Matt Drake 14 - The Treasures of Saint Germain

by David Leadbeater

  “Hey—”

  But Dahl was already off, running directly for the plane as it taxied away. Drake accelerated as best he could, chest still throbbing from the bullet’s impact. A couple of the SWAT guys joined them and the chopper pilot decided they might need a little backup, especially if the plane got away. He lifted his skids and glided along at their side, now the pace vehicle of their race or a goal to reach.

  Drake and Dahl came up to the plane fast, running alongside, but within seconds it had started to pull away.

  Both doors were latched shut, but then the one just behind the wings cracked open and a tattooed hand appeared, holding a gun. Bullets flew haphazardly, not aimed but intentionally causing concern among the runners. Drake tried to aim his rifle then his handgun, but the jogging destroyed his aim.

  “Fuselage,” Dahl suggested. “Cockpit.”

  Engines roared.

  “No time!”

  Drake knew he needed to get closer. Without hesitation he leapt for the wings, seeing the open door and the unseeing arm as a way inside. The only way. His jump was timed just right. As he landed on the rounded edge of the wing and grappled for the flaps to pull his body up, the plane accelerated again, leaving Dahl’s jump two feet too short. The Swede hit the asphalt hard.

  Drake worked his fingers into the flap, praying it wouldn’t close, and heaved his body upward. First chest, then hips, then knees; he wriggled and hoisted his bulk onto the smooth wing. Rushing air battered him like a living thing, like an enemy. Loose clothing flapped and tried to throw him clear, and at this speed falling onto the runway would be a killing blow.

  Drake crouched and looked back, saw Dahl picking himself up and signaling the chopper. Then he stared at the door. The huge arm was still there, popping off shots at random. Steadily, he crab-walked up the wing toward the plane, careful to keep his footing and lean into the tearing wind.

  Dahl’s voice crackled through the comms. “Problem, mate. They’re not going to let the plane take off. They’re gonna destroy it rather than risk Webb escaping. You have only a little time to get clear.”

  Drake cursed. The decision had been made only when the plane hit a certain speed. There was now a real chance it could achieve a clean take-off and the next step was fighter jets shooting it down in the air—which nobody wanted to risk. Drake clambered forward another three steps.

  “Is it your bird alongside?”

  “Yeah. We have missiles.”

  The Swede sounded happy at that. Drake cursed.

  “Mate,” Dahl said. “You have less than two minutes and then we destroy the plane.”

  *

  Alicia came to a deliberate slow halt as she approached Beau. There was no recognition on the Frenchman’s face, no glow of guilt nor flicker of regret. She knew he would likely kill her, but didn’t falter for a second.

  It was ironic then when the two people she found backing her up were Mai Kitano and Kenzie. Of all her colleagues around the world these were the two she least trusted and had most contention with. She backed away from Beau a little if only to catch their eyes.

  “You’re kidding me here, right?”

  “This man can only be beaten by a team,” Mai said. “Acting together. Today, that is us.”

  “No enemies here,” Kenzie said. “For today then.”

  Alicia felt a rush of pride, of companionship. Together, they would prevail against the unbeatable. She met the dead eyes of the Frenchman.

  “Better go fetch your armor, motherfucker. You’re gonna need it.”

  They burst into motion. Mai took Beau head on, her Ninja skills as lightning fast as his own. Alicia came in from the left, striking suddenly and as hard as steel. Kenzie jostled to the right, swirling her katana in a blur as much to distract Beau as to assail him.

  If they were hoping Beau would fold quickly or have a bad moment they were disappointed. The slim body weaved and slid among them, smoke in motion once more, and sent out finger strikes like knife blades and punches as hard as boulders.

  Mai deflected a throwing star that Alicia didn’t even see until it hit the ground. Kenzie struck downwards with her katana but then held it, shuddering, in mid-air as Beau somehow managed to push Mai’s arm into its arc. The freeze motion left her open to a triple strike, sending her to her knees, gasping and groaning, the sword lying on the floor.

