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

by David Leadbeater

  “Dickhead,” Drake muttered.

  Dahl swore loudly.

  Drake pursued the mercs once more, passing dozens of buildings that all looked the same—white stone lower floors and drab brown uppers. Drake thought it might be the dreariest street in the capitol until he spun around another corner and crossed an intersection. Flagpoles jutted out from the sides of several buildings, each one a different color.

  “Upper Belgravia.” Drake said. “We’re in embassy territory.”

  Around the wide, tree-lined square they shrieked, the Aventador shooting in front of the Range Rovers. Drake felt a quick rush of concern as the back window flipped open and the rear tailgate banged down.

  Two men lay in the back of the vehicle, rifles nestled along their shoulders.

  “Evade!” Drake screamed, knowing the phone channel was still open. He swerved left, accelerating rapidly to help narrow down the angle. Dahl trod on the brakes, front end dipping. Hayden swung her Aston Martin among several parked cars and vans, narrowly missing a collision. Bullets clanked off their bodywork and struck railings and lampposts, a parking meter and a pair of Renault Twingos. Belgrave Square echoed to the sound of double volleys, its prosperous peace shattered for the night.

  Drake nursed the F-type back into position, wary now of the Range Rover but still able to keep it in his sights. The procession cut down West Halkin Street, the first Range Rover taking out one of the inverted-arrow keep-left signs, Dahl destroying the other.

  Up Lowndes Street and Hayden was suddenly on the phone. “I know where they’re going. Knightsbridge Green. It’s the only known plague pit around here.”

  “Can we get there before them?” Dahl asked.

  “Can we risk you guessing wrong?” Drake worried.

  Hayden stayed firm. “We may not beat them, but we can take a better route,” she said. “Follow us and get ready to fight. Things are about to get rough.”

  Drake snorted “About to?”

  Dahl sniffed. “Stop crying and get out of my bloody way.”

  Drake nodded at Mai. “Whatever weapons we have, get them ready.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Drake slowed as Hayden slammed on the brakes.

  “Knightsbridge is a built up area,” he said through the speakerphone. “Maybe one of these bloody hotels was built on top of the pit. Or Harrods.”

  “It wasn’t.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because it’s the one they’re heading for! Think about it, London’s practically a charnel city, built on centuries-old bodies. If they’re heading for this one it must be accessible, otherwise why not choose another? It also has to be viable, for whatever reason. The Pythians wouldn’t have pushed the ‘go’ button without being sure.”

  It made sense. Drake stopped the F-type behind the Aston and waited for Mai to hand him his loaded weapons. Dahl roared up alongside, almost too close to get the door open. The Swede and Smyth jumped out first, grinning as they sauntered up to Hayden. Drake shook his head. “Kids.”

  Mai was already out. Drake squeezed through the tiny gap and made his way to the front of the Aston. Kinimaka was groaning and squeezing out the kinks in his outsized body. Hayden checked her satnav.

  “A recent Daily Telegraph article puts the plague pit about four hundred meters in that direction.” She pointed toward a dark corner, indistinct beneath the soft light of the street lamps. “Let’s move.”

  With no sign of the mercs’ vehicles, the SPEAR team set out at high-speed, keeping close to the high railings and stone walls that bordered the surrounding buildings. Now, darkness was their ally. From far away the sound of sirens shrieked at the mist-shrouded night. Though time was not on their side the team hunkered down at the first corner.

  Hayden peered around. “All right. I can see several vehicles parked at the roadside, nothing unusual there, but they’re adjacent to a high wall where floodlights have been erected. It appears to be a builder’s site—a great way to hide what you’re really looking for. No activity though.”

  “Is it in the right place?” Drake wondered. “Last thing we wanna do is take down a bunch of men working overtime and swilling builder’s tea.”

  “Gimme a minute.”

  Hayden checked her satnav again, marking the exact location from the Daily Telegraph’s map and linking it to her digital map. She nodded. “That’s it, I think.”

  Dahl sighed.

  “Well, dammit, the coordinates are vague. The map is vague. What the hell can I do?”

