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

by David Leadbeater

  Mai stepped forward, taking her in her arms.

  “You are seventeen,” she said. “You have been through hell. Standing up for yourself is one of the ways you will begin to step back into the real world.”

  Drake had met Aiden Hardy very briefly before they allowed Grace to visit alone. He remembered the man as in his early thirties, rugged, with a day’s growth covering his big chin, and a smile that made his eyes twinkle, which was a quality someone like Grace would hopefully take to.

  Grace pulled away from Mai, staring down at the floor and letting her words rush out in a flood. “He said that Hayden called him in to find answers. Nothing official, but something done quicker and dirtier than usual. That’s kinda my specialty, he said.” Grace sniffed. “He called me in because he found something.”

  Mai stroked her hair. Drake had never seen her so soft, so nervous. He knew that Mai was being bombarded mentally on two fronts—from feelings for Grace and the family of the man she had killed.

  “Hardy stopped smiling after a minute,” the young girl said, “and told me that I was probably a runaway.” Tears caught in her throat. “I have no family history up to the age of twelve that he has yet found, which is probably when I ran away. But after that, there’s more than enough. At twelve I was a streetwalker, bought and sold. These men, these animals that control the slave trade, they know what they’re doing. They keep you pliable through a cocktail of alcohol and drugs, and probably brutality, that’s what Hardy told me. I was one of the lost, ready to be used up and thrown away. I was failed, adrift. Treated as garbage. Of course, the dark streets of most major cities are awash with stories like mine. I was somebody’s daughter, I guess, but that somebody is unknown.”

  Drake saw Grace’s show of confidence slipping. “I don’t even know if my mother loved me.” She sniffed.

  Drake swallowed hard. Mai held the girl in strong arms. “Your mother loved you,” she said. “I know it.”

  Now Grace’s voice grew harsher. “You haven’t figured out the worst part have you?”

  Drake frowned. “You might still be able to find them.”

  Grace wiped her eyes. “It’s not that. Finding them is a dream that might save me, but not knowing what happened to me from age twelve until now is one thing. Remembering it is going to be . . .” She began to wail, burying her head.

  Drake felt a slice of horror stab his heart. What could be worse than having horrific old memories return? The memories she had so long craved for would serve only to ruin her again.

  Drake fought to speak. “As the memories return perhaps you can get counselling. Or—”

  Grace shook. “All the memories that will return to me are . . . are . . . horrible ones. And there’s nothing I can do to stop it. All I can do is . . . quit.”

  Mai spoke for the first time. “So I’m suggesting that you start living your life. Now. For the present and the future because the past will one day return and you will need great new memories to help combat those long regressed nightmares.”

  Grace shook her head slowly, clearly unable to believe her quandary.

  I’m an empty shell,” she said. “A blank sheet. Love is dead, long live vengeance. Where do I belong?”

  Drake responded to the thin voice, the devastated tone. “To the here and now,” he said. “Make yourself a life full of shiny new memories.”

  “Here? Now? At seventeen? But once I was a child! I am somebody’s daughter! I am. And my mother loved me!”

  Drake nodded. “So rise again. Find them. And be stronger than those chains protecting your heart and soul. Be a fighter. I mean, you’re in the right company, love.”

  Mai met the girl’s complex dilemma head on. “So here you are, at memory-age three weeks, and having to deal with a decision-making event that would faze most adults. The question is—would a person want to remember such horrifying events? If a man could forget what he had seen in war,” she glanced up at Drake, “or if a woman could forget the night of her rape. If a police officer could forget just a few of the shocking and terrifying scenes they are forced to witness month by month, year by year, would they choose to do so?”

  Grace stared in silence, maybe filing the question away for later consideration. The answer, Drake knew, was moot. Grace had no control over the resurrection of her memories. But she did have strength. And purpose.

  She did have a future.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Lauren Fox started the most dangerous night of her life by choosing the right kind of high heels, ankle bracelet and stockings to wear. The length of her skirt, the color of her nails, the severity of her makeup. Nightshade could be created in minutes, but it took hours to form her masterpiece. Friends would not recognize her, let alone colleagues like Smyth and Hayden Jaye. By the time she was finished she felt a little sorry for the boys and men out walking and sitting with their girlfriends that Wednesday night.

