Brothers In Arms (Matt Drake 5)

by Leadbeater, David

  “Ah, shit,” Romero voiced his concern. “Why the hell did we think Harbin would be a backwater village? Ya know, at a glance, this place could be any big European city.”

  “Outdated western perceptions.” Drake nodded. “Still hold strong. We should ditch this junker and find us a map.”

  Romero pointed at a universal sign. “Train station,” he said. “Best place we could go.”

  Drake made the turn and they parked the vehicle in as unassuming a position as they could find. It was a moment before Drake and Romero shared a look.

  “Balls. You think we might stand out from the crowd?”

  They studied each other. “Lose the vest,” Romero said. “Loosen the shirt. Buy a backpack. You’ll pass.”

  “Me?”

  “There are Europeans all over.” The American gazed out the grimy windows. “But not a soul from the good old U.S. I can see.”

  “Alright.” Drake quickly made ready and then climbed out of the car. The streets were clean and bright. Even the old architecture appeared newly washed. The Chinese filled the pavements and the wide-open plaza that fronted Harbin Station. Cars whizzed by. Streams of workers flooded up and down the nearby subway steps. Drake put his head down and headed for the station.

  Protocol dictated they contact Washington, but Drake concluded it was too risky at this point. Better they flush out the Chinese part of the operation and continue on to Russia before making the call. At least in Russia they might find allies.

  He walked right through the entrance underneath a big black-and-white clock and cast about. Wide, vaulted ceiling, train times, and entrances were dead ahead. Shops to the right and a terrace of windows to the left. Drake headed for the nearest shop, seeking out civilian backpacks, jackets and a map. He also bought food and water after exchanging his American dollars at a nearby Bureau de Change.

  Once equipped, he made haste to vanish, heading back to Romero and then walking away from the tiny minivan they’d appropriated from the border.

  They walked into the city, purposely losing themselves whilst studying the new map.

  “Once it gets dark,” Drake grated, “the Chinese part of this human trafficking op won’t know what hit them.”

  *****

  The bright lights of Harbin lit up the night. Drake and Romero paid a taxi driver to take them within three blocks of the address they wanted and stepped out into a neighborhood of relative dark. Dogs barked. Hushed conversations pinpointed those hidden in the evening gloom. Speed was the westerners’ ally as they followed a predetermined route directly to the address the North Korean soldier had given them.

  Assuming he remembered correctly, and had been telling the truth.

  Drake trusted the information, but even so, it still needed confirming. The house in question blended in with the rest of the row, perfect camouflage for any kind of den of iniquity. The locals would be warned and brutalized, the authorities paid off. No city in the world was free from this kind of poison so, conceal it as they might, the criminal fungi still spread its malicious tendrils through all of society wherever it could find root.

  With little time to waste, the two westerners chomped at the bit as they realized the only way into this building was through the front door. The covert option was negated by endless rows of darkened windows overlooking the street and rear. The hours ticked by and the night had grown colder, silent, and more fearful as the men became ever more conscious of their overstuffed backpacks, hidden weapons and conspicuous presence even crouched in the pitch black.

  “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea,” Romero whispered.

  Drake nudged him. “You think?”

  A shadow moved in the doorway of the house. A half-dressed man moved into view, taking some air, leaving the door ajar behind him. Drake moved fast, rushing out of the night like a white devil, locking the man into a chokehold before he could utter a word.

  Romero checked him over. “I’m likin’ this.” The American held up his pistol. “You belong to a Triad? A Tong?”

  Drake’s captive twisted. Well-formed muscles and experience enabled him to free his head before the Englishman recaptured it in an even stronger hold. “Okay. Guy’s a fighter. Let’s do this.”

  Earlier, they had decided that if any of these guys came up as smelling like anything other than roses, they were going to chance a raid. There was simply too much riding on the outcome for them not to risk it. The senator in Washington, Dai Hibiki, Mai and Smyth, not to mention the island captives and the Europeans and Americans being kidnapped every year. The odds screamed for a chance to be taken—and Drake never shied away from a battle.