  “So we wait?” Drake said, rubbing his eyes. “Let’s start a recce of the area.”

  Hayden was still checking her information. “Wow, remember what they said about the bacteria in plague pits vanishing almost immediately? Well, they published a list naming every disease where, if once-contaminated human remains are dug up, they might put people at risk of exposure to pathogenic microorganisms still carried by the cadaver. Plague is among them, as well as anthrax, smallpox, viral hemorrhagic fever and yellow fever. Even today,” she put a finger in the air to make her point, “it is said that all planning applications for new-build properties on Shepherds Bush Common are continually rejected for fear of tampering with the plague pit that lies beneath.”

  Drake felt an involuntary shudder. “Jesus.”

  “Even the office blocks at Houndsditch don’t occupy full plots due to the amount of plague pits in the area.”

  Hayden looked up. “The right hand says it’s all good, the left remains wary. I’ll stick with the left.”

  Drake cast his gaze up the street. Despite the intensity of the glare that escaped over the top of the wall, its beams speckled by the ground glass somebody had glued to the top, he could hear nothing.

  Dahl glanced over at him. “You stuck to the spot or are you going to start that recce?”

  “Shut yer gob,” Drake answered with true Yorkshire aplomb. “I’m not waiting to cadge a bloody lift here.”

  At that moment all decisions were taken out of their hands as three cars approached the scene, at least one of their engines pre-announcing their arrival. The Range Rovers slewed across the road with tailgates still open, occupants pouring out. The Lamborghini powered its way to the front of the pack and tried to drive up the curb. The squeal of grinding alloy wheels grating across concrete made Drake cringe.

  “If only for that they need their asses kicking.”

  Dudley was driving. As the Irishman slithered out, almost rolling onto the road, Drake and the team broke cover. Running, staying low, they closed the gap between themselves and their assailants with silent deliberation. Dudley and his men stopped outside a wide, arched wooden gate as one of them knocked. Dudley’s voice could be heard with that now familiar twang.

  “Get yer feckin’ arses out ‘ere!”

  Drake slowed as the big double gate was suddenly flung open, unsure of what to expect. Through the great opening the mercs rushed and now Drake could see beyond them, into the floodlit area, to where they were working.

  A hollowed out crater sat within the small, fenced off square, directly between a hotel and a row of offices. It wouldn’t have surprised Drake if past hotel occupants hadn’t stared out of their small windows, down at this segregated strip of land, wondering just why it was sealed off. Maybe they fancied it was a private garden, an underground junction box, a forgotten patch of greenery.

  Never knowing . . .

  The sides of the plague pit were jagged and vertical, uneven where men had jabbed shovels and scraped at the dirt. Those men were now arrayed around the rim, staring down. As Drake watched, more men toiled up a sharp slope, each one carrying a small white container that looked like an organ transplant box. Five men came up in all, depositing their boxes carefully into a larger one. Dudley strode over and clicked it shut.

  “Grab it. Quick nigh!”

  “Man, what an accent,” Smyth complained.

  “I think I like it,” Mai said.

  “Well at least he tal
ks,” Drake said huffily. “Rather than texts.”

  Hayden motioned for silence. “One thing. Don’t let those samples get away.”

  Dudley urged his men on. “Cops are comin’. Move it.”

  Drake exploded into action. Pistol raised, he ran forward shouting a warning. Predictably the mercs either turned to fire or ran in the opposite direction. Those that raised their weapons hit the concrete bleeding; those that ran were hunted.

  Dahl and Smyth ranged around the parked vehicles, coming in from the far side. Hayden and Kinimaka fanned out to Drake’s left. Dudley screamed an insult or two, now hefting the large box over one shoulder. “Move out,” he said. “Give de feckers no quarter.”

  Drake skipped behind the house wall as the mercs opened fire. Fragments of brick blasted past his nose, speckling the Range Rovers. As he raised his gun a mass of men surged through the gate, barging each other and running as if they’d seen a plague-infested ghost. A shoulder smashed him across the face. Hayden shouted. Dahl, in typical form, rushed the entire group from the right. Mai was in their midst, bending and breaking.

