Quickly he checked and loaded his weapon, even as the jouncing shed jolted its way along the road. Another salvo of bullets ricocheted off the walls. Two of Crouch’s men lost their balance and rolled away as one metal edge slammed into the ground harder than before. An RPG slithered after them, worryingly already loaded. The shed travelled uphill for a short while and then hit a long downhill slope. Crouch felt a table slam into his back and pushed it aside. The dead and dying mercs all rolled toward the far wall, one of them still groaning but seemingly incapacitated.
There was no time left.
Crouch lifted the rocket launcher and balanced it over one shoulder; not an easy feat in the zigzagging shed. Healey did the same. Russo and the other men and women took cover as best they could. Then, with a shout, Crouch let the missile fly. The explosive warhead arrowed toward the shed-wall, fins spinning in flight. The downside to his plan happened next—the payload detonated on impact, sending metal fragments and fire bursting far and wide. Healey’s missile hit further along, also detonating when it struck metal. A fireball mushroomed up the wall and spread across the roof, most of it escaping through the new ragged holes. Crouch, having prostrated himself in a hurry, looked up to see a torn-apart wall and scenery swishing past.
“Move it.”
What was left of the Ninth Division struggled toward the blackened sides of the holes. As they approached, a new vehicle came into view; a flatbed truck, laden with men—their machine guns standing ready.
“Down!” Crouch yelled.
Bullets spattered the shed, peppering its frame and flying through the newly opened cavities. Fortunately the shots were all high. Crouch crawled hard, pistol in hand.
Healey was already there, firing through the gap at the swerving truck. When the shed gave another fishtail bounce it barely upset his aim; the bullet drawing sparks from the truck’s rear tailgate. Crouch squinted and made every shot count, picking off one guy with a shot to the chest, making him tumble over the truck’s low sides and smash to the ground.
Where the hell is the backup?
“We need to get out of here,” he said suddenly.
For there, snaking along to the left, was the Thames itself, wide at this point and relatively deep, nothing standing between them and it except a half-mown flowery bank. Beyond the serpentine, reflective waterway, Crouch now saw lights in the sky, coming fast.
Helicopters. “Good guys are almost here,” he said. Hoped.
He emptied the clip, forcing the truck to rev hard and surge out of sight after losing another soldier. Then he fixed Healey with a tough stare.
“Jump.”
The young man blinked rapidly. Even his thirst for adventure was slaked a little by the prospect of jumping out of an office being towed by a bunch of gun-wielding mercs, it seemed.
“Stop being a little bitch,” Russo growled. “And get your shrunken balls airborne.”
The big man showed an example, leaping ungainly through the jagged gap, just missing a sharp curve of metal, and landing in a bouncing tangle of arms and legs on the bank outside.
“Now if you can’t do better than that,” Crouch said. “You’re sacked. All of you.”
Healey jumped. Crouch pulled up the next man. But, as his remaining half dozen soldiers lined up to escape, they all felt a sudden jerk and swerve in the motion of the shed. With abrupt savagery it swept to the left, almost as if the vehicle pulling it had swerved hard right.
And it had, Crouch realized. This is where we hit the goddamn river.
The shed suddenly tipped, the side with the holes slamming into the earth, then slithered dramatically down the steep slope. Crouch lost all sense of balance, tumbling head over heels and hitting the far wall. Debris crashed all around him. Bodies glanced off his legs; some screaming, one grunting deeply as bones audibly snapped. Then, as their minds became used to the speed of the slide, the shed’s momentum was instantly arrested as it struck the water.
All quieted for a moment; then hell erupted.
Crouch had lost all sense of direction, not even sure which way was up or down. He struggled to his knees, noticing the swirling water already flooding the shed. A pile of papers floated by. A handgun knocked against his left arm as if reminding him it might yet be needed. He shook his head and tried to focus.
