The Seven Seals of Egypt (Matt Drake Book 17)

by David Leadbeater

  She moved back, panting, exhausted.

  Saint kicked her in the small of the black, sending her sprawling into the dirt. Drake and Dahl cried out in anger and rushed forward, but warning gunshots into the air stopped their advance. It hardly mattered for now. The MMC was still clearing the dust from his eyes and Alicia used the time to take a breather.

  “I guess it’s time for some blood,” Saint said.

  He threw a club into the arena, a club studded with nails on every side. The weapon bounced across the ground and came to a rest at the MMC’s feet.

  He grinned down at it.

  “Old friend.”

  Alicia unleashed it all; every ounce of rage she’d stored up over the last twenty four hours. She sprinted like a cheetah chasing lunch, threw herself feet first through the dirt, straight toward the club, but ignoring the actual weapon. Dust and gravel spun up to both sides of her, marking the path of her slide. Her momentum saw her through and as the MMC reached down to grab the club her boots were in perfect line with the top of his skull. She kicked out, still sliding, saw him rear back and passed between his legs.

  On the way through she snagged the club with her left hand.

  She came up on his rear side, planted her feet and rose. Spun with the club now in both hands, and brought it crashing down onto the MMC’s exposed back. The nails struck and lodged. The MMC arched his back and howled. Alicia kicked him down into the dirt.

  She looked over to the Saint as the man fell.

  “Finish it.”

  “No.”

  “Your funeral. He will be back.”

  She skirted the groaning figure, now prone and alien-like—the club with its nails sprouting from his back. Blood ran freely into the dirt as men ran on to help him away.

  Saint threw Alicia a bottle of water and then turned to the rest of the SPEAR team.

  “Guess who’s next?”

  *

  Matt Drake took a small swig from the water bottle that Alicia handed round to everyone. Saint watched him walk to the center of the arena as several mercs took aim and cocked their weapons.

  Saint held up a hand. “It appears they know you?”

  Drake looked up into the stands. “We probably attend the same Yorkshire Pride conventions.”

  A shot rang out; the bullet kicked dirt up at Drake’s feet. Saint laughed and gave the stands an indulgent look. “Go on then. Take your shot. Just one, mind.”

  Several gunshots rang out. Bullets hammered all around Drake, glancing off the floor, traveling across the arena. He stood immobile, without flinching. Even the slightest show of fear would tell them they’d won.

  Saint bellowed for quiet. “Here we go then. Fight number two.”

  Drake watched the alcove as a shadow moved. A man came out, dressed in a dark blue suit and wearing a red tie and white shirt. He carried a briefcase, which he laid carefully on the ground, unzipped and then pulled out a meat cleaver.

  Drake couldn’t help but shake his head at Saint. “What the fu—”

  “The Gentleman.” Saint grinned. “Now Drake, whatever else you do remember what your mom used to say.” He backed off. “Enjoy yourself!”

  Drake sidestepped around the arena. The Gentleman kept a light grip on the cleaver, rotating it occasionally in his hand, allowing the bright, clean blade to catch the light. The briefcase lay where he’d left it. Drake was less than three feet from it when The Gentleman attacked.

  Blade slashing in downward arcs, left and right and left, he came fast. Drake side-stepped and backed away and then darted past, coming up to the briefcase now and darting a look inside.

  The Gentleman stopped, reached a hand into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out a small black device with one large yellow button. He pressed it immediately, catching Drake cold as the small explosive he’d left in the briefcase detonated.

  The blast knocked Drake off his feet, and sent sharp fragments flying into his body. He landed hard, on his back, the wind knocked out of him. The Gentleman loomed through the smoke, tall and dark and swinging the cleaver.

  Drake thrust up his hands, catching the cleaver as it came slicing down. He managed to grab The Gentleman’s wrist just as the blade reached his nose. A sliver of blood was drawn, trickling across his face.

  “Fool.”

  Drake heard the words and feared the worst. This guy was some kind of trickster. He struggled to push the blade away, rolled to force the man off. His head spun from the blast, his body struggled to work. The Gentleman broke away, reached into the suit and came out with a short stick with two prongs on the end.