  Drake tripped and pushed men so that they tangled with others. Dahl smashed his way among them, a literal bowling ball, bashing the smaller pins to left and right. Some careened into the brick wall, howling; others fell against the cars and the spaces in between, faring no better.

  Dudley slipped past the big Swede, as slippery and predictable as an injured tentacle, and rolled across the Aventador’s low hood still clutching the box. Men scuttled after him, shielding his escape. Drake took two down with precise shots, then joined the chase. Dahl was hot on his heels.

  Hayden’s voice came through their comms system. “We’re staying here to make sure it’s not a decoy.”

  A man whirled in front of Drake, whipping a pistol around. Drake paused for one heartbeat, let the weapon swing by, and then slammed the off-balance man in the chest. Dahl overtook him, catching the next and lifting him by the back of his jacket, sending him sprawling face first into the street. Dudley turned around once more.

  “Only pain ‘ere, boys. Soldier boys never learn.”

  Dudley threw the big box high into the air, turned on the spot, and faced Dahl. The big Swede, clearly surprised by the unmistakable confrontation, slowed a little. Drake couldn’t help but watch the box somersault through mid-air. Distracted, he folded when a merc tackled him around the waist, staggering backward but staying on his feet with Mai at his side.

  Dudley came at Dahl, snarling. The box landed hard beside them, thudding into the street but resilient enough to endure without a scratch. Dudley punched hard and true, a boxer through and through. Blows to Dahl’s ribs and arms made the Swede only flinch, rather than let his guard down. Dudley kept coming, snorting and puffing, drawling it up a storm.

  Drake hefted his attacker by the shoulders and slammed him sideways into the wall. Still holding his pistol he used it to shoot another man about to take a potshot. Four were left around him; they grabbed the box and made a break for it. Drake watched them sprint up the road in the direction of the many shops and plush apartments that fronted Knightsbridge.

  A nasty thought occurred to him. These guys didn’t even need to escape the area. If the Pythians owned a piece of property around here—anything from a One Hyde Park hundred-million-pound apartment to a basement beneath the local Nero’s—then the authorities were never going to find it.

  Even a vehicle in a parking garage . . .

  The more he thought about it the more realistic the idea sounded.

  He clicked the comms. “Follow the guys with the box. Now!”

  Hayden’s voice came back instantly, crackling. “We’re pinned down.”

  Drake glanced over as he ran with Mai, seeing the ex-FBI agents taking cover behind a Range Rover as assailants fired on them. The good news was that the wail of sirens was coming inexorably closer, now almost on top of the street battle.

  The bad news: He was almost a man alone, chasing down the current most precious prize on the planet.

  From behind he heard Dahl grunt and then Dudley cry out. But still the Irishman raged. Drake leaped aside as one of the men he was chasing peeled off and turned around, on one knee, gun drawn.

  Drake dived as the weapon fired, hearing the shot but not seeing even a flash as the bullet fizzed past. Rolling, he came up feet first and planted them in the shooter’s chest, breaking ribs and taking him out of the fight. Up and running he was even further behind now as another man broke away from the pack.

  Another shot.

  Drake dived behind a van, heard the bullet ricochet away, popped his head out and came close to getting it blown off by a second shot. The van’s front headlight disappeared in a plastic blizzard. Flashing blue lights painted the surrounding walls. Drake sneaked a peek through the van’s rear window, saw the remaining two men escaping with the box. It was critical, deadly serious if they escaped, but what could he do?

  Getting his head shot to pieces was not the answer.

  In that instant, for reasons he could not begin to fathom, Mai stepped out into the open. The gunman’s aim swiveled toward her. Mai didn’t move; just stood there as a distraction waiting for the bullet that may or may not end her life. Drake yelled at the top of his lungs and rose too, shooting through his entire clip. In that moment Mai breathed again.

  “Damn.”

  Drake knew not what the curse meant, nor whether it was for a good or bad outcome, but he finished the shooter off and didn’t hang around to ask. Head down, sprinting at top speed, he reached the dark corner ahead and slipped around it as carefully as possible.

