The Matt Drake Boxset 6

by David Leadbeater

  “Now I know what it’s like to be chased by a shark.”

  Somewhere ahead lay the remaining contingent of Russians, Swedes and Israelis, all tasked with one duty—retrieve the bio-weapon that had been specifically engineered to wipe out America’s food supply.

  “Why don’t we just destroy it?” Kinimaka said as he hung onto a grab handle.

  “Fair question,” Dahl pointed out.

  “It is,” Lauren said. “But I’ve just been told there are protocols. Procedures. Do it the wrong way and you could kill yourselves and a whole lot of others.”

  Drake eased off the gas as a sharp bend appeared up ahead. Again, the police had blocked all other routes and he drifted the vehicle gracefully around the corner, shedding rubber and blasting through a red light. Dahl was a few feet behind him. Pedestrians lined the streets, staring, gesturing, but held back by cops with a bullhorn. Drake was always acutely aware that some might not listen.

  “Cops can’t handle all this,” Hayden said. “Slow it down, guys. We’re five minutes out.”

  At that point a pickup truck blasted out from a side street, almost running down a police officer who wasn’t paying attention. It swerved into their path and then pulled alongside. Yorgi already had his window pulled down, and Mai broke out the glass in the back.

  The pickup—a silver F-150—kept pace, coming closer. The grinning face behind the wheel stared over at them, watching them twice as much as the road. Yorgi fell back into his seat.

  “Oh no, no, no. That is not good. I know her. I know her.”

  Drake took a quick peek. “Looks like a Russian weightlifter to me.”

  “She was in Olympics,” Yorgi said. “That was before she became military black-ops assassin, one of best ever to come out of Russia. She is Olga.”

  Drake slowed as a knot of pedestrians walked out in front of the speeding cars, most with cellphones held inches before their eyes.

  “Olga?”

  “Yes, Olga. She is legend. You never hear of her?”

  “Not in this context. No.”

  The silver F-150 swerved hard, striking the wide of their Challenger. Free of the wandering herd, Drake goosed the throttle again and surged ahead, the Challenger responding with a satisfying roar. Olga swept over once more, aiming for the rear three-quarter wing but missed by inches. Her F-150 crossed over to the other side, right between Drake and Dahl. The Swede maneuvered his Mustang behind her.

  “Can’t ram her,” he said. “Too risky.”

  “Can’t shoot her,” Mai said. “Same problem.”

  “How does she expect to escape?” Kinimaka wondered.

  “Olga is invincible,” Yorgi assured them. “And she never fails.”

  “That’s lovely for her,” Alicia said. “Maybe you two could hide under the same mattress.”

  The three vehicles raced along, other vehicles largely blocked and pedestrians warned by the unbroken shriek of police sirens. Drake followed Hayden’s direction and Hayden sat glued to the screen of a portable satnav.

  Drake saw a long straight ahead.

  “Stay with me, Dahl,” he said. “Box the bitch in.”

  He accelerated, keeping to the center of the road. A stray vehicle did start to wander out of a side street, but jammed all on when the driver saw the oncoming chase. Drake kept the hammer down, watching Olga behind and Dahl behind her. The engines roared, the tires rumbled. Glass shopfronts and office buildings flashed by in a blur. Pedestrians jumped out into the road to take pictures. A police car joined the chase, coming alongside Olga so that now Drake had two cars in his immediate rearview.

  “Three minutes,” Hayden said.

  “Get your guns out, people,” Alicia said.

  “Let’s hope the Russian bitch doesn’t go down quietly,” Kenzie said.

  Yorgi gulped hard next to Drake.

  Then, ahead, the oddest and most terrifying thing happened. Figures ran out into the center of the road, dropped to one knee, and fired.

  Bullets strafed the front of the Challenger, clanging against metal and shearing through bolts. Sparks exploded into the air. Drake kept the vehicle dead straight.

  “Hit the fucking deck!” he cried.

  More shots. Police ran hard from the sidewalk, trying to stop the shooters. Civilians dived for cover. A contingent of SWAT broke cover and ran with the police, weapons aimed but unused because of the likelihood of hitting people on the other side of the road.

