CHAPTER SEVEN
The Blood King surveyed his territory through a plate glass, floor-length window built for a single purpose—to frame the panoramic view it offered over a lush, rolling valley, a paradise where no human feet ever trod, except for his own.
His mind, usually firm and focused, flitted today over numerous topics. The loss of his ship—his home for decades—though expected, aggravated him. Perhaps it was the sudden nature of the ship’s demise. He’d had no time to say good-bye. But then good-byes had never before been important or sentimental to him.
He was a hard, emotionless man, raised during some of Russia’s most arduous times and in many of the country’s toughest areas. Despite this, he’d flourished with relative ease, built an empire made up of blood and death and vodka, and made billions.
He knew very well why the loss of the Stormbringer maddened him. He considered himself untouchable, a king among men. To be affronted and frustrated in such a way by the paltry U.S. government was no more than a fly in his eye. But it still stung.
The ex-soldier, Drake, had proven to be a particular thorn in his side. Kovalenko felt as if the Englishman had personally set about trying to derail his well-laid plans, plans that had been set in motion over a number of years, and took the man’s involvement as a personal affront.
Hence, the Blood Vendetta. His own personal touch had been to dispatch Drake’s girlfriend first; the rest of the maggots he would leave to his global mercenary links. He was already anticipating the first phone call. Another would die soon.
Beyond the edge of the valley, nestling over the far green rise, stood one of his three ranches. He could just make out the camouflaged rooftops, visible to him only because he knew exactly where to look. The ranch on this island was the largest. The other two were on different islands, smaller and well defensible, established purely to divide an enemy attack three ways, if it ever came.
The value of placing hostages in separate locations was that an enemy would have to split his forces in order to rescue every one of them alive.
The Blood King had a dozen different ways to escape this island unnoticed but, if all went according to plan, he wouldn’t be going anywhere. He would find what Cook found, beyond the Gates of Hell, and the revelations would surely turn a king into a god.
The gates alone were enough to do that, he mused.
But any thoughts of the gates inevitably led to memories that burned deep—the loss of both displacement devices, an effrontery that would be avenged. His network had quickly learned the whereabouts of one device—the one in CIA custody. He already knew the location of the other one.
It was time to get both of them back.
He drank in the view for a final minute. Dense foliage stirred to the beat of a tropical breeze. The deep peace of tranquility held his attention for a moment, but didn’t move him. What he’d never had, he’d never miss.
Right on cue there was a discreet tap on his office door. The Blood King turned and said, “Come.” His voice reverberated like the sound of a tank running over a gravel pit.
The door opened. Two guards entered, dragging with them a terrified-looking, but well-treated girl of Japanese origin. “Chika Kitano,” the Blood King grated. “I trust you have been looked after?”
The girl stared hard at the ground, not daring to raise her eyes. The Blood King approved. “Are you awaiting my permission?” He didn’t acquiesce. “I’m told your sister is a most dangerous adversary, Chika,” he went on. “And now she is just another resource for me, like Mother Earth. Tell me. . . does she love you, Chika, your sister, Mai?”
The girl didn’t even breathe. One of the guards sent the Blood King a questioning glance, but he ignored the man. “No talk necessary. I understand that more than you will ever know. It is just business for me, trading you. And I know very well the value of keeping carefully silent during a business deal.”
He brandished a sat-phone. “Your sister—Mai—she contacted me. Very cleverly, and in the way of unspoken threat. She is dangerous, your sister.” He said it for the second time, almost relishing the prospect of a face-to-face.
But it just couldn’t happen. Not now when he was so close to his lifelong goal.
“She offered a trade for your life. You see, she has a treasure of mine. A very special device, which she will swop for you. That is good. It shows your value in a world that rewards ruthless men like me.”
The Japanese girl timidly raised her eyes. The Blood King twitched his mouth into the approximation of a smile. “Now we see what she is willing to give up for you.”
