The Matt Drake Boxset 6

by David Leadbeater

  Saint’s voice interrupted them. “Round two!”

  Several men threw objects into the ring.

  Drake summoned a huge burst of energy, kicked out, and forced The Gentleman back, clearing space all around him. Several of the objects he recognized instantly. His own Glock. A knife. The club that had been taken out of the MMC’s back. A sword. A battered old Uzi. A wicked looking machete.

  No easy choice.

  Drake saw confusion on The Gentleman’s face. He hadn’t expected this but, without the slightest pause, he ran for the Glock. Drake was less sure, assuming subterfuge on the part of Saint, and ran for one of the weapons that couldn’t be misrepresented. The gaps between them were short; fitness essential.

  Dropping the cleaver, The Gentleman scooped up the Glock and turned. Drake already had the knife. He didn’t wait to see if he was right about the gun; just flung the short blade end over end so that the point embedded fully to the hilt in The Gentleman’s throat. Reflex took over and the dying man’s finger pulled the trigger.

  Aimed right at Drake’s head.

  The hammer fell on an empty chamber.

  Drake turned to Saint, said, “Fuck you.”

  And walked out of the ring.

  CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

  Alicia was waiting for him, relief clearly evident on her face. “Nicely done, Drakey. For a moment there, I was worried. I mean, I’ve heard of Shish Kebab, but not Drake Kebab.”

  “Thanks.” Drake took a deep breath, wiping the sweat from his face with both hands and checking the flesh wound. “What’s the plan?”

  Blank faces met his enquiry. Even Hayden looked stumped. “Survive,” she said. “Survive and hope we get refreshments tonight.”

  Drake turned to Dahl. “Don’t tell me you don’t have a plan, Roxette?”

  The Swede ignored the leg-puller and looked at the skies. “To be fair, I’m hoping for a lunch break.”

  “Shit. I’ll explain one thing right here and now—we won’t be allowed to go on winning.”

  “Not only that,” Alicia added. “Our two best warriors have already fought.”

  A few protests sprang up, but the heat and their own exhaustion cut it short. Drake turned for the bottle of water he’d won and offered it around. The team looked bedraggled, Yorgi and Kinimaka sat at the back, staring at the ground. Hopefully, it was a way of conserving energy and not admitting defeat.

  Mai finished off the last of the water. “Stay calm. Stay alert. An opportunity will always present itself.”

  “Yeah, well, it needs to hurry the fuck up,” Alicia said. “ ’Cause this sunburn is gonna be the death of me.”

  Saint wandered casually over to them. “Shit, it is toasty out here, girl. Luckily, I’m a surf dude, born and raised in sunny California. A bronze god from birth, you might say.”

  Shouts of annoyance pealed from the stands.

  Saint bowed to their demands. “You want more?”

  A general agreeable cry resonated around the rock bowl.

  “Here he is then, the Mad Swede!” Saint swept into a bow and indicated that Dahl should follow him. Drake saw the gun barrels, unwavering, perfectly trained. The Swede walked into the ring.

  “And fight!”

  It happened fast. Two clubs spiked with dozens of deadly four-inch nails were thrown into the ring just as the MMC lumbered back out. Drake thought he looked refreshed or, more importantly, repaired. He moved easily, fast for a man his size, and bent down to pick up his club without flinching.

  “Hey!” Alicia cried out in Drake’s ear. “You got this, Torsty. I already softened him up for ya!”

  Dahl picked up his own club and held it at arm’s length, spinning the length of it. Some nails glinted in the light, others were too rusty. All had been hammered right through the club so that their points stuck out.

  “Never forget!” Saint cried. “They killed our friends. This is revenge, men. Now . . . perforate that piece of shit.”

  Dahl didn’t back away one millimeter. The Swede stepped forward, meeting the MMC’s powerful downswing with a solid defense. The clubs struck, nails bending and catching, then grinding apart as their owners pulled hard. The two opponents came together again, another swing of the club and then a third. Neither gave ground. Neither tried to evade the impact, their back feet planted firmly into the ground.

  The club-fight continued, unabated.

