitano—his old past and future.

  Full circle indeed.

  CHAPTER FORTY TWO

  A short while later, Matt Drake found himself seated in the quiet corner of a large, old-fashioned pub in the center of York.

  The place held memories for him. Nostalgia seeped through the walls. He had taken Alyson here. Even met Ben Blake here. Pain, sorrow and the memory of old mistakes hung like the shadows of ancient ghosts inside, but there was a certain happiness too. The pub held infinitely more good memories than bad.

  On this day he sat with more friends. Mai, Alicia and Dahl. Michael Crouch. Karin and Komodo. Mai was upbeat but still reserved, the shadow that had followed her back from Tokyo well and truly returned. Alicia currently existed in a state of extremes—one moment buoyed by excitement and cracking one-liners and looking dangerous, the next hanging her head glumly as she thought no doubt of Lomas and the bikers, and where the path to her home might now lie.

  Crouch imparted more news than he was probably allowed to. Karin and Komodo reported all they knew and told them of SaBo’s fate. The hacker had fled at the first sign of trouble and hadn’t resurfaced. Drake didn’t worry. In this game they came across the same people again and again, and when they next met SaBo—they owed him a little personal hacking time of his own.

  Hayden, Kinimaka and Smyth had reported in. The Pentagon appeared to be their new home. Drake rolled his eyes. Could they be under closer scrutiny? Especially now that Kinimaka and Lauren Fox were in the early phases of launching an entirely new operation against General Stone.

  He had a feeling they were standing at a crossroads. The way back was littered with mixed memories and defining moments. The roads either side led to nowhere; a stagnant invariable path to dissolution. It was the way ahead that offered a vista of possibility. Only in moving forward and facing new challenges could Matt Drake hope to survive.

  And on the road ahead something big was looming. Something immeasurable, on the grandest scale yet.

  He wanted to be there for that party.

  “Not thinking of retiring now are you?” Crouch asked, noticing the depth of his concentration.

  “Furthest thing from my mind,” Drake said. “Coyote is dead. That lifts a weight from my shoulders, yes, but I actually pitied her at the end. I wanted Shelly back. If anything, I miss that girl.”

  Crouch smiled pensively. “Me too.”

  “Other things are coming,” Drake said. “It will never end.” Mai had spoken a similar sentence to him a long time ago, back when Kennedy was still alive.

  “I know. That’s one of the things I wanted to talk about.”

  Drake sensed something coming. “Of course, Michael.”

  “The Ninth Division is no more. Defunct. Of course, a new department will stand in but I have no interest in that. All my life I’ve wanted to pursue a dream, an ambition. It appears that now I’m in a position to do exactly that.”

  Drake smiled. “Sounds good. What kind of dream?”

  Now Crouch looked slightly embarrassed, the first time that Drake had ever seen him so. “It’s okay,” the Yorkshireman said quickly. “You don’t have to—”

  “No, no,” Crouch said quickly. “I want to. I have to, actually. You see all my life I’ve had this, largely secret, love for archaeological mysteries and ancient unsolved riddles. I guess you could call them cold cases, but ice-cold really. Frozen over. I’m not talking about old gods or Alexander the Great or the plagues of Egypt. I’m talking Aztecs, Incas, Mayans—the civilizations that came and went and left a million stories behind. Even the pirates, the stories they traded and told were pure gold dust.” Crouch was speaking faster and faster, warming to his subject. “Real, living treasures that you can touch and discover. I want to form a team dedicated to searching for these treasures . . . and I have a backer.”

  “You do? That’s fantastic.”

  “He provides the money. We get paid a wage. A good one. I have so many government contacts both here and around the world I need a book the size of the Bible just to keep track of them. Wheels can be greased, favors met.”

  Drake grimaced a little.

  “It’s what makes the world go around, Matt. Politics. Business. Commerce. Banking. The favors, the special invites, the small concessions. Negotiation is as much a currency as banknotes. In any case, I can get us access to a country and its more interesting parts through my contacts. Our benefactor has the money. Now all I need is a team.”

  Drake blinked rapidly. “Oh. Are you trying to ask me?” he blurted. “Sorry, I didn’t realize. Us Yorkshire folk need it laid out in plain English. We’re not that good on the uptake.”

  “Actually no.” Crouch grinned. “I was asking her.”

  He turned toward Alicia, who’d been listening in on their conversation. An expression of surprise was soon covered by a victorious leer.

  “In yer face, Drakey!”

  Crouch winced a little. “Her qualities are unmistakable.”

  Drake nodded seriously. “Alicia is the best teammate and companion anyone could ever hope for.”

  Crouch nodded. “That’s what I thought.”

  Alicia stared down at the table. Her lips moved but nothing came out, as if the emotion had choked her words. Seconds passed. When finally she met Drake’s gaze the s
light sheen in her eyes spoke for her.

  Crouch leaned forward. “Will you join me, Alicia?”

  “I will,” the Englishwoman said. “I will. But not indefinitely. My options are always open, Michael, so that if the something I’ve been looking for presents itself then I’m free to take it. I’ll also have to talk to the bikers. And SPEAR.”

  Drake recognized the craving in those words, the desire that Alicia never let go. A free spirit, she would always follow the road, searching, seeking for that one thing she might never find.

  A family.

  “And of course you can call on her. And us. Anytime,” Crouch told Drake, and now the rest of the table who had all tuned in.

  Alicia said, “You guys have been awesome. The best soldiers, the best friends. The best of everything. Even you, Mai,” she added with a laugh. “But I have to keep searching. Once a rebel always a rebel. Away with the clouds. Riding into the sunset. That’s me. Look for me at the break of dawn, the dying of the day. That will be me—saluting you.”

  And she stood up, trying to hide the emotion she felt, no doubt trying to find that one last memorable quip.

  “I’ll say my proper goodbyes to SPEAR. Oh, and if I could maybe interrogate Beauregard? Three or four minutes of hard work and I should get what I need.”

  CHAPTER FORTY THREE

  Tyler Webb sat alone behind his great desk, staring out of the enormous picture window that, due to the building’s height, gave him a clear and wonderful view of the Falls. Such a grand view came at an equally grand premium, but Webb and his fellow Pythians sat on more riches than they could squander in a thousand lifetimes.

  The Pythians were growing; becoming notorious, mysterious. Now they had a second layer of protection—a tier of first-degree members—each one powerful and wealthy in their own right. Not one of them knew who the puppetmasters were. Their army was growing. Security levels were extraordinary and would only increase in both physical and cyber strength. They would need the extra layers. Their recent failed operation in the heart of Washington DC was proof of that. Do-gooders were always happy to thwart them at every turn, laying their very lives in the line, for what? Glory? Duty? Certainly not power or money.

  Webb didn’t understand the lower masses at all.

  Webb now allowed himself the luxury of respite. Goals and ambitions flooded his mind, crowding in. It would all start with Pandora, very soon. London, Paris and Los Angeles would pay a high price. After that, more attacks would come, some covert and deep, others as obvious as the destruction of a small town. The Pythians would worm their way into the infrastructure of the world, corrupting and betraying everything until they held every string that controlled every puppet, every red button that might start a war.

  And above it all one single quest. One overwhelming objective.

  The greatest unsolved mystery of our time:

  Le Comte De Saint Germain.

  THE END

  THE PLAGUES OF PANDORA

  (Matt Drake #9)

  By

  David Leadbeater

  CAST LIST

  THE SPEAR TEAM

  Matt Drake, Torsten Dahl, Mai Kitano,

  Hayden Jaye, Mano Kinimaka, Smyth,

  Karin Blake, Komodo, Yorgi, Lauren.

  ALICIA’S TEAM

  Alicia Myles, Rob Russo,

  Michael Crouch,

  Zack Healey, Caitlyn Nash.

  THE DISAVOWED

  Aaron Trent, Adam Silk, Dan Radford

  Claire Collins.

  THE PYTHIANS

  Tyler Webb — Leader and Founder

  General Bill Stone — U.S. Army

  Nicholas Bell — Owner of Sanstone Building and Builder.

  Miranda Le Brun — Oil Heiress

  Clifford Bay-Dale — Man of Privilege

  Robert Norris — Principal SolDyn Board Member

  PROLOGUE

  Some said that age clung to the crumbling relic like a filthy, protective shroud. Others likened it more to a house of insanity, and that the shroud was protecting the villagers from the place itself rather than the other way around. Over the years it had represented many things to the maturing community; from the proverbial haunted house with its rambling, untended gardens to a symbol of their own steady decay to a representation of hate in harder times—the dying, blazing sun setting behind it, pouring its terrible fire through the jagged, cracked windows straight down into the center of town. The children harbored many a fear and undertook dares and monster-quests nearby, but they were fine and their parents were fine and the place eventually passed beyond their concerns, its illusory image overshadowed by responsibilities and life changes, television and wine. And of course most children are always fine . . . until maturity makes the dares and the challenges they set themselves take on a darker, more adult nature.

