Matt Drake 14 - The Treasures of Saint Germain

by David Leadbeater

  “Take ’em out,” Palladino whispered at Karin’s side. “You got ’em panicking now, Blake.”

  “Amen to that, motherfucker.”

  Karin emptied her clip.

  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

  The rearmost white truck veered violently across the road, bouncing back off a carved cliff face, barely staying upright. Men and crates spilled inside the back, coming together with a crash and a crack and agonized screams. Two whole crates slid clear of the truck, smashing apart against the asphalt and spilling dozens of rifles and magazines. Callahan rode right over them, unable to safely avoid the obstacle. Karin changed her clip and sighted again, ignoring the questions that arose at her back.

  “What happened?”

  “Did we get it?”

  We?

  “Take ’em out, Blake.”

  She squeezed off more shots, hitting crates and one man’s leg. The sitting ducks in back of the truck were now screaming at their driver to turn on the speed, realizing they were facing at least one trained shooter. Still they scrambled to and fro though, returning fire and rummaging through open crates to see what weapon they could take up next.

  Screaming sirens filled her ears and, closer, the comments of her team. Karin caught Callahan’s eye as the driver turned momentarily, nodded at the mouthed ‘thanks’, and told their co-driver to hunker down. The tires, she thought. Time to end the chase.

  It had begun in east LA, a white gang taking delivery of weapons under the watchful eye of the DEA. Challenges had been issued and an assault made but the gang had proven too well-armed, and had made off toward the city. Several miles later they’d passed Karin’s team involved in their own exercise up in the hills, and Callahan had tuned the army radio to take in the police band. A quick decision and they had joined the chase, radioing in along the way and receiving criticism from every angle. Nevertheless, once engaged they hadn’t deemed it right to back off. Cop’s lives were at risk and the Army couldn’t lose face. The bandits were incredibly well-armed.

  Karin squeezed off a shot at one of the rear tires, and saw her bullet take a chunk out of the road surface. Palladino breathed into her ear.

  “I’d have made that shot.”

  Karin sighed. “Even with luck? Not a chance.”

  “Always better than you, Blake. Always. You know it, girl.”

  The friendly rivalry was out of place. Karin ignored it and re-sighted. The jolting of the truck, the bouncing of the wheels, the flitting back and forth of the men in back and their attempts at shooting, were mere disruptions to the deep inner and outer focus required to pull the shot off. If she . . .

  Then everything changed.

  One of the gunrunners smashed open a random crate and started shouting in his excitement. Karin took her eye off the tire to watch it play out. Other heads whipped toward the man. When his arms came up, scooping out dozens of small black objects, Karin turned quickly to Callahan

  “Get ready to ram him.”

  The Irish driver was already goosing the gas pedal, on the same wavelength. The truck lurched, sending everyone staggering except for Karin. As she watched, the man with the grenades threw them haphazardly to friends and colleagues, an insane grin on his face. Then, before Callahan could close the gap, he hurled one at the approaching truck.

  It bounced off, clattering down the road and into the grass verge.

  “Forgot to remove the pin.” Callahan shook his head in disbelief.

  The next arced high into the air, triggering a violent reaction from the driver. He wrenched the wheel to the left, sending even Karin staggering.

  “What the fu—”

  “Take it easy, man!”

  The loud protests went up. Karin regained her balance. The grenade exploded as they passed, shrapnel peppering the side. After that it grew quieter inside as the men realized what had almost happened.

  “Nice moves, Callahan,” Palladino muttered.

  Karin regained the viewing panel, knowing it was far from over. Callahan had the gas pedal mashed almost all the way to the floor; the faces of the men in the truck ahead all too visible. It was do or die as they moved within easy throwing range.

  “Ahead,” Karin said.

  Callahan nodded in grim relief. A sharp bend lay just a few seconds away.

  “Hang the fuck on,” he grated.