He tapped out a number. The phone rang once and was answered by a cool female voice.
“Yes?”
“Mai Kitano. You know who this is. You know there is no chance of tracing this call, yes?”
“I do not intend to try.”
“Very good.” He sighed. “Ah, if only we had more time, you and I. But never mind. Your lovely sister, Chika, is here.” The Blood King motioned the guards to bring her forward. “Say hello to your sister, Chika.”
Mai’s voice echoed down the handset. “Chika? How are you?” Reserved. Betraying none of the fear and fury the Blood King knew must be boiling under the surface.
It took a moment, but Chika finally said, “Konnichiwa, shimai.”
The Blood King laughed. “It is surprising to me that the Japanese ever created such a fierce fighting machine as yourself, Mai Kitano. Your race does not know adversity in the same way as my own. You’re all so fucking reserved.”
“Our fury and passion rises from that which makes us feel,” Mai said quietly. “And from the things that are done to us.”
“Do not think to preach to me. Or are you threatening me?”
“I need do neither. It will be as it will be.”
“Then let me tell you how it’s going to be. You meet my men tomorrow night in Coconut Grove, at the CocoWalk. Eight p.m. They will be inside the restaurant, in the crowd. You will hand over the device and leave.”
“How will they know me?”
“They will know you, Mai Kitano, as I do. That is all you need to know. Eight p.m. It would be wise for you not to be late.”
There was a sudden quickening in Mai’s voice, which made the Blood King smile. “My sister. What about her?”
“When they have the device, my men will give you the directions.” The Blood King ended the call and basked for a moment in his victory. All his plans were fitting together.
“Get the girl ready for her journey,” he told his men in a detached voice. “And make the stakes high for Kitano. I want entertainment. I want to see how good this legendary fighter really is.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Mai Kitano stared at the dead phone in her hands and knew her objective was a long way from being achieved. Dmitry Kovalenko was not a man who would let go of a possession easily.
Her sister, Chika, had been abducted from a Tokyo flat weeks before Matt Drake had first contacted her with his wild theories about the Bermuda Triangle and a mythical underworld figure called the Blood King. By then, Mai had already learned enough to know the man was very real and very, very deadly.
But she had had to play her true intentions down and keep her secrets close. In truth, not a difficult task for a Japanese woman, but made more difficult by Matt Drake’s obvious loyalty and unyielding conviction to protect his friends.
Many times she had almost told him.
But Chika was her priority. Even her own government didn’t know where Mai was.
She exited the Miami side street where she’d taken the call and headed across the busy road toward her current favorite Starbucks. A homely little branch where they took the time to write your name on the cups and always remembered your favorite drink. She sat for a while. She knew the CocoWalk well, but still intended to grab a cab over there shortly.
Why CocoWalk?
The sheer volume of people, both locals and tourists, would work both for her and against her. Bu
t the more she thought about it, the more she believed the Blood King had made a very shrewd decision. In the end, it was all about who held the upper hand.
Kovalenko did, because he was holding Mai’s sister.
So, amidst the throng, it would not seem out of place for her to be handing off a bag to some guys. But if she then challenged those guys and forced the issue about her sister—that would attract attention.
And one other thing—she felt she knew Kovalenko a little better now. Knew which way his mind worked.
He would be watching.
*****
Later that afternoon, Hayden Jaye placed a private phone call to her boss, Jonathan Gates. Immediately, she could tell he was on edge.
“Yes. What’s wrong, Hayden?”
“Sir?” Their professional relationship was so good she could sometimes turn it personal. “Is everything okay?”
There was hesitation at the other end of the phone, something else out of character for Gates. “It’s as good as can be expected,” the Secretary of Defence muttered at length. “How’s your leg?”
“Good, sir. Healing well.” Hayden stopped herself from asking the question she wanted to ask. Feeling suddenly nervous, she skirted the issue. “And Harrison, sir? What’s his status?”
