Matt Drake 8 - Last Man Standing

by David Leadbeater

  “You can disguise and cover up all you want,” Mai said. “But you can’t hide your eyes. Not if you want to see your target.”

  “You saw a glint in his eye from all the way over there?” Drake shook his head.

  “You didn’t?”

  “Must have been the angle,” Drake muttered. “Still, that’s another one down.”

  Alicia came running up to them. “C’mon!” she cried. “Didn’t you hear the screams?”

  Drake let his focus spread out. Terrified screams drifted on the air, setting the night on edge. The citizens of Sunnyvale were in trouble.

  Alicia ran ahead. “It’s coming from the supermarket.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  The clock ticked, moving closer to that 0600 hours pivotal point when Coyote would enter the fray. The enormous impact and potential consequences of that single act faded into the background for now as Drake heard the terrified screams coming up from the town below. The team hurried along the benighted streets, even now forced to leave nothing to chance. Assassins continued to stalk the shadows and the team had to be vigilant every step of the way. Drake knew the position of the supermarket, understanding immediately why Alicia had pinpointed it. Nothing else of any note stood out that way, save for a large parking area. What worried him was that at this time, the supermarket should have long since been deserted.

  They lingered around hedgerows that clung like motorcycle sidecars to the bend that opened up on its way to the supermarket. The cries had died down by now, but Drake could still hear the low pleas of the trapped and deep groans of those in pain.

  Almost on cue a voice rang out, distorted and boosted by the building’s public address system. “Drake and team. I give you five minutes then we try again. Five minutes to show yourselves and surrender to me.” A pause, then, “If not . . .” A scream rang out.

  Drake tensed. Mai’s hand fell on his shoulder. “Wait. We have five minutes.”

  “But—”

  “We have five minutes.”

  Drake’s natural instinct was always to rush to the aid of the innocent, those dragged into hardship and warfare through no fault of their own. But Mai was right. To rush in now was to lose whatever slight advantage they may have. Waiting gave them options.

  “We need a plan,” Dahl said unnecessarily.

  “Well, I got plan B covered,” Alicia smiled mirthlessly. “Storm the place.”

  “The accent,” Mai said. “I think Israeli. This would be Blackbird then, the Mossad operative.”

  “Didn’t think Mossad would stoop this low,” Drake grumped.

  “Who knows?” Mai said. “Could be rogue. Either way, they would never admit anything. And their operatives are notoriously hard to break. The only people we actualy know that want you dead over in that general part of the world are all those terrorists you ambushed at the arms bazaar in the Czech Republic.”

  Drake clicked his teeth. “That was some time ago now, but the death threats are constant and very real. I thought they might forget about me. Us! I guess all those terrorists will want some kind of reckoning.”

  Mai’s face took on a fatalistic expression. “Enemies may get older, but they never forget.”

  “Can we focus on now?” Dahl said. “This Blackbird person is going to start dishing out pain again very soon.”

  Alicia pointed to nearby houses where doors stood open and windows were smashed. “Looks like he dragged people out from their houses.”

  “Which limits the hostage count,” Drake said. “We still need a visual.”

  “So what do we do?” Dahl wondered.

  “What we always do,” Drake answered. “We go save the day.”

  ***

  The condition of the supermarket gave them more answers. The front door was shattered, hanging off its hinges. The windows around it were also smashed. No alarm wailed, so they had to guess Blackbird had managed to improvise a bypass. Through the wrecked frontage the team observed three people pressed up against the glass windows at the far side of the supermarket, hands and faces touching the panes.

  “Front’s clear,” Drake said. “And even more clearly a trap.”

  “No time to wait. No chance to negotiate,” Mai said. “What to do?”

  “Take out the hostages,” Alicia said quietly.

  “What?”

  “They’re his only leverage. So let’s take ‘em out.”

  “How? And when you say ‘take out’ . . .”

  Alicia spun her two handguns and proceeded to break cover and walk out into the open. “Like this. Bye bye hostages.”

