He’s had plenty of time to plan this.
What else could they do? Time was their enemy. Coyote was coming. The townspeople might even soon be dragged into this, and then all bets and potential outcomes were thrown into a highly volatile mix. Add some kind of terrorist response unit to that . . .
Drake ran harder, almost fell, but caught himself on a solid wooden support. A grenade bounced so close they heard it skipping along the turf to their right. It detonated seconds later.
The stairway juddered. Drake and Mai were thrown to the ground. Drake rose immediately, soil and bits of grass streaming from his shoulders. “Damn, that was—”
Mai hissed a warning before he heard it. Grenades tossed under the bridge, rolling toward them.
Before they could react, the bombs exploded. Drake pushed his body down as far as the soft, yielding earth would allow. But that was only a precaution; he knew the rolling, bumpy terrain above them would help shield the blast.
The real problem was the stairway collapsing all around them.
Timbers, spars and support columns groaned and twisted, planks crashed to the earth or flew into the air depending how close they were to the blast radius. Reinforcement joists cracked. A spear of timber drove hard into the ground three feet to Drake’s left. He dashed that way, crablike, knowing through instinct that Mai would break right. A thick length of six-by-two slammed down onto his trailing leg, landing face-side first so that the impact was lessened. Nevertheless, Drake felt the blow in every nerve, issuing a deep grunt. When an ominous crack sounded above he rolled blindly, in a sudden snapshot seeing his hand caught underneath collapsing planks, amazed when they smashed down to either side of his wrist, leaving him untouched.
He rolled on, into the open. The stairway collapsed behind him, toppling and crashing down even as more grenades exploded within it, sending new splinter- and plank-filled plumes high into the air, and far and wide. Drake rolled to his knees immediately to get his bearings, a little shocked to see he was three-quarters of the way up the hill, only twenty strides from the top.
Above and to the right he could see Mai, already pounding the grass, fleet of foot as if nothing had happened.
He pushed up, tired of this game of king of the hill. In that moment the figure of a man appeared at the top.
“Duster’s me name! Blimey, come and get me!” he cried. “Killin’s me game! Chow down on this, ya Yorkshire twat! ‘Nuff said.”
Drake barely heard the insult, not that he could have translated it particularly well. He’d already seen the three-cylinder backpack strapped to Duster’s back, the long lance of the gun aiming toward him, and the horrific potential of what was about to happen.
“Flamethrower!” he cried at the top of his lungs.
This would be no old, out-of-date model, this would be a contemporary killing machine. In the movies, flamethrowers were depicted as having a short range, mostly to preserve the actors’ safety. In real life they could extend a spout of flame almost eight meters. Drake threw himself back down the hill, hearing a whoosh of flame at his back. The plus points of a man using a flamethrower meant that his mobility was impaired and the weapon’s burn time was severely limited. All this gave Mai and Dahl and Alicia more of a chance.
But Duster would be aware of that.
Trying to second-guess a killer of this caliber was like galloping through a littered minefield, but again the team had no choice. Drake felt the hot air at his back, swiveled and watched as the flame expended itself. Then he was up again, covering the scorched earth and stamping in between the mini-fires that lit up the dark for yards around. Mai had already reached the summit. Drake saw Duster’s figure and heard his rant.
“Wotcher, me old friend! What ‘ave yew got fer me? Sorted!”
Duster had unstrapped the cylinders, letting the bulk fall heavily to the floor, and now threw the lance toward Mai. Then, like a cowboy, he whipped out two guns from twin holsters at his sides, firing each one quickly, dramatically and with an unmistakable flourish.
Mai threw herself sideways, bullets passing inches above her body. Drake knew even she couldn’t survive another salvo from Duster’s trusty weapons. He hurled the only weapon he had—his knife—toward the assassin. Forced to act quickly, its arc wasn’t good; it clashed against Duster’s arm handle first, but at least gave the man a moment’s pause.
A shot rang out. That would be Dahl firing his handgun. The noose was closing.
