“God, Jonathan,” Coburn whispered.
Marnich checked his watch and glanced over at Franks. “We ready?”
Franks tapped the driver’s seat. “Green lights all the way. Hit it.”
Coburn peered ahead, gazing at the slightly undulating concrete roadway that led all the way to the great, wide, blockaded expanse of Pennsylvania Avenue bordering the back of the White House, amazed to see every set of stoplights suddenly turn green. The Escalade’s driver punched the accelerator, sending the car spurting forward. Coburn fell back, momentum driving him into his seat. The first set of green lights flashed by, marked on both sides by the bland façades of buildings whose windows literally blazed with light, government buildings, shops, restaurants and hotels. The heart of DC would not rest tonight.
The driver let out a loud curse. Coburn forced his body forward, staring amazed as the few remaining sets of stoplights ahead suddenly changed, all hitting red in less than a second. The driver slammed on the brakes as Franks shouted, “Don’t stop!”
“How the hell did that happen?” Marnich cried.
Cars popped out across the intersections ahead. The Escalade’s driver had no choice but to slow down. Then the growing streams of cars began to swerve and plunge into one another as the stoplight sequences went crazy. Fender benders littered the road. The sound of screeching metal vied with squealing rubber as a nightmare pile up of vehicles began to block the road ahead.
“Shit.”
Franks thought fast and hard.
“Sorry, Mr. President, but this is no fucking coincidence.”
CHAPTER FOUR
The restaurant was truly unique, and Jonathan Gates’ favorite haunt these days. The inner decor was the perfect mix of blond woods, intimate tables and intricately carved ceiling scrolls. Gates certainly did not surprise himself when he chose it as the place to take Sarah Moxley on their first date. It was a comfortable retreat for him, a home from home, an office away from work, only a few minutes from his workplace and the White House itself. Gates had organized more than one power lunch here, partaking of politics and fried green tomatoes, the food good enough to distract even the most resilient of campaigners and lobbyists.
As Sarah Moxley took the seat opposite, he knew there would be no shop talk tonight. Despite her position as a reporter for the Washington Post, she had never once prodded him for information or brought up a story she was working on. It was one of the many good reasons that had brought them to this point.
“You look lovely tonight,” Gates said, once his four DoD bodyguards had retreated to a respectful distance.
“I do like the ‘no tie’ look,” Sarah replied. “I take it that means you’re ‘off duty’?”
Gates poured the wine. “President Coburn is directly across the street, giving a rousing after-dinner speech. What do you think?”
“That you would rather be here.” Sarah clinked glasses and tasted the Burgundy. “Wonderful.”
Gates signaled the waiter. “Let’s take a look at the menu. The Perlau is superb here, by the way.”
“With head-on shrimp?” Sarah winced as she read the menu. “Maybe not.”
“Well, I’m sure the chef would . . .” Gates made a slicing motion with his knife. “You know.”
“Still.” Sarah hid provocatively behind her menu. “Black-eyed pea cake for me please.”
Gates nodded, feeling a sudden bloom of affection for this woman which he carefully concealed. Despite his position, the US Secretary of Defense was a vulnerable man, even if only on an intimate level. Slow and steady was the right way to go with any potential affair of the heart.
He made a quick decision, one of honesty. “In truth, Sarah, I must say I’m not entirely yours tonight. A situation developed this morning about which they are keeping me fully briefed at all times.” He paused. “A group of particularly dangerous inmates took over a prison earlier today and continue to hold the authorities at bay even now.”
“Really? It wasn’t on the news.” Her eyes twinkled.
Gates raised his eyebrows. “And never will be. I mention it only to explain if I start acting . . .” he shrugged, “Odd.”
Sarah laughed out loud, then covered her mouth with the back of her hand. “I’ll be sure to watch out for that.”