  Drake’s windshield exploded, glass tumbling over his jacket, his shoulders and down into his lap. The offending bullet thunked into the headrest just a few inches to the right of his ear. The Yorkshireman waited two more seconds, allowed the shooters to settle once more, and then swerved the Challenger with great violence.

  Leaving Olga’s F-150 in the firing line.

  She wrenched at her own wheel, striking the cop to her right side, but the bullets still struck. The man sat beside her slumped; red burst across the inside of the car. Another Russian dead and only one remaining.

  Dahl found himself suddenly in the direct firing line.

  But by then the shooters were concentrated on the approaching cops and SWAT, just two of them turning and spreading out covering fire as they turned to run. Drake saw bullets hammer in among the crowd, saw the disdain with which these people—Israelis, at a guess—treated the civilians.

  “Fuck it,” he said. “That ain’t gonna stand.”

  “Drake!” Hayden warned. “Two minutes.”

  Mai grabbed her shoulder. “This has to be done.”

  Drake stomped on the gas pedal, and ate up the ground between the car and the fleeing gunmen. Yorgi leaned out of one window and Mai leaned out of the other. Guns leveled, they fired three shots each down the dead straight street, without chance of other casualties, and dropped the running men.

  Drake swerved hard around their falling bodies.

  “Bastards.”

  In the rearview, the cops picked them up. Then Olga and Dahl were back, coming hard, racing each other down the center of the road. Olga’s vehicle was bloody, her windshield missing, the fenders, sides and lights all smashed, one of the tires shedding rubber. But still she came, as implacable as a hurricane.

  “Ninety seconds,” Hayden read aloud.

  “Where?” Drake asked.

  She shouted out an address. “Take a hard right ahead, then left and the building will be dead ahead, blocking the road.”

  “On another note,” Lauren put in. “That’s the Israelis out of the fight. And the race.”

  “Unsanctioned,” Kenzie said. “As I thought. No way would that have happened if our government was involved.”

  Dahl didn’t take his eyes off the road. “That coming from you surprises me.”

  “It shouldn’t. I am not saying they wouldn’t operate, kill and maim on foreign territory. Friendly territory. I am saying they wouldn’t do it so openly.”

  “Ah, that make more sense.”

  Drake slowed, standing hard on the brakes, and flung the roaring Challenger around the sharp right. Almost clipping the far curb, he powered on and heard the tires scrabbling for grip. At the last moment they caught, spit gravel, and helped propel the car forward. The hope was Dahl might be able to nudge Olga’s backend as she turned, but the Russian was too savvy, cutting the corner recklessly and powering ahead. A litter bin jumped high in her wake, slammed by the front end.

  “Thirty seconds,” Hayden said.

  Then it all went to hell.

  CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

  Olga risked everything, roaring up fast toward the Challenger’s trunk.

  Drake saw the left turn coming fast, and prepared to fling the car around.

  At the back of his mind, this whole way, had been the nagging worry that the last remaining Swede was out there—somewhere. But he hadn’t shown.

  Until now.

  The soldier burst out of a shop front, wicked-looking machine-pistol leveled, face bloodied and set in a rictus of pain. He was hur
ting, but he remained on mission. Another non-sanctioned attack. Another third-party using Special Ops men.

  Drake reacted instantly. What were the options? It seemed that swerving dangerously into the tight left, trying to fit the Challenger perfectly into the new narrow street, he might be able to flip the backend into the onrushing Swede. It was the only play, and didn’t account for the man’s deadly weapon.

  Hayden and Yorgi were sitting on that side of the car. The Swede looked like he was going to spray the entire vehicle as it slid past sideways. His finger tightened. Drake fought the wheel, keeping it tight, his right foot feathering the throttle at just the right rate.

  The Swede opened fire almost point blank—seconds before the car’s tail would swipe at him.

  And then the whole world went crazy, upside down, as Olga smashed full force into the drifting Challenger. She hadn’t slowed down one bit. She plowed her vehicle into the side of the Dodge, sending it spinning, crushing the Swede and flinging his body halfway across the road. Drake held onto the wheel, unable to see straight as the car spun; two rotations, then it hit the high curb and flipped.