Duster grinned. Drake cringed when he saw it.
What . . . ?
Duster threw some kind of miniature flickering flame. Instantly a circle of fire ignited all around him, shooting up over six feet high. Drake figured the circle was about ten feet across, giving the man ample room to move. But flames wouldn’t stop bullets.
Dahl fired again, but Drake was able to distinguish nothing through the flames as he reached the top of the hill. The asshole had probably gone to ground. With that thought barely completed, the night erupted again, this time in the form of more bouncing bombs.
Not aimed at Drake’s team . . .
They exploded at the bases of the various crumbling walls that ringed the top of the hill. Though ruined, they were in parts still quite tall and now came crashing down. Three high walls collapsed, rolling gently before tumbling faster and faster. Dahl was under one, Mai another. The Swede saw the danger and pounded away, head down, but even so it was his instincts that kept him alive. As the plummeting wall descended toward him he threw a forearm up, deflecting the heavy block that would have split his skull. The rest of the blocks smashed down inches behind his fleeing ankles, shaking the earth with their destruction.
Duster cackled through it all.
Mai picked up top speed almost immediately, anticipating the trajectory of the crumpling edifice. The blocks never came near her, but at the end of her sprint she tucked herself into a ball and simply launched herself into the flames.
Drake gawped. “No!”
He ran closer, as near as he dared go, squinting and sweating as a wall of heat pushed him back. The height of the flames had decreased; they were dying down. Just at the edge of his line of sight he saw Torsten Dahl following Mai’s lead, barreling toward the searing curtain and leaping through.
Drake stepped back. “Bollocks to it.”
With a short run up he too dared the blaze. Sharp, sizzling tongues licked at him from every angle, hungry for flesh. A brief crackling sound struck his ears, striking a fervent desire inside that the sound wasn’t his own burning flesh.
He landed on two feet, still running, hot but alive, charred maybe, but still on mission. Duster was in the process of rising from his prone position. Mai angled toward him. Dahl came from another angle.
“What the hell were you thinking?” Drake managed, panting.
“Got tired of waiting,” she said.
“Wotcher,” Duster cried, madness in his voice as he stood up to the odds. “Bin waiting to try this little baby out f’meself fer weeks. Now it’s bagged me five million quid.”
Drake saw in his hand a black plastic box and beneath his thumb a tiny red button.
Mai sprang for his throat.
“No!”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Mai ploughed into Duster at chest height. The look of surprise flew across the assassin’s face almost as fast as the plastic box flew out of his hands. Drake fought the choices—help Mai or try to secure the box. If it landed red-button down the odds weren’t good for survival.
Dahl had veered toward the box, an eager fielder racing for the catch of the game.
Drake ran and slid in. Duster hit the ground as Drake arrived, eating a good chunk of boot and dirt for his trouble. Mia’s leap had taken her beyond the two of them, and now she landed cat-like, already turning.
Duster groaned.
Drake let his eyes flick toward Dahl. Even Duster was trying to see what happened, cringing slightly.
Dahl flung himself forward, one hand out, as the plastic b
ox came down to earth. Tumbling, tumbling, it hit, but Dahl’s palm was there to catch it before it landed. Furthermore, he managed to grip its square edges, preventing the little red button from striking his palm.
“Fucker landed face down,” Drake shook his head. “Always does.”
Dahl’s outstretched hand gripped the trigger harder now, the button a hair’s breadth from his skin. He sat up, grinning. “You’re out.” He nodded at Duster.
Alicia’s voice could be heard through the dwindling flames. “Are you idiots all right in there? What the hell’s going on?”
But Duster wasn’t done yet. With stamina born of years of hardship and fighting he rolled and jumped to his feet, running hard for the wall of flame. Drake knew the assassin could have traps and stashes all over the castle; allowing him his freedom wasn’t an option. Thinking on his feet, he grabbed one of the big, tumbled wall stones and flung it at the man’s back. The blow sent him reeling, straight through the flames and staggering across the other side.