  The mercs shouted for the MMC; the SPEAR team encouraged Dahl. Comments and observations were made; advice screamed at the top of several pairs of lungs. Dahl swung low, aiming for a leg-breaker. The MMC caught it and twisted fast, trying to wrench the club from Dahl’s hands. The Swede’s wrists were strong enough to resist the sudden wrench, pull away. He swing overhead and then to the side, overhead again.

  He let the club drop.

  And saw the feint work beautifully. Let your opponent think this was all you were, all you could do, and then strike hard. Strike fatally.

  Dahl watched the MMC launch a huge overhead attack, and then danced to the side, swift as a gymnast and with ninja-like reflexes. By the time the MMC’s swing would have struck Dahl’s skull, the Swede was at the hulk’s side, a completely unprotected flank in his sights.

  He showed no mercy, sinking the club three times into the MMC, the swings full of power and might, wrenching each direct hit free of flesh and bone and instantly striking again. After three hits Dahl was almost spent, but the MMC was tumbling.

  Fallen, dying.

  Dahl threw down the club and walked away.

  Alicia ran to throw her arms around him. “See, I told you I softened him up. Well done, Torsty.”

  The Mad Swede grunted. “You’re all sweaty.”

  “Yeah, I get like that when I’m excited.”

  Kenzie was also waiting for the Swede’s return. “A good fight,” she said. “No quarter given.”

  Dahl put a big hand on her shoulder. “You can’t show a moment of weakness to these animals.”

  Alicia pulled away. “You wanna get in here, Kenzo? The meat’s a bit ripe, but it’s really fresh.”

  Dahl turned away from them, eyes drifting over the rest of the team. Drake was just as worried. Who would they choose next?

  “So, the MMC finally meets his match,” Saint incited the audience. “That’s Team SPEAR – three; you lot – zero! How about one more bout? Even the scores a little.”

  The cheers were violent, bloodthirsty.

  Saint turned toward SPEAR. “Who’s next? The giant? The boss? The thief? Nah, how about the relic smuggler? I fancy one or two of these guys know you, Kenzie. Maybe even worked for you. I hope you were a good boss.”

  “Hey.” Kenzie squared up to Saint. “We’ve already jumped through your hoops. How about telling us why we’re really here.”

  Saint waved down the guards that had lined her up in their sights. “You’re here to die,” he said simply and rather convincingly. “We were given carte blanche to kill you back at the temple, in the desert, in the street . . . whatever. We chose this because we want you to experience despair before you die. Listen to me now—you will never leave this place alive.”

  “Don’t bet on it, pal,” Drake grumbled.

  “Who can save you?” Saint pointed out. “Who? You’re all here.”

  Kenzie followed the man into the ring and waited to see who or what she might face. Drake gauged the surroundings once more. From his vantage point the bowl rose perhaps thirty meters, stepped, and was about half-full of mercenaries. The way back into the caves was up and to the left, a black arch overlooking it all. The ring itself was approximately twenty meters in diameter, maybe more, and the armed guards were stationed all around and well apart. They were also up in the stands. Drake knew his team could never hope to escape this place without losing some or all of their number.

  Dahl leaned in. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  Alicia overheard and nodded. “You mean Kenzie’s ass? Yeah, it’s sweet.”

  �
�No! I didn’t even notice it. I’m trying to formulate a plan of escape?”

  “Me too,” Drake nodded, “only without the fancy description. I’m just looking to get the fuck outta here.”

  Kenzie flexed her muscles, waiting. A tense quiet stole over the arena. Even Saint shut up and started looking solemn. Minutes passed. The sun beat down in glaring waves, meeting shimmering heat eddying back up.

  At last, a figure emerged.

  A medium-sized man stripped to the waist, wearing a balaclava to hide his face and strips of cloth to protect his groin and thighs. A six-pack across his chest joined other rippling muscles and spoke of fitness. In one hand, he carried a sword.

  “Survive three minutes,” Saint said. “And you’ll get one too.”

  Drake protested. Dahl walked forward, but a gunshot aimed close to his toes stopped him in his tracks. The man with the sword spun the weapon around in circles as he paced around Kenzie.

  Saint affected a bow. “Meet Freddy Fergus. A genuine mad Irish bastard.”

