Drake agreed. “He’s right. Cut off the head and the body dies. We’re not talking a terrorist organization here, folks, we’re talking a bunch of rich autocrats.”
“As much as I agree with both of you,” Hayden said, pointing ahead. “We already have our main focus right now. Webb has been firing attack after attack at us since the Pythians began. He will implode soon. He has to. Right now we have this facility and the ghost ships to focus on. Our job, for now at least, is pretty clear.”
The San Jose substation bore every resemblance imaginable to its smaller sister. PG&E, it seemed—the people who owned the facility—weren’t big on change.
Smyth, driving their SUV, aimed for the demolished outer wall. No mercs guarded this entry point and the vehicle bounced through, riding the rough terrain presented by the scattered heaps of bricks. Drake clung on to the grab handle whilst scanning the area ahead.
“There.”
Smyth saw it too, aiming the SUV around the gravel track toward the jagged hole in the building’s wall. A man was staggering out of there now, a man, wearing a blood-soaked shirt and tie.
“Hurry!” Hayden cried.
Smyth juiced the throttle. The vehicle eventually slewed to a halt before the wavering man. Drake leapt out of the door.
“Where are you hurt?”
The man fell to his knees, holding his chest. Hayden dropped beside them.
“. . . came through about ten . . . ten minutes ago . . .” the man gasped. “. . . crowd of them with guns, all screaming . . . I didn’t drop fast enough . . .”
Drake saw the bullet wound and quickly put pressure on it. “Ten minutes?” he glanced worriedly at the others.
“Not good,” Dahl said.
Hayden attended the man. “Go,” she said. “I’ll look after him. You guys need to hurry.”
Drake hurdled the rubble and landed inside the building. Alarms blared and emergency lights shone. He raced down a narrow corridor and then through an already blasted-apart door into a spacious high-ceilinged room. At its far end stood a complex of offices and it was from this direction that a barrage of bullets erupted. Drake dived to the floor, rolling as the air was crisscrossed with death. As he did so, mercs fell from above and jumped in from the sides.
An ambush.
A forest of feet obscured his vision. Pain erupted where boots kicked at him. Then two enormous pairs smashed among them—Dahl and Kinimaka laying waste to their enemies. Drake rolled and jumped up. A foot smashed him in the ribs but he ignored the pain. He caught the arm of his attacker and broke it, then twisted and engaged another. A merc landed a blow on the back of his neck, making the joints creak. Drake saw stars for a moment, turning amidst half a dozen enemies all intent on stamping him to mush. Bullets still hammered above their heads, probably fired from gung-ho assholes. Drake somehow managed to stay on his feet, using the crush of the mercs themselves to remain vertical. This was close combat like he’d never dreamed of. A blow to the ribs at this distance was a mere slap, a “love tap” as Drake used to call them. He pushed and fought to gain some room, wary of knives but unable to see much of anything.
Shouting came from the far side. More alarms began to bay. Through a brief gap between the bobbing heads, Drake saw the alarm room light up like the Fourth of July, and men bent over flickering screens. Something significant was going on in there. Then, Dahl and Kinimaka were back, physically grabbing hold of mercs and pulling them out of the crush of bodies, launching them through the air. Smyth knelt and shot the flying bodies as they landed.
“Like shooting tin-cans in a field,” he murmured, shifting his sights to take out a soaring merc as he might a clay pigeon. “Next!”
Dahl obliged, hefting a struggling ski-mask covered man out of the throng and then flinging him into space. The next merc caught the Swede by surprise, hammering a closed fist at his solar-plexus and then immediately grinning.
He’d fully expected Dahl to go down after that enormous hit.
The mad Swede bellowed in anger, picked the man up and used him as a battering ram to take out three more. At last, Drake began to see some light. Ducking and rolling he escaped the crush, swinging his weapon around as he went.
“Fire!”
