The Sea Rats

by David Leadbeater

  The Sea Rats

  (Matt Drake #23)

  By

  David Leadbeater

  Other Books by David Leadbeater:

  The Matt Drake Series

  A constantly evolving, action-packed romp based in the escapist action-adventure genre:

  The Bones of Odin (Matt Drake #1)

  The Blood King Conspiracy (Matt Drake #2)

  The Gates of Hell (Matt Drake 3)

  The Tomb of the Gods (Matt Drake #4)

  Brothers in Arms (Matt Drake #5)

  The Swords of Babylon (Matt Drake #6)

  Blood Vengeance (Matt Drake #7)

  Last Man Standing (Matt Drake #8)

  The Plagues of Pandora (Matt Drake #9)

  The Lost Kingdom (Matt Drake #10)

  The Ghost Ships of Arizona (Matt Drake #11)

  The Last Bazaar (Matt Drake #12)

  The Edge of Armageddon (Matt Drake #13)

  The Treasures of Saint Germain (Matt Drake #14)

  Inca Kings (Matt Drake #15)

  The Four Corners of the Earth (Matt Drake #16)

  The Seven Seals of Egypt (Matt Drake #17)

  Weapons of the Gods (Matt Drake #18)

  The Blood King Legacy (Matt Drake #19)

  Devil’s Island (Matt Drake #20)

  The Fabergé Heist (Matt Drake #21)

  Four Sacred Treasures (Matt Drake #22)

  The Alicia Myles Series

  Aztec Gold (Alicia Myles #1)

  Crusader’s Gold (Alicia Myles #2)

  Caribbean Gold (Alicia Myles #3)

  Chasing Gold (Alecia Myles #4)

  The Torsten Dahl Thriller Series

  Stand Your Ground (Dahl Thriller #1)

  The Relic Hunters Series

  The Relic Hunters (Relic Hunters #1)

  The Atlantis Cipher (Relic Hunters #2)

  The Amber Secret (Relic Hunters #3)

  The Rogue Series

  Rogue (Book One)

  The Disavowed Series:

  The Razor’s Edge (Disavowed #1)

  In Harm’s Way (Disavowed #2)

  Threat Level: Red (Disavowed #3)

  The Chosen Few Series

  Chosen (The Chosen Trilogy #1)

  Guardians (The Chosen Trilogy #2)

  Heroes (The Chosen Trilogy #3)

  Short Stories

  Walking with Ghosts (A short story)

  A Whispering of Ghosts (A short story)

  All genuine comments are very welcome at:

  davidleadbeater2011@hotmail.co.uk

  Twitter: @dleadbeater2011

  Visit David’s website for the latest news and information:

  davidleadbeater.com

  Contents

  Other Books by David Leadbeater:

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY THREE

  Other Books by David Leadbeater:

  CHAPTER ONE

  The old man loved watching the sun set over the ocean. It brought peace to a mind that had dealt with more than a lifetime of struggle and adversity. It instilled within him a deep calm, a love that took him back to the old days, before life became one writhing black shadow after another.

  Before the KGB burned him. Before the CIA tried to kill him.

  He was called Kirby now, and standing on the upper deck at the bow of an enormous luxury cruise liner. His legs were apart, but he needn’t have bothered. The vessel was sailing in calm waters and was so large even the deep swells of storm waves would barely unsettle it.

  Kirby.

  He rolled that name around his head for a while. He’d been Kirby for so long he sometimes found it hard to relate to the man he used to be. The man who he really was. Volkov.

  See, it feels alien. A name for another man. A lifetime ago. A man that should be dead. A man that lived in a different world, a different age, following rules and orders that were no longer entertained.

  Even his lady friend, Mary, knew him as Kirby. Though their relationship was deep, he believed she would disown him if she ever discovered the man he used to be.

  So Kirby luxuriated in the sunset, as far to the front of the ship as he could get. As far from the other passengers as he could get. A man alone. A man used to being alone.

  The man that lives in shadows might fear the intrusion of light.

  It was a long time ago. Kirby had shed those days like a snake leaves its used-up skin behind. They were just deadwood, rotting somewhere in his memory, long gone. Inwardly, he fought their terrible magnetism every day, every hour. There was always something to remind him. A passing face. A scrap of conversation. A noise. A fold of the landscape. Everything sparked memories of the old days and the things he’d done—the things he’d been forced to do by vile, bitter men, the terrible things he’d known and still knew.

  The information he had.

  I have a terrible knowledge . . .

  Kirby shut that down. He couldn’t help anyone. Why should he? The Americans had tried to kill him all those years ago as soon as they figured he’d given them everything he had. They said he’d outlived his usefulness. The CIA were as ruthless and untrustworthy then as they were now. He would not help them.

  Millions could die. Civilization could . . .

  My secrets are my own to keep.