  Beau skipped around her, using her shoulders to shift a straight run into a pivot and spin, landing both feet on Alicia’s stomach and sending her tumbling. Mai faced him then, jabbing and striking and dealing out kicks that would fell a lion. Beau took them and gave back even more, bruising Mai’s ribcage and thigh bones, making the recently healed scar across her face burn brightly.

  Another shuriken saw light, whipped underhand and embedding its razor-sharp blades into Mai’s wrist as she flung a hand before her face. The Japanese woman left it there and flung herself at him, striking with the wounded arm, Beau’s own shuriken blade slamming down into his skull. The blades bit and blood flowed. Beau staggered away.

  “First blood,” Mai said. “To me.” For now the shuriken had closed its own wound.

  With Beau falling back, Kenzie rose and came forward with the katana. A feint to the left, a double spin of the blade to the right and then she struck hard and fast, straight at the man’s nose.

  Beau held up an arm to ward the deadly blade off.

  Kenzie brought it down grimly, sparing him no mercy. Her mouth fell open in shock when the katana struck Beau’s arm, but instead of severing the limb, it only glanced away. For the first time Beau gave her a tiny smirk.

  “You are no match for—”

  Alicia was having none of it. She blitzed her former lover, hitting every part of his body she could reach, bloodying his nose and breaking a finger. He twisted an ankle as he fell to one knee, then thrust with an uppercut that left her jaw shaking and brought blood from her gums. Alicia spat the red into his face. Beau punched her so hard she fell to the ground. Her own previously shed blood smeared her face.

  Mai hit out at Beau twice more, the embedded shuriken tearing the flesh from his cheek right down to the bone. Then Kenzie struck fast, the katana slices sending him stumbling away and, finally, looking worried.

  Alicia crawled after him, snagging an ankle as he tried to skip away. Her outstretched arm tripped him. Mai came down knees first onto his solar plexus, a finger jab simultaneously smashing his exposed throat so hard he wouldn’t speak for a week. Then Kenzie struck third and with perfect timing, the katana unsteady in her bruised hands and the pommel catching him squarely on the forehead.

  Beauregard Alain lay beaten, defeated. Alicia tried to stand but her legs were jelly. Mai swayed in place. Kenzie looked over at both of them.

  “What . . . what do we do now?”

  “Tie the idiot up,” Alicia panted. “They’ll want to know why he defected. Twice.”

  “And you?”

  Alicia made a face. “The old me would like to see his French onions sliced. But new me? She says put the asshole behind bars.”

  “With what?” Kenzie said quickly. “I don’t carry cuffs, do you?”

  “Nah, only for pleasure.” Alicia rested on her knees.

  The defeated Beau came for them again. Rising up, he dismounted Mai, then undulated himself like a snake across the ground, finishing with a kick that took skin from Alicia’s cheek and whipped her head to the side. Scissor-kicking his body upright, he landed on two feet and faced a shocked Kenzie.

  Plucked the sword from her hands.

  Alicia stared up at the indomitable figure. “Beau,” she said. “Why?”

  He paused then, blood coating his face and the gleam of bone showing through, his brow matted with sweat. “Ask Michael Crouch,” he said. “He is the key.”

  Alicia stared. Crouch was Drake’s old boss and her new one; the well-loved, well-respected, ex-leader of the British Ninth Division. No man stood higher in her opinion. “What does that mean?”

  Beau
didn’t answer. He threw Kenzie’s katana twirling into the air and caught its pommel on the way down. Then he struck left and right at her, diagonal slashes that almost shaved the hairs from her arms. Alicia jumped up with a surge of adrenalin.

  Mai screamed as she ripped the shuriken from her wrist. Blood spurted forth in fountains, splashing the ground. But she ran for Beau then, ducked under his katana thrust, and buried the metal star through the meat of his throat. Beau dropped the sword and then all three women fell too; exhausted, bloodied and beaten.

  But winners.

  Alicia’s eyes finally refocused and found the final battle. “What the fuck is that? Hey girls, there’s a movie title right there.”

  Kenzie shielded her eyes. “What?”

  “Drake’s on a plane.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY FIVE

  Drake inched his way steadily toward the hull, feet slipping beneath him. He was down to one minute thirty left. The jet rushed along at breakneck speed. Drake held onto the window mountings, then envisioned sliding down the wind to grab hold of the door. A tricky maneuver when the plane was stationary, let alone zooming toward take-off speed.

