“Front door.”
Drake skipped past the windows until he reached the open door. He saw the thick wood had been hacked at and chewed through by bullets. The frame and concrete surrounds were pitted. Even the ornamental window above the door and the lintel had been pockmarked by flying lead.
“Not professionals then,” Alicia said.
“Which makes it worse.” Drake looked inside the house and quickly stepped back. “Spray and prey mercenaries are easy to come by, but hell to keep under control. Let’s move.”
The Norseman grunted something, sounding genuinely concerned for his five cohorts, but Dahl cuffed him and told him to shut his mouth if he valued his teeth. Inside the place, old paintings hung from the walls and rich furnishings sat upon Persian and old Egyptian rugs. The sculpted ceilings sported hanging chandeliers. First-rate sculptures of mythical and ancient beasts lined both sides of the corridor. Drake guessed they would not be reproductions. When he looked more closely, one painting depicted ancient Babylon with all its depraved delights, another Sodom and Gomorrah in immoral glory. Still another showed the devils of hell, corrupting young people whilst business-suited men stood and sipped whisky from crystal tumblers and watched, naked from the waist down.
“This?” Dahl growled into the Norseman’s face. “This is how you live whilst so many struggle and die?”
Drake checked the first room. Hayden cleared the one on the opposite side of the immense hallway. Their ears were tuned for the slightest sounds. From somewhere up ahead, they heard low groans, a scream, and an order shouted in a guttural, foreign voice. It seemed to float from the back of the house.
Another room cleared, and then a fourth. Hayden and Kinimaka stepped into a fifth, this one with a wider entranceway and two enormous doors—the kind that were generally opened by waiting doormen. After a tense moment, when neither of them instantly emerged, Drake glided over to the entrance.
Hayden’s back was to him, rigid. Kinimaka hung his head. Drake, already fearing the worst, stepped past the big Hawaiian to appraise the room.
Horror froze his feet.
They had been nailed to the walls. Four members of the Shadow Elite, arms outstretched and legs bent in the crucifix position, their palms and feet shot through with heavy duty bolts right into the walls themselves. Rivers of blood ran down the priceless tapestries, furs and drapes that hung around them, pooling on the floor. The men’s eyes bulged, their groans weak, full of pain.
The rest of the team filed into the room. Not even Ben and Karin made noises of surprise or regret on seeing the men. Live by the sword. . . taste the blood of innocents. . .die screaming, asshole.
No one moved to help the men. They hadn’t been up there long. Drake’s main concern now was over the individuals who had done this and the whereabouts of the eight pieces of Odin. He turned, weapon ready and eyed Sam and the SAS team, who had stayed to cover the hallway.
Sam nodded. All good.
He edged out. The voice of the Norseman stopped him. “What? You have to—”
Dahl smashed a fist into his mouth. “We have to do nothing. You should be thinking up ways of staying useful because as soon as you become obsolete. . .you’re going the same way as your ancestor Beowulf and the Vikings.”
“And what does that—?”
“Into the fucking ground. Now shut up.”
The Norseman didn’t even flinch from the blow, just stared at his colleagues with, at last, some emotion in his face. He seemed almost on the verge of tears.
The team fanned out into the hallway and advanced. Four more rooms were cleared and now they heard only silence. Drake cursed inwardly that they had arrived too late, but moving forward now without care would only get one of them killed.
He turned to the Norseman. “We heard a gunshot. Someone still has to be here. What’s back there?”
“A large room that leads to the rear gardens. The French windows are extensive, designed to give a full view of the—”
“Dahl,” Drake said. The Swede silenced the Norseman with another punch.
Drake moved as fast as he dared. He noticed a bloody trail that extended along the wall at shoulder height. Could one of the intruders be injured? If they were, it was most likely due to being shot by one of their own men.
He stopped at the closed door and signaled for readiness. Kinimaka kicked it in and Drake leapt through first, closely followed by Hayden. Before him stretched an entire wall of glass doors and, beyond that, a spectacular view.
But it was the immediate sight of a crawling, bloodied man with a knife in his back and a gun in his hand that grabbed their attention.
“Holgate!” The Norseman tried to leap forward, but Dahl clamped a huge arm around his throat.
“Wait.”
“Is he one of you?” Drake hissed without taking his eyes off the room, the man, and the spectacle beyond the windows.
“Yes. Matthew Holgate. The youngest member of our group.”