  It came down on its roof, still skidding, grating against concrete, until it hit the shopfront. Glass shattered and rained down. Drake fought for equilibrium. Alicia was stunned, Yorgi dazed.

  Olga jammed the brakes on, and managed somehow to bring the F-150 to a sudden standstill.

  Drake saw her in the upside-down side mirror. Windows were smashed on all sides but the gaps were too small to fit through easily. He heard Mai fighting her seatbelt, shrugging it off. He knew she was agile, but didn’t believe she’d fit through the rear window. They couldn’t defend themselves.

  Olga stomped toward them, huge arms and legs working, face set with so much anger it might set fire to the entire world. Blood coated her features and ran down from her neck to her fingers, dripping onto the floor. She carried a machine gun in one hand and a rocket launcher in the other. Drake saw a spare magazine gripped between her teeth and a military blade at her side.

  Closing the gap, she was inexorable. Death oncoming. Her eyes never blinked. Steam and now fire broke out of the car behind her, licking around her shape. Drake then saw a flash of blue and knew the Mustang had arrived. He saw Olga sneer. He saw the team jump from the other car in an explosion of action.

  Olga fell to one knee, leveled the rocket launcher across one enormous shoulder, and zeroed in on the upended Challenger.

  Would she destroy the bio-weapon then?

  She’s lost it. There’s no rational thought behind that demonic face.

  They were helpless. In the back seat the women were now animated, freeing themselves and trying to find some wriggle room. They didn’t see what was coming, and Drake didn’t tell them. No way could they do anything about it.

  Olga squeezed the trigger and the rocket ignited.

  Friends, family, this is how we go ...

  Torsten Dahl smashed his way through like a terrible battering ram; running at full force, with all his might, he crashed into Olga from behind. The rocket launcher slipped, its payload shooting askew and firing off on another trajectory. Dahl himself, whilst saving the day, must have experienced the utter shock of his life, for Olga did not move.

  The Swede had just run headlong into the world’s toughest brick wall.

  Dahl fell back, nose broken, out cold.

  Olga shrugged the Mad Swede off, barely noticing the great attack. She rose like a new mountain, threw the rocket launcher to the ground, and lifted the machine gun in one hand, blood still dripping underneath, spattering the floor.

  Drake saw it all, turned to push Yorgi out, then Hayden. His head still spun, but he managed to catch Alicia’s eye.

  “We good?” She knew something wasn’t right.

  “I just saw Dahl hit Olga at full pelt, bounce off unconscious, and she barely noticed.”

  Alicia could barely find the breath. “Fuck. Me.”

  “And now she has a machine gun.”

  Hayden crawled free. Mai jumped after her, squirming through the small gap. Drake turned back, watching the mirror even as he attempted to squeeze through his own small windows of space. Olga steadied the gun, sneered once more, raised her free hand, and pulled free a tooth from her mouth, flinging it to the ground. At this point the rest of Dahl’s teammates arrived.

  And one of them was Mano Kinimaka.

  The Hawaiian, in true fashion, launched himself at full speed, feet leaving the ground, arms outstretched, a human missile, a wrecking ball of muscle and bone. He struck Olga around the shoulders, a better aim than Dahl, and gripped hard. Olga staggered forward six feet, and that in itself was a miracle.

  Kinimaka swung around her front, facing the Russian.

  The machine gun fell to the floor.

  Drake read her lips.

  “You should be kneeling, little man.”

  Kinimaka swung a haymaker, which Olga deftly dodged, faster than Drake would have realized. Her own fist then buried itself deep into Mano’s kidneys, sending the Hawaiian instantly to his knees and gasping for breath.

  Kenzie and Smyth reached the battle. Drake couldn’t shake the feeling that it wouldn’t be enough.

  He squirmed until the flesh tore off his stomach, until his hip bone shrieked. He wrenched himself out of the car and ignored the fresh blood. Signaling all but Hayden, he started to limp toward the battle as the sirens sounded around them, flashing blue lights filled his sight, and the roaring of people and cops and soldiers filled the air.