  Kirby fought the darkness away, gazing hard into the sunset. A zesty breeze swept past him, scouring the big ship. His features softened. Kirby’s face bore the deep crevices of a man that had seen and lived life; that had seen death and pain and been touched by every good and bad moment he’d ever experienced. Sad, black eyes looked out at the world with a dark understanding. He knew what made it tick, what made it work, just as well as he knew what chosen men and women had to do to keep people safe and what became of those men and women if they fucked up.

  His hair was cropped short for low maintenance. His body was still taut, still strong. At sixty-two he wasn’t exactly decaying, as he liked to tell his lady friend. He was as willing as he’d ever been to take life by the horns and ride it into submission.

  But he was wiser these days.

  In younger times it had all been easy. Spying and gathering information was little more than a game to the young man he had been. He met women. Made friends. He flirted and drank wine all day and writhed between the sheets all night. Spying, even for the Soviets, had seemed a glamorous, exciting game. But it was far from a game, and a young Volkov became aware of that very soon. The first person
he had to kill required an up-close shot. Nobody ever told you how hard that would be. They just dropped you in it, watching and waiting to see how you would handle it. Things soon changed for Volkov. But he was good at his job, and his bosses forced more and more on to him.

  Volkov had gone deep. Deeper than any other agent at any other time. The KGB elite took him into their confidence. He knew where all the secrets were buried.

  Ultimately, as he had known it would be, that was the start of his demise.

  Volkov never wanted it. He had always been looking for a way out.

  He grew more aware of his surroundings. The noise of conversation drifted from behind, where couples walked and talked, and from the nearby pool where many sunbathed in shorts and bikinis, starting to cover up now that that day’s sun was dying, probably thinking about heading back to their cabins for showers before dressing for that night’s measure of food and entertainment.

  The air smelled fresh and sweet, something like a mix of salt water and candy. He heard someone complaining about the wind that had turned cold, but he didn’t feel it. Someone else cursed, unable to find their cabin key. A young woman yelped when she stood with bare feet on someone else’s water bottle. It was a cheery voyage, the first time Kirby had been away for three decades. The first time he had allowed himself the luxury of relaxation.

  But everyone missed the sunset.

  A shame, as it was the last one many of them would ever see.

  But they didn’t know that yet. And Kirby didn’t know that. He wanted only to see the last rays of the dying sun. When it was over, he turned from the gray horizon, back to the ship. It was time to get on with life. Mary would be waiting for him in their cabin. Kirby had found that her elegant and intelligent conversation made the nightmares recede, took the memories away for many perfect hours. He loved her deeply and would be truly devastated if anything ever happened to her.

  He was a solitary man, a careful man. For thirty years now he had eluded both the CIA and what was left of the KGB, living off the grid, in countries where they couldn’t find him. The span of time staggered him. This particular trip was for the furtherment of his relationship, if not his suspicious mind. Kirby had changed a lot in thirty years. He doubted they’d still be looking for him, would even know what he looked like now, let alone have kept track of his many aliases.

  The thing that Kirby never realized, all those years ago when he became a ghost, was that you were never truly gone from the game. There were those you trusted that still contacted you, even decades apart. There were those you felt beholden to that you kept track of. And there were those you respected that you felt you had to keep an eye on to make sure they didn’t do anything stupid.

  Thus, in one way or another, you stayed in the game.

  I have a terrible knowledge . . .

  And nobody he felt that he could trust who was worthy of this new, devastating information. Kirby had encountered all manner of people throughout his life. Those that believed with every sinew of their body that they were honorable, faithful servants of whichever country they worked for. He’d witnessed that they could be turned. They could all be turned. Kirby had long since learned to trust exactly no one.

  Anonymity kept you breathing.

  Passengers were heading away from the pool. Kirby watched them in their shorts and T-shirts, their thongs and one-pieces. Their bodies glowed every hue, from pale white to rich brown and bright red. They were content. They were looking forward to a good eighth night aboard the cruise ship.

  Kirby turned back to the ocean. The swells were slight and darker now, the waters taking on a deep blue hue. Nothing moved out there, not even a seagull darted across his field of vision.

  No coastline met his gaze. Only endless flat seas in all directions. Kirby narrowed his eyes. Something was bobbing about on the ocean. No, three somethings. They were low slung and fast, skimming along the top of the gently rolling water. It looked like they were packed with people.

  Kirby squinted, trying to fend off the bad feeling in his gut. The trouble was, no matter what he saw, if it looked unusual his mind assumed it was a threat. In the past, it often had been. Of course, that was how he’d evaded capture and lived for so long.

  What is that?

  He was alone at the bow. He felt the vast, hulking ship at his back, its many decks behind and above him, its heavy throbbing engines, its massive, safe structure all around. Why did he suddenly feel insecure?

  The three skimming shapes drew closer and became clearer. Kirby thought about where he was in the world right now, the course that the ship sailed. They’d departed Madagascar nine days ago, bound for a different island every night, and were headed for Victoria in the Seychelles, the northernmost island on their trip.