  Quickly he snapped the guy’s neck, and then followed Romero to the door. The marine wasted no time squeezing through the small opening and then padding down a short, unlit entryway. Its far end was shut off by a big, four-panel, carved Chinese screen, antique in appearance but of modern design. A white light illuminated the upper panels. Shadows moved to and fro.

  Romero took firm hold of the screen and swung it back hard along its runners. Drake slipped into the revealed room, almost struck immobile by the scene of abhorrence and chaos beyond.

  The room had been cleared out so that it resembled nothing like the interior of a house. The brick wall was bare, the rear-facing windows painted black. Thick chains had been fixed to the wall, to which at one time human beings had clearly been attached. Open handcuffs lay on the floor. Scraps of clothing were scattered everywhere—shirts, blouses, pants. An open toilet lay in the middle of the room, dug down into the house’s foundations and emanating a foul stench. Luckily, there were no captives today, just Chinese men clearing up.

  Drake slammed the butt of his gun into the nearest man’s face, rendering him unconscious. The second he threw into the latrine. By that time, Romero had rounded him and was firing on the few who drew weapons of their own. A third man came at Drake wielding a wicked dagger like they did in the movies, rolling the deadly weapon around his thick wrists and letting it slice through the air. Drake let him strike, moving in close so the arc of the weapon caused the blade to pass over his shoulder, and head-butted him into submission.

  Again, surprise became the third member of their team. These men had never thought to be raided, not here in their own province, in the carved-out niche of what they considered their own city. Whilst Romero cleared the upstairs rooms, Drake roused and interrogated the three men he’d knocked out.

  Only one spoke English. He confirmed the next address in Moscow, and that the main HQ was in Frankfurt, Germany, but nothing more. By the time Romero returned, Drake had already made sure every man there would never support human trafficking again.

  “Quick,” he said, gathering up the cellphones, wads of money, pistols and ammo he’d taken from the bad guys. “Clock’s ticking, mate.”

  Mai was relying on him. No way would he let her down.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Drake and Romero quickly executed the next stage of their plan, both feeling a somewhat immature excitement as they neared the time when they would contact Washington. They stole a battered, white minivan from Harbin Station—one of literally hundreds—and started on the long road that led to Vladivostok, Russia. From there, they would board a plane to Moscow. Soon, they wouldn’t have to make their own plans anymore.

  Soon, the American government would pave the way for them.

  Drake watched as Romero drove. The winding road opened before them, murky, deserted and split only by their headlights. He sorted through the cellphones he’d collected, choosing the newest and most advanced looking—a Sony Ericsson.

  “Hope they’re in.”

  He tapped out the agency’s number and waited for the connection.

  “Yes?” Karin’s voice, suspicious and reserved as it should be.

  “It’s Drake. I guess you’d better put me on speaker.”

  Karin emitted a few expletives, shouted across the office, and almost burst Drake’s eardrums as she shuffled ex
citedly around and then came back on, sounding breathless.

  “You’re on!”

  Drake gave a situation report and their position in as few words as possible. Even then it took him fifteen minutes with Romero chirping up all the time. He didn’t mention it, but was relieved to hear everyone sound so happy to hear his voice. He made a point of stressing Mai and Smyth’s tricky situation on the island.

  “Let me get this straight,” Hayden repeated his last words. “You and Romero are heading back to Washington—across Russia and Europe—and on the way you’re taking down a human trafficking ring. That right?”

  Drake shrugged in the dark. “What else would you expect?”

  “Alright, well, we have a situation of our own right here.” Now Hayden began to talk, explaining about the mysterious American-bred assassins with their blank eyes who were taking their own lives as well as that of a single target. She told him that they now had three survivors including the Senator and that they were about to try and find a link between the five victims.

  “How does it connect to the island?” Drake’s immediate thought.

