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

by David Leadbeater

  Drake saw how it must look. The receptionist had already fielded the same question a dozen times judging by how many phone calls Dudley had made. He turned toward Dahl and then saw a figure standing in the doorway that led to the bar.

  “Yer lookin’ for me?” Dudley’s accent was pure, broad Irish. First impressions were daunting. Though whippet thin and tall, Dudley’s bare arms were thick with corded muscles and covered in tattoos. The man’s reputation was much worse. More than a shoot-first-ask-later kind of merc he was a trouble-causer, a hell-raiser, and nowhere more so than in his home country with his older brother and five other gang members, none of whom were even in the UK.

  Dahl started to close the gap. “Are you Dudley?”

  “So what if I are?” Drake struggled to understand the brogue. Jesus, now he knew how Dahl felt.

  Smyth backed the Swede up with Mai drifting around the side. Their approach was too ordered, too aggressive. Dudley saw through it in seconds. His eyes darkened and he shot back into the bar. Drake and his three teammates converged on the opening as Dudley and his men surged through.

  “Have ‘em!” Dudley sneered.

  A fracas broke out, a pure brawl. Instantly on top of each other, mercs and soldiers piled in. Drake ducked a haymaker and felt knuckles crash into the top of his head. Although seeing stars straight away he ignored the lightheaded sensation and tackled his opponent around the waist. The two fell to the ground in a powerful tangle.

  Dahl shoulder-barged his first merc back the way he had come, the man seemingly shot out of a rubber band and crashing into the door frame, cracking it from side to side.

  Dahl shrugged. “Don’t make ‘em like they used to.”

  Mai skipped between her adversaries, dealing blows where she could but maintaining a small gap. Her strikes were debilitating, sending mercs to their knees or making them clutch at tender areas only then to be hit by a whirlwind called Smyth. Growling, he proved he could brawl with the best of them, taking the punches and returning them with more than an equal measure.

  Drake rolled clear, using a side wall to pivot and jump to his feet. Another man came straight at him. Drake employed the Dahl technique, dropping his shoulder and striking at the throat. The man crumpled. Drake leaped off his falling back, using it as a platform to attack the next.

  Dudley reared up before him. “Gonna tear yer feckin’ arms off, mate.”

  Drake knew of this man, knew the reputation. On any given day he’d happily take his time teaching the maniac the error of his ways but not now. Not today. Too much was at stake. The man beyond Dudley was pulling out a gun. Drake smashed Dudley aside and reached for the weapon.

  A shot went off. The receptionist, reaching for a phone, screamed and scrambled away. The bullet passed through the marble-topped counter before shattering a PC screen, sending computer fragments everywhere. Drake slammed down on the man’s gun arm, releasing the weapon, then elbowed him in the face. Mai jabbed at his neck from behind, sending him to the floor faster than a sack of rocks.

  Drake looked around. Dahl, predictably, had picked his opponent up and was holding him by the scruff of his neck. The man’s legs were kicking ineffectively. Drake shook his head as Dahl launched the man against a wall.

  “Show off.”

  The mercs were beyond the SPEAR team now, closer to the door of the hotel. Mai advanced, picking her way through the mayhem of groaning bodies and flexing legs.

  “What a mess.”

  Drake shrugged. “Not too bad, love. I’ve seen worse Black Friday events at Tesco.”

  Smyth struggled in a far corner. With a snarl he hefted his opponent over a shoulder and hurled him among his teammates. Luckily for the man he landed well and rolled to his feet, none the worse for wear.

  Smyth glared.

  Dudley and most of his crew reached for weapons.

  Drake sprang at them. More blows were exchanged. The mercs crashed into the hotel’s front doors, nowhere to go. Even immersed in the intense concentration of battle Drake felt a momentary rush of elation.

  A good win. They would be able to . . .

  Sudden gunfire shattered his senses. The glass doors of the hotel and the windows above blew in, shards dropping and exploding across the lobby. The mercs yelled and dropped as Drake and his colleagues did the same. Sharp fragments showered among them. Harsh yells blasted in from outside.

  “Get the fuck out, Dudley! Fuckin’ Five-O’s here!”