“At last,” they heard Alicia say. “Something to hit.”
Alicia made short work of the assassin, holding him up by the hair as Drake, Mai and finally Dahl made their way over. The wall of flames had all but dwindled to nothing, allowing shrouds of darkness to creep back across the land.
“Shall we tie him up?” Alicia said dubiously. “Or just throw him off one of the battlements?”
“Tie him up?” Drake echoed. “You’ve brought rope?”
“Handcuffs.” Alicia smiled wickedly. “Never know when they might be useful.”
“Let’s try that,” Dahl said. “And—”
The snapping report of a gunshot cracked the night apart, echoing around the castle walls. Duster collapsed in a spray of blood, half his head blown away. Drake dived for the floor.
“We’re sitting ducks up here!”
“There were two signals.” Dahl hit the dirt beside him, still holding the detonator. “Why wait this long?”
“It is the coward’s way,” Mai said. “This assassin will have been hoping Duster would do the hard work first, then step in after.”
“That way,” Alicia said, nodding at the eastern slope. “Shot came from the west.”
Drake slithered off. As he passed Duster a hand slammed down on his own, grasping hard. “V . . . Vin . . . it is the . . .”
Drake gripped the man’s hand hard. Foe or not, a man about to die passed easier with a little compassion.
“All right, mate. It’s all right.”
Duster’s vision cleared for a brief second. “Vincent,” he said. “The Ghost.”
Drake nodded. Blood pooled in the grass around the man’s head. His passing was marked by nothing more than the sudden slump of his shoulders; the expected lot of a paid killer. The other three were already over the summit of the hill by the time Drake looked up and started to follow.
“What did he say?” Alicia asked.
“The shooter is Vincent, The Ghost. The notes said he likes to make use of his terrain to stay hidden; that he can wait unmoving for days until the perfect opportunity arises.”
Dahl made a speculative face. “Around that side of the castle are a few crumbling walls, a partly broken-down structure, the culvert, and the stumps of other walls long since gone to wrack and ruin. Also the ticket office.”
“One wrong move and that bastard will pick us off,” Alicia said.
“Stay close.”
Mai moved off, hugging the grassy hill as if it were her last hope. She angled downward as she crept along, slinking even further into shadow. Their adversary couldn’t know which direction they’d take, and Mai went the long way around. As Drake followed he saw her plan. Whilst still not a great advantage, she led them toward the deep culvert that led to the rusted old gate. The depth of the culvert would help shield them and get them closer to Vincent’s lair.
Wherever that was.
The team climbed down the slope and entered the culvert, slipping down to the bottom. The grass was a little wet down here, the ground soft. The sides were slick and could become a hindrance. The group kept low, moving out of the shadow of the hill and able to carefully view the western side of the castle’s grounds. Sure enough, Drake saw a discontinuous ruin of inner castle walls, one covered by foliage; enough dips and hillocks to hide a circus; a ramshackle structure; and the modern timber-built ticket office. Not to mention the battlements and even more leafy foliage and shadow coating the far castle wall.
The team watched, observed. All they needed was a glimmer.
“Getting on for oh three thirty hours,” Alicia said into the silence. “We have to end this soon if we’re still set on ruining the Coyote bitch’s grand entrance.”
“If Vincent’s dug in,” Dahl whispered. “He could stay hidden until I’m doing my victory lap.”
Drake scratched his head. “Who? You?”
“Well, we can’t just crawl on outta here and leave him behind,” Alicia hissed.
Drake eyed her, sudden hope lighting his face. “Now there’s a plan.”
***
They convinced Alicia that since it was her plan, she should be the one to carry it out. The Englishwoman only rolled her eyes and sighed, but left the departing comment that they should stop trying to be smart and pull it together. Truth be told, Drake did feel that the long, tense night was starting to take its toll. He gave Alicia one of their two guns and made sure he reminded her to pick up Duster’s on her way out of the castle.
They waited.