  They could not help but look.

  Lauren grabbed her overlarge handbag, called a cab, and told it to take her to the Dupont Plaza Hotel via Constitution. She enjoyed the ride along the wide stately road, the poignant and evocative views helping her relax. Tonight the traffic was light, the areas around the monuments were almost empty and the sidewalks were barren. She directed the cab driver up 18th and across Connecticut, not because she thought he was new to the game but because she craved a little self-rule before entering a room where two powerful men awaited. Six months ago the scenario would not have bothered her. Now, knowing what she knew about Stone and Gates and the SPEAR team and what could be at stake, she already knew several shots of fortification would soon be required.

  The cab dropped her outside the hotel. Lauren climbed out, drawing the long heavy coat about her outlandishly clad body to avoid attracting prying eyes, a maneuver she was long familiar with. Even then, passers-by gave her more than a second glance, some of the creepier ones trying to make extended eye contact.

  Lauren pushed through the front doors and headed purposefully for the elevators, ignoring the front desk. Within a few minutes she was heading up to the eleventh floor, ignoring the stares of the bellhop, unable to shake the feeling that everything was about to go wrong. Damn, she should be confident—this was her job, her only profession. The mechanics weren’t exactly complicated. Both Stone and Bell would be putty in her hands. But for that to happen she had to feel more than confidence, she needed to exude it, discharge it like a weapon.

  Usually, by now, Nightshade had taken over. Lauren found herself knocking on the general’s door with doubt lingering at the forefront of her mind.

  Quicker than she expected, it opened. Stone stood there, glaring, his eyes as hard and black as obsidian, evaluating everything.

  “Well, well,” he said. “Do we have a problem?”

  *

  Smyth exited the Pentagon soon after Lauren, stating to Hayden that he needed a few hours off. The team were in full information-gathering mode, not exactly Smyth’s strong suit, and nobody thought it unusual when he left. Besides, the others needed the odd break from his relentless, steady irascible snappishness, they all told him that often enough.

  Smyth took a car, a black nondescript Chevy, and tailed Lauren back to her place, then again in the cab. Traffic was mercifully light. All the while he was wondering just what the hell he was doing.

  Lauren didn’t need his help. She would beat him down—vocally at least—if she found out he was tailing her. The rest of the team hadn’t raised any major concerns, although Smyth had noticed Drake’s uncertainty. An unaccountable need to help reflected clearly in the Englishman’s dark eyes. But he hadn’t voiced anything: no promises, no requests. Clearly this team had evolved to the level where if you didn’t ask for help you didn’t get it.

  Smyth didn’t truly believe that. Real life always got in the way, and real life now involved trying to head off a major international crisis encompassing these Pythian assholes and something about Pandora. Quickly, he reined in his wrath, knowing it was
unfounded.

  Why then did he feel the need to follow Lauren?

  Well, who wouldn’t? was his immediate, flippant answer. But that wasn’t it. Lauren was part of the team and the only one in danger tonight. Smyth just couldn’t allow himself to let her take this on alone. After the loss of Romero . . .

  Smyth gritted his teeth, fighting down an urge to strike the wheel. Quick to anger he was also quick to forgive, although kept that questionable value to himself. The image he portrayed was fine by him—it gave him solitude when he needed it and was always handy to end a tricky conversation. Conversely, it also allowed him to follow orders, which was Smyth’s highest goal in life. He would make a show of disliking them but would always fall in line, because that’s where he wanted to be—out of the limelight.

  When Lauren’s cab cleared the Dupont Circle and stopped outside the Plaza, Smyth allowed his Chevy to drift over to the opposite curb. Illegally parked and finding it hard to care he stalked across the road to her blind side. Concerned that he remain hidden from her sight, he needn’t have bothered. Lauren’s eyes were fixed firmly ahead, as much in an effort to avoid appraising glances as a way of getting her head in the game. Through the hotel doors they went, then Smyth saw his first major problem.