  Drake heard the sound of approaching sirens. As he looked up the mercs were backing out of the destroyed front entrance toward their comrades outside. Drake’s immediate fear was for Hayden and the others who’d accompanied her into the adjacent hotel. Rolling to the right he tried to see beyond the running men.

  “C’mon!” Dahl was first up to join the chase, feet crunching across the glass. Drake rose in his wake, wincing as a bullet whizzed within a whisker of the Mad Swede. The mercs pounded down the hotel steps and out into the road, most glancing left and right with frustrated eyes. But Dudley was not finished yet.

  “The feckin’ plan still stands!” he yelled. “Just earlier. Move it!”

  Instantly the men, reined in and motivated by their leader, poured toward the slope that led to the joint underground car park. Drake was momentarily distracted as Hayden ran up.

  “You all okay?”

  “We’re good. Assholes were packing enough firepower to assault Fort Knox. Took us by surprise.”

  Drake cast his eyes over the group. “Yeah, I’m thinking some of us should stay behind. Safe at the hotel.”

  Dahl was chomping at the bit. “Stay here if you like, ya damn Yorkshire sissy. I’m going!”

  Drake bit back a tawdry reply. Instead he nodded toward Hayden. “Just you and Mano come with us. These bastards don’t care about collateral damage.”

  Hayden nodded quickly. “Komodo, look after them.”

  The big soldier acquiesced with a grunt, clearly wanting to join the action but accepting his responsibilities. He ushered Karin, Lauren, Yorgi and Grace back toward the lights of the hotels.

  Drake heard the roar of a powerful engine starting up, and then almost instantly, two more.

  “Shit. That can’t be good.”

  A swift assessment of their situation followed. Drake found his eyes continually drawn toward the vehicles parked outside the hotel. “We can do this,” he murmured, then: “This way!”

  He took off at speed, down the slope toward the roar of the approaching engines. Even Dahl shouted that he was crazy, but not one of his teammates hesitated for a second. They had his back. Drake powered down the sharp incline, skidding to a halt at the entrance to the car park and spying the attendant down on his knees, bleeding from the temple.

  “Hey, mate. You okay?”

  The attendant scrambled away. Drake was at his side in less than a second. “We’re the good guys,” he said. “Look. Just look. Help us. Those bastards are terrorists, and they’re taking guns onto the streets of London. Look!” Drake brandished his SPEAR identification.

  Mai was down on her knees at his side. “Please.” She took the attendant’s head in her hands and locked eyes. “Help us.”

  The attendant nodded, blood flying from his wound. Smyth cheered. “Good ole Maggie.”

  Drake made a disgruntled noise. “Is there anything you can’t make men do?”

  Mai smiled sweetly. “Not that I’ve found so far.”

  “Drake!” Dahl cried out. “What the hell do you want him to do?”

  The roar of engines was very loud now, and Drake could see two black boxy shapes and a bright orange wedge coming toward them through his peripheral vision.

  “Keys,” he almost begged the attendant. “To the cars outside the hotel. We need them now or we’re gonna lose these guys.”

  The attendant blanched. “I can’t. We should wait for the police.”

  “The police aren’t equipped for war in the streets,” Drake yelled. “Not at this moment, anyway. We are.”<
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  “I . . . I’m sorry. I can’t. It’s more than my job’s worth.”

  The first black shape, a Range Rover equipped with smoked glass, roared up. A gun poked through a partially open rear window. The first shot passed by with a whine, the second kicked up shards where Smyth had been standing a moment before. Drake grabbed the attendant and rolled behind the nearest car, Mai at his side.

  “Keys,” he said softly as more shots rang out and engines roared.

  The attendant pointed quickly at a metal box attached to the nearby wall. “Tagged seven and twelve. Seven’s the Jag. I couldn’t stop you.”

  Drake jumped to his feet. Dahl stared down at the parking assistant, clearly worried. “Don’t worry, the blood and bruises should help you explain how all these cars got stolen at once.”

  Smyth hesitated as they started to run. “You think it would help if we hit the guy again?”

  “No!”

  Outside, Drake rolled fast as a second Range Rover shot past him. Mai and the others were trapped on the other side but quickly scooted across as it bounced up the slope. Drake stopped rolling, hit a curb with a grunt and climbed to his feet. A third vehicle, this one accompanied by a roar louder than Satan’s own personal steam vent, raced toward the exit. Drake sprinted up a patch of grass, keys in hand.

  “Dahl,” he shouted, flinging a set of keys. “The Mercedes is yours. Try to keep up.”

  The Swede grumbled, “I’d prefer the Jag.”

  “Are you kidding?” Drake shouted back at full sprint. “We’re chasing a group of fully armed killers through London with God knows how many lives at stake and you’re complaining about the car you get to drive?”

  “The Jag’s . . . better.”

  “I know.” Drake grinned. “That’s why I’m driving it.”

  They broke for the cars, Drake and Mai climbing into the white F-type as Dahl and Smyth reached the garishly yellow SLS. Drake clamped his foot down on the brake and pressed the Jaguar’s start button, listening as the potent engine screamed to life.

  “Wow,” he said a little dreamily. “That’s a helluva V8.”

  “Just drive!” Mai cried. “There’s no time!”

  Drake jammed the accelerator to the floor and squealed into the road. Up ahead he could still see their quarry, still hear the echo and rumble of their mighty engines.

  “Race is on now,” he said as Dahl’s Mercedes fishtailed into the road behind him.

  The streets echoed with thunder and gunfire.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Drake powered the Jaguar up the narrow street, using the bronze paddles located behind the steering wheel rather than the automatic gearbox. When driving this fast he liked to at least feel he was in control. Parked cars flew by to either side, so close he clipped a side mirror.

  “Matt,” Mai warned.

  “The guy was parked at a bloody silly angle!”

  Dahl roared up behind him, almost a challenge. Drake flicked the minus sign on his paddle, shifting down; then streaked away, taking the revs to the red line before flicking up to third. He swung the F-type around a corner as the tailpipe popped and crackled. Dahl was already closing. Ahead, the orange blur came into focus as it was held up by the two bulky Range Rovers.

  “What the hell is that thing?” Mai squinted.

  “Aventador,” Drake said. “By Lamborghini.”

  Mai held on as Drake drifted the F-type around the sharp corner that brought them onto the multi-laned road at Marble Arch. “Is it faster than ours?”

  Drake coughed. “Like you wouldn’t believe.”

  “How on earth can these mercs afford such expensive cars?”

  Drake thought about it. “Maybe on the Pythians’ dime? Maybe they just stole ‘em. And you can rent a supercar for about a grand a day.”

  “Oh, is that all?”

  Drake propelled the car around Marble Arch, the back-end fishtailing happily as it gripped tarmac just at the top end of Oxford Street and surged toward Park Lane. Dahl came alongside in the SLS Mercedes, its engine louder than anything Drake could have imagined. And now behind the Swede he spotted Hayden and Kinimaka behind the wheel of a cobalt blue Aston Martin DB9.

  “Bond’s back,” Drake said with a smile. “And about bloody time.”

  Ahead, due to the lack of traffic so early in London, their enemies pushed on. Drake imagined they would certainly try to lose them, and since the SPEAR team had no clue as to the whereabouts of the plague pit they were heading for, this, their only lead, had to pay off at all costs.

  The cars flashed toward Park Lane. A pedestrian, out on this cold morning, whipped his head around, mouth open in amazement. The bleach white Marriott Hotel zoomed past, and another building covered in scaffolding and protective wrap. Drake raced up to the back of the Aventador, pulling out into the next lane. The Lamborghini swerved to cut him off and an arm thrust out of its passenger window.

  “Gun!” Mai shouted.

  Drake hauled on the brakes. Dahl’s yellow Mercedes shot by, tires squealing as he swerved out of the path of the bullet. White smoke plumed into the air. The SLS went broadside for a second but then Dahl managed to wrestle it back into shape. A bullet smashed into its lower bodywork. Hayden’s Aston kept its distance.

  The Lamborghini again squealed away, smoke emitting from under its tires, drifting up toward the lines of overhanging trees. Park Lane switched from three lanes to four. Drake pulled the shift-paddles once more, quickly revving and switching the Jag through two howling gear changes, reaching fourth in just a few seconds. Even the Lamborghini wasn’t getting away, and the Range Rovers were somewhat slower. The vehicle’s speed and instant response was violent, pinning Drake and Mai back into their seats.