Drake, Dahl, Kinimaka and Smyth were all on the outside of the merc pack now and, upon seeing guns swiveling toward them and no sign of enemy surrender, immediately opened fire. Bodies fell and twisted. Blood sprayed and then curdled on the floor. Shots went off as mercs folded, now just lead fired up at the roof. Drake turned to check the state of what he believed was the main operations room.
Mercs were piling out and forming a perimeter. Other men moved within that perimeter, guarded, making swiftly for a far door. The bastards have already taken what they came here for!
“Attack!”
Drake knew there was no alternative, and that single word would convey all he wanted to say. No option, no surrender. Take these fuckers to hell!
Fanning out and moving slowly forward, the four men opened fire without relenting. Their Sig MPX’s barked and spat with fury, emitting the fire of devils desperate to be unleashed. Bodies collapsed all along the mercenary line and at least one of their dependents keeled over, his blood spraying against the office wall. Return fire was hesitant, the entire line now in two minds and intimidated under fire. The four-man SPEAR team increased their speed, unconsciously working as one, fully aware of the men at their sides and what they might do next. Some bullets flew between them but they did not flinch. The force of their fire decimated the mercenary line. Behind that line several men ran and hit a far door, booting it open, one with a package strapped to his back. Drake forced the advance even more, feeling the risk was worth it, and riding their wave of luck.
Until it all crashed down.
Smyth took a bullet to the chest. One minute he strode with them, a solid and proven link in the chain. They were invincible, unstoppable. Then a well-aimed slug kicked him off his feet, depositing him onto his back with a heavy grunt of pain.
The sight of their comrade falling hit the rest of them hard. Memories of Komodo were fresh in their brains. When Smyth was hit, Drake instantly dropped to his knees beside the man only to find both Dahl and Kinimaka doing the same.
Their eyes met above the groaning body.
“Thank God for Kevlar,” Drake breathed, voicing the thought that came to them all at the same time.
“Isn’t it time for something new?” Dahl wondered.
Smyth grimaced as he tried to sit up. “Fuck me, guys. What the fuck are you doing down here? The assholes are getting away!”
Drake breathed out long and carefully, tempted to let his fist give the explanation but quickly rising above such crassness. Instead he leaned on Smyth’s impact zone as he stood up.
“Shall we?”
With Smyth carping after them Drake, Dahl and Kinimaka ran headlong for the far door. Drake picked off a covering henchman. Dahl turned as another leapt from the shadows, knife in hand. The blade passed by the Swede’s neck, drawing a single speck of blood but not an ounce of reaction beyond swift retribution. Dahl left him motionless, head canted at an unhealthy angle.
Drake slowed quickly as he reached the door, wary of booby traps, but there were none. The comms system crackled and Lauren reported the arrival of a huge contingent of cops and agents and ambulances. Kinimaka shouted that they should be redirected to the building’s rear.
“They will be too late,” Dahl intoned.
Drake thought about the sprawling office they had just passed. Not surprisingly it had been crammed full of multi-colored screens, computers and other monitors. Was this station an electrical hub? If something was stolen—either physically or electronically—how would they know?
He saw the tripwire at the last minute, pulled up before the single glistening thread, and held an arm out. Kinimaka, almost inevitably, noticed way too late and had to launch his huge bulk through the air and over the wire. The Hawaiian crashed down, sliding,
coming to a halt a hair’s-breadth from a second shimmering cable.
“Crap,” he breathed, nose almost touching the cord. With great care he shuffled back and tried to pull his feet underneath him.
“Wait!” Dahl suddenly shouted. “There’s another wire at shoulder height and it’s right above you!”
Kinimaka froze, left in an ungainly position. Drake examined one wire whilst Dahl leapt over to the second. Within a moment they had disarmed both. As Kinimaka finally gained his feet, the Swede made short work of the third.
“Thanks guys,” Mano said.
“None needed,” Drake said. “It’s what we do.”
The delay had cost them. By the time they traversed the rest of the corridor, moving slowly in case of further traps, their quarry was gone. One more merc lay bleeding out to the right of the farthest door, but Dahl categorically stopped anybody from approaching him, fearful that a grenade might have been wedged beneath his body.