  Pressed another yellow button and the prongs sizzled.

  Gotta get moving . . .

  Drake scrambled clear, but not before the cattle prod came down on his trailing leg. Instant high-voltage ran through his body, making him shake and sending him back to the ground. For a moment it all vanished—the heat, the sunlight, the arena and the stands full of jeering maniacs. Even the one corner of support receded fully from consciousness, the spot where his friends stood.

  They were shouting encouragement now, spurred on by Dahl and Alicia. At first they’d been reluctant to take any part in this—but it was happening anyway and Drake needed something to shear away the veneer of agony.

  He heard them. The terrible jolting had stopped but there was a pain in his lower rear calf. When he managed to twist a little and look down there his eyes met a horrific sight.

  The Gentleman was slicing at his flesh with the edge of the cleaver; carefully, gently, as if stripping meat tenderly from the bone.

  That’s exactly what he’s doing!

  “Hey,” Drake shouted.

  The Gentleman looked up, inquisitive. Blood dripped from the edge of the cleaver.

  “You missed a bit.” He pointed where the strip of his flesh was still attached.

  The Gentleman looked down.

  Drake smashed him in the side of the head with his other foot, the boot slamming point blank in his ear. He fell over, the prod skittering away. Drake crawled back, realizing this was the best chance he’d get but unable to act quickly.

  His body was still recovering and, like Alicia, his energy was already sapped.

  Breathing deeply, he rose to his feet, allowing The Gentleman to do the same. Drake’s head still rang from the blast; his vision slightly blurry. The harsh glare of the sun, beating down, didn’t help.

  “Hey,” he shouted to gain a few more seconds of recovery. “You got any paracetamol in that inside pocket?”

  The Gentleman looked unsure, reached inside, and came out with a grenade.

  Drake ignored the rush of anxiety, as his body knew it could not take another explosion. Calling on every moment of experience, he watched The Gentleman’s arm, saw the flick of the finger when the pin was released, followed the arc of the throw.

  Ran toward the grenade and met it bluntly. With his foot. He kicked the small round object away, then threw himself to the side. It was a good kick, the grenade curving up out of the arena and heading for the stands. Curses split the air and men scrambled out of the way. The grenade bounced down once and exploded.

  Drake rolled and looked up.

  A man was flung back by the blast, bounding off the rock-face and falling limply; another was cut by sharp fragments. Rubble flew indiscriminately and a minor cloud rolled into the air. Men rubbed and tried to repair nasty injuries, most of them sending deathly looks straight at Drake.

  The Yorkshireman had other things on his mind. The Gentleman was already attacking again, slashing with the cleaver. Drake guarded the blows by blocking wrist against wrist, hoping one of the impacts might slam the cleaver out of the other’s grip. He was pushed back, boots slipping in the grit.

  Saint’s voice interrupted them. “Round two!”

  Several men threw objects into the ring.

  Drake summoned a huge burst of energy, kicked out, and forced The Gentleman back, clearing space all around him. Several of the objects he reco
gnized instantly. His own Glock. A knife. The club that had been taken out of the MMC’s back. A sword. A battered old Uzi. A wicked looking machete.

  No easy choice.

  Drake saw confusion on The Gentleman’s face. He hadn’t expected this but, without the slightest pause, he ran for the Glock. Drake was less sure, assuming subterfuge on the part of Saint, and ran for one of the weapons that couldn’t be misrepresented. The gaps between them were short; fitness essential.

  Dropping the cleaver, The Gentleman scooped up the Glock and turned. Drake already had the knife. He didn’t wait to see if he was right about the gun; just flung the short blade end over end so that the point embedded fully to the hilt in The Gentleman’s throat. Reflex took over and the dying man’s finger pulled the trigger.

  Aimed right at Drake’s head.

  The hammer fell on an empty chamber.

  Drake turned to Saint, said, “Fuck you.”

  And walked out of the ring.

  CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

  Alicia was waiting for him, relief clearly evident on her face. “Nicely done, Drakey. For a moment there, I was worried. I mean, I’ve heard of Shish Kebab, but not Drake Kebab.”

  “Thanks.” Drake took a deep breath, wiping the sweat from his face with both hands and checking the flesh wound. “What’s the plan?”

  Blank faces met his enquiry. Even Hayden looked stumped. “Survive,” she said. “Survive and hope we get refreshments tonight.”

  Drake turned to Dahl. “Don’t tell me you don’t have a plan, Roxette?”

  The Swede ignored the leg-puller and looked at the skies. “To be fair, I’m hoping for a lunch break.”

  “Shit. I’ll explain one thing right here and now—we won’t be allowed to go on winning.”

  “Not only that,” Alicia added. “Our two best warriors have already fought.”

  A few protests sprang up, but the heat and their own exhaustion cut it short. Drake turned for the bottle of water he’d won and offered it around. The team looked bedraggled, Yorgi and Kinimaka sat at the back, staring at the ground. Hopefully, it was a way of conserving energy and not admitting defeat.

  Mai finished off the last of the water. “Stay calm. Stay alert. An opportunity will always present itself.”

  “Yeah, well, it needs to hurry the fuck up,” Alicia said. “ ’Cause this sunburn is gonna be the death of me.”

  Saint wandered casually over to them. “Shit, it is toasty out here, girl. Luckily, I’m a surf dude, born and raised in sunny California. A bronze god from birth, you might say.”

  Shouts of annoyance pealed from the stands.

  Saint bowed to their demands. “You want more?”

  A general agreeable cry resonated around the rock bowl.

  “Here he is then, the Mad Swede!” Saint swept into a bow and indicated that Dahl should follow him. Drake saw the gun barrels, unwavering, perfectly trained. The Swede walked into the ring.

  “And fight!”

  It happened fast. Two clubs spiked with dozens of deadly four-inch nails were thrown into the ring just as the MMC lumbered back out. Drake thought he looked refreshed or, more importantly, repaired. He moved easily, fast for a man his size, and bent down to pick up his club without flinching.

  “Hey!” Alicia cried out in Drake’s ear. “You got this, Torsty. I already softened him up for ya!”

  Dahl picked up his own club and held it at arm’s length, spinning the length of it. Some nails glinted in the light, others were too rusty. All had been hammered right through the club so that their points stuck out.

  “Never forget!” Saint cried. “They killed our friends. This is revenge, men. Now . . . perforate that piece of shit.”

  Dahl didn’t back away one millimeter. The Swede stepped forward, meeting the MMC’s powerful downswing with a solid defense. The clubs struck, nails bending and catching, then grinding apart as their owners pulled hard. The two opponents came together again, another swing of the club and then a third. Neither gave ground. Neither tried to evade the impact, their back feet planted firmly into the ground.

  The club-fight continued, unabated.

  The mercs shouted for the MMC; the SPEAR team encouraged Dahl. Comments and observations were made; advice screamed at the top of several pairs of lungs. Dahl swung low, aiming for a leg-breaker. The MMC caught it and twisted fast, trying to wrench the club from Dahl’s hands. The Swede’s wrists were strong enough to resist the sudden wrench, pull away. He swing overhead and then to the side, overhead again.

  He let the club drop.

  And saw the feint work beautifully. Let your opponent think this was all you were, all you could do, and then strike hard. Strike fatally.

  Dahl watched the MMC launch a huge overhead attack, and then danced to the side, swift as a gymnast and with ninja-like reflexes. By the time the MMC’s swing would have struck Dahl’s skull, the Swede was at the hulk’s side, a completely unprotected flank in his sights.

  He showed no mercy, sinking the club three times into the MMC, the swings full of power and might, wrenching each direct hit free of flesh and bone and instantly striking again. After three hits Dahl was almost spent, but the MMC was tumbling.

  Fallen, dying.

  Dahl threw down the club and walked away.

  Alicia ran to throw her arms around him. “See, I told you I softened him up. Well done, Torsty.”

  The Mad Swede grunted. “You’re all sweaty.”

  “Yeah, I get like that when I’m excited.”

  Kenzie was also waiting for the Swede’s return. “A good fight,” she said. “No quarter given.”

  Dahl put a big hand on her shoulder. “You can’t show a moment of weakness to these animals.”

  Alicia pulled away. “You wanna get in here, Kenzo? The meat’s a bit ripe, but it’s really fresh.”

  Dahl turned away from them, eyes drifting over the rest of the team. Drake was just as worried. Who would they choose next?

  “So, the MMC finally meets his match,” Saint incited the audience. “That’s Team SPEAR – three; you lot – zero! How about one more bout? Even the scores a little.”

  The cheers were violent, bloodthirsty.

  Saint turned toward SPEAR. “Who’s next? The giant? The boss? The thief? Nah, how about the relic smuggler? I fancy one or two of these guys know you, Kenzie. Maybe even worked for you. I hope you were a good boss.”

  “Hey.” Kenzie squared up to Saint. “We’ve already jumped through your hoops. How about telling us why we’re really here.”

  Saint waved down the guards that had lined her up in their sights. “You’re here to die,” he said simply and rather convincingly. “We were given carte blanche to kill you back at the temple, in the desert, in the street . . . whatever. We chose this because we want you to experience despair before you die. Listen to me now—you will never leave this place alive.”

  “Don’t bet on it, pal,” Drake grumbled.

  “Who can save you?” Saint pointed out. “Who? You’re all here.”

  Kenzie followed the man into the ring and waited to see who or what she might face. Drake gauged the surroundings once more. From his vantage point the bowl rose perhaps thirty meters, stepped, and was about half-full of mercenaries. The way back into the caves was up and to the left, a black arch overlooking it all. The ring itself was approximately twenty meters in diameter, maybe more, and the armed guards were stationed all around and well apart. They were also up in the stands. Drake knew his team could never hope to escape this place without losing some or all of their number.

  Dahl leaned in. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  Alicia overheard and nodded. “You mean Kenzie’s ass? Yeah, it’s sweet.”

  “No! I didn’t even notice it. I’m trying to formulate a plan of escape?”

  “Me too,” Drake nodded, “only without the fancy description. I’m just looking to get the fuck outta here.”

  Kenzie flexed her muscles, waiting. A tense quiet stole ove
r the arena. Even Saint shut up and started looking solemn. Minutes passed. The sun beat down in glaring waves, meeting shimmering heat eddying back up.

  At last, a figure emerged.

  A medium-sized man stripped to the waist, wearing a balaclava to hide his face and strips of cloth to protect his groin and thighs. A six-pack across his chest joined other rippling muscles and spoke of fitness. In one hand, he carried a sword.

  “Survive three minutes,” Saint said. “And you’ll get one too.”

  Drake protested. Dahl walked forward, but a gunshot aimed close to his toes stopped him in his tracks. The man with the sword spun the weapon around in circles as he paced around Kenzie.

  Saint affected a bow. “Meet Freddy Fergus. A genuine mad Irish bastard.”

  Fergus ran in, sword still gyrating in his grip. Kenzie watched intently and then side-stepped, keeping the distance between them. She let Fergus move in and rolled as he swung, passing by his left-hand side. When he came around, swinging again, she caught his sword arm and held it upright. Fergus cleverly let it drop, right into his other hand and jabbed at her with that. Kenzie leapt back at the last moment. Drake saw blood spring from a new wound in her abdomen.

  “We have to stop this.” Dahl gazed around desperately. “Are we just going to let them take us down one by one?”

  Kenzie ignored the wound as Saint called out: “One minute left.”

  Fergus sliced the air apart less than a hand’s-width in front of her head: two diagonal slashes. Kenzie skipped back as he came forward, looking to crowd her now. The ring worked to her advantage, giving her space to evade. She drew Fergus in even as he thought he was backing her into a trap.

  Back against a guard, Kenzie sprang forward even as Fergus slashed. She caught his sword arm again, this time at the wrist, and held on. He sought to kick her but she swept that aside with an upraised knee. He tried to use brute strength to pitch her body around but she resisted. Finally, he wrenched back on the sword, trying to pull it from her grip.