“We leave,” he said. “And later, we come back.”
“Why don’t we stay?” his companion asked.
Mukat eyed the dark hulk all around him. “Devil’s home,” he said. “Not ours.” He would never be able to relax inside this unfamiliar, imposing, ghost-ridden place.
The two men turned and ran hard. Even down here they could hear the storm’s fury. Mukat again considered the depth of that anger. Had the gods sent these men to save the Cahuilla? Possibly from an upcoming event?
Mukat pondered as he ran, at last emerging from the nightmarish below-deck environment and into his real home—the great outdoors. The scene that greeted his eyes, however, was not at all inviting. Torrents of water lashed sideways through the air, peppering his face with little painful darts. As the ship listed toward the seaward side, great rolling waves greeted his vision, bigger than any he had ever seen. A forlorn canoe bobbed around out there, smashed from wave to wave, empty. The hellish skies pressed down as if trying to smother all life from the earth. Lightning danced from cloud to cloud, demons and devils skipping and cavorting at the top of the world.
Mukat fought his way to the ship’s rail, holding onto his companion as best he could. Together they gripped the solid wood and looked toward the shore. People were gathered up the beach, beyond the reach of the foaming waters, people drenched and miserable and frightened but still determined to wait for their leader. Mukat would not disappoint them. Grabbing his companion, he stared into the man’s eyes and nodded.
“We swim,” he said. “We live.”
Together, they climbed over the rail and fell to the raging waters below. Mukat hit first, the sudden quiet below the surface a sharp contrast to the world above. Kicking strongly, he propelled himself unerringly toward the shore. Many tribes he knew could not swim, but the Cahuilla had always been fortunate to live close to the inland sea. That was why, occasionally, they enjoyed venturing down the wide tributary that led to the great, endless sea, the place where huge ships sailed.
Today had been a mix of victories and defeat, good signs and dark omens. Today had been unpredictable in the extreme. But tomorrow would bring great fortune.
Mukat swam hard until he saw the sea bottom beginning to rise. His breath gave out just as he broke surface, into a debilitating sensory assault of stunning visions and terrible noise. Waves battered him, taking control of even his powerful body. Thunder roared down at him as if from a vast, many-toothed mouth. Lightning pierced the skies, forking down and splashing against the seas. A jagged point hit close to him, blinding his vision. Mukat threw himself toward the shore, fighting as if with a black bear or vicious coyote. The cruel creature wrapped him in liquid arms, dragging him down and then out to darker depths, but Mukat fought with all his heart and soul, still able to see the shore and safety. Tooth and nail he struggled, gradually losing his fight with the formidable beast. His strength was waning, the trial too much. He would now pay the price for leading his people into folly. Knowing that he had lost he began to relax his limbs, already accepting.
Hands and fingers gripped his arms, his clothing, even his hair. They pulled. He went with them, sucked from the very maw of the beast. His people had waded in to save him, beset by the waves and the winds but still eager to help. The Cahuilla were a family and they would prevail. Right then, he knew his people would never die, their names never be forgotten.
Mukat lay panting on the beach, men sat at his side, drenched and spent, his companion from the ship similarly worn out. The storm raged at them and did not relent that night, a spectacle to behold, a fury that would live in their minds forever. Before first light painted the horizon the mighty ship began to list, to heave and swell, and then broke from its moorings, drifting off into the eye of the storm. Mukat did not see where it went and had long since lost all desire to. The gods had spoken.
Leave it be.
Mukat would never again dare defy the gods as long as he lived.
CHAPTER ONE
Matt Drake woke and instantly wondered why he was alone. His first thought: Mai? was an early morning constant of late, and then he remembered . . .
Oh aye, she’s in Japan, I think . . .
And the world slipped back into place. He was alone once more and even if Mai Kitano returned today, forgiven and free, a figure of pure absolution, he doubted that he could ever go back. Their time was over—of that he was sure—but he would still welcome her as an ally. They had worked that way before, many times. If Drake had changed since the death of his closest friends it was only because he could be more resolute, more caring, and less vocal about it. Promises were nothing when compared to real action.