  The Seychelles are in the Indian Ocean, halfway between Madagascar and Somalia. Kirby didn’t think such small skiffs would come that far, but they could easily have been launched from a larger, currently out-of-sight oceangoing vessel. Kirby searched his mind. He wasn’t privy to the wealth of information he used to be, but hadn’t the Somalian pirates been handed their asses to them by the CIA? Weren’t they extinct?

  It seemed not. The knowledge didn’t really surprise Kirby.

  He could only watch, his heart sinking, the hairs on the nape of his neck rising, as three boats filled with dark-skinned, armed-to-the-teeth gunmen dressed in rag-tag clothing, all standing upright in their skiffs, converged on the slow ocean liner.

  As they approached, they lowered their weapons.

  Kirby couldn’t imagine how they were going to get aboard, but knew they wouldn’t have come this far without a means to do so. Through all the danger-filled years of his dubious past he had never imagined he would end up facing a cowardly force of robbers when approaching the twilight of his life.

  And with Mary on board too.

  Kirby tried but couldn’t dissuade himself of the faint chance that these men were here for more than just loot. Practically unthinkable, yes, but . . . it would pay to stay apart from Mary for the time being until he was absolutely sure.

  Always thinking. Always one step ahead.

  Kirby didn’t raise the alarm. There was nothing the ship’s crew could do.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Kobe stood ramrod straight at the bow of the six-man skiff, the powerful outboard motor propelling them along at a steady twenty-five miles per hour. Eight of his fellow fighters were crammed into this boat, one of three, all armed to the teeth with automatic weapons, rocket launchers and knives. They were a ragtag crew from all diversities: crazy cutthroats, easy-going fathers, ex-military men and others true to the cause. Most were from the autonomous region of Puntland. They were a practiced crew, efficient and skilled at what they did.

  But this mission was different.

  To start, there were more men along than Kobe had ever known. They were all intent on boarding an ocean liner traveling at only 60 percent capacity. That meant there could be up to 120 guests aboard and upward of fifty crew. Less than 200 in total. It wouldn’t be a problem. Fear was Kobe’s weapon and he was a master at invoking it. That was why he was leader at twenty-eight.

  “Five minutes,” a man said close to his right shoulder. That would be Rashid, his second in command.

  “Make ready.”

  The horizon was dark at their back, offering perfect concealment. Kobe stared harder for a second, thinking he saw movement on the huge liner’s bow. It would be unfortunate to be seen so soon, a full five minutes before they arrived at the bulky vessel. But no more movement was forthcoming and no alarms sounded, so Kobe put it down to sailing ships and shadows. His gun, a trusty AK-47, felt like an extension of his right arm in his right hand. It was well-used and familiar. His other weapons and grenades were close by, stuffed into his leather belt. Kobe smiled grimly. There was a story to that leather belt. Five years ago it had belonged to a European businessman who had been aboard a very similar vessel to this one, sailing out of Sri Lanka. The European
businessman had been tough, rowdy, ignorant and belligerent, the kind of person that might berate air hostesses or shop assistants in a loud insulting manner because he knew they weren’t allowed to answer back. A man that thought of himself as an alpha.

  Kobe thought fondly of the way he’d cracked that argumentative jaw, broke half the fingers on those bunched up hands and then used the leather belt with its big Gucci buckle to lift the man up by the neck. Kobe himself had no conscience, no morals; he lived by his own code and worked for a far colder, stricter man. The European alpha had died, strangled by his own belt in front of 500 men and women. Kobe took his belt and had worn it ever since. The European businessman was the only person to die that day. It was a lesson in how man should treat his fellows.

  “Two minutes,” Rashid said.

  Kobe’s fighters were making ready. They would launch hooks and then rope ladders from powerful weapons to gain access to the ship. They would board from numerous vantage points. The first climbers would be covered by more men from below. Kobe had fine-tuned this plan of attack over many years. The only way they could fail was if the ocean liner was manned by a complement of military individuals. Even then, Kobe had faith in his ability to fight his way to freedom. Tonight was going to be a good night and, if this was just a simple matter of taking hostages, they would be away by dawn.

  Unfortunately, it wasn’t. A fact that rankled Kobe no end.

  This was mostly because Kobe, despite his appearance as a motley, unwashed, sweating, buck-toothed pirate from the shabby area of Puntland, enjoyed his large three-story home, his fleet of fast cars, and his well-proportioned, beautiful wife as much as any wealthy man. He also spoke perfect English when he wanted to.

  The skiffs came alongside the 10,000 gross ton, six-decked ship. Kobe watched as his men used a compressed air launcher to fire three hooks from each boat, each powerful enough to send his grappling hook over the rails of the lowest accessible deck. Rope ladders were attached and the lead men clambered up—lean and hungry. Of course, these men were not the brightest tools, but they were perfect for sending into battle first. To Kobe’s mind, if they possessed the wherewithal and mental power to rise to the top then, barring freak accidents, they would rise to the top.