  “Fifty seconds.” Dahl’s voice.

  “Crap, I need more time.”

  A face moved in the window, catching sight of him, and the arm moved around the door, pointing the gun in his direction. The window face belonged to Tyler Webb and was huge and grinning. The red satchel appeared, held up like a trophy. A steaming goblet came into view, smoke trailing from the rim. Webb opened his mouth into the widest of crazy grins. Drake read the flapping lips.

  “I told you! I told you I would kill one of you today!”

  The gun discharged. The bullet whipped past.

  “To me and my everlasting future!” Webb quaffed the mixture.

  Drake flung his body backwards. A second shot flew overhead.

  “Blow it!” Drake cried. “Blow the goddamn plane. We can’t let this maniac get free again.”

  Dahl came back: “On three. But what about you?”

  “Just bring me that bloody chopper.”

  The helicopter spun a quarter circle in mid-air. The jet thundered down the runway, its wheels pounding the ground and its engines roaring like trapped monsters. The shooter fired again. Drake ran hell for leather along the wing of the plane.

  He had no intention of stopping.

  The helicopter fired its arsenal, three missiles together screaming into the front of the plane. The area of impact disintegrated in less than a second, replaced by fire. A flaming plume of red and black billowed down the length of the plane, smashing out windows and melting the substructure, obliterating everything in its path. The entire body was engulfed, many parts flying and fragmenting off.

  Drake’s headlong sprint came to an end as the plane blew up. Metal drooped beneath him as the wing collapsed. A split instant past the very last moment he leapt high, the flames chasing his back. The lowest part of the chopper was its skid. Drake’s hands wrapped around the smooth metal, gripping hard and arresting the momentum in his body. Fire chased him—flickering tongues of flame licking his back, setting his jacket alight and singeing the back of his head. Drake screamed as the fire caressed his skin. The pilot swing the chopper away from the blast but it was already receding, its energy spent. Drake hung on grimly, eyes closed against the agony, fingers holding on until they could clasp no longer.

  Then he fell. Hit the ground and folded. The devastated airplane drifted to the right, off the runway, a shattered shell engulfed in fire. Webb was inside that and forever gone now, his twisted schemes all destroyed with him. Drake tried to look up as footsteps pounded toward him.

  Dahl.

  “You fucking knobhead! What were you thinking? Hey, you’re still on bloody fire!”

  Something flapped at his back. Drake felt the heat subside but the agony lived on. Was he drifting away? Was it all too much? Truth be told, it didn’t matter. He trusted his team, his family, more than he had ever trusted any soul in the world. They would take the best care of him.

  More bodies surrounded him and he heard the voices of Alicia and Mai, strangely difficult to tear them apart. He felt deep hope that Kinimaka wouldn’t stumble over him. He heard Dahl’s voice again.

  “Get up, dickhead. The vest saved you. It’s just the hair on your thick skull that got a little scorched. Drake?”

  Touched by the clear concern hidden beneath the usual insensitive veneer, Drake pushed his hands underneath his body and pushed hard. Reality set back in. He lay at the center of a circle, shielded by his team, choppers landing all around and cops and medics rushing up. Everyone had injuries. Mai dripped blood in streams but still stood shoulder to shoulder with Alicia, being supported by the Englishwoman and Kenzie. Drake wished that it could always be so.

  Today. Not tomorrow.

  The whole team were together. Webb had not fulfilled his own prophecy after all. He thought again of Kinimaka’s song.

  I see my loved ones again. All of them. Drake felt truly blessed.

  He turned to Dahl. “Are we done?”

  Hayden answered for the Swede. “There’s just one more bit of intrigue and mystery we have to solve. Then, we all get a day off.”

  “And where’s that?”

  “The house of Saint Germain.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY SIX

  Rested, re-clothed to some degree and recuperated to another, the SPEAR team headed back to New Orleans’ French Quarter. With all the unfriendly parties either leaderless or captured, the resistance had been stamped out. The cultists were gone forever; the surviving mercenaries in custody. Another threat removed from the world. The entire team had been patched and bandaged, fed painkillers and even stitched. And, on an uplifting note, they had learned that Sabrina Balboni had survived her operations and would make a full recovery, given time.