Drake sat up in bed, eyeing the espresso machine as if it were a lifeline. The blackout curtains were useful but he could still see light bleeding around the edges, which meant the morning was marching on. He scooted over the bed and inserted a fresh pod into the machine, placed a cup under the dispenser and waited for the coffee to pour. Hot and black it was ready in seconds. He sipped at it, still reviewing his new place in the world and the events that had led him here.
If there was ever an Englishman who deserved to be called a man of action it was Matt Drake. At the same time he would hear none of it, beyond the less-than-gentle ribbing offered up by his teammates. Drake had been forced at an early age to take charge of his life and continued to adhere to that pattern—no matter which megalomaniac tried to disrupt it. At the head of it all was the loyalty he felt towards his friends.
And the agony shared by all when one of their number died.
Komodo’s funeral had been surreal, an odd kind of nightmare. The one good thing about it was that it had passed without incident. Karin, inconsolable, distressed beyond measure, quantified it in a single, succinct sentence.
“If my life is the sum of those I most love then it is now over.”
The team had tried to console her, but Karin had lost her parents, her brother, and her boyfriend in a matter of months. Drake knew from experience that time didn’t heal the wounds caused by losing a loved one beyond an almost insignificant point. Which Karin would emerge from the ashes of the old one?
He would be there to catch and care for her no matter the depth of the fall.
As he drained the coffee and immediately made another—one was never enough from a pod machine—his thoughts turned inevitably to Alicia. The free-spirited Englishwoman had stayed true to character and charged on after the battle in Hong Kong, joining her other team in an attempt to find some long-hidden Crusader gold. This was no form of disrespect intended—or even unintended—toward Komodo or Karin or the SPEAR team, it was pure Alicia Myles and her headlong quest toward self-destruction. Drake sensed the moment approaching every day and worried for whomever was near her at the time.
And, conversely, hoped it would be him.
Hoped? he thought. No, no. Worried . . . that was more like it. Feared. Dreaded. Was terrified of . . .
He laughed it off, knowing inwardly that he would help Alicia in any way he could if it came down to it. Even if he had to kill her, or himself, just to save her.
Drake made an internal call on the room’s telephone system. Almost immediately a gruff but well-manicured voice answered.
“Dahl residence.”
Drake laughed, despite everything. “We’re in a bloody hotel, you knob.”
“A well-travelled, educated man’s hotel room is his castle. The same way a Yorkshireman’s castle is the local pub.”
“Amen to that. Who needs trumpets and banquets when you can have a jukebox, a quiz and a packet of pork scratchings?”
Dahl hesitated. “Pork what? Dare I ask?”
“Probably best to let that one pass.”
A moment’s silence passed before Dahl spoke again. “Have you heard from Mai?”
Drake sighed. It was natural for the other team members to imagine he was at an all-time low and he saw no reason to enlighten them either way. “Not a thing, mate. She’s still s
howing Grace around Japan. Worried about the Yakuza. Spending time with Chika and Hibiki, I guess.”
“Fancy a game of table tennis?”
Drake froze and then shook his head. Did he hear that correctly? If Dahl had asked him to join him at a Frozen sing-along with the kids he’d have been less surprised. “Come again?”
“I noticed a table in the basement last night and two old bats. I’m sure we’ll be able to rustle up a ping pong ball from somewhere.”
“Okaaaay.” Still wondering if “table tennis” was a code word for something a little more dangerous and clandestine he met Dahl at the entrance to the elevator three minutes later. The Swede stood large and imposing, even clad as he was in T-shirt and cargo shorts. A smile hovered at the edge of his lips.
“So what is this really?” Drake asked. “New mission?”
“No.” The Swede looked upset. “It’s a game of fucking table tennis. If it was a new mission I’d say so.”
“You know you’re gonna get your ass kicked?”