It didn’t take long. Drake, Mai and Dahl carefully found comfortable vantage points and set about surveying the entire western side between them. The night’s silence was unbroken, lending an air of isolation to proceedings that frayed their nerves even further. Absolute stillness was essential; Drake was just glad it wasn’t your typical brisk and rainy English night.
A gun was fired, the shot echoing far and wide, but clearly some distance away. Then a shout and another shot—this one coming from a different gun. The caliber of the bullet told the tale to any experienced ear. Six seconds later and another bullet was fired.
Drake waited. Their ruse had been played. It made sense that if Vincent fell for the deception he would break cover. Either way, he’d take only minutes to decide.
Not a blade of grass stirred. A hush like the calm before the storm enveloped the castle. Twenty seconds passed, then thirty. Drake could imagine Alicia becoming impatient, wondering if she should let loose another salvo. He prayed she didn’t. Vincent would surely recognize overkill.
“It didn’t work,” Dahl said.
Drake cursed inwardly. What next?
Then, eagle-eyed Mai focused on a particular spot. Drake could see by the set of her shoulders, the sudden tensing, that she’d spotted something. He squinted as best he could in the same direction, but saw only black layered upon deeper black. All of it covered in hanging foliage.
Bit by bit, Mai turned to Dahl. “Run,” she whispered.
The Swede’s jaw hit the ground. “What? Are you insane? He’d pick me off in three seconds.”
“I only need two,” she said grimly. “Now. Run.”
“Well, sorry, but that’s still cutting it a little bit fine. How about Drake? He’s fast and dumb.”
“That might have worked,” Drake admitted, “if I wasn’t standing next to you.”
Mai fixed the man with questioning eyes. “Are you losing it, Dahl?”
The Swede’s jaw picked itself up and set hard. “If you’re sure?”
“Trust me.”
Dahl did. Drake could see it in the man’s eyes. He doubted there was another person on earth Dahl would put so much faith in. If Mai said she could pull the trigger one second before Vincent, then that was good enough.
“Ready?”
Dahl took a deep breath and set himself. Mai readied their last weapon and clenched a fist. When she relaxed it, Dahl exploded into action. Dirt flew from the heels of his boots as he sprinted from full dark to p
artial dark. Vincent The Ghost was a sharpshooter and would be on him already, tracking for the perfect shot. Dahl’s life would be measured in the next few seconds.
Mai never wavered. Her concentration was absolute. Drake counted the seconds, every nerve in his body strained to the limit.
One . . . two . . .
Nothing happened.
Shit . . . Dahl!
. . . thr . . .
A shot rang out. Drake’s ears rang, signaling that it was from Mai’s gun. Despite having his eyes glued to the same spot as Mai he never saw a thing, but the Japanese woman caught a flicker, a darkness that shouldn’t be there, an odd shape that seemed somewhat alien.
It moved, just a trace, a fine adjustment of a sensitive sight perhaps, giving Mai the target. She fired. Dahl dropped to the ground.
Something fell from the foliage clinging to the ruined castle walls. At first appearance it was a leafy monster, an indeterminate shape dropping like a shapeless sack. Mai broke cover, her weapon still aimed. Dahl looked up from where he’d dropped.
Drake grinned. “Did ya break anything in your heroic dive?”
Dahl ignored him, staring at the bizarre clump. “Is that him?”
Mai moved in closer, gun arm steady, very much aware that this man was an elusive wraith—an international assassin prone to acts of misdirection. In a moment of doubt she pumped two more bullets into the mass, just in case.
Drake nodded. “Good move.”
They approached slowly. Drake whistled his admiration as Vincent’s elaborate disguise became clearer. The man had coated himself, top to bottom, in foliage then fashioned a little perch among the leaves and other greeneries that grew up the castle wall. He even wore a leafy helmet and the barrel of his gun was covered and dulled with vegetation.
“The Ghost,” Mai said. “I see why.”
“How the hell did you see him?” Drake asked.
Matt Drake 8 - Last Man Standing Page 12