A hand gripped his right shoulder. “Sir! We should—”
The face disappeared as the shed shifted and a heavy filing cabinet rammed into the man. Crouch tried to help but the force of the collision tore him away and crushed him into the far wall. Before Crouch could do anything else the shed drifted sideways and sent its contents barreling in yet another direction.
Crouch saw the only way out of this thing was to head for the holes. He crawled as fast as he could, using the new floor to help him move forward. To hell with the torn nails, the lacerated fingers. The bubbling escape route was filling up fast with swirling debris and he needed to escape before it became too deadly. A deep, resonating groan echoed through the thinning air, bolts and welds already yielding to pressure. Crouch wasted no time. Nobody else was around him; he couldn’t see a single person. So, unsure exactly how long he’d been dithering he simply dived into the big hole against the flow of water. Instant mayhem and confusion caused his heart to race. The surging current was strong, forcing him back. He flailed, kicking his legs. Another swirling flux spun him away and down, currents fighting each other as they tried to cope with the huge interloper. Crouch found his face hitting something soft, the river bank, and dug his fingers in hard. Already the breath was burning in his lungs, longing to be expelled. Desperate now, he forced his way up, using the bank to navigate. The surface was not too far, just a few feet . . .
White trails streaked through the water around him. Bullets!
But there were no choices left any more. Crouch had to keep on climbing, struggling. In seconds he would gulp water and die. The rippling surface was just feet away. A trail of fire ripped down his forearm, drawing swirls of blood. At last he broke the surface and gulped for air, momentarily unable to gauge his peril.
A splash sounded next to his ear. Any second he expected the lights to go out. But when he was able to open his eyes he saw a spectacular sight: Healey and Russo running and firing across the top of the river bank, tormenting the mercs that had abandoned their enormous tow vehicle and discarded grapples, and forcing those that remained to flee.
In seconds, Healey had reached Crouch and, still firing with one hand, reached down with the other to help him out of the river.
“You made them run?”
“Us,” Healey said. “And them.”
He pointed over Crouch’s streaming shoulders.
He looked back, and saw two hovering choppers, packed with men. Crouch took another moment to look around.
“Where’s everyone else?”
“I . . . I don’t know, sir. You’re the first we found. We thought we’d lost you too.”
The enormity of their loss hit Crouch and he slumped. The Ninth Division had been decimated. Files and hard drives were replaceable. Men and women were not—particularly the group he had helped train and nurture during his reign.
Crouch felt fury infuse his body as he stared around at wreckage and death.
“Somebody’s going to pay for this,” he said. “And if it’s all down to Coyote then that bitch is soon gonna wish she’d never been born.”
CHAPTER THREE
Loss is the great identifier, the character builder, one of those times in life when one must prove one’s mettle and struggle through. But there are many iterations of loss, many levels. Loss doesn’t differentiate, doesn’t take sides; it hits us when we’re at our best or at our lowest ebb; and it takes no prisoners.
Matt Drake never got to say goodbye. Not to any of them. Alyson left their home in anger. Ben, Sam and Jo were murdered in the street. And Kennedy Moore —shot dead onboard a warship.
What did they all have in common?
The fact that they
all expected to see each other again. The firm knowledge that, despite the anger and the miles apart, their last look had been one of friends that say “see you soon”, not “goodbye forever”. The fact niggled and messed with Drake’s mind. He never got to say goodbye; never told most of them how he felt. And what about all that was left unsaid? Unknown?
Lost in time along with hearts, souls and minds that would never feel, never shine, never hold a loved one or a newborn child again.
On his way to the funeral in Leeds, Drake made a detour. He took Mai to the place where Alyson died.
With death playing such a major part in his life during the events in DC, and over the last year or so, it seemed right that, here, now, as they paid their respects to Ben and his family and were finally tracking down the enigma that was Coyote, that he visit the site where his wife and unborn child died more than eight years ago. The B-road was a meandering mess, replete with blind hills, curves and concealed exits from which tractors blasted out. More hazardous still were the steep and sudden drop-offs at either side of the road. No wonder the cops had ruled Alyson’s death an accident.