  The white truck flung itself at the bend, barely slowing, but Callahan sped up. In a second, their truck smashed the rear side of the other as it turned, flinging it into a broadside. Men sprawled and collapsed in the back, grenades flying up into the air and among the crates. At least two of the men’s faces creased in terror.

  “Nooooo!”

  The cry echoed across the small distance as Callahan continued to push the truck into a spinning broadside. Crates and arms and legs rolled, spun and twisted in every direction, smashing against each other. The truck reared up on to two wheels. Karin screamed a warning at Callahan.

  “Back off!”

  It exploded three seconds later, the fireball washing over Callahan’s cab and starting mini-fires inside the cabin. Both driver and co-driver covered up, bellowing as the flames came close to them, hairs singed, but came out the other side with barely a scratch. Karin swung away, grabbing Palladino and hurling him aside. A tongue of flame shot through the small gap for a heartbeat’s span and then vanished. Karin elbowed Palladino.

  “Saved your pretty face.”

  “I knew you had the hots for me, Blake.”

  But Karin was already back at the viewing panel, trying to take in the nightmare ahead. The shockwave generated by the truck’s explosion had shunted their own truck sideways, off the road and across a sharply angled grass verge. Now Callahan was desperately trying to keep them running around the tight bend, their left wheels scrabbling along a narrow dirt track, their right several feet above that on the grass verge itself, their cab canted at a crazy angle.

  To their left: a hundred feet of vertical drop-off.

  Karin felt her stomach lurch; mouth suddenly dry as old bones. Above, still on the main road, the blackened, flaming hulk of the white truck lurched to and fro, the screams of its surviving occupants tearing at the hills. Black-and-whites flashed by, sirens whooping it up. Karin watched Callahan struggle with the wheel and the curve of the path ahead, all their fates in his hands.

  “Shit.”

  She ran to the right-hand side, pushing at the metal side, screaming at her colleagues to do the same. Palladino was on it in an instant, the rest just a moment behind. They could all feel the sway and roll of the body. Their efforts threw the truck to the right just as a left-hand camber would have sent it tipping to the left and into the yawning valley below.

  “Keep at it,” Karin said, then leapt back to the viewing panel.

  “Good job.”

  Callahan, sweating, bloodied and bruised, now flung the wheel to the right as a narrow gap appeared, bouncing and jarring off either side, but sending the truck through. Back onto the road. Cop cars littered the highway, swerving out of the way as the army truck bounced among them.

  “Thought we were dog food back there,” Callahan said.

  “Not this lot,” Karin said. “They ain’t tasty enough.”

  “Thank God you didn’t say ‘too young to die’. They all say that.”

  “We’re too old for that,” Karin said emotionlessly. “And we don’t cry. So let’s take this last mofo out.”

  Callahan sighted between two cop cars at the last white truck ahead.

  “Like your style, Blake. I really do.”

  Karin checked her gun.

  CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

  Mullholland twisted and wound through the hills; green, gray, brown and mottled like the hide of a huge snake, its sharp bends, sudden drop-offs and incredible views across LA as internationally famous as the city through which it slithered. Day trippers, joggers, dog walkers and a thousand others constantly walked its length and the environs all around, relaxed, peaceful and inspi
rational, but today the twists, turns and loops shook and thundered with something far less motivating.

  An old, beaten truck hammered down the narrow roads, clattering and banging from side to side and forcing oncoming traffic into the dirt. Its rear door was raised and swarming with white men sporting facial tattoos and skinhead-cuts, their dirty white vests revealing lean, muscled bodies and baggy jeans, boxer shorts emblazoned with names like Calvin Klein, Hugo Boss and Tommy Hilfiger. They hefted automatic weapons taken from crates which they had at one time been trying to transport to the docks. Not anymore. Now, it was fight or die. Take ’em all with you. To the end, my brother!

  Cops cars sped after them, sirens and lights switched on, an onslaught against the countryside. Then came a black-painted truck filled with army trainees.

  Karin kept her gun aimed, and a full rhetoric going for the benefit of her fellow recruits. The guys hung on tightly, already bruised from stumbling around the rear of the truck.

  “Hard right,” she said. “Hang on.”

  Callahan barely slowed, flinging the vehicle around the shoulder and keeping inches off the police cars ahead. As they all straightened, the gunrunners raised weapons and continued taking potshots; some grinning, laughing and giving high fives, others sitting with sick looks on their faces among the crates. The mental state of these men followed a curve all the way from the “barely there” to “screwball insane”.

  Karin didn’t care about that. Her thoughts and fears were for civilians and then the cops and her team. This was so much more than training now; this was the very thing they had been training for. The test of their mettle and their might; their critical skills.

  Her mind flicked through the intense havoc that had been the last several weeks. Settling in had lasted mere minutes, whilst for the rest of the time she’d worked twice as hard as everyone else just to keep up. Before she started with these guys she thought she’d been fit. Now she knew civilian fitness and military fitness were measured on very different scales. An impossible feat for a gym rat might be an everyday exploit for a fully trained soldier.

  Each day she grew stronger, fitter, more agile. Each day her knowledge grew. Though her brilliant mind suited her to geeky, indoor work, she pursued the outdoor vocations, following the narrative she’d told Drake to the absolute letter. She didn’t believe her progress would be reported, but every angle should be covered. Her future plans were incredibly complex, and called for many months of intense toil to put into action.

  The deaths of her parents and brother had affected her badly, hammering her already fragile mind into submission. Events in her youth where responsible and authority figures had failed to help save the life of her friend had damaged her forever, turning her into a pensive, soul-searching deliberate drop-out. The SPEAR team gave her a lifeline, a real purpose and became her rock when her family was killed at the hands of the Blood King. They had all lost somebody, and forged deeper bonds. Then, as life grew bearable again and an acceptable future with Komodo bloomed, her love had been snatched away once again.

  Karin never stood a chance.

  Never again.

  She worked now not only to chase the past away, to destroy those creeping nightmares that hung and lurked all around, but also to build a barrier based on core strength and high principles. She wanted to be told what to do, to follow a regime, to train until it all went away.

  At least for now.

  This was more than she had bargained for, but more than welcome too. She sighted her gun on one of the men in the back of the truck and squeezed the trigger. Blood splashed a nearby crate and the man tumbled backward then fell onto the road, pin-wheeling like a discarded rag-doll along the asphalt. One of the cop cars—already shot up through repeated attempts to kill the officers—swerved to miss him, leaving smoking rubber in its wake.

  “Gonna be in a shitstorm when this is all done,” Hildreth said.

  “Dude,” Karin said. “We’re in one right now, along with unsuspecting mothers and fathers and hard-working cops. Do you want to give the order to back off?”

  She looked around, and sensed Palladino do the same beside her. Hildreth stayed silent though, studying the far wall. Palladino leaned in.

  “Want me to shoot a few? Give the girl a few tips?”

  “I got a tip for you, Dino. Leave me the hell alone.”

  Callahan made the choice and swept past the swerving cop car, until he was nudging the back of the lead black-and-white. The trucks were by now dropping out of the hills and heading toward the highway and civilian centers. As Mullholland dipped it also performed a sharp switchback close to an on-ramp and it was here Callahan suggested a large force of cops would be waiting.

  “No way will they let it on the freeway,” he said.

  Karin held on as Callahan gunned it once more. “What are you thinking?” she asked.

  “That cops’re gonna die.”

  He punched inside the leading police car as it slowed around a bend, skirting the dirt and shrubbery at the side of the road and jerking the truck from side to side. His right side mirror brushed the roof of the other car and then Callahan was in front, swerving again toward the rear of the first truck. To both sides, incredible vistas opened up, from some well-known backlot studios, to superstar residences and production buildings belonging to some of the best known names in Hollywoodland.

  Karin sweated under her helmet and vest. Her mouth was dry, her teeth gritted together like two bags of rocks. The stench of body odor permeated the truck. Muffled swearing came from every side and Perry sat at the back, looking as if he might throw up. None of the guys looked like they wanted to take her place.