“Harrison’s going to prison, as are all of Kovalenko’s informants. Manipulated, or otherwise. Is that all, Miss Jaye?”
Stung by the cold tones, Hayden collapsed into a chair and squeezed her eyes shut. “No, sir. I have to ask you something. It may have already been covered by the CIA, or another agency, but I really need to know…”She paused.
“Please, Hayden, just ask.”
“Does Boudreau have any family, sir?”
“What the hell does that mean?”
Hayden sighed. “It means exactly what you think it means, Mr. Secretary. We’re getting nowhere down here and times running out. Boudreau knows something.”
“Goddamn it, Jaye, we’re the American Government, and you’re CIA, not Mossad. You should know better than to talk openly that way.”
Hayden had known better. But desperation had beaten her down. “Matt Drake could do it,” she said quietly.
“Agent. That will not do.” The secretary was quiet for a time and then spoke. “Agent Jaye, you’re under a verbal reprimand. My advice—keep a low profile for a while.”
The connection died.
Hayden stared at the wall, but it was like seeking inspiration from a blank canvas. After a while she turned and watched the sunset fall across Miami.
*****
The long delay ate away at Mai’s soul. A woman of decision and action, any single period of inactivity grated on her, but when her sister’s life was in the balance, it practically tore her spirit apart.
But now the waiting was over. Mai Kitano approached the CocoWalk at Coconut Grove and moved quickly to the vantage point she had scoped out a day earlier. With hours still to go before the exchange, Mai settled in at the dimly lit bar of the Cheesecake Factory and placed the device-filled rucksack on the counter before her.
A chattering bank of TV screens perched just above her head, playing various sports channels. The bar area was loud and hectic but nothing compared to the pandemonium filling the restaurant’s entrance and check-in desk. She had never seen a restaurant so crazily popular.
The bartender came over and placed a napkin on the counter. “Hello again,” he said, a twinkle in his eye. “Another round?”
Same guy as last night. Mai didn’t need the distraction. “Save it. I’ll take a bottled water and tea. You wouldn’t last three minutes with me, friend.”
Ignoring the bartender’s stare she continued to survey the entrance. Scrutinizing dozens of people at the same time was never hard for her. Humans are a creature of habit. They tend to stay within their circle. It was the new arrivals she had to constantly review.
Mai sipped tea and observed. There was a happy atmosphere in here and the delicious smell of mouth-watering foods. Every time a waiter passed with an enormous oval-shaped tray, loaded to breaking point with huge plates and drinks, she found it hard to keep her attention on the doors. Laughter filled the place.
An hour passed. Near the end of the bar, an old man sat alone, head down, nursing a pint. Loneliness surrounded him like a coat of bristles, warning everyone off. He was the single blight in the whole place. Directly behind him, as if to distinguish his peculiarity, a British couple asked a passing waiter to take a photo of them sitting together, arms around each other. Mai listened to the man’s excited voice “We just found out we’re pregnant.”
Her eyes never stopped roving. Her bartender approached several times but didn’t get fresh again. Some football match played out on the TV screens.
Mai kept tight hold of the rucksack. When the readout on her phone said eight o’clock, she saw three men in dark suits enter the restaurant. They stood out like Marines in a church. Big, broad shoulders. Neck tattoos. Heads shaved. Hard, unsmiling faces.
Kovalenko’s men were here.
Mai watched them move, assessing their prowess. All were competent, but several leagues behind her. She took a last sip of her tea, fixed Chika’s face firmly in her mind, and slipped off the barstool. With consummate ease she stole up behind them, holding the rucksack against her legs.
She waited.
Seconds later one of them noticed her. The shock on his face was gratifying. They knew her reputation.
“Where is my sister?”
It took them a moment to recover their tough demeanor. One said, “Do you have the device?”
They had to speak loudly to hear one another above the din of people arriving, leaving, and being called to go to their tables.
“Yes, I have it. Show me my sister.”