  Empty. The road was empty.

  The men were gone. The box was gone. The plague had escaped.

  Drake shouted with frustration.

  *

  In the aftermath, as Hayden fought to establish the team’s credentials with an overenthusiastic inspector, Drake sought Torsten Dahl. The Swede was sitting with his back to a low wall, staring up at the skies. Drake threw himself down alongside him.

  “How ya doin’, mate?”

  “Could be better.” Dahl winced a little as he moved. “Little fucker packs a punch.”

  “He get away?”

  “Yeah.” Dahl sounded as gloomy as a man who’d married for money only to find out his wife’s real name was Colin. “Took off across the gardens like a stabbed rat.”

  “Is that supposed to be topically funny?”

  “Not especially.”

  “Did he at least come out worse?”

  Dahl gave him a stare. “Don’t be a dick. What do you think?”

  Drake grinned. At that moment Mai came up to them, standing next to Drake’s outstretched legs. Her cell was ringing. “It’s Dai Hibiki,” she said. “Maybe he’s learned something more about Grace or her parents.”

  As she spoke, Drake studied her with hooded eyes. Hooded because they were anxious. Hooded because they were terrified.

  What the hell was going on with Mai Kitano?

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Los Angeles simmered at 8 p.m., basking in the heat amassed from another glorious day. Beaches and parks still echoed to the sounds of the spirited and the sprightly, all the more lonely now for losing the greatest gifts humanity could bestow—life, liveliness, energy. And innocence. Innocence existed here only in the young. Parents struggled to keep the real world from their children beyond the very last moment—and to help do that they took them to the beach. The park.

  Let them run in the sun, luxuriate in the warmth, play to their hearts’ content, live out their very real dreams before life intervened.

  Los Angeles, the city of angels, savored the night. The Santa Anas gusted through the mountains, but at least the forest fires weren’t burning tonight. More than two million people were living their lives in the great basin, day to day, night to night, meal to meal, TV show to TV show.

  Aaron Trent was known by his friends and colleagues as the “serious” one. He was the leader, the
one with the weight of the world on his shoulders. Every decision, every op and its outcome, was down to him. For many years the gods had seen fit to reward him, earning his three-man team a reputation as the best in the business. The Razor’s Edge, they had been called, and every agency in the world sought their input. Their skills were legendary.

  And then one night it had all shattered to dust. By then his marriage was over, his boy—Mikey—living with his mother and her new boyfriend minutes from Rodeo. Trent and his team had become known as the Disavowed—three agents who took the fall for a country’s failings. Later, they discovered the real truth—that they had been used, framed by a Serbian madman who found aid in one of the world’s largest corporations. By then it was too late. The Disavowed had found a new purpose—helping those who could not help themselves, working for the weak who struggled to fight against the powerful.

  Now, as the omniscient stars glittered knowingly and the warm air absolved the sins of yet another day in paradise, Trent knew there was something else in his life that had well and truly begun to matter. Her name was Claire Collins, and she was the Disavowed’s FBI liaison, helping them work off the books now that their old friend, Doug the Trout, was dead. Collins was the new light in his life, the ballbuster with a soft edge, the midnight dancer with a fragile heart; she had all the complexities of a motherboard, all the sharpness of a samurai sword, and all the energy and sparkle of a six-year-old.

  She sat to his right, enjoying the barbecue his colleague, Dan Radford, dished out.

  Thoughts of Doug the Trout only sent his mind back toward Mikey. Doug had saved the boy’s life very recently, dying in the process, taking the brunt of the explosion that was meant for Mikey. The perpetrator of that act, a terrible contract killer known as the Moose, had supposedly escaped into retirement and obscurity. Now, Trent suddenly felt the need to hold both his son and his girlfriend; he slipped an arm around their waists.

  Mikey, eight going on eighteen, squirmed in protest but didn’t pull away. This barbecue was a major step forward for the young boy—his mother had been kidnapped and murdered during the recent terrorist attack on LA, when everything had gone Threat Level Red; this was the first time Mikey had seen his dad with another woman.