  Fergus ran in, sword still gyrating in his grip. Kenzie watched intently and then side-stepped, keeping the distance between them. She let Fergus move in and rolled as he swung, passing by his left-hand side. When he came around, swinging again, she caught his sword arm and held it upright. Fergus cleverly let it drop, right into his other hand and jabbed at her with that. Kenzie leapt back at the last moment. Drake saw blood spring from a new wound in her abdomen.

  “We have to stop this.” Dahl gazed around desperately. “Are we just going to let them take us down one by one?”

  Kenzie ignored the wound as Saint called out: “One minute left.”

  Fergus sliced the air apart less than a hand’s-width in front of her head: two diagonal slashes. Kenzie skipped back as he came forward, looking to crowd her now. The ring worked to her advantage, giving her space to evade. She drew Fergus in even as he thought he was backing her into a trap.

  Back against a guard, Kenzie sprang forward even as Fergus slashed. She caught his sword arm again, this time at the wrist, and held on. He sought to kick her but she swept that aside with an upraised knee. He tried to use brute strength to pitch her body around but she resisted. Finally, he wrenched back on the sword, trying to pull it from her grip.

  She was already gone, darting past. His huge pull on the sword unbalanced him for several seconds. By then Kenzie had scooped up the sword that Saint, as promised, had hurled into the ring.

  Now, the odds were even.

  Kenzie attacked. Drake never expected anything else. What she didn’t see was two guards grab Yorgi and also throw him, unarmed, into the ring.

  Fergus saw it, staring over Kenzie’s shoulder and a feral grin lit his features. He feinted a block as Kenzie swung and then pulled out of it, rolled past her and came up in front of a very surprised Yorgi.

  Grit and dust from the arena’s floor stuck to his bare skin, trickling to the floor.

  The sword came up to disembowel the Russian thief, but Kenzie was far quicker than anyone realized. She’d seen the feint, spun instantly, and understood what was about to happen. Too far away she did all she could—hurling her sword end over end at Fergus. It hit hard, unfortunately the hilt end smashing into the side of his skull. He staggered. Kenzie leapt over and Yorgi fell back,

  Fergus swung from the floor, the sword blade swinging in a deadly arc. Kenzie was in full leap but managed to twist her body so that only a small chunk of flesh was lost to the blade. She fell hard, gravel stinging her bare flesh, but scooped up the fallen sword and scrambled to safety.

  Fergus met her. Swords clashed under the baking heat and bodies shed sweat in the shimmering still air. A dozen times they came together. Metal met metal and flesh slipped against flesh. Kenzie was wearing Fergus down; there was no doubting it. Her skills were greater, her speed more telling. Yorgi was the unknown factor. He stayed behind Kenzie but couldn’t possibly predict her every lightning move.

  Fergus must have realized his poorer standards and launched a desperate attack. He pushed her aside, slipped past and came hard at Yorgi. The Russian had no defenses and stood with his back to the SPEAR team. Guards sensed trouble and squeezed in around them. Yorgi backed away. Fergus came on, grinning with evil purpose. It was clear that Kenzie was too far away to help.

  “Attack him!” Alicia cried out in despair. “Move!”

  The distance between Fergus and Yorgi shrank quickly. Drake prepared to risk everything, despite the guards. Fergus slashed down the sword, straight at Yorgi’s face.

  But a guard struck him then, right at the very last second and, at first, nobody could quite work out what had happened.

  Then the Mad Swede bellowed and Drake saw his hands outstretched.

  “You crazy bastard, well done.”

  Dahl had hefted one of the closest guards off his feet and propelled him uncontrollably into Fergus, effecting a major body strike.

  Alicia scratched her chin. “Is that allowed?”

  “Guard skittles is always free rein,” Dahl said.

  Saint ran up, unsure what to do, and seemingly amused with the outcome. Kenzie raced up to Fergus and stabbed him before he could regain his feet. Blood pooled across the arena floor. Saint took in the scene and held up his hands.