When Drake reached the place, he pulled off the road and parked on the grass verge, front left tire partly in space. Mai had to clamber across the driver’s seat to get out and join him at the edge of the road.
Drake stared down, eyes far away, oblivious to the fine English sleet that coated his head and shoulders. “They found the car on its roof. Eventually. Alyson . . . she died alone . . . in pain . . . knowing that her . . . her—”
Mai laid a hand on his shoulder. “Matt. This will not help you. We have been too close to death of late. It’s like rubbing shoulders with the Reaper. Such exploits can only end one way.”
Drake heard her words and immediately flashed onto her recent time in Tokyo. “What happened with you?”
“We will talk later.”
He nodded absently. The sharp slope, he saw, led to a jagged pile of rocks and a small stand of trees. How had Coyote planned it? And why? If Coyote actually was Shelly Cohen, then they had been friends. They shared a mutual respect.
He was aware of what had happened to the Ninth Division. Thank God Crouch and some of his team had made it out. And to those that hadn’t . . . he bowed his head again, thinking about how death and destruction could swamp you with its relentlessness.
Mai patted his arm. “We should go.”
He took a last look, knowing that this was the last time he would ever visit this place. A raw sliver of hurt opened wider inside his gut. Not a sign remained. Not a single sign that Alyson and Emily had died here, alone. It shouldn’t be this way. When a man’s wife and unborn child died there should at least be some mark, some final sign or piece of evidence. It was all so—uncaring.
Drake turned away and strode back to the car. When Mai had settled herself he put the car in reverse and then stamped on the gas.
Worse was soon to come.
***
Drake found himself seated beside Karin, amidst a large crowd, on the afternoon of Ben Blake’s funeral. Seeing so many people both angered and pleased Drake. In the end Ben had forged his own path. The members of his band were there. His girlfriend’s grieving parents. Other college friends that Drake didn’t know. Kids that shared the block of houses where he lived.
Mai, Alicia and Torsten Dahl stood on the fringes like dark-clad guardians, watching over it all. Komodo was seated to Karin’s other side, a great hulking black-suited figure with a soldier’s frame and tears in his eyes.
Drake fought his way through it, thinking a war would be easier than a fallen comrade’s funeral. When the rituals were done and the formalities over, Karin turned to him with a look of utter despair in her eyes.
“We’re here for you,” Drake said, feeling simple and foolish. What were you supposed to say at a time like this?
“I feel like I might scream,” Karin said.
I know the feeling, Drake wanted to say, but stopped himself. Karin had lost her brother and her parents in one day.
Instead he held her. The sleet coated them like a soothing balm and the commiserations of fellow mourners gradually faded away. The last fading vestiges of Ben Blake were lost, a firefly’s last spark in the night.
Drake became aware of their surroundings again; the crowd melting away. Something was happening at a nearby hotel, a final farewell, but Ben’s sister and the rest of the SPEAR team felt no compulsion to be there. The smell of a freshly dug grave stung Drake’s nostrils. The low murmur of consolation rolled around his ears. When Mai, Alicia and Dahl joined them at the front he knew that he needed nothing more than this.
Karin clung to Komodo. “Let’s get out of here.”
Drake started to walk, his eyes barely raised. It was only when Alicia grunted in surprised disapproval that he looked up.
Half a dozen black cars were parked along the road that cut through the graveyard, effectively boxing their own in. As they watched, every door opened and tall, wide men in suits climbed out. Dozens of them. In their hands were clasped every numb weapon a savvy street-youth could imagine—from hammer shafts to stone-filled socks to baseball bats. Drake made himself blink twice before he allowed himself to believe what he was seeing.
“What is this?”
“Don’t worry.” Dahl put himself first in line. “I have this.”
“But Torstyyy,” Alicia mock-whined. “There are more than two dozen of them.”
“Ohh, I’m scared now.”
Alicia smiled and cracked her fingers. “This will actually provide a little light relief.”
“Isn’t that what they’re here for?”
“Hope so.”