  And she opened fire, aiming at the very window where the hostages stood. The whole pane fractured and smashed before collapsing like a waterfall. Pieces littered the pathway, a sudden sharp tide. The hostages shrieked and fell back inside, away from the danger, quickly diving to the floor.

  Alicia was among them in seconds, Drake and Mai backing her up. Mai pulled the hapless trio outside and handed them off to Dahl.

  Drake and Alicia took point, crouching in the sudden stillness and sensing the very air of the place. Racks of shelves stretched away toward the rear of the place, full of produce and materials. The faint night-time illumination lent a stark aura to the large space, making it feel even more unfriendly.

  A trolley rolled slowly down one of the aisles. Drake noticed the package nestled inside a moment before Alicia.

  “Down!”

  They hit the deck. The package exploded a few seconds later—not a massive explosion but a charge filled with enough firepower to have taken them out had it struck true. Drake rolled as one of the supermarket shelves toppled, sending hundreds of items tipping and toppling to the floor. A stand of paperbacks and DVDs tumbled too, hitting the main row of cash registers. Several of the tills must have been left on, as Drake heard the ding of barcodes being registered.

  He shifted. Blackbird, clad in pure black, was already racing along the top of the next row of shelving, bent almost double. Startled by the sight, and by the shape, he took a moment to process the attack.

  By then Blackbird was airborne, moving too fast for him to react in time. The masked figure was on him and all he could do was raise an arm to ward off the inevitable attack. Collapsing under the weight of his opponent, he managed to squirm out from underneath. Blackbird was fast, swiveling and striking all in one single movement. Drake again caught the blow.

  Alicia struck at Blackbird from behind.

  The masked assassin turned. Drake heard the words, “Crazy Englishwoman,” emerge from their opponent’s mouth and thought, Welcome to Alicia’s world. Blackbird struck time and time again but Alicia countered every blow. Drake saw steel flash in the Israeli’s hand—he was plucking a blade from a pocket hidden at the base of his spine—and he cried out a warning.

  Alicia flipped away. Mai stepped in.

  The ex-ninja held her gun steady. The Israeli’s disembodied voice sounded surprised. “I thought you the most honorable opponent, Mai Kitano.”

  “Not tonight,” Mai said. “There is too much at risk.”

  Drake tried a new tack. “Surrender to us now. And we’ll let you live.”

  “I think not. A British prison would not suit me, and your treatment can be as rough as any I have encountered.”

  Drake held up his hands. “Bollocks to this. What the hell are you gonna do?”

  A self-satisfied grunt came through the mask. “I thought you’d be better prepared, SPEAR Team. Didn’t you know? Blackbird never fights alone.”

  Even as the words were spoken, black ropes slithered from the unlit heights of the supermarket ceiling, slapping against the floor seconds before masked figures abseiled down. Drake and Mai and Alicia suddenly found themselves beset by five more able opponents.

  All hell broke loose.

  A melee of unbelievable proportions erupted across every aisle of the building. Drake leapt at Blackbird. Mai engaged three of the newcomers, and Alicia sprinted at the remaining two with an exulta
nt snarl on her face. Here was battle and bloodshed, hand to hand, fist to fist, the outlet for all her agonies.

  Drake pushed Blackbird back down the first aisle. Mai hit her adversaries so hard and with so much guile that all four of them careened into the high shelving itself, toppling it backwards so that the entire length crashed heavily to the floor. Piles of cans and bottles and cereal boxes spilled and surged in all directions. Assassins landed amidst exploding heaps of cereal and busted open carbonated drinks, sprayed with a mixture of soda, orange and fruits of the forest.

  Mai picked her way toward them.

  Alicia threw a heavy can at her first opponent, a little stunned when the figure just nutted it aside.

  “Wow. I’m impressed.”

  She then hefted an unboxed on-sale slow cooker and hurled that in the same direction. “See how you get on with that, motherfucker.”

  Drake tussled with Blackbird across the floor. The pair rolled across a heap of broken glass; luckily the Israeli was beneath him and was the one grunting in pain. Drake pressed his advantage, freeing his hands with a sudden jerk and then striking at his opponent’s weak points. He was momentarily surprised to find those areas reinforced by the special suit.