Mai, Alicia and the SAS team flowed around Drake, taking point and responsibility for observing their perimeters. Drake dropped to the floor next to the man just as a coughing fit wracked his body.
“What happened?” Drake asked.
Holgate jumped and turned his head, trying to bring the gun around. Drake disarmed him with no regard to his wounds and repeated his question.
“They. . .they jumped me.” Holgate coughed. “They made me watch—” He coughed again, screwing his face up in pain. “Whilst they. . .crucified. . .my friends. The only friends I have known.”
The Norseman fell to his knees beside Holgate. “What happened here? Look, it is I. You have to tell me what went wrong tonight.”
“Wrong?” Holgate spat the word as if it contained poison. “Everything has been wrong for years. But you? You never noticed. Your plans. . .your precious, flawless plans had to be executed. Day after day. Week after week.” Holgate groaned and tried to reach around his body for the knife.
Drake grabbed his hand. “Probably best to leave that alone, dickhead.”
The Norseman reached out too, but Dahl clamped his hand like a vice. Holgate took a moment and then continued, “You never knew.” He suddenly hissed, and his eyes burned like fire as they turned on the Norseman. “You never even knew when I lost it all. You were unapproachable, a statue of ice in a suit and a tie. You failed me.”
The Norseman fell back, staring in horror. “I? What? You lost your fortune? The family’s fortune? Impossible.”
Mai reported from her position near a set of French doors. “We have movement out here. I see men among the trees behind the rink.”
Drake tore his attention away from the exchange between the two Shadow Elite men. The question was—did they need to give chase?
“Wait,” he interrupted Holgate. “The eight pieces of Odin. Do they have them?”
Holgate’s face went whiter than snow. His lips moved, but no words spilled from his mouth.
“Do they have the pieces?” Drake wanted to throttle the man.
“Yes.” The admission was like a death rattle.
“And where are they taking them?”
Absolute fear blanketed Holgate’s eyes. “They double-crossed me.” He rasped in disbelief. “They leave me with nothing.”
“Where are they taking them?” Drake almost reached for the knife.
“To an arms bazaar!” Holgate cried out. “A vast terrorist market. The pieces are set to be auctioned off to the highest bidder.”
Drake was on his feet in an instant. “Go!” he shouted. “We have to stop them!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Mai and Alicia moved in sync, slipping out of the partially opened door and onto the patio beyond. Drake now allowed himself to take in the full spectacle of what lay beyond the windows.
The top half of the immense garden had been turned into an ice rink, its surface glistening under halogen floodlights. All around it trees were decorated with Christmas cheer and illuminated by hanging stri
ngs of lights. Artificial snow lay on the ground, scattered loosely and in heaps everywhere. The old men had created a winter wonderland for themselves only, a lonely, crazy vision.
“Freaks,” Hayden muttered as she came up alongside Drake, the ever-present Kinimaka looking concerned at her side. “Drake, I’m not buying this. Those guys out there—they’re amateurs. And we’re being told that they found and massacred the Shadow Elite?”
Drake looked back at Dahl. “Stay with them, please. We need to know what happened here.”
Dahl nodded. Drake moved carefully out of the house and into the crisp, cold night. His SAS pals shadowed Mai and Alicia as they skirted the high curb that surrounded the ice rink, heading for tree-cover. Ahead, among the trees, Drake saw a man appear. At first, he looked shocked. Drake took a second to line up a shot and fired, but the man screamed out a warning a split-second before the bullet smashed him off his feet.
Now other men darted fast between the trees, firing hard. Some looked back, and others moved forward and shooting blindly over their shoulders. Drake hit the deck with the rest of his team, shielding their bodies behind the curb, but not one single bullet impacted anywhere near them.
“Go?” Sam checked with Drake.
It was tempting. A strong, fluid team like theirs could rip through a horde of terrorists in seconds. . .but if just one of those wayward bullets struck lucky…
But the eight pieces of Odin were heading for an auction to be attended by the world’s richest and deadliest terrorists. Something had to give. A soldier was a soldier because he risked everything for the country and the people that he loved. A hero was a hero because he felt the fear and went in anyway.
“Fuck it,” he said. “Hit ’em.”
As one they rose and ran in double formation around the circumference of the ice rink, firing precisely and constantly. Two of the fleeing men were hit and went down hard, skidding in the artificial snow. Bullets scudded off tree trunks and through leaves, shattering multi-colored lights and bringing the heavy ropes of trimmings cascading to the floor. Enormous ice sculptures were hit and chipped, some toppling over and smashing to pieces as they landed.
Drake used the excellent tree cover to dart forward without stopping. Quickly he caught sight of the terrorists’ rear guard and squeezed off half a dozen shots. Men fell screaming, falling among scattered tree lights and bringing even more heavy trimmings to the floor. Drake quickly sped past them, taking point with Mai, confident his team would mop up and ensure that those who fell but weren’t really dead were soon made that way.
He crouched in the snow, breathing lightly, reloading. The flakes crunched as Mai dropped to his side. It was so quiet around them he could hear her low breathing. He peered through the laden branches, pushed a paper lantern aside.
“Like old times?” Mai said.
“You and me?” Drake said. “I guess so. Very old times.”
“Still strong and warm in my memory, Matt.”
He paused for a second to stare at her. There had been no signs, no warning that she still felt that way. “Whoa, and you’re telling me now. Right now.”
Mai fired as a head popped up. “We’re both soldiers. This is what we do. And well, it’s almost Christmas. What better time could there be?”
With that, she sprang up as fresh as if this were her first day of conflict and dashed to the next tree. Drake ducked down as a bullet whistled past surprisingly close and then rose up, firing. A second later, he rejoined Mai.
“My feelings for you never changed,” he told her. “Not once through all the years. But seriously, before we look at that, I have to finish all this.” He paused.
“For Alyson?” Mai charged again, and now Drake ran with her, half a step behind. Terrorists were fleeing ahead of them, their colorful clothes easy targets, their cries better than homing beacons.
“Yes, for Alyson.” Drake panted, firing and talking and scanning for prey. “And for Kennedy. This whole Odin thing is what dragged her in. It’s how we met. I want it all behind me before I even try to move on.”
“Fair enough.” Mai hurdled a fallen terrorist, skipping off his back as he tried to rise, firing between her legs and into his body. “I’ll still be here. . .” She shrugged as she landed like a cat. “For a short while.”
They had come through the thick of the trees by now and were nearing the rear of the garden. Drake could spy the high stone wall between branches. With quickness born of years of warfare, he spied an enemy muzzle poking around a tree trunk, spun and fired, sending the muzzle flying and the man who held it straight to hell.
Terrorists milled around ahead, gathered at the foot of the wall, some already climbing the half dozen rope ladders that had been thrown over. Mai fell to one knee and started to pot them, like ducks in a shooting gallery, but Drake searched frantically for any signs of the objects they were pursuing.
No, he thought. A false trail? No way. These people weren’t that clever. And Drake was pretty sure their own presence had come as a surprise to the terrorists. But still. . .
Then, with a thunderous sound that might spell the doom of the world, there came the roar of a powerful engine starting up. Drake knew it immediately for what it was. The getaway vehicle.
They were already escaping with the eight pieces!
“The wall!” he cried. “Hit the wall with everything you’ve got!”
Hayden and Kinimaka and the SAS team ran together and let loose a wall of lead. Terrorists crumpled to the ground where they stood. Those who tried to return fire died just as quick or were knocked aside by their falling comrades. Men fell backward from the walls, plummeting like empty sacks, crushing those beneath. Deadly chips of rock blasted back as bullets riddled the stonework, stitching ragged lines across the pitch-face blocks.
Drake didn’t hesitate. He reached the base of the wall and flung himself at the nearest swinging ladder, grabbed a rung and started climbing. A terrorist climbed above him, just nearing the top of the wall. Drake quickly closed the gap and wrenched the man off the wall, hearing his scream as he cartwheeled through the air and crunched solidly against the ground.
He was vaguely aware of Mai on the rope next to him, keeping pace. He was also faintly surprised that he was in front of her, but then the roar of the terrorists’ getaway vehicle and the sight from the top of the wall jolted all other emotion except terror from his body.
The vehicle, a dark colored van with what sounded like a performance engine, shot off down the darkened boulevard that backed on to the mansion. Within a second, it was turning at a junction, skidding a little, and then powering away along an unseen road.
A line of some half-dozen terrorists had been left behind and were pointing their weapons right at Drake and Mai on top of the wall.
Then they opened fire.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Drake leapt off the wall the instant he saw that the unpitying black eyes of six muzzles were fixed on him. By the time the terrorists opened fire, he was already in free fall. The bullets whizzed over the top of the wall, some catching its top ledge and sending fragments of stone showering down around him.
He let go of the gