“Shit,” Lomas all but yelped, speculating on the best way to go. The Nissan swung sharply about. Alicia took out a rear tire and then suddenly the whole vehicle flipped, its occupants rattling crazily around the interior as the three-ton runaway killing machine bounced straight for them.
Alicia saw Whipper to her right unleash her whip expertly toward the arm of the driver who sought to shoot her. The hard twined rope slashed through the air at the speed of sound, lashing the gun from his hand and severing two fingers. The man’s scream was lost as that car also turned sharply.
Now Alicia had two death traps tumbling toward her.
And no way to save herself. It was all in the hands of Lomas, a situation she rarely faced and absolutely detested. The biker leader laid it down, leaning the bike over hard and sliding, scraping the big machine along the ground. Sparks flew from the bike, the fairing, and from the metal heel-tips of his boots. The first Nissan slammed down with an almighty crash no more than six inches before them, then rose just enough for the Ducati to slide right under. The spinning car bonnet glanced off Lomas’s helmet, knocking his head back hard. Alicia saw the Nissan’s occupants with their faces pressed hard up against the windscreen and bodies hanging loosely. Already dead.
She fought to help Lomas, angling her weight so the bike ground its way beyond the path of the second Nissan, but their combined weight wasn’t quite enough. The blue car struck the ground hard just as the Ducati grated by, smashing down on its front wheel and flipping both Lomas and Alicia into the air.
Alicia flailed as she flew and landed heavily, tucking on impact. The air rushed from her lungs. The biker’s suit saved her flesh from being churned to Swiss cheese; the helmet protected her skull. She rolled with the momentum, decreasing the impact, and came up on one knee.
Both vehicles smashed into one another with a thump like a house falling down. Debris scattered across the carriageway. She spotted at least two unmoving bodies and several rifles. But that didn’t matter for now. Quickly, she turned to Lomas and shook his shoulder.
“That was close. C’mon, this ain’t no time for a nap, dickhead.”
Lomas rolled over, but only through the momentum caused by Alicia’s shaking. His form lay inert, still. Alicia pulled his helmet off and stared at his face.
“No.”
She slapped his cheeks before thinking to check for a pulse. As her heart rose into her mouth, Alicia Myles did the one thing she had shunned since childhood.
She prayed for another person.
“Please, God. Please, God. Please . . .”
Lomas’s eyes flickered open. The pulse beneath her finger was weak, but tangible. “Christ,” he muttered. “That hurt.”
Alicia scanned his body. There were no obvious injuries: no blood, no crooked joints. If Lomas was in pain, the damage was on the inside.
“Wait here. I’ll get help.”
She took in the situation. The bad news was that many of the bikers were down, at least half of them clearly wounded or unmoving. The good news was that only one of the Nissans remained. She skimmed across the scene at both ends of the bridge, not liking what she saw. All four BMWs were still in place.
To her side, Lomas’s Ducati still rumbled. A germ of an idea entered her head.
“I think we—”
The hand that grabbed her wrist was desperate. Alicia started and flicked her gaze back to Lomas. What she saw turned her insides to ice. Bright-red blood bubbled up through his open mouth. The biker tried to talk, but the gush of blood made him cough and choke.
“Lomas.” Her voice was emotionless.
“If this . . . if this is the last . . . fight of the Slayers,” he managed. “Make sure . . . we win.”
Alicia held his hand and moved her head close until their noses were touching. She knew her lover was about to die and no one could save him. She took in the last moments of his life, his breath, and savored them. His last gasp came, but it was the sudden silence that was most overwhelming. The abrupt absence of sound.
She sat back, looking up, searching the black skies for an answer, a plan. Anything. If there was one time in her life she thought her prayers had been answered this had been it. But nothing existed up there. It was all shit.
Forged in adversity, born to battle, Alicia rose to stand over the body of the biker leader. Fast as a fox she hefted up the Ducati and gave a huge bellow, a great rallying call.
“To me!” she cried. “You want to win? Come to me!”
The weary and the half-dead, the bleeding and the broken, those on their last legs and last bullets, all stood up. Ribeye and Whipper, Laid-Back Lex and Knuckler, Dirty Sarah and Trace, rose like heroes among the ashes. Alicia revved the Ducati and leaned over as it spurted forward, scooping up two of the rifles. The surviving bikers dashed to their machines, jumping astride the seats and gunning them toward her. Alicia spun the Monster on its back wheel, leaving a cloud of dust all around her.
“Go to hell, you bastards.”
As the rest of the bikers drew level with her, Alicia opened the Ducati’s throttle, sending it zipping forward at an alarming pace. As she rode, she laid both rifles across each other, balanced on the front of the bike, their barrels facing forward and stocks nestled into the pit of her arms. The gap between her and the BMWs decreased fast, and soon she could make out moon-like faces staring through the half-smoked windows. Another two seconds and Alicia took her hands off the handlebars, steering with the weight of her body and pressure on the rifles, and let loose a double salvo from hell.
Bullets spewed from the barrels, firing in two directions, decimating the sides of the big SUVs. With an effort, she concentrated her fire toward the gap in the middle, destroying the front and back ends of the respective vehicles. Metal chunks cleaved away. Doors flew open as men scrambled to safety. The rear car collapsed, its wheels destroyed. To her left and right the surviving biker crew fired and slashed and threw whatever weapons they could at the fleeing men, taking out as many as possible for the friends they had left behind. Alicia’s focus was the narrow gap and the stream of bullets. She could allow nothing else to enter her thoughts right now. It was all about death and escape, blood and vengeance.
The Ducati shot through the breach, twitching as its tires hit debris on the way through. Alicia let go of the rifles, but didn’t stop. She turned in her seat, seeing her comrades shimmy and swerve in her wake as they negotiated the small opening. With the road open before her again, she opened the throttle and keyed her Bluetooth helmet mic.
“Is this thing still working?”
“I hear you.” Trace’s voice. The others joined in one by one.
“We should take a moment for our friends.” Alicia waited in silence, seething as the dark skies began to lighten.
“I’m heading for the nearest airport,” she then said; anger, passion and loss thickening her voice. “The crazy bastard who sanctioned this is walking free in DC. Who’s with me?”
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
Before Matt Drake entered the Hotel Lewison Park, he took one more call. The initial plan was to ignore everything, get to the meeting, and find out what the hell was happening, but when he saw the caller ID he simply stopped and stared in disbelief.
“Bloody hell. I don’t believe this.”
Dahl looked over his shoulder like an annoying parrot. “You don’t believe what? Who is it this time?”
“Stop squawking.” Drake turned away and pushed the green button. The call connected instantly and, despite the distance, the voice that spoke sounded crisp and clear.
“Is this Matt Drake?”
“Yes sir, Mr. Crouch. How are you?”
A moment of silence followed. Michael Crouch was the highly respected leader of the British special ops unit known as the Ninth Division, a secret section that specialized in dangerous missions, usually involving traitors and extractions, and with the perpetual support of the SAS, though they could literally call on anyone inside the British Isles and mor
e than a few outside the borders. Drake had not spoken to Crouch in eight years.
“Good, Drake, good. We’re all gutted to hear about Sam and Jo. They were . . . stalwarts.” Crouch wasn’t a big speaker. What he had to say was usually summed up in just a few words. But the meaning behind them was always straight from the heart.
“Thank you, sir.” Drake wanted to say more, but with thoughts of Sam and Jo came thoughts of Ben and his parents, and Hayden, Mai and Alicia, and everyone else who might be under threat from the Blood King. “They were.”
Crouch sighed. “Been a while, Matt. Been a while. I’ve heard all about your latest exploits. Just remember, lad, you’re British.”
Drake knew Crouch wouldn’t expand on that statement and, in any case, he didn’t have to. There was a certain reserve associated with and expected from a British soldier. The SPEAR team didn’t usually display it.
“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” All the time he was thinking what the hell are the Ninth Division calling me now for?
Drake waited. Crouch was the deserved top dog of the supreme and most secret unit of the British Special Forces. He was the man everyone wanted on their side, many steps above what Wells had been. He hadn’t just called for a chat.
“What exactly are you into, lad?”
Drake stared at his reflection in a nearby window. He hadn’t expected that. “I’m not sure what you mean, sir.”
“We know about the Secretary of Defense, the President and Kovalenko. But what’s the bastard’s plan? What’s the feel over there, Drake?”
The Brits were after an inside man then, probably shitting themselves over in Whitehall in case the Blood King had any special plans for them. Crouch must be under immense pressure but, good man or not, Drake wouldn’t betray the people he worked for.
“We’re heading into a meeting right now, sir,” he said. “After that, I’ll tell you what I can, but only that.”
Crouch sighed again. “Thought you might say that. Here, you talk to him.”
Drake blinked at himself in the window. What next? Then the dulcet tones he remembered from many previous ops soothed their way across the airwaves.
“Hey, Matt. Shelly here. How about lending us a hand on this one?”
Drake almost shivered. Shelly Cohen possessed the type of voice you might hear on a late night radio show—sweet as honey, melodic and very comforting. She was the beating heart of the Ninth Division, warm but at the same time as hard as nails, your friend but always pushing you toward that next great goal. Along with Crouch the two were a formidable team.
“Hi, Shelly. Always good to hear your voice. I told Crouch I’ll do what I can.”
“I see. Well, the PM has our balls in a vice with this one. Anything you can do will help.”
Jesus, he thought. How can she make the phrase ‘balls in a vice’ sound so sexy?
“I will,” he said. “For you. Um, for you all, I mean.”
“Of course. Well, speak soon. And stay frisky.”
It was her motto, the phrase she used with the boys in the field when they were in harm’s way. It was a double entendre of course, but one that helped endear her to every soldier. The other thing that defined her was her penchant to venture into the field quite regularly herself, often unsupported and on dangerous missions. Shelly Cohen was a bit of an unattainable legend back at the Ninth Division. Drake couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of her in eight years.
“Friskier than ever,” he said, then realized she’d already hung up. Dahl was at his side, staring at him.
“Who are you talking to? One of those sex-talk call centers?”
“Yeah.” Drake pocketed the phone. “It was Swedish. Your wife answered.”
“Well, the VP is waiting,” Dahl said impassively. “The wife will have to hang on.”
They trotted toward the heavily guarded hotel, IDs at the ready.
“Jesus, Drake,” Dahl said. “I thought we’d encountered almost everything. But this.” He shook his head. “All this that’s happening tonight. It just takes the fuckin’ gold medal for batshit crazy.”
“Don’t worry,” Drake replied, stress thickening his Yorkshire accent. “We’re gonna find Kovalenko right quick and stick a grenade down his gob.”
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
Drake entered Conference Room 1B not knowing what to expect. The first thing he noticed was the heavy security; at least twenty Secret Service agents stood around the raised dais at the end of the room when only half-a-dozen normally surrounded the President. They wore black suits and blue ties, and bore little gold pins on their lapels. To a man, a white earpiece dangled from their lobes and disappeared under their collars. Even more stood about the room, automatic weapons in full view. Drake knew the Army was gathering outside—several of its highest ranking officers were already here.
The room itself bustled with agents from every division, many stood around in groups discussing the crisis. Drake just hoped they weren’t already deciding which poor bastard would take the fall for all this.
Several large TVs and monitors had been hastily erected above the stage, each one showing the face of an important-looking individual, depicted by their uniforms, medals and bearing.
Dahl pointed to the dais. “You know any of those men?”
“No more than you. Vice President Dolan in the flesh. Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, Sanford, on telly. I bet those guys are the other Joint Chiefs. Not sure about the rest.”
Dahl nodded to a sandy-haired man to the far right. “I know him. Commandant of the Marine Corps, Tom Liddell. Good man.”
Drake glanced across the room and headed over to the water table. Several jugs were scattered about and he helped himself to a glass. As he drank, the Vice President rose and called for quiet. The casual unceremonious way in which he did it confirmed as much as anything the level of threat they were up against.
“My friends, I don’t have long here. The Secret Service are about to whisk me off.” He waited until every last murmur subsided. “They would rather I be long gone already. But I wanted to say—this will not stand. This is free American soil, my friends, and no one will dictate to us our way of life. This is free American soil, hard-fought for by every serviceman and woman every day of their lives. This is free American soil, and we will fight for it tooth and nail, blood and bone, until every last breath has been forced from our bodies. We will fight and we will never stop, for our way of life, for our dignity, our honor, and for our children.”
The Vice President nodded and turned away, quickly surrounded by the Secret Service. The room erupted into applause. Drake put down his glass to join in, and Dahl clapped loudly at his side. After a minute, another man spoke, the Deputy Secretary of Defense, William Massey.
Massey, on camera, held up a remote control and flicked it at his own screen. A blank TV at the front of the room glimmered into life. “This is what happened a few minutes ago.”
Drake watched as, unbelievably, Dmitry Kovalenko, seated beside President Coburn, calmly laid down a four-word challenge to every serviceman, cop or gung-ho citizen in the United States.
“Come and get me.”
Massey leaned into the camera, but another voice spoke up first. The voice of the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, John Sanford.
“It must never be said that the United States watched indolently when we were tested. We will not stand in disarray and watch a public execution. By God, we will accept that bastard’s challenge and go get our president.”
Now Massey held up a hand. “But first we need your input.” He acknowledged every man and woman in the room. “You were all brought here today—and yes, some are still en route—because of your past service to this country and the special skills you can bring to the table. This—” he clicked an unseen button. “Is the blueprint of the Hotel Dillion. It is overlaid with every known facelift and upgrade. Put your heads together, gentlemen. We’re going in to get President Coburn within the hour.”
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
Mai Kitano turned her back on the small picturesque bridge where she had met Gyuki only when she was sure the master assassin had left the area. She made her way warily out of the park and around to the prearranged meeting point with Dai Hibiki. The terse little Japanese agent was waiting for her and spoke as soon as she approached the open window of his car.
“What did he say?”
Mai waited until she had climbed into the front seat and sat down. She remained suspicious. The parking area was very public, jam-packed with dog-walkers, shoppers and people on their lunch breaks, but such manic activity could just as easily hide a tail as reveal one.
“They have my parents. They won’t let me go, Dai.”
Her friend gripped the bridge of his nose. “Your parents? Good God. Even Chika doesn’t know where they are.”
“Chika disowned them when she found out what they had done to me. That decision only piled one more heartbreak upon them. It doesn’t matter why or how, it only matters now that the Clan have them.”
“Where?”
“Their village.” Mai shrugged. “I have no idea where it is.”
“But you do have a plan?”
“Yes and no.” Mai sighed. “It’s not only my parents they are threatening. It’s Chika, and you. And me. If I follow my plan to the end, a lot of people will get hurt, and not all of them deservedly.”
“This may help.” Hibiki switched the car’s radio on. A news channel, NHK World Radio Japan, was reporting that the President of the United States had been abducted and played a recording of Dmitry Kovalenko’s challenge. Mai stared through the car’s windscreen and into the middle distance, unseeing.
“I should be there. It is bad enough that I do not know the fate of all my friends. Now, they also have to deal with this.”
Matt Drake 07 - Blood Vengeance Page 9