  He shouldn’t have been. This was Mossad after all.

  Blackbird came back with several deadly blows. Drake repelled them all but found himself driven back against one of the tills. Quickly, he jumped and skimmed across the conveyor belt bouncing his feet off the cash register and rolling aside. By the time Blackbird caught him he was up again, more prepared than previously.

  Alicia’s first adversary had succumbed to the slow-cooker attack. Her second came at her fast, but appeared to be put off by having to pick his way through an uneven jumble of groceries. Alicia didn’t let it faze her one bit. She had fought harder opponents in worse places then this. She trampled through the mishmash, trusting her inner balance and training to make the necessary adjustments. Using the clutter to her advantage, she kicked cereal boxes at her opponent’s masked face, then dove in low, took the guy’s legs away and smashed his nose against the floor. With a limitless supply of weapons at hand, Alicia upended a two liter bottle of Pepsi over the mask whilst holding the head in place.

  “Cola-boarded,” she said speculatively. “Wonder if it’s a world first?”

  Mai was falling back toward Drake, beset by the three assassins. Two of them moved stiffly, clearly carrying injuries, but they were competent enough to carry the fight to Mai.

  Another row of shelving toppled, smashing to the floor and emptying its contents in a wide, messy spread. One of Mai’s assailants was caught underneath, groaning as their leg was trapped. An errant metal strut glanced off Mai’s head, drawing a bead of blood and momentarily distracting her. Instantly, the other two leapt. Mai battled them off, but fell to her knees.

  Drake pushed Blackbird as hard as he could, aware of his companions’ own struggles, but the Israeli was no slouch, matching him blow for blow and strategy for strategy.

  They needed an edge.

  As if hearing the silent call, a large figure suddenly filled the broken supermarket doorway.

  “So what’s all this?” Torsten Dahl said. “Looks like I’m missing out on all the fun.”

  The Swede pelted forward like a runaway juggernaut, taking one of Mai’s remaining opponents by surprise. The guy just stood there and let the Swede ram him, as if disbelieving he would actually go through with it. Dahl laughed as he collided with the assassin.

  “You don’t play chicken with the Mad Swede,” he said. “What the hell happened here? Blackbird clone himself or something?”

  Drake let loose a flurry of blows. “Something like that.”

  “Hey.” Alicia moved up behind the Israeli. “You’re out of boyfriends.”

  Dahl motioned to Mai that she should join them, and she faced her last opponent with a grin. When the man charged him, Dahl wrenched a piece of shelving away from its metal housing and smacked him on the side of the head with it; a batter striking a home run.

  The last of Blackbird’s assistant assassins dropped like a stone.

  Drake gave the man a moment. “You’re a tough bastard, I’ll give you that. But you’re alone now. Time to give it up.”

  Around them, the devastated store creaked and groaned. Precarious piles shifted. Blackbird held out his hands.

  “I give up.”

  “Why are you here? What’s Mossad doing mixed up in all this?” Mai asked.

  Blackbird shrugged. “I personally just wanted to try my hand against the best team in the world. Mossad? It looks at the bigger picture. The global account. Stupendous and very dark things are starting to happen in the wider world, my friends. Power-hungry men that would rule us—all are taking sides and making plays. It has already begun.”

  “What things?” Drake asked.

  “This group, the Pythians, and others, believe much is connected. Pandora. The Lionheart. Pyramids. Triangles. It all leads to the greatest, most mind-blowing discovery of our time. Actually, of any time. Even more staggering than your gods.”

  Drake remembered the Pythian name. He’d considered them a continuation of the Shadow Elite, nothing more. “These guys have some kind of master plan?”

  “They do.” Blackbird nodded. “But I have said too much already. Now is not the time. Will you free us?”

  Drake had been aware that Blackbird’s cohorts were rising, and that they all stood immobile, non-threatening. The other Israelis hadn’t even brought a knife to the party.