  “Through Dai Hibiki’s original message. The first intended victim was Senator James Turner, though they missed him and hit his staff. Since then, same kind of assassins, same MO.”

  “High profile hits?”

  “No. Civilians. No clear link.”

  “Second attempt on Turner?”

  “Never happened.”

  Drake pulled the phone away from his ear as a double-beep sounded. “Damn. Bloody thing’s running out of battery already. Listen, I’ll contact you again soon, but first I need to speak to Alicia. Is she there?”

  A moment’s pause followed. Then a voice said, “Right here, Drakey.”

  His lips curled upwards. “Missed me?”

  “Hmm. . .not half as much as your little sprite friend. You really trying to say you were marooned on a desert island with her?”

  “And two other men.”

  “Lucky bitch.”

  “Listen. I have a job for you. One you’re definitely gonna love.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “You remember that biker gang? The one we used in Luxembourg?”

  Alicia didn’t speak for a moment, then sounded bored. “Vaguely.”

  “Would you fly over there and enlist their help again? Then you all ride to meet me in Frankfurt, Germany. We have a big, bad HQ to take down and I think we’re gonna need some help.”

  Alicia cheered. “Now you’re fuckin’ talking!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Hayden tried to quell the feeling of elation and concentrate on the problem at hand.

  The truck driver—Mike Stevens—sat across from Lauren Fox at the conference table. The rest of the team sat or lounged around. Stevens, to be fair, still looked shell-shocked and awfully intimidated. Lauren looked bored.

  Hayden knew she had to take charge if they were to head off any more attempts. Drake and Mai were safe. In fact, for now, they were all safe. And Alicia had retired to an interrogation room to call up her buddies in Luxembourg.

  So, no distractions.

  “You two are the key,” she said. “I get it. You don’t know each other. You’ve never seen each other. Never crossed paths. But—” she held both their gazes. “You have.”

  She indicated the big monitor at the head of the room. “Watch this. I have uploaded the other victims’ movements for the last few months up there. Believe me when I tell you, guys, strangers or not—you’ve all met recently.”

  Ben Blake hit a button. “We hope,” he muttered beneath his breath.

  Hayden felt a rush of anger but ignored it. The “chance meeting” was all they had. Other than that, it was all random, indiscriminate. These murders had been orchestrated by a single man or organization. It stood to reason that it wasn’t just chance.

  A picture of Senator James Turner came up first. Mike Stevens sighed. “Well, I can sure put this to rest straight away. I ain’t never met that guy. Not even by accident.”

  Mano Kinimaka leaned forward. “How do you know? Do you think when Nicole Kidman hits Wal-Mart, she goes out dressed like she was in Titanic?”

  Stevens and Lauren stared. Even Dahl looked confused. “Was she even in Titanic?”

  Hayden took a hold of it before it degenerated any more. “What Mano’s trying to say—badly—is that you and Turner may have crossed paths without even knowing it. Just give it a chance.”

  Stevens nodded. A list of Turner’s movements appeared on screen. “I sure done some o’ those places,” the truck driver spoke up. “Washington. Maine. Baltimore. New York.”

  Now Lauren Fox sat straighter. “Me too, I guess. New York. Boston, Atlantic City and Washington in the last three months.”

  “I done A.C. too.”

  The monitor continued to flow, flicking pages like a book, now having gone past the intended victims and on to the unintended casualties of all the shootings. When the picture of the Senators aide—Audrey Smalls—flicked by the truck driver jumped so hard he banged his knee.

  “Wait,” he spluttered. “I sure as hell know her.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Drake and Romero hit the streets of Moscow at 4 a.m., January, 26th. Without being the safest city in the world, Moscow was, at least, safer and more accommodating to the two Westerners than, say, North Korea or even China.