  Everyone moved gingerly as they walked up the middle of Bourbon Street, giving groups of tourists a wide berth.

  Hayden looked tired. “A reverse trace of Webb’s movements through New Orleans showed him first visiting this area,” she said. “And in particular—that house.”

  Drake stared at an unassuming structure, two-story with white shutters and a small parking garage nearby. Plant pots lined the windows. Even the door locks shone like new. Alicia tapped Hayden’s shoulder.

  “Why are we here?”

  “Webb came to this house for a reason. Don’t you want to know what it was?”

  Lauren stepped forward. “We know from our research that the fanatics thought Saint Germain was still alive and living in New Orleans. Are you saying this is his house?”

  “Again—” Hayden smiled “—why else would Webb come here?”

  “The final clue,” Mai said.

  “From Germain himself?” Drake laughed.

  “If not the man,” Hayden spread her hands, “then maybe from the place he lived.” She shrugged. “There is often a nugget of truth in legend. If Germain did come here then maybe he left a clue behind.”

  They searched high and low; they ransacked the modern, pristine furniture and the unmarked walls and pictures. They checked for hidden passages and false walls, a basement and an attic. If Tyler Webb had indeed visited these premises then he’d done so with the utmost respect, another oddity. They gathered as a team in the sitting room.

  “Nothing,” Smyth grumbled.

  “A shame,” Hayden said. “And a surprise. You know—Amari became obsessed with the legend of Saint Germain whilst being privately educated around Europe. Took the fixation home with him and fanned it until it turned into something horrible. Now, that’s all gone. Whatever he knew—lost. ”

  “And why the quest?” Smyth asked. “Why not skip to the end of that friggin’ scroll and come straight to New Orleans?”

  “The treasures along the way pointed the way,” Hayden said. “You can’t achieve one without achieving the other. Linguistics helped translate the later-found composition. Alchemy helped mix the potion. Freemas
onry opened more doors. From one you beget the next.”

  “So the mystery of Saint Germain lives on?” Lauren asked.

  “Some legends never die. Many will outlive every one of us.”

  Drake winced in pain. Mai touched her cheek and Alicia hobbled over to a sofa. “That won’t be too hard.”

  “Weirdly though,” Lauren said. “This house is actually over two hundred years old.”

  “Where? Every fitting looks new.” Hayden looked stumped.

  “And even more interestingly it was built around 1780; the same period history tells us Germain was negotiating truces and helping to install new kings. Many of the buildings around here were built around that time.”

  “You trying to spook me out?” Smyth smiled. “ ’Cause it ain’t working.”

  “Do you realize something?” Dahl said. “The reign of the Pythians is finally over. They’re all gone and Webb is dead. Can I get a high five?” He searched for a raised hand among his injured friends and saw none. “Maybe later.”

  “We’ve neutralized most of the known threats now,” Drake said. “Maybe we’ll grab some downtime.”

  “Whatever you do,” Dahl put in. “Do not go on vacation.”

  Laughter broke out, followed by groans. Kenzie held her ribs. Hayden looked around at the little group.

  “Back to reality.”

  Drake felt uncertainty creep back in. Nothing was resolved for them personally. Alicia and Mai had issues; as did Hayden and Kinimaka. Smyth and Lauren were battling over the prisoner, Nicholas Bell. Even Drake thought the New Yorker had a soft spot for the terrorist. Kenzie loved Dahl.

  He grinned. I can work with that. They talked briefly of the new Secretary and her ballsy attitude, of how she had faded rightly to the background when the battle elevated to new heights, of the secret base and the new location. They wondered if anything would change. Kinimaka said nothing—it was almost as if he was already gone.

  Change was coming.

  Drake looked up and saw something that resembled a face staring at them from the top of the stairs. White and middle-aged, he knew that face. His heart pounded. It was the janitor from the German hospital. He started to cry out a warning and then the face was gone, merged into the background.