“Oh right, I forgot. Every Yorkshireman played table tennis at the local community center when he was a kid, yeah? Winner stayed on and they had to drag him away three hours later.”
“That’s right.”
“Well, we played ping pong in Sweden too. When I was young we had a world champion.”
“I do remember that anyone who played table tennis at a high enough level would never call it ping pong.” Drake smiled.
Dahl couldn’t stop his eyes widening in surprise. Drake had gotten to him and, even now, there was a friendly rivalry between the two men. When Dahl showed him to the table Drake picked up the closest bat.
“Loser has to wear an ‘I love Kanye West’ T-shirt for a whole day?”
“Bollocks, I could never sink that low.”
“How about an ‘I love Alicia Myles’ T-shirt?”
Dahl cocked his head. “Did she finally get some made?”
“Yep, for her new team, but in her rush she flew off without them.”
“I can live with that.”
The two men faced off. Drake held up a small yellowish ball. Throwing it high into the air he readied his feet and prepared to serve . . . just as Dahl’s cellphone rang.
“Wait!”
Then Drake’s own phone let out a chirp. The Who’s Pinball Wizard sang out. He let the ball fall to the floor as he plucked the device from the right-side pocket of his Levis.
“Matt Drake.”
Hayden’s voice, stressed, filled the room as both men hit speakerphone. “Hi guys. We need you to come in. We have a crisis down here.”
Drake placed his bat on the table. “Must be Wednesday.”
“Huh?”
“Nothing. What’s going on?”
“Our friend Ramses has popped up big time. The myth, it seems, is actually a reality.”
“I’ve heard that before.” Dahl groaned.
“Ramses is nothing like the Blood King. Born as royalty and brainwashed whilst young. Indoctrinated into terrorism at the same time as being beyond privileged. What little we do know of him beggars belief.”
“And now?”
“Well it looks like we have an early heads-up as to the staging of a giant arms bazaar, billed as the last and biggest of its kind. We’re talking the kind where terrorist royalty roll up in their armor-plated Bentley Continentals, step out, order a brace of nuclear missiles, then skip off and inspect a flock of stolen fighter planes. It’s happening, guys.”
“When?” Drake and Dahl were already in the elevator.
“Within a month. We don’t know.”
Drake almost dropped the phone. “A month? Wow, I can’t remember having the luxury of time since . . .” He paused for thought. “Since . . . well, ever.”
“Ya got that right. And I said within a month. Could be next week, so hurry. We’ll see you in ten.”
Drake thought about the security they had to pass through in order to gain access to their new offices inside the Pentagon.
“Better make that thirty, love.”
CHAPTER TWO
Drake entered the small room they called an office, amazed at how compact it seemed inside such an enormous building and at the same time stunned by the dazzling array of technology it offered. Hayden sat in a corner, at the head of a rectangular desk that seated eight. Before this day, Drake remembered people having to pull up extra chairs. Today, there were enough spaces around the table.
Barbs of regret stabbed at his chest. Dahl walked past, probably thinking the same thing but purposely moving forward.
He stood unmoving for a moment, then caught Karin’s eye, surprised to see her. “You don’t have to be here.”
She nodded, her short blonde hair lying flat today. “I shouldn’t be here, but this is where I want to be. I’m no good on my own.”
Drake nodded. He could relate to that. A quick overview revealed the additional faces of Lauren and Smyth. He was about to question Hayden over Kinimaka when the big Hawaiian crashed through the door.
Nobody turned, nobody dove to the floor. It was Mano. It was expected. “Mahalo,” he growled, trying to untangle his feet.
Hayden stared at him. “How did it go?”
Kinimaka let out a long, pent-up breath. “Kono is my sister,” he said as if that explained everything. “And has been stuck in DC for too long now. It doesn’t occur to her that if the Disavowed guys hadn’t saved her back in LA then she would be dead. It doesn’t occur to her that we’re out here every day, fighting to preserve her taken-for-granted freedoms. It doesn’t occur to her that DC shouldn’t be compared to Hawaii.” He shook his head.