  “Spectacle’s done for now,” he said. “I’m calling a half-hour break so we can get out of this dreadful sun.” He threw a handful of water bottles at Drake and Dahl. “Get ready,” he said. “You’re staying right here. And it’s going to be the worst afternoon of your lives.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

  Barely refreshed, the SPEAR team sprawled across the gravelly floor, arms across their eyes or propped up sideways. They weren’t allowed to sit with their backs to the walls. Weren’t allowed more water or any kind of food. They weren’t allowed any kind of medication for their wounds. One of the guards explained they didn’t want to waste medicine on dead bodies. He was wholly serious when he said it.

  “Thoughts?” Hayden asked in a low voice.

  “Our only option is a mass attack,” Dahl said apprehensively. “We don’t know where Crouch is, or even if he’s alive. And there are simply zero odds that we will all make it out. Some of us will die.”

  “Then I guess it’s better some than all,” Hayden said. “The alternative is grim.”

  “Grim is our thing,” Alicia said. “We’ve been in worse holes.”

  “Have we? When?”

  “Umm . . . when we fought cannibals? Dmitry Kovalenko’s attack on DC. That last man standing bollocks. Every time Kinimaka walks past something or Mai returns from a trip to Japan.”

  Even Mai smiled, if only slightly. “My personal problems have ended now.”

  “Oh yeah?” Kinimaka brooded. “That’s the feeling right before the worst begins. Don’t get too comfy.”

  Hayden reached out to him. “I’m sorry if I hurt you, Mano.”

  “Ah . . .” the Hawaiian stammered and then clammed up, surprised. The rest of the team were startled too, but turned away so the pair could have a least a semblance of privacy.

  “Don’t say anything,” Hayden said quietly. “I’ll prove it to you. I’ll prove my sorrow and my worth and hope you can forgive me.”

  Saint appeared at the top of the channel that ran from the cave system down into the bottom of the bowl. He brought a long, black whip with him and an enormous, frozen ice lolly, which he opened and started eating in front of them.

  “How we all feeling? Refreshed?”

  “So when are you jumping into the ring?” Alicia asked with interest.

  Saint slurped at the lolly. “Whoa, this thing is juicy. Oh, darlin’, you don’t want that. You wouldn’t last two minutes.”

  “Well, darlin’, I’d be sure happy to give it a try.”

  “Hmm, well, let’s see how the afternoon goes. The masses are wandering back in. Time to perform, kids.”

  Drake rose and the others followed suit, as much to prepare their aching bodies as anythin
g. Lack of food and water would slow them enough. Nobody wanted to be caught out. Saint waited for the crowd to settle and then raised both hands.

  “A nice spectacle to start the afternoon off,” he shouted. “It’ll be Mai Kitano versus Ronin the Samurai, and Mai Kitano versus the whip.” He lashed the dirt floor with the whip, sending up a cloud of dust.

  Drake gritted his teeth, wishing the day was already over. Mai walked through the team to sounds of encouragement. Drake knew she was the best warrior they had, but that didn’t make her invincible. It only upped the stakes.

  Saint smiled at Mai. “I think you’re gonna enjoy this.”

  *

  Mai Kitano waited patiently at the center of the arena, as calm on the inside as she appeared on the outside. It would do no good to get flustered. As she’d explained earlier, her life had become easier lately. Stiller. The personal issues were done with, the troubles all over and demons all met.

  For that she was grateful. It was the main reason she had taken the step back with Drake. It was why she never challenged Alicia. Mai was content; she saw no reason to upset the good, serene fortune that had chosen to flow her way.

  Now, Saint cracked the whip, the lashes landing in the dirt by her feet. It was a long, leather-handled thing with three thongs and Saint appeared to know how to use it. Of course, it would be the distraction.

  Ronin came into sight. Wearing black robes, carrying a whip of his own. With long, black hair and Japanese features he was short and solid. He moved with grace, with purpose and paced toward her now.

  Saint cracked the whip to get them started.

  *

  Drake found himself biting his lip until the blood flowed. Mai evaded three strikes of the whip, the weapon kissing the ground until clouds of dust whirled up. Ronin was too fast to directly assault; the whip always ready and the man constantly in motion. Drake watched hard, his eyes searing hatred at Mai’s opponent until Alicia’s cry made him whirl around.