The appetizers were served, followed by entrees. The quiet atmospheric buzz of the restaurant and the absorbing company he kept, not to mention the wine, began to put Gates at his ease more than at any time since his wife had died. He enjoyed the mix of clientele, the sight of the passing businessman alongside the idling congressman, the intimate couple. And of course the tourist crowd. Gates found himself posing for more than one passing photo, and not once did any of his guards have to step forward.
“Is there always another crisis?” Sarah asked as she finished off her entree.
Gates nodded, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “Everything is always in crisis,” he said. “The country wouldn’t run right otherwise.”
“I understand,” she said, and Gates knew that she really did. Out of chaos, and out of the sharply challenged minds of men and women, came order.
Another couple stepped in through the front door of the restaurant, letting in a quick gust of cold air. Gates flicked a brief glance their way, more out of habit than curiosity, and didn’t immediately understand the plain fear written across both their faces. The scene held his attention as they entered the dining area.
Sarah frowned at his expression. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m not sure.” Gates half-turned toward his protective detail, but then the couple parted and a lone man stepped between them. He was dressed as a tourist: jeans, jacket, white training shoes, even the black rucksack slung across his back wasn’t unusual in the Capitol. But what might once have been a wool hat fitted over his head had now been pulled down so that it covered his face. Skull-like eye sockets glared straight ahead. The right hand held a big pistol, possibly a Magnum.
It was aimed at Jonathan Gates.
The Secretary of Defense stared in horror. He heard his bodyguards shout, sensed them move, even caught the snick as their weapons came free of their shoulder holsters. And then he heard the masked attacker’s words, “The Blood King sends his regards.”
All he could think about was Sarah. If Kovalenko had sent a man to kill Gates, he would surely have orders to kill Sarah too. She sat between him and the gunman, and Gates was damned if he was going to let another woman die because of him. He stood up fast, skirting the table, focusing the gunman’s attention, and no doubt getting in the way of his own bodyguards.
“Down!” one of them screamed, but Gates made himself as threatening as possible. The hard blue eyes regarding him from behind the homemade mask showed nothing other than cold implacability. The gun didn’t waver. The man was a pro.
Shots rang out. The first hammered into the gunman’s shoulder, sending him to one knee without a sound. The second, again from Gates’ protective detail, flew through the space the gunman had just been occupying. The third came from the assassin, striking Gates’ upper torso and driving him back.
At first he felt no pain, just fear for Sarah and regret that he would never accomplish most of the dreams he had already set in motion. He landed heavily on his knees, but still held the gunman’s stare, still struggled to approach. All around, waitresses, officials and tourists were screaming, ducking for cover, or were just frozen in place, hands held across pure-white terrified faces. A second bullet struck the gunman, this one slamming into his gun hand, giving Gates a millisecond of hope. But the pro didn’t hesitate, instantly picking up his weapon with his other hand and discharging it at the Secretary of Defense.
Gates shuddered under the hammer blows. Three bullets hit him, one glancing across his temple. As he collapsed, the world was already fading. Sarah’s mouth was open; she was diving toward him and would no doubt beat his bodyguards. A third bullet hit the gunman, but his aim did not waver.
In a terrible s
plit-second, three things happened. Jonathan Gates died, Sarah Moxley landed across his body in a desperate, selfless act of heroism, and the gunman fired his last round.
CHAPTER FIVE
Ben Blake felt his frustration build as Sam drove the Mercedes hard through the clinging, black night. The A64, the fastest road between York and Leeds, was all but empty at this hour, the perpetual set of roadworks along its length not even slowing them down. As they neared Leeds, the skies began to artificially brighten as thousands of street lights turned night into day.
“Can’t you find out what’s happening?” Ben asked Jo. It had already been fifteen minutes since the army officer had made the call.
“They won’t keep us civilians in the loop. We’re acting unofficially here, don’t forget. Downside to that is it gives us no juice.”
“Unofficially? What do you mean?”
“If things had been made official this op would have been cancelled weeks ago.” Jo sighed. “Due to no credible threat. Drake didn’t agree. Hence,” another sigh, “you’re alive.”
“Drake? He sent you?”
“That he did, mate.”
“Damn. He can still do that?”
Sam laughed at the lad’s naivety. “Not a chance. But we’ve had some downtime coming for months.”
“That being said,” Jo added. “We’re on our last two days.”
Silence descended as Ben realized how close he had come. Grief struck him a moment later when he thought about Stacey lying in a pool of blood back there, dead because she had done nothing but go out with him. He choked and had to push a hand over his face to stem the sorrow.
A hand covered in dried blood.
Again. He flashed back to the soldier who had died during the battle of the Singen tomb. Was this his destiny? To always have fresh blood on his hands?
Man up, kid. Man up. It was way past time.
Sam tapped the silver-trimmed satnav. It showed the estimated time of arrival as being eight minutes from now. “Let’s start prepping.”
Jo made sounds in the back seat. Ben heard fresh magazines being inserted into two guns and the sound of clips being pulled back. He stared out the windscreen at the familiar streets. “Thought you said these special cops know what they’re doing.”
Jo leaned forward. “We’re always prepared.” He handed a fully loaded weapon to Sam and sat back.
“Stay in the car,” Sam said as the secluded entrance to the street where Ben’s parents lived came up on the right. The vehicle swung into the tree-lined road, stopping immediately as they saw two big police cars blocking their path.
“That’s good,” Sam said, noting Ben’s panicked look. “Jo, c’mon.”
The two men jumped out. Ben watched them go, but could not stand to stay alone. Twenty minutes ago he had spoken to his dad, voice trembling, running quickly through the details and begging his dad to get to safety. At first the older Blake had laughed, both Ben and Karin had always played down their role in world events, but when Ben explained what had happened to Stacey, the raw emotion which had thickened his voice had made all the difference.
“I hear the sirens,” his dad had said. “I hear them, Ben.”
Then the line had gone dead. Sam explained that the police sometimes used a cellular phone jammer and had also been known to sever landlines, though Sam didn’t sound particularly convincing on the latter detail. The hardening of his features betrayed his concern.
Now Ben watched Sam and Jo approach the tree line surrounding his parents’ house. They moved gracefully, in time, and with a modicum of energy expended. Their heads were in constant motion, surveying every angle and each other’s backs. Their professionalism was unmatched.
But still . . . he couldn’t just wait in the dark, hoping his parents would come running out surrounded by a gaggle of cops. Chances were the cops were interviewing them inside. They would want to know he was safe.
Ben cracked open the door and stepped out into the cool night. The tall, densely packed trees whispered their observations high above, stirred by a flurry of breezes. The blue Mercedes ticked in the sudden silence. From another street, a world away, a car alarm yelped out a warning. Ben crossed the road, following in the footsteps of Sam and Jo. He paused at the tree line, then made his way to the open gate. It swayed and creaked slightly, making Ben smile. His mother had hounded his father for years about that creaking gate. “All it would take is a blast of WD40,” she used to moan. “Can’s in the cupboard,” he used to retort, smiling affectionately. They enjoyed many such friendly squabbles.
Now Ben made his way through the gate and up the driveway. The front door was open, but that could be for any number of reasons. Lights burned in the front room—a good sign. Sam and Jo were nowhere to be seen . . .
Ben strained his ears but heard no sound. Shadows scudded across the moon overhead, creating patterns of black and silver. A light rain began to fall, so gentle it was barely noticeable. At that moment, movement caught his attention from the back of the house. He crouched, feeling both foolish and scared, but soon recognized Sam’s face.
“What did I tell you to do?”
Ben saw that the hardness molding the army man’s features had deepened, if that was possible. The deep crags and inflexible lines had become chasms. Behind him, Jo pulled up, his face a mirror to Sam’s.
“No.” Ben whispered. “No . . .”
Sam rushed forward, lowering his weapon. “I’m sorry.” He crushed Ben into his arms and held the lad as he struggled.
Ben tried to push Sam away. He might as well have tried to reason with an anaconda. Sam continued to apologize, then Jo was there too, laying a hand on his shoulder.
Ben felt the true horror of it all sink in. With legs turning to jelly, he managed to turn his head toward Jo. “The cops too?”
“All dead. This was a professional hit, carried out by world class pros.” He shook his head. “They’re long gone.”
But that didn’t make sense either. “It’s me they want.”
“They might not be in touch with the team sent to take you out. No strategic reason for them to be.”
Ben allowed Sam to lower him to the ground. The sudden shock of it all set in and he began to shiver. “We should go,” he heard Sam say. “We can call it in on the way. Drake needs to know too, if he doesn’t already.”
Through chattering teeth, Ben managed to say, “Why would he know?”
“This Blood King character,” Jo said. “Clearly he’s restarted his blood vendetta. I don’t know why, but everyone needs to be aware. They could be hit at any minute.”
Ben’s mind flickered back to the moment they had captured Kovalenko. “We could have killed him, you know. Back then. We could have hurled his body into a fucking abyss.”
Sam hauled him to his feet. “Stay close.”
Ben refused to move, he just couldn’t take his eyes off his parents’ place. “Oh God, Dad. Are . . . are they in there?”
“Yes, Ben, but we—”
“My dad. My . . . mum. It’s my fault.”
“No. It’s the desire of a psycho. Now come on, man. Other people’s lives are at stake.”
The last sentence penetrated the fog of despair that had incapacitated his brain. Karin is still out there!
Forcing his legs to move, Ben shuffled along with Sam. Jo led the way. The front part of the Mercedes was visible at the top of the driveway, headlights shining. As they approached, a horrific figure stepped out from the utter darkness of the nearby trees, a figure covered in concealing bits of shrubbery, and lobbed something underhand at them.
Jo stared in disbelief. “Fuck me it’s a—”
“Grenade!” Sam screamed, gripping Ben’s coat to drag him away.
But there was no time. The thrower had timed the grenade to explode on impact. Not even the reactions of a Special Forces unit were faster than an exploding bomb.
Fire and fragments of metal discharged in a wide radius, shredding and burning everything in
the vicinity. Ben saw the flicker of fire blasting toward him, felt agony as tiny shards sliced his flesh, and then, mercifully, a split second later knew no more.
He was dead, and the two lifeless bodies of Matt Drake’s army pals lay beside him.
CHAPTER SIX
Hayden Jaye faced Mano Kinimaka across the conference table that sat in the center of the third of three large rooms which formed the hub of the new HQ on Pennsylvania Avenue, opposite the Pennsylvania Mall. The big Hawaiian was showing her his newest collectible—a Hard Rock pin badge, newly acquired from the store that stood opposite the imposing, featureless FBI building on E Street. Business and pleasure had never been so closely situated for the Hawaiian before.
“That’s . . . great.”
“Say it like you mean it,” Kinimaka urged. “Go on. And you might get lucky later.”
Hayden flipped her hair. “I’ll get lucky whenever I want to, thanks.”
Kinimaka grinned and was about to retort when another voice spoke up from the doorway. “I’d believe her,” Smyth, the newest member of their team, along with Romero, growled. “She’s hotter than a rack of those Hooter’s chicken wings, but still a little shy of the Mai Kitano level.”
Hayden sent the ex-Delta commando an emotionless glare. “You’re lucky we’re off duty, soldier.”
Smyth pulled a face. “I know that. I’m not stupid. Romero’s the stupid one, you’ll see.”
“Did you actually need anything?” Hayden asked.
“Yeah. I just wondered how it is that when I come to Washington to join the team, friggin’ Maggie flies off to Tokyo on her own.”
“Personal business.” Hayden thought about the meagre amount Mai and Drake had told her—that her old clan had made contact, still believing they had a right to her services, and how Mai had travelled east to disillusion them of that view. It all seemed kosher and above board to Hayden, apart from her desire to travel alone. Drake would surely never let her face such danger by herself.
Matt Drake 07 - Blood Vengeance Page 3