  Down Park Lane they raced, the famous Forstner car showroom zipping by. Without warning the three mercenary vehicles swung sharp left. Drake reacted instantly but still only just managed to make the turn, burning rubber.

  Mai lost her grip on the leather covered door handle, the seat belt just stopping her from ending up in his lap.

  Drake spotted the big red ‘C’ painted on the road. “Bloody hell! We’re heading into a congestion charge area.”

  “You’re worried about that? Really?”

  “I’m a taxpayer. Of course the congestion charge worries me.”

  Drake threaded the needle between a parked lorry with orange lights across the top of its cab and an overloaded skip with a plastic-wrapped pallet sitting next to it. Plaster puffed in his wake, making it harder for Dahl to see. More buildings obscured by scaffolding stuck out like eyesores to either side.

  “Guess the recession’s well and truly over.” Drake hadn’t yet seen a city street where some kind of work wasn’t being carried out.

  “Just concentrate.” Mai was focused ahead. “Drive.”

  The Lamborghini veered right, a harsh maneuver that made its back end drift. Drake stamped on the brakes in anticipation. As he did so the driver of the orange supercar aimed a gun out of his own window.

  “Oh, bollocks!”

  The merc only managed one shot due to speed and velocity but that shot was stupidly accurate. It smashed into Drake’s side mirror, breaking it and sending it through his side window. Grimly, he hung on, covered in glass and plastic, hair whipped by the sudden gust of wind.

  “Unholster your gun,” he said. “But don’t fire unless you’re doubly sure nobody’s around.”

  “At 4:30 a.m.?” Mai took her weapon out. “Even the Tower’s ghosts will be asleep.”

  Drake flicked the F-type to the right again, heading back toward Park Lane by the side of the Aston Martin showroom. At the top end a line of trees marked the road. Two Range Rovers and four supercars roared past the corner, wheels scrabbling for purchase, engines roaring like angry monsters, smoke streaming and trailing around them in swirling plumes. The Grosvenor was next, its black painted sign flashing past, its doorman staring after them and shaking his head.

  “Seen it all,” Mai commented
.

  Drake nodded. “Park Lane’s no stranger to the supercar prowl or odd race,” he said. “Try walking down here at the weekend.”

  Flags flashed by, fluttering, clinging to the sides of the hotel. The Dorchester with its wide curved frontage came next just before a set of lights turned to red. The mercs completely ignored the signal, ploughing through. Drake saw a black taxi ambling up toward the crossroads and floored it.

  “Damned if we’re gonna lose these freaks!”

  The cab came to a sudden halt, horn blaring. Drake, Dahl and Hayden shot through as the sounds of sirens at last began to split the night behind them. Ahead, the road and path widened as Park Lane met Hyde Park Corner. Ordinarily these roads were clogged with red buses, black cabs and tourists, but tonight they were mercifully clear. Drake saw the elephant at Achilles Way, perfectly balanced on the end of its trunk; a square green signpost that mentioned Knightsbridge flashed by too fast; and then the magnificent Wellington Arch—a sculpture showing the angel of peace descending onto the chariot of war—reared up ahead like an ancient vision.

  Drake flung the F-type around Hyde Park Corner, hitting the apex and letting the back end glide the whole way around the enormous roundabout, straightening the front end as he almost brushed the Aventador’s rear and the main arch itself flashed by. The SLS was right behind him, the Aston Martin almost touching the Mercedes’ flank as they all passed two inches in front of a bus stop that read Hyde Park Corner. Drake flicked the Jag to the left, down the long straight of Grosvenor Terrace, trying to intimidate the Lamborghini into making a mistake.

  Drake’s phone rang. Mai jabbed at the speakerphone. “What?”

  “Let me past!” Dahl’s voice boomed. “I’m the better driver.”

  “You mean you’ll take more chances,” Drake hit back.

  “We can’t risk losing them,” Hayden chimed in, joining the link.

  Drake stamped on the brake as the outlandish Aventador swung into a side road, piercing the district of Belgravia like a vivid blade. Dahl shot past, missing the maneuver and then Hayden was suddenly on Drake’s tail.