“I guess that’s part of reaping what you sow.” Drake thought about the previous snares, still feeling a twinge of guilt at not being able to help the merc.
“Let’s move.” Smyth was with them again. “And quit being such pansy-ass pussies.”
The door opened into cool night air. Drake went first, gun up, checking every direction, squinting again in the harsh glare of artificial light. It took a moment for his vision to adjust.
“There,” he said.
They headed toward something that gleamed in the dark, the only thing Drake could see that didn’t quite fit. As they approached, a heavy motor coughed into life and rotors began to whir. A chopper rose, its cockpit blacked out, another shadow in the dark. Now Drake saw other choppers, maybe as many as five, most of which were redundant now so many mercs hadn’t made it. As they approached the rising bird cops and other forces streamed around the side of the building, yelling for all and sundry to “eat the fucking dirt and lace their hands together over their heads!” Drake knew there was no point arguing. He lowered his weapon.
The chopper banked as it rose, audaciously passing over the running cops. Then Drake saw why.
“Get down!” he cried. “Down! Now!”
Leaning out of one of the doors was a man holding a chain gun. Heavy caliber rounds thunked into the ground and the building, causing mini explosions wherever they hit. Mercifully the rounds all passed between the cops but the message was abundantly clear.
Stay the fuck down.
The chopper ascended and then took off to the north. Drake watched it go with a sense of unfinished business ricocheting around his mind.
“Your time will come,” he said under his breath. “And soon.”
CHAPTER NINE
In the aftermath they sat and stood around the SUV, taking stock of what potentially had been stolen.
Hayden stood washing her hands free of blood, using water she poured out of a small Evian bottle. “We have no idea what they took. Engineers are going over everything right now. Hopefully it will be glaringly obvious.”
Drake harbored doubts and said so. “Any news from the guys deciphering our own Z-box yet?”
“Not a squeak.”
Dahl nodded toward the overwhelmed facility. “I feel like we both won and lost here today. The amount of mercs we took down put a dent in their resources, but they still managed to escape with what they came for.”
“We lost,” Smyth said pessimistically.
“And remember, Beauregard told us three substations will be hit,” Dahl said. “Any clues as to which is next?”
Again Hayden shook her head, upending the rest of the bottle over her face. “The investigation is underway.”
She indicated Karin inside the rear SUV, already tapping away at a laptop with Lauren seated beside her. “It’s time to move ahead.”
Drake chewed his lower lip. “Do you think? Splitting our forces in the light of what we just saw? Is that wise?”
Hayden shrugged. “Like we said before: Grabbing a Pythian might end this entire fiasco. It’ll get us several steps closer, for sure. And right now we know where at least one of them is. We also have to cover this ghost ship angle in case it turns out to be even worse than the friggin’ Z-boxes. We can’t allow them to just take anything they find.”
Drake saw her logic. “Okay, agreed. So I guess we’re headed to Arizona.” He glanced at Dahl. “You be okay without a hand to hold?”
The Swede grimaced. “Would you like a hug before you go?”
Drake raised both eyebrows, his expression deadly serious. “Considering the specter of where we’re going, the spookiness of what we’re chasing, and all those ghost stories and apparitions I think a hug might be good about now.”
He moved in. Dahl almost tripped over his feet in an effort to escape. Subdued smiles flickered across all their faces.
None of them wanted to split the family up right now.
CHAPTER TEN
Yuma was a city in the southwestern corner of Arizona, first settled by Native Americans whose reservations still exist in parts of the state. Expeditions later saw the trade and living opportunities offered by the narrowing of the Colorado River at this point, and during the California Gold Rush the Yuma Crossing became known as the gateway to California.
Drake found himself pacing the hotel lobby wondering where the hell the rest of the crew had gotten to before realizing this was it. This was all—the extent of his current team—Lauren, Smyth and Karin.