  Elevators.

  As Lauren headed across the large lobby, Smyth scoured the room for an ally. The first that caught his eye was a short bellhop, dressed in the hotel’s smart livery. With a bound Smyth was at the guy’s side.

  “The woman heading toward the elevators.” He didn’t need to elaborate. Judging by the bellhop’s eyes there was only one woman in the lobby at that moment. “I need to know the number of the room she goes into.”

  He flashed a twenty, then a second, secretly hoping the little ass would just get a move on.

  “Hooker?” the bellhop asked. “Or cheating wife?”

  Smyth wanted to slap him. “Both,” he hissed. “Now, hurry. You’ll be helping out a good man.”

  The bellhop, already sold, snatched the bills from Smyth’s hand and surged forward, pushing a half-loaded suitcase trolley. Smyth nodded in appreciation.

  The bellhop grinned. “Not my first rodeo.”

  Smyth didn’t smile back. His lips stretched thin and his eyes clouded as he watched Lauren enter the elevator.

  Something was going to ignite here, in this hotel, he was sure of it. Something big. Lauren was only fanning the flames, heading into the heart of the fire. For the first time that he could remember, he just hoped he would be proved wrong.

  *

  Lauren reacted fast. Luckily the bellhop was plodding by at that moment, pushing his half-loaded trolley. Her eyes flicked from Stone to the bellhop and she stayed silent.

  Thank God for the bellhop.

  The general winced a little, perhaps realizing he’d come close to being spotted, perhaps not caring one iota. In his game, at his level, any kind of publicity could be doctored, spun, and put to good use. He held the door open.

  Lauren squeezed inside, distinctly conscious that Stone made no effort to move aside. When their bodies touched he grunted, licking his lips. These were the times when Lauren really had to rein in her true nature. The everyday New Yorker persona was confident, outspoken, streetwise and more than a little caustic. Her professional façade kept those qualities under wraps, preferring to express them in other ways once she got her most obnoxious subjects under lock and key.

  Or Saran wrap, she speculated.

  For now, Stone was the client. She jammed herself into the room, expecting and immediately seeing a lavish apartment. Would somebody like Stone charge this to the taxpayer?

  She almost laughed aloud. Stupid question.

  Fiddling with the buttons on her coat, Lauren drifted over to the ceiling-length windows, pretending to be entranced by the lights as she gathered her courage. Tonight, she was sure, she was working for the good guys against the enemy. And that simple adjustment to her standard Nightshade character made all the damn difference.

  In less than a minute, Stone was behind her, hands by his sides. “Before we get started,” he said. “Maybe you should meet my associate, Mr. Bell.”

  Stone placed a hand on her shoulder, turning her around. Nicholas Bell stood to one side, grinning. Lauren’s immediate thought was Shit, have we got this all wrong? Bell looked like a nice guy: great smile, hard body, laughing eyes. The complete opposite of Stone. Lauren was immediately drawn to the man, a rare event in her line of work. Was he really working with Stone? And what did the goddamn Pythians want with these two?

  Bell stepped forward, right hand held out. “Nicholas Bell. Builder. Pleased to meet you.”

  Lauren smiled and shook. The only chink to this man’s agreeable armor was that he had given her his real name and, possibly, occupation. Builder? Maybe not. Only those with ludicrous superiority complexes would give the game away at first contact.

  She remained on guard. “Nightshade,” she said with an arched smile.

  “The bane of many a good man.” Bell offered her a glass of champagne.

  Lauren never drank in a strange apartment. She declined with a wave of her hand. “Shall we get started?”

  Bell bowed. “I am yours to command.”

  Stone retired to the lounge, leaving them alone. Bell leaned in and whispered in a conspiratorial tone. “Thank God, I thought the old bastard was going to stick around and watch.”

  Lauren tried to hide the quick grin but failed. “Are you ready, Mr. Bell? Before we get started I always like to agree on a safe word. You know, if things get a little too . . . challenging? Does purple work for you?”

  Again the diverting smile. “Whatever you say.”