  But when the sun started to go down, and the darkness sent its black fingers creeping like giant spiders across the land; when the devil’s fire—as the elders called it—started to glimmer and glow through those knife-edged windows and ragged cracks, it was easy to remember why the place was shunned, why nobody ever bought it or chose to visit, and why every member of the population harbored the same uncanny thought deep, deep inside their hearts where most feared to go.

  The house on the hill had always been there, and for one purpose only.

  Its purpose was to kill.

  *

  The village was aghast when, in 2014, the house was purchased by an unknown buyer. A public meeting was held, its attendees so shocked they could barely offer speculation. Comment and gossip was rife throughout the community; the main consensus being that bulldozers would soon roll in and raze the eyesore to the ground. And one day heavy machinery did indeed roll in, on the back of huge Mack trucks, but not a wall or even a brick was disturbed.

  What were they doing up there?

  It was always they—the faceless, shadowy owner or organization behind any new project. And there was always a faceless, shadowy organization. The money men rarely kick-started anything without some kind of profitable agenda.

  In early March 2014, the village was brought to its knees when each household received an invitation to attend a celebration up at the house—an opening ceremony of sorts where the new owner would meet and explain his plans for the prominent place.

  It is widely believed that the phrase “curiosity killed the cat” didn’t exist before the world’s first woman, Pandora, was given a box and told, by the very real gods themselves, never to open it. Upon doing so she released all the sins of the world, including sickness, crime, vice, poverty and plague. Pandora’s Box is an origin myth—an attempt to explain the beginning of something.

  The villagers, although horrified, amazed and fretful, were hugely curious. What could go wrong on a warm and sunny afternoon in America? What could happen when a man or woman was surrounded by hundreds of their peers, in the course of celebration?

  The only odd thing about it all was that no children were specifically invited. The cards all read: Anyone between the ages of 16 and 100.

  Odd, they speculated. Maybe the new owner was a touch eccentric, with a smattering of loon in his nature. A movie star perhaps or a writer. Nay, an ex-president. The speculation continued.

  But curiosity compelled most of the township to accept the mysterious invite. Only the die-hard pessimists and worrywarts held out. And human nature obliged many of the attendees to believe the blanket invites had been misspelled—why shouldn’t they take their children to what amounted to a Sunday afternoon barbecue?

  The day arrived; the night before one of those blood-red sunsets that sent swords and lances of dripping red light stabbing and piercing toward the heart of the township, straight from the cracked and crazy visage of the house on the hill. The Sunday itself, though, was one of those days when even the brisk breeze warms your heart, the children’s laughter is light, and the unexpected smile of a stranger can lift your spirits. Many were nervous and laid off the caffeine, pe
rhaps wishing for something a little stronger. Kids of all ages caught the mood of their parents and became more somber as the time approached. Like a funeral procession the villagers began to march through their town, each person looking up at the ever-nearing fractured glass eyes that had watched over their town for at least fifty years. In one form or another they had all visited the house before and although experiences differed between the timid and the daring, heads were filled with trepidation, expectation and most of all—curiosity.

  And just like the world’s very first woman, made of clay, on the command of the god Zeus, they would go forward and open the box.

  Into the newly landscaped grounds they marched, amazed by the splendid remodeling, which served only to make the house’s continuing ugly and threatening visage all the more hostile. Several turned away at that point, to the indecisive looks of their friends that stayed. More eccentricities followed, as a sumptuous banquet had been laid out, a rich and wealthy buffet, but no waiters to serve it.

  And no host.

  Only the townspeople and their fascination.

  As the sun blazed down from on high, as the townsfolk ate and kept watch on that legendary house, as their children drifted inexorably toward the goblets of red wine and platters of assorted chocolates—their parents more concerned with keeping them away from the haunted bricks and mortar than the everyday alcohol and sugar—as conversation passed and frustration began to set in, a voice finally boomed out from within the house itself.