Smyth grunted irritably. “A good brother-sister relationship then.”
“As good as can be expected.” Kinimaka carefully withdrew a chair and then fitted his bulk to it. Drake waited for something to go wrong but he and everyone else in the room was pleasantly surprised when it didn’t. Even Kinimaka glanced around in shock.
Smyth wasn’t done, his growl filling the space. “My sister, I wanted to choke her every day. Even looked forward to her turning sixteen, because she was a year older and said she would leave the house on her birthday. Booyah, I thought. An entire year to myself. Such joy.”
Lauren looked at him. “I never heard you mention a sister before.”
“She died when I was twelve.” His voice dropped. “Cancer took her down very quickly. Funny how you never know how lucky you are until—”
He stopped abruptly, remembering Karin’s presence in the room. “Ah, sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Karin barely whispered. “I knew what I had.”
Hayden quickly took charge of the room. “All right, guys. We have a number of things to get through this morning. First, can I ask about the stalking? Has anyone encountered anything new?”
A clever way of putting it, Drake thought. Stalking wasn’t merely the imagined “art” of following a person, it was far more complex than that. Many planes of intimidation existed within that single expression—anything from moving objects around to physical confrontation. A man like Drake had never contended with a stalker, but he could well imagine the kind of hell it might put a person through.
Kinimaka spoke up. “Kono, despite her petulance, actually believes she is being stalked. I’m her big brother,” he pulled a face, “and I know the kind of stunts she can pull and any other time I’d laugh and pull her hair or something, but now—”
Hayden shook her head, trying to hide a flash of amusement. “I can assign a couple of patrols to her. But I want to do it quietly. As good as Tyler Webb thinks he is, and as intimidating as he can be, I actually believe these escalating stalkings are our best way of catching him.”
Dahl nodded. “He will lose control. I personally have seen no signs over at my place and neither has Johanna.”
“Our place,” she nodded at Mano, “has been a stalker’s heaven lately. I guess we’ve now solved that problem. We’re watching the watchers, surveilling the hidden
cameras. Just hoping the asshole does it again.”
“You’re more self-assured than me,” Smyth said. “I’d be afraid my bare ass would pop up on the Internet or something.”
Hayden waved a hand matter-of-factly. “It’s not like that for Webb. I’m convinced it’s more about control and dominance. He is a power-hungry megalomaniac after all. He gets off on feeling he has the means and supremacy to invade any life at any time.”
“Well let’s hope he doesn’t get off on you,” Smyth grunted.
Hayden screwed her face up. “Shit, man, that’s a horrible thing to put out there. Keep those thoughts to yourself.”
Drake spoke up before Smyth dug in any further. “I have to say I’m so glad to see both Karin and Lauren here. Are you completely recovered?” he asked the New Yorker.
“Yeah, totally. No signs of that freakin’ Pandora virus and no side effects. I’m good.”
Karin smiled slightly, her eyes unreadable. Drake wondered what dark oaths they may be taking and what even darker paths they may be traveling.
“What more do you have on this Ramses character? And how do these criminal kingpins somehow convince everyone they don’t really exist?”
“They use a shitload of go-betweens,” Hayden said. “More station bosses than McDonald’s. And they have a more complex family tree than your royal family. Or any family. The man at the top is always a mystery if he does his job properly.”
“But we’re talking about terrorists here.”
“And they have individuals working inside their organization as clever as those who work at the CIA.”
“So there will be others?” Lauren asked. “Myths or unimpeachable individuals hiding what they really do?”
“Undoubtedly,” Dahl told her. “Haven’t you heard of the Russian mastermind Chopa Bolokov? Or his brother—Yanksa?”
Lauren didn’t even smile. “Oh, I love your English jokes.”
“I’m not—”
“I know and I don’t care. I thought we were talking serious shit here.”
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