  Lauren hesitated. “Has Stone explained to you what I do?” Twice in the past she had visited clients that had been “set up” by their so-called friends, men that had run screaming when the nipple clamps came out.

  Bell only nodded.

  Lauren unbuttoned her coat, letting the material pool to the floor. Bell gasped appreciatively. Underneath she wore black stockings, a leather skirt that fell to mid-thigh, shiny boots that ended at the knee and a matching jacket with a shiny silver zip, undone to maximize her cleavage.

  “Lady,” Bell almost panted. “That’s—”

  Lauren cracked the whip. “Shut your mouth,” she said. “And get down on your knees.”

  *

  As she acted out her routine Lauren found her mind wandering. It wasn’t worth speculating on why a man like Bell would pay for her attentions. Men were complex beasts, impossible to ever fully understand, brimming with all sorts of primeval needs. Men buried their secrets deep and that was why Lauren found it difficult, impossible even, to form any kind of relationship with one. Yes, she was jaded, cynical, but then she had seen the opposite sex in all its degradations.

  Take Nicholas Bell as a prime example. Rich, powerful, very good looking. No doubt he drove an expensive car, prowled the streets through the day and hit the clubs and private receptions at night, leaving with a girl draped over each powerful shoulder. A playboy. A celebrity in his own small world.

  Take away the wealthy trimmings and Lauren might have been attracted to him. Add the dash of darkness and every ounce of perception in her body screamed out in warning. The trouble was, where men were concerned they always did.

  Canned laughter drifted through from the lounge, Stone watching some kind of regimented comedy. Lauren straddled Bell’s back, scraping blood red fingernails down the length of his spine. The man shivered. Lauren swiveled and continued around the swell of his buttocks, the sensitive backs of his legs. With the tip of her whip she brushed the soles of his feet. Bell, confined, could only grunt and roll. Lauren climbed off and taught him the error of his ways.

  Two hours passed. Lauren alternated between pleasure and pain, always leaving Bell guessing as to what was coming next—the gentle tickling touch of her long dark hair across his chest or the sharp sting of the whip; the bite of teeth, human or otherwise
; the delectable tip of her tongue. A time came when Bell barely knew which century they were in and didn’t care. The sounds of his elation finally drowned out the monotonous TV.

  Later, they lay on the luxurious couch together, one of them sipping wine. Lauren found Bell, now wrapped in a thick white robe, laid back and relaxed, taking time to listen to her as well as address her comments. For those moments she felt like she was the only thing on his mind, but she couldn’t help but know otherwise. The man was a consummate player, or an unwitting innocent. Lauren could only guess as to which. Again she was struck by how different he was to Stone—Bell lying around half-naked and growing gradually drunker whereas Stone was always reserved, inflexible, as taut as the suspension wires on the Brooklyn Bridge.

  It was only when the general walked in that Lauren fully remembered her mission. Hours had passed and she was no closer to any kind of truth. On the plus side both men seemed to be at ease with her.

  “In a moment,” Stone said. “I shall take a turn but in the meantime I need to talk to Mr. Bell here. Privately.”

  “Wait right here.” Bell patted her hip.

  “Oh, I don’t think she’s going anywhere,” Stone bellowed. “I think the girl enjoys our little trysts.”

  Lauren shrugged, pouring herself another glass of wine and stretching along the couch so that her long legs were revealed. The two men walked back into the lounge with lingering looks, mere clay dolls for her to manipulate. When they closed the door Lauren swallowed down her anxiety, tipped the wine into a nearby plant pot, and headed across the room.

  The best part of her job as Nightshade, she reflected, was that she didn’t actually have to lie with men like these. She was broad-minded to say the least, but some requests still shocked her and powerful characters like Stone and Bell acting out submissive role plays didn’t sit right. Now she placed her ear carefully to the closed door and thought a silent Yes! when she heard Stone mute the TV.

  “Enjoying my gift, Nicholas?” Stone’s voice was faint, but Lauren could still hear the superior tones. She pressed herself closer to the door, angered by his superciliousness.