  Except Palladino. He was game. Game for anything. She ignored him, knowing the future and a necessary all-destructive path. Now Callahan pushed the vehicle up to the rear of their quarry, this time staying as much as possible to the left and slightly blind-side, much to the grumbled annoyance of their co-driver.

  When it happened, it happened fast. Mullholland dropped hard, and relatively open, unobstructed views spanned their horizons; the van driver must have seen the waiting road block. He jammed on, anchoring the truck so hard its back wheels slewed.

  Bodies flew backwards, striking walls and wooden crates. A man appeared creeping over the top, hanging on for dear life, but as the truck slowed, producing a machine gun so powerful it required rolls of bullets to maintain its high-velocity rate, and fired bullets that could chew up a truck in under a minute.

  Callahan bellowed in surprise and swerved right. The gun rang out, deep, heavy, like Satan’s jackhammer. Karin rolled with the truck, bent her aim and angle, and zeroed in on the shooter. One shot and he was airborne, the gun toppling, the man winging it down toward the valley bottom.

  “Blake,” Callahan muttered. “I don’t ever wanna let you go.”

  Palladino tapped her shoulder. “You get one?”

  “Yeah, just one.”

  “Lame.”

  Karin barely heard the comment, concentrating now on what was happening up front. Somehow the rearguard had gotten wind of what was waiting for them—Karin could tell because all of a sudden they became intensely agitated. Weapons were fed through to the front cab and others distributed amongst those in the back. Without thinking, without aiming, they opened fire, panic setting their minds alight.

  “This is gonna be so bad,” Callahan moaned, twisting the wheel so violently the truck again tipped up onto two wheels. Karin winced and waited, but in the next second rubber touched asphalt again and they were back to bouncing along. A bullet clanged off the framework of an already shattered windshield.

  “Any ideas?” Callahan said.

  “An RPG would be nice,” the co-driver said.

  “Ram ’em.” Karin could see no other options. “Ram ’em before they hit the barrier.”

  Palladino gave her a pat on the back. “It’s like you read my mind, Blake. I’ll give you that much.”

  Karin held on. Callahan forced his
right foot down hard, surging forward, straight into the back of the gunrunners’ vehicle. The driver lost control.

  The back end swayed and listed. Men fell from the open space like lemmings over a cliff. A stray, crazy bullet entered their cab and smashed through the roof above Karin’s head, the jagged metal it left briefly smoking. This time their quarry’s vehicle heaved up and then toppled onto its side, crashing down with a force of a mountain and then scraping diagonally across the road.

  Karin saw Callahan stamping on the brakes and immediately turned, grabbed some guy ropes and started to make her way toward the back doors.

  “Ready!”

  The truck ground to a halt, momentum causing it to roll a little, then Karin pulled the silver handles that unlocked the rear. Sunlight flooded the space, glaring. She jumped down onto the hot surface, bent her knees and then twisted, staying low.

  Men littered the road behind her, cop cars pulling up alongside. Weapons lay scattered from verge to verge. Around the side she crept in fluid motion, sighting along her rifle. Palladino watched her back.

  They approached the broken and shattered vehicle with caution. A tattooed man lay in the back amid crates, unmoving; another crawled on his knees, probably unaware of which way was up.

  When Karin saw a gun vaguely waving their way she potted its owner, putting the man out of his obvious misery. Cops ran down from the cars and up from the blockade, lending help.

  The trainees picked among the wreckage, dragging the living into the open and binding their hands and legs. Karin watched Callahan on the radio and saw the grim curl of his lips. The outcome was immaterial if someone wanted to make an issue of this.

  Someone responsible. Someone in charge.

  Any incident could be finessed to further a white collar career. Karin knew she was close to where she needed to be with her training and didn’t particularly need the rest. But it would still be good to get it under her belt, and good to have the extra weeks to prepare. After that, she’d have all the intellectual and physical skills she required to hatch—