  He shambled up the street, coming close to Olga. The Russian ignored Smyth as he shot her through the stomach; she grabbed Kenzie by the hair and flung her aside. Tufts of brown stayed gripped in the Russian’s hands and Kenzie, shocked, flipped and tumbled along the gutter, scraping her flesh. Olga then smashed a hand down onto Smyth’s wrist, sending the gun to the ground and making the soldier scream.

  “You shoot me? I will tear your arm off and choke you with bloody end.”

  Drake gathered his strength and hit her from behind, a three strike blow to the kidneys and ribcage. He’d have used his gun, but had lost it in the crash. Olga didn’t even notice the attack. It was like hitting a tree trunk. He looked around for a weapon, something to use.

  He saw it.

  Mai ran up, followed by Alicia and then Yorgi, white as a sheet. Drake hefted the rocket launcher, held it above his head, and brought it crashing down with all his might onto the Russian’s back.

  This time, she moved.

  Kinimaka scrambled aside as the huge mountain crashed down to one knee. Her spare magazine fell from between her teeth. An RPG toppled from her belt. Drake dropped the weapon, panting hard.

  Olga rose, turned, smiled. “I will trample you until you are but offal on concrete.”

  Drake staggered away. Olga’s kick nicked his thigh and sent an explosion of pain from one end of his body to the other. Alicia waded in, only to be manhandled high into the air and flung on top of Kenzie. Kinimaka rose to a head-butt that sent him straight on his ass. Smyth dove in with countless body strikes, and then three to the throat and nose that made Olga break out into laughter.

  “Oh, thank you, little one, that helped break down the phlegm. Please, one more.”

  She held her face out for Smyth to strike.

  Alicia helped Kenzie up. Cops were rushing toward them. Drake couldn’t help but wish they would stay away. This could be a bloodbath. He tried to rise, and managed it on one leg.

  Olga gripped Smyth by the throat and flung him away. Kinimaka shook his great head, now at Olga’s feet, and delivered half a dozen incredible blows to her thick thighs.

  She punched Kinimaka in the head, laying him out. She took Drake’s next attack and flung him backward, though blood fell freely from her ears, her right eye and innumerable cuts and contusions over her forehead. A hole had opened up in her stomach where Smyth shot her and Drake wondered if that might be the way to stop her.

  Mai caught Olga’s
attention. “Look at me,” she said. “Look at me. I have never been beaten.”

  An expression of interest crossed the bloody mien. “But you are no bigger than one of my sweat glands. Are you Supergirl? Wonder Woman? Scarlett Johanssen?”

  “I am Mai Kitano.”

  Olga lumbered forward, kicking Smyth and an approaching Alicia aside. Mai crouched. Olga lunged. Mai danced away, far away, and then pointed at Olga’s right shoulder.

  “And whilst I distracted you, my friend Yorgi will destroy you.”

  Olga turned shockingly fast. “Wha ...”

  Yorgi steadied the rocket launcher across his shoulders, made sure the last grenade was mounted correctly, and then fired directly at Olga’s body mass.

  Drake ducked.

  CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

  In the aftermath, the SPEAR team vanished. Whisked away from the scene after handing off the bio-weapon, they were driven through the heart of the unnaturally quiet city to one of the FBI’s more rural safe houses. It was a ranch, necessarily small for security, but a ranch nonetheless, with its own house, stables and coral. Horses were kept to sell the illusion, and a ranch hand to train them, but he too worked for the Feds.

  The team were so unbelievably happy to arrive at the safe house, and even happier to separate and shut the doors to separate rooms. To a person they were beat, weary, battered, bruised, bleeding.

  Blood soaked them all, contusions and woolly-headedness too. Those that hadn’t been knocked unconscious wished they had; and those that had, wished they’d been able to help. Drake and Alicia walked into their room, stripped, and headed straight for the shower. A red-hot burst of water helped wash more than blood away. Drake helped Alicia and Alicia helped Drake in the places where their arms were just too covered in bruises to help.

  The team weren’t broken, but they had been somewhat beaten.

  “Always somebody out there—” Drake gasped as the water smashed into him full flow “—who can take you down.”

  “I know.” Alicia piled handfuls of liquid soap into her palm. “Did you see the way Dahl bounced off her?”