The decision had been made to arrive low key. There was no telling who the Pythians had enlisted or paid off, no guessing how many spies they had dug in around the area. Thus, the four-strong group were vacationers, stowing what military gear they may need in oversized backpacks. Once their rooms had been allocated they trooped into the elevators, all heading for Karin’s room.
Drake voiced everyone’s thought. “So give us a clue. Where do we start?”
Lauren spoke up. “Where did Nicholas Bell start? With stories, I guess. So short of flying over all of Arizona and California with a spotting scope we’d best put our resident genius to work.” She patted Karin’s shoulder.
Karin grunted, still far away. Drake wondered for the thousandth time if she should even be here. But then, where else? Grieving alone? Therapy? There were far worse places to be than following lost treasure.
Just ask Alicia.
Drake again found himself thinking about the Englishwoman and her endless march forward. It was at times like this that a separation of weeks felt more like years.
Karin silently plonked a laptop onto the room’s only table and logged onto the free Wi-Fi. The width of the room prevented the rest of the team from standing too close so Lauren offered to make a coffee run and Smyth elected to go with her. Drake found himself suddenly alone with Ben Blake’s sister, Komodo’s girlfriend.
“Anything,” he said. “Anything I can do to help just name it. Even if it means putting a gag on my stupid mouth.”
Surprisingly, Karin turned around to stare at him. “I’m starting to believe there may be something you can do,” she said. “But I’ll let you know.”
Drake nodded, a little taken aback. She was working through stuff and needed to ponder. He watched her pound the keys for a while and then stepped away. Lauren and Smyth returned, comfortable at each other’s side, and offered strong black coffee all round. Drake liked the new Smyth; the man seemed more at ease, though the old irascibility still hovered just underneath the surface. As the group perched awkwardly on the side of the bed, Karin began to speak.
“Ghost ships of Arizona,” she said. “It’s no more than a bunch of legends passed down from old Red Indian days. Scary campfire stories or lost treasure mythologies—your choice. The main story,” she breathed, “centers on an old Spanish galleon.”
Smyth leaned forward. “Was it haunted?”
Karin continued without an acknowledgement. “Stories started springing up after the great Colorado flood, sightings put it forty miles north of Yuma. Of course,
that was back in the 1860s . . .”
Drake wasn’t sure whether to smile or knit his brows. Was she suggesting it might—somehow—have moved?
“These places back then had various names—Indian Springs, Soda Springs, Bitter Springs. The Salton Sea is another popular place for myths since this grew out of an even larger inland sea over the centuries. There were and are many myths that said this galleon was none other than Sir Thomas Cavendish’s Content, filled with pirate booty. Now we’re talking—a pirate ghost ship.”
“Who relates all these old stories?” Lauren wanted to know. “And who remembers them?”
“Old timers.” Karin shrugged. “People who grew up listening to them. Ear-benders. Entrepreneurs.”
“What’s so special about the Content?” Smyth tipped his coffee back and drank.
Karin also drank, her mind engaged in the task. “Well, Cavendish was an English explorer and privateer. He purposely tried to emulate Sir Francis Drake by raiding Spanish towns and ships and then returning triumphantly to England by circumnavigating the globe. Successfully. He became a rich man, capturing rich prizes in silk and treasure from Spanish ships he attacked. He captured a six-hundred-ton ship called the Santa Anna, and this was all on his first raiding run. Queen Elizabeth I knighted him upon his return.”
“And the Content?”
“During Cavendish’s second run and circumnavigation he encountered a little more than he bargained for. The man died at the age of thirty-one from an unknown illness whilst his navigator sailed on to discover the Falkland Islands. But the story of the Content actually arises from the first voyage. Cavendish had two ships near the Gulf of California—the Content and the Desire—and both were put to good use chasing down the Santa Anna, which was a so-called Manila galleon. Now, firstly these Manila galleons only sailed once or twice a year and carried all the goods accumulated through an entire year’s trading. Goods from the coin mints in Peru and Mexico to the Chinese for silk, spices, gold and other luxurious materials.”
Matt Drake 11 - The Ghost Ships of Arizona Page 5