Now one of the hard-cases managed a smile. “Now that”—he smirked—“I can do.”
Careful to stay amongst the milling crowd one of Kovalenko’s goons fished out a new-looking iPhone and tapped out a number. Mai sensed the other two staring at her as she watched, most likely assessing what form her reaction might take.
If they had hurt Chika, she wouldn’t care about the crowd.
Tense moments passed. Mai saw a pretty young girl race happily toward a big display of cheesecakes, followed quickly and just as happily by her parents. How close they were to death and mayhem they just couldn’t know, and Mai had no wish to show them.
The iPhone crackled into life. She strained to see the small screen. It was out of focus. After a few seconds the blurred image came together to show a close-up of her sister’s face. Chika was alive and breathing, but looking scared out of her mind.
“If any of you bastards have hurt her. . .”
“Just keep watching.”
The picture kept panning away. Chika’s whole body came into view, tied so tightly to a solid oak chair she could barely move. Mai grated her teeth. The camera continued to retreat. Its user was walking away from Chika, across a big, well-lit warehouse. At one point, they paused near a window and showed her the view outside. She immediately recognized one of Miami’s most iconic buildings—the Miami Tower—a three-tier skyscraper renowned for its ever-changing color display. After a few more seconds, the phone returned to her sister and the owner began retreating once again until, eventually he stopped.
“He is against the door,” the more chatty of Kovalenko’s men told her. “When you give us the device, he will walk outside. Then you will be able to see exactly where she is.”
Mai studied the iPhone. The call had to be current. She didn’t think it was a recording. Besides, she had watched him dial. And her sister was definitely in Miami.
Of course, they could kill her and escape even before Mai managed to get away from the CocoWalk.
“The device, Miss Kitano.” The thug’s voice, though harsh, held a great deal of respect.
As it should.
Mai Kitano was a shrewd operative, one of the best Japanese intelligence had to offer. She had
to wonder how badly Kovalenko wanted the device. Was it as badly as she wanted her sister back?
You don’t play roulette with your family. You get them back and get even later.
Mai raised the rucksack. “I’ll let you have this when he steps out the door.”
If it was anyone else, they might have tried to snatch it away. They might have bullied her a bit more. But they valued their lives, these goons, and they nodded as one.
The one with the iPhone spoke into the microphone. “Do it. Walk outside.”
Mai watched carefully as the picture jumped around, taking the focus away from her sister until a battered, metal door-frame came into view. Then, the outside of a tired-looking warehouse, somewhere badly in need of a paint job and a sheet metal worker.
The camera retreated further. Street parking spaces came into view, and a large white sign that read Parking Garage. The red blur of a car flashed by. Mai felt her impatience begin to boil, and then the camera suddenly refocused back on the building and specifically to the right of the door, to reveal a battered, old plaque.
A building number, and then the words: Southeast 1st Street. She had her address.
Mai dropped the rucksack and took off like a starving cheetah. The crowd melted away before her. Once outside, she ran to the nearest escalator, vaulted the railings, and landed sure footed about half-way down. She yelled and people jumped aside. She hit ground level at a sprint and reached the car she had carefully parked on Grand Ave.
Turned the ignition. Slammed the stick shift into gear and floored the accelerator. Burned rubber out into the traffic flow of Tigertail Avenue and didn’t hesitate to take chances. As she wrenched at the wheel, she turned three-quarters of her attention to the Sat-Nav, punching the address in, heart hammering.
The nav guided her onto SW 27th. With a straight road pointing north ahead of her, she literally jammed the pedal into the carpet. She was so focused she didn’t even think about what she would do when she reached the warehouse. A car ahead didn’t like her antics. It pulled out in front of her, tail-lights flashing. Mai slammed its rear fender, making the driver lose control and send his car slewing into a row of parked motorcycles. Bikes and helmets and shards of metal scattered in all directions.
The Gates of Hell (Matt Drake 3) Page 3