“Wanna challenge? Best head-count wins.”
“You’re on.”
As the gang approached, Dahl and Alicia opened out a gap in front. Mai glanced over at Drake to gauge his reaction. The Yorkshireman shrugged.
“Go for it.”
Faced by a force more than seven times their size, the three-person phalanx waited to act. Komodo covered Karin who stared with utter disbelief; even now, after all that had happened, unable to consider this kind of event happening on the day of Ben’s funeral. Behind her, several mourners were returning, good men and woman all, having seen what was taking place. Cellphones were already out and the more adventurous were stalking up to the front.
Drake watched as the group of men and youths ranged out and paused. Faces set, eyes hard, there was no doubt as to their intentions. Drake saw two further men heading for the car he’d arrived in.
But why blunt weapons? Why not the usual selection of guns and rocket launchers?
Before he had time to think, the attackers surged forward. Dahl smashed into the first three, scattering them end-over-end like bowling pins, then grabbed another by his long hair as the guy raced past. A high-pitched squeal and a blur of motion, then the guy was airborne, spinning and crashing into two more of his compatriots.
“Six!” Dahl yelled for good measure.
Four seconds had elapsed.
Alicia face-palmed her first two opponents, then kicked the third in the crotch. She didn’t yell out because she was losing, but beckoned more attackers toward her.
“C’mon boys,” she cried out. “Get yer nuts cracked here!”
As more veered toward her, Mai stepped into the gap, finishing off several attackers that still writhed around and another that had started to climb to his feet. Her face showed that she disapproved of both Dahl’s and Alicia’s tactics, but Drake knew that both of them were aware that Mai was mopping up at their backs.
Dahl stood like a concrete column, arm upraised as a baseball bat descended toward him. Unable to dodge, he withstood the impact, barely flinching as the bat shattered and broke apart on his great bulk. Its wielder then stared at the Swede in shock and awe, mouth hitting the floor only a split second before his forehead caved in.
Dahl moved on.
Drake caught a stray, at first disarming the youth that ha
d outflanked Mai then gripping his throat as he lifted him off the ground.
“Ay up. What’s appertaining ‘ere then?”
The youth’s eyes remained blank, not registering the question.
“Oh right. Y’see, once back in Yorkshire s’pose I just revert.” Drake cleared his throat. “All right, wanker. What the hell’s going on?”
He shook the youth for good measure. Amidst hacking and a flourishing purple hue, Drake’s captive managed to squeeze out a few words. “She. Wants. You.”
Unconsciousness took him. Drake discarded the limp body with disdain, suddenly more alert. He watched Alicia deflect a hammer shaft, then use it to nullify two men; saw Mai neutralize another three; and watched Dahl stride through the middle of it all, a hurricane of energy and force, unbending. Already he had reached the line of their adversaries’ cars and was turning back into the fray. He was just in time to catch a man in the act of assaulting the Swede whilst his back was turned. Not surprisingly, that man soon found himself flying over the roof of a Range Rover Sport.
Alicia smashed knees and heads on her way to Dahl. Drake heard their little exchange over the screams of broken-limbed men.
“Twelve!”
“Eight. Dammit, Dahl, ya got lucky. One more time?”
Dahl inclined his head. “After you.”
Alicia picked up a bat, clearly resorting to desperate measures, but Dahl had already caught a tardily swung pickaxe handle in the palm of his hand and wrenched it out of its owner’s hand. The two darted forward again, leaving agony in their wake.
Mai turned to Drake with a raised eyebrow. “Always a pleasure going into battle with those two.”
“Pleasure’s all theirs,” Drake grunted. Now that the immediate danger was over he scanned the perimeter before turning to Karin.
Ben’s sister’s face said it all. There were no words. Their world, their life, was never going to be normal anymore. One more crazy day like this could be just added to the mounting pile. Komodo, looking odd in his smart suit, nodded at the line of cars.
“Did see a few kids heading over to the cars.”
Matt Drake 8 - Last Man Standing Page 3