  “You endangered innocents. Terrorized them.”

  Blackbird chuckled. “Thieves,” he said. “Do you think we would be so amateur as to smash that door? Did the Swede let them go?”

  Drake glanced at Dahl, who spread his hands. “It seems so.”

  “Well, they won’t come back in a hurry.”

  Drake made the decision. “And neither will you. Leave now. Leave the town, leave the country. But stay in touch. We might be able to help each other.”

  “We will speak again.” With that Blackbird and his team vacated the supermarket. Drake looked around.

  “Didn’t see that coming.”

  A new figure entered through the broken doors. Drake almost launched an attack before seeing it was Michael Crouch, back from the field.

  “Why on earth are you all standing around?” he asked. “Don’t you know? It’s oh six hundred hours. Coyote has joined the fight.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

  Coyote made ready, and entered the dark streets. The field had been narrowed, the cream had risen to the top. Only SPEAR, Beauregard, Crouch and possibly Blackbird remained, though Coyote suspected several unscripted antics had been played out amongst some of the contestants throughout the night.

  It mattered not. The endgame was coming. And Coyote was on the hunt.

  She checked her equipment, particularly the tracking device. An accumulation of dots were flashing over by the supermarket, but they were already on the move. Her own device was a little more sophisticated than the others—enabling her to upload data onto the system. Such was her intent now as she stopped among the town’s many gravestones under a coal-black sky.

  “As promised,” she whispered to the night.

  The tournament’s most lucrative take-down (her own choice of course), masked the screen and tapped in a few commands. At first she’d been reluctant to trial Tyler Webb’s nano-vests, but when Kovalenko had failed the first test run in the tunnels beneath DC, Coyote had risen to the new challenge. Granted, they were strapped this time to the bodies of four unfortunate civilians instead of President Coburn, but that hardly mattered to her. Webb was influential, powerful, and intent on ruling the world. Coyote would gain the most formidable asset of her career if she tested them for him.

  Of course, why me? Why here and now? She harbored the smidgen of an idea that she was being tested, as Webb tested all his allies, rather than the vests.

  She tapped out a quick mess
age on her burner phone, then sent it via text to the remaining contestants.

  Coyote engaged. Nano-vests live. Look for the four green dots. Two hours to detonation—what fun!

  That should get Drake tripping. The Yorkshireman was a big fan of the innocent, he hated getting anyone dragged in that shouldn’t be there. And he had every right to feel that way, of course. Many people that loved military men and women were innocent, and many of them died.

  Coyote flashed back once again to the night his wife died. Coyote tended and nurtured an inner garden—or pit of despair—where all her worst regrets were buried. Alyson Drake was one of the biggest. And it wasn’t simply her death, or the accident of it; there was much more to the entire incident than that.

  It was the only time as Coyote that Shelly Cohen had thought about giving up her evil persona. The closest she ever came. A last flirtation with redemption. The decision hung in the balance, a guillotine hanging by a frayed thread, and when the blade dropped it mapped out the rest of her life.

  Good or evil?

  Fate had taken all choice away from her. Shelly Cohen became Coyote forever on that horribly significant night. The façade had consumed her, eating away morals like a maggot devouring flesh. Now, the flashing green dots before her represented just that—dots. A means to an end. They were about as human to her mind as the piece of plastic they transmitted from.

  Real people? She killed real people for breakfast.

  With the text message sent, Coyote regarded her own tracking device. Another improvement was that hers updated in real-time, not every twelve minutes as the SPEAR team and Beauregard’s did. She watched now as four red dots moved quickly toward one of the green ones. How predictable. How admirable.

  How insane.

  The name of her tournament was Last Man Standing. It was time to claim the title.

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

  Torsten Dahl read Coyote’s text message with a shake of his head. The sheer madness of some people blew his mind. True, he had earned the nickname ‘The Mad Swede’ after performing more than one death-defying feat of bravery in the heat of battle, but this was a whole different league. This was psychopathic and murderous, not even warfare. If this Coyote had ever possessed a heart, it had long since crumbled to ash.