Matt Drake 14 - The Treasures of Saint Germain

by David Leadbeater

  As he ran, Drake caught sight of familiar faces running straight at them, chasing a fleet figure. “Hey!”

  “Quit fucking goggling and stop that roadrunner bitch!” Alicia’s mild tones caressed his ear drums.

  “All right, all right. Calm down.”

  Drake saw the woman who Webb had been meeting with race toward him, as fast as anyone he’d ever seen. Mai and Alicia were chasing hard but dropping back, no match for the quick runner.

  “Ha.” Drake couldn’t help himself. “You two stop to get your nails done?”

  Dahl also planted himself in the way. “I see it’s a good job I’m here. As usual.”

  The woman didn’t slow; face untroubled as she saw the obstacles in her path.

  “Er, excuse me, love—” Drake began as the gap closed fast.

  Dahl braced himself. The woman had her long blond hair wrapped into a vicious bob which slapped both sides of her face as she ran. The trainers were vivid green, Asics, and brand new. The outfit was tight, made for running, the Barcelona shirt now gone, and the small baseball cap barely hanging on. Drake saw only one way to go and moved forward himself, not believing she would actually tackle the two of them but preparing for the chance.

  The woman skidded in, dropping low and kicking out at Drake’s knees. The polished floor was a perfect surface for her, almost as if she’d planned for it. He skipped left, avoiding a broken shin or knee, and tried to tackle her about the waist. The position was awkward. She sailed past.

  Dahl waded in too, but the woman angled her body so that the mad Swede toppled over her. He hit the floor hard, groaning. Kinimaka positioned himself at the end of her slide, reaching out with open arms. The woman skipped left, then right, gave him a wide berth and prepared to take off again. In fact, Yorgi was the only one capable of matching her with his buildering skills and knowledge of parkour, but what he gained in movement he lacked in fighting ability. The woman met him head on—literally—and gave him a bloody nose.

  Drake scrambled toward her, using the floor for purchase. “Shit, did you see—?”

  “Slipperier than a Frenchman covered in baby oil,” Alicia agreed. “And nothing solid to hang on to her with. Shit, you two are bloody useless.”

  Drake dived for the woman, a headlong plunge, just as she jinked right and scurried for the stairs. His outstretched fingers brushed her ankles, but she evaded him, leaving him sprawling and staring at the well-polished floor.

  “Bollocks.”

  “You were saying?” Mai panted as she skipped over him. “About nails?”

  Drake rose, but Dahl cut him off, managing to barge the woman at the exact moment she turned on the speed. Her momentum changed and she staggered headlong, reaching to keep her balance. Then she spun, drove a hand under Dahl’s neck and another into his groin, left him shuddering and shocked, moaning on the spot.

  “That was close,” Kinimaka said.

  “Get the f-feeling she held back,” Dahl said.

  “Good job you were here though,” Alicia mocked. “To slow her with your balls.”

  At the top of the stairs now their quarry chanced a look back. Mai was almost upon her, Alicia a step away. Drake and Dahl scrambled up and Kinimaka lumbered alongside. The flight down to the next level wasn’t long. Mai slowed slightly and reached out.

  Alicia barged past her. “Pull your big girl panties up, Sprite. This bitch goes all the way down.”

  The Englishwoman barged hard into their quarry, smashing her against the handrail and forcing out a scream. Without pause the woman rebounded past Alicia, saw a gap, and leapt four stairs straight into it, landing like a cat and with perfect poise.

  “Talk about a freakin’ cat burglar,” Kinimaka said.

  Drake had never seen anyone so ‘on it’, except perhaps for Beau. This woman had mad evasion skills and was embarrassing the team. What had Webb required of her? Alicia was fuming, almost angry enough to take her shoe off and throw it at the escapee.

  Dahl then stepped around them all. “Let’s stop pussyfooting around, shall we?”

  The Swede reached out, ripped a metal trashcan from its moorings, held it aloft and dropped it over the railing, timed perfectly to land on the fleeing woman’s head. She never saw it coming, but the impact was a loud, resounding clang. The force of the heavy object sent her into a slump and a slither down the rest of the staircase.

  Now, finally, she stopped moving.

  “Shit, Torsty, we didn’t want to kill the bitch,” Alicia growled.

  “She’ll be okay,” Dahl said. “See, she’s twitching.”

  “Let’s hope she can still speak.”

  Drake hurried toward her, then reached out tentatively. The woman was well and truly out cold. He keyed his mic.

  “We have the woman. Beau’s on his own though, chasing Webb.”

  “Seriously?” Hayden came back. “It took five of you to take her down?”

  “She was one thorny little snag,” Alicia said.

  “Beau?” Hayden said. “You there?”

  “Lowest level,” the Frenchman said. “I have eyes on Webb. Thought he’d evaded me but I got lucky. Come fast, he’s about to run again.”

  “Still in the chase, guys,” Hayden said. “Stay on it. Take Tyler Webb down.”

  “And stay alert out there,” Kinimaka added. “We haven’t heard from this cult yet and I get the feeling we’re about to.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Tyler Webb was finding that the last few days of running had started to give him a new lease of life. Ignore the cramps and the pain, the shin splints, the knee jabs and the black spots dancing wildly before your eyes, and it really wasn’t too bad. Overcome the agony, and he felt he could probably run forever. Outrun an Olympian. Take on one of those new-fangled mud sports.

  In any case, I can shake off Drake and his cronies.

  Not that he wanted to shake off all of them. Hayden Jaye—she still had possibilities which he longed to be in a position to explore. Maybe later. Maybe after.

  For now, Webb escaped the stadium with only Beauregard close enough to worry about. Only Beauregard. Bit of a contradiction there; he knew the Frenchman’s capabilities. Almost on a par with his own. Little to choose between them. But still, he’d best evade a fight. He laughed out loud.

  Webb raced past security men too engrossed in their Bluetooth comms to see him coming. He’d stashed a gun outside the ground earlier, and now felt retrieving it might help slow the pursuit. He headed that way via the big gates, seeing the Frenchman coming closer but more interested in what Sabrina the thief had told him.

  She was the best of her kind, a midnight prowler without reputation, rival or equal. The world’s greatest thief that nobody had ever heard of. And mostly, that fact soothed her. Occasionally it infuriated her.

  Webb didn’t know her well or call on her often, but the huge retainer he’d deposited in her account every month paid for a short window of loyalty. This was it. The woman—named Sabrina Balboni as far as he knew—was a tall, lithe woman with a fiery Italian heart, moves that made The Flash look sluggish and a temper that could overpower volcanoes. Though appearing blond, she had jet black hair and jet black eyes. Webb had called upon her because the next few steps of his quest were beyond most people—even him. They required entry to some complex places.

  The last clue in Paris had been so wondrous, revealing the arts of ancient alchemy to his awestruck eyes and providing pointers to the next stage of his quest, here in Barcelona. The thing that rankled was that Drake and co. had found it after him, and were now no doubt scratching their heads over the discoveries. But never mind, he was still way ahead of them and counting down toward the culmination of all he had ever sought.

  The great treasure of Saint Germain.

  Webb was roughly snatched out of his dreamworld and catapulted back to the present as Beauregard caught him up. Too desperate to be shocked, Webb barged through the gates and outside the ground, spied a gaggle of tourists and onlooker
s, and plowed straight into them. Screams sounded as Webb put on a high-pitched dramatic voice.

  “He has a gunnnnnn!”

  Beau was slowed and Webb accelerated. Something realistic and regular inside told him he stood no proper chance against the Frenchman, so he quickly sought an alternative. Red hot flashes sped from the soles of his feet to his hips as he almost toppled. This running around would be the death of him.

  Traffic was heavy and he fancied that Beau might be able to outrun a pushbike, so Webb settled on something else. The motorbike rider was sat astride his red and silver machine, studying a map at the side of the road when Webb barged him aside without warning. The man flew, the bike crashed to the floor.

  Webb glanced back and saw Beau breaching the gang of onlookers and locking on to him so fast he might be giving off a halo, or something similar. He struggled with the bike, ignoring the moans of the man who looked like he’d broken an arm in the crash. Webb kicked him in the stomach. That helped untangle the idiot and felt rather good. Webb hefted on the handlebars, hauled the heavy lump upright. The keys were there, the engine just ready for ignition. Webb concentrated on getting it started and then squeezed the throttle. Beauregard couldn’t be too far behind; no time to waste.

  He accelerated hard, felt a hand brushing his ribs and an icy flash of fear. No! Not now! The front wheel rose as he twisted the throttle wide open, engine roaring. Beau had no choice but to fall away. Webb arrowed it between two slow moving cars, not caring about a woman trying to pass through, laughing as he almost clipped her shoulders with the raised front wheel. The meek passed in his wake, as they should. He was a whirlwind, born to rule and destined to become their absolute master. They would live and die like weeds before him, unless he chose to cut them down first.

  The bike leveled out. Webb swung it past front and rear fenders, in between vehicles, scratching metal where the gap was tight and not caring. A car-free but pedestrian-filled crosswalk provided a chance to open her up again, and to laugh as the weak and the fearful scattered like terrified sheep. No way could Beau or the Drake crew live with this. Webb was a god amongst men yet again, heading for . . .

  He paused the self-acclaim in his head. Crap, where am I heading? Is this the right?

  Sabrina had done her research previously, and then told him the location of the place he sought—a deep-rooted, long-standing college that Germain had frequented in his heyday. More important, and led by the clue he discovered, Webb had told Sabrina of the library inside the college, which he sought.

  Germain had used this library almost as his own resource room, studying there for days at a time and allowing none within to join him as he worked. Webb had previously known of the library since it was listed as one of the many European haunts the Count frequented, but until now knew nothing of its underlying importance.

  The Count had been seen at so many places, his movements so well documented by local dignitaries and kings and queens, it was hard to pick them apart. Sabrina had pinpointed the place and told Webb how to reach it—the doors to use and windows to avoid, passages to use and places through which to creep. He’d thought about making her come along, but remembered she might have the guile to see his brilliance and attempt to steal all his glory. Still, if all went as planned he would need her impeccable services at least once more.

  Webb read road signs and tried to make sense of them. The college was at least a half hour from here, but the traffic was so thick it steered even him in but a single direction. He considered cutting across several lanes of traffic, but thought he might end up with something broken. Behind, he saw figures approaching, more than one, and felt just a small niggle of despair.

  Tenacious bastards. Why couldn’t they have died at Niagara Falls? Or Tokyo or Arizona? Didn’t they have anything else to do? All he asked for was a nice, quiet life, enjoying the freedom to destroy others. It was his gift, a birthright. Briefly, he wondered if he could talk to them about it. Explain. Surely . . .

  Reality kicked in again as a horn sounded. Webb glared at its owner, then tried to memorize the license plate for later amusements. He shot by, seeing the instruments of his downfall fast approaching. Gaining hard. Nowhere to go. Webb joined another stream of traffic that appeared to be moving faster, leaned over the front of the bike and urged it on. He could hear them shouting now, urging him to stop.

  Wait . . .

  To his right came more hunters, these ones terrifyingly familiar. Aboard motorcycles and toting guns they swerved and veered and plowed toward him. Back at the Camp Nou he’d been expecting the group, it was why he’d chosen the crowded venue—more bodies to put between himself and the guns—but out here, in the crawling traffic, he was intensely vulnerable.

  Webb gunned the motor, firing forward. Black shapes darted across from the side and shots started to ring out. Pedestrians stared in disbelief, then scattered. The stupid sounded their horns at the passing bikes. Others cracked open their doors and raced for cover, adding to the traffic jam that already clogged Barcelona’s streets.

  Webb hunkered down as far as he could, guiding the bike with vigorous abandon and trusting to his inbred, godlike ability to survive. As if by magic the answer emerged from the haze of light ahead.

  Webb opened the throttle, taking the bike up onto the sidewalk.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Drake saw Webb steal the motorbike and Beau’s last lunge to try to stop him. The Frenchman fell short and hit the road; Webb roared away.

  Drake cursed. “Shit, Webb has more lives than Mario on freeplay.”

  Yorgi nodded. “Beau is not on his game today.”

  “Webb’s clever,” Kinimaka admitted. “We know that.”

  “Stop blabbing,” Hayden said. “And help chase him down.”

  They chased their prey down, reckless through the traffic, skirting cars and avoiding pushbikes and pizza delivery cycles. Drake found the delivery guys and the locals the worst, all darting in and out of spaces to gain half a car’s length and making everybody else’s lives that much harder. He bounced off a Prius, came back off a 4x4’s tall tire and darted past a dangerously weaving motorcycle. Pedestrians slowed him down; Alicia and Mai finding a quicker route along the sidewalk. Dahl picked the weaving motorcycle up, complete with rider, and placed it out of the way, facing the wrong direction. Kinimaka stumbled against a white Range Rover, pulling an apologetic face at the shocked driver. They caught up to Beau as the Frenchman slowed for them.

  “Bit slow there, mate,” Drake observed breezily. “Unlike you.”

  “He was lucky.”

  Ahead, Webb drove recklessly, arrogantly. It was Hayden who noticed the new team coming in from the left, weapons as visible as their helmets, bikes all a uniform pitch black, intentions as clear as their intended quarry.

  “Heads up!”

  But Drake and Dahl had already seen them and were angling their runs accordingly. Drake wrenched a pizza storage box off the back of a bike and threw it at the first rider. It smashed into the man’s arm, exploding, sending plastic and pizza everywhere. The bike wobbled, crashed against a car before righting itself and shooting off again.

  Drake targeted the next before he could bring his gun to bear. The bike zoomed past just a few inches away and the Yorkshireman yanked on an arm. Both bike and man went skidding through the traffic, ending up piled against the wheel of a Nissan pickup. Dahl collided with his man like a charging rhino, both of them crashing to the floor and scraping along for several feet. The difference was that Dahl took the man’s gun and rendered him unconscious before then stealing his bike and gunning the throttle.

  “Hop on,” he said to Drake.

  “I’ll catch the next one,” Drake replied.

  The third to pass their position received a flying kick to the ribs that sent his gun zipping away, and even his helmet clattering down the street. Drake hefted the bike, its wheels spinning, and righted it before motoring hard after the Swede. Kinimaka and Smyth were mopping up behind, giving
the front runners freedom to close the gap.

  Drake and Dahl chased the six remaining bikers as they pursued Webb through the crowded streets of Barcelona. Alicia and Mai hammered along the sidewalk, keeping pace several meters to the right. Webb bounced his own machine up onto the opposite sidewalk, his own intentions unclear. Drake saw a crowd ahead of him and no easy way through. He angled the bike over, slipped through several quickly disappearing gaps, and came up behind one of the cult’s rear-guard.

  “Oy!”

  The helmet turned, the gun swiveling too. Drake accelerated up the other side, clipping the curb but hanging on, and then kicked out at his adversary. The bike wobbled, the man shaking wildly but holding on, and then leaned back, decelerating.

  The gun now poked toward Drake.

  Quickly, he yanked on the steering and smashed his own bike against his adversary’s. This time the man took flight, crumpling as he landed, and yelling out in pain. Another gun skittered away.

  Drake tracked Webb as best he could, confident the man would have to return to the road any second. Then he could . . .

  Just then the ex-Pythian hauled so hard on the brakes that the back tire lifted and came around ninety degrees. Webb leapt into space, leaving the bike to crash into the floor. Drake slowed and left his bike at the curb, then saw Dahl up ahead battling with a rider so close they were practically sat on each other’s seats. The Swede managed to lug the cultist over and left the bike to tumble, then dropped a shoulder and threw the other man hard onto the hood of a nearby car whilst still seated. Metal crumpled, bones broke. Dahl carried his bike out of the way and then deposited it against a lamppost.

  “Marking your territory?” Drake had kept half an eye to make sure Dahl was okay and the other on Webb as the man headed for a building almost covered in flashing lights, advertisements and flickering billboards.