  Still running on adrenalin and travelling light and fast out of necessity, Drake and Romero barely had time to breathe before a pair of aloof and restrained CIA agents slipped them guns, money and credentials along the Koltsevaya metro line that encircles Moscow. A quick trip to a hotel room, a nap, and they were ready to travel into one of Moscow’s most notorious districts—Vykhino—an area in the industrial south east with a high crime rate and the dubious honor of being situated close to Lyubertsy—the area whose residents used to control and intimidate the entire city.

  “We take everything with us,” Drake said. “No stopping now until Germany. It’s essential we hit that place whilst they’re still unsure what’s happening. Agreed?”

  “We have to take out the Russians first.” Romero coughed. “Let’s focus on one enemy at a time.”

  “Done it before.” Drake hefted his pack. “Do it again.”

  “You mean Kovalenko, don’t you? The Blood King?”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “Don’t be a dick. Half the army still thinks he’s a legend and that the whole Bermuda Triangle, Hawaii, thing was made up. Nothing but propaganda surrounding these tombs.”

  Drake shook his head. “The government has a lot to answer for. Let me put it this way—if a civilized government knew it had cocked up, maybe overlooked a terrible criminal who took many innocent lives and almost started his own war, would they broadcast his existence or let it die down into legend?”

  “Point taken.”

  “So let’s go.”

  Moscow was just starting to wake up. A wan light bled from the cloud-strewn skies, casting a faint illumination across the sprawling city. Drake and Romero took the Metro to Ryazansky Prospekt, the closest point to the address they’d been given. But this was a bad neighborhood. Not even the bravest tourists came here. Once outside they quickly located a vehicle and promptly stole it.

  Now mobile, they wouldn’t stand out from the crowd.

  Drake gripped the wheel as they crawled by the address they’d been given. His eyes met Romero’s. This was different. Here was something that resembled a Russian timber yard, a merchant of sorts, complete with tall, wide racks, a counter sales cabin and an extensive warehouse.

  “Easy access,” Romero noted.

  “Maybe,” Drake mused, looking in vain for CCTV stanchions. “Or if they know were coming. . .”

  “Death trap.”

  “There’s too much in motion to back out now.” Drake thought about Mai and Smyth, fates unknown, and about Alicia on her way to Luxembourg. He thought about Hayden and her difficult investiga
tion back in D.C. The men and women still being held captive on that island.

  The marines who had died on the airplane. The pilot. And so many more.

  “So far. . .we haven’t stopped,” he said. “And it’s served us well. We’ve still a long way to go so. . .fuck it.”

  He swerved the car, revved the accelerator, and tore toward the shabby gates. Metal shrieked as they smashed apart, bolts and hinges sent skimming across the roughly concreted yard. The car crashed through. Part of the left hand gate caught on its luggage-rack, flapping to and fro and scraping across the trunk.

  Drake blasted toward the main cabin.

  *****

  Hayden stared at the truck driver. “You know Audrey Smalls?” Could it be coincidence?

  “Yep. Lovely woman. I met her at the Desert Palms hotel in Atlantic City. She didn’t mention what she did for a living I can’t believe she’s dead.”

  “Wait.” Now Lauren sat rigid. “The Desert Palms? That’s where I stayed. Bit ritzy for an ordinary trucker though. No offense.”

  “Well, offense taken. So fuck right off, lady. The place offers a discount to regulars like me. ”

  “She’s no lady. . .” Ben must have agreed with the trucker, but Hayden held up a hand that immediately stopped his flow.

  “The Desert Palms.” She stabbed a button, progressing the information at a fast pace until Walter Clarke’s schedule came up. A tremor of delight shot through her.

  “Our insurance salesman did his east coast run that week too.” She pointed though she didn’t have to. “Stayed at the Desert Palms on January 10th. He was victim number two.”

  “Dunno when it was,” Stevens said. “Sounds good. And yes, I remember Walter too. Tell me, is the next victim a bank clerk named Michelle Baker? She used to visit A.C. once a year for a big casino blowout.”

  Hayden stared, dumbfounded.

  The truck driver looked sad. “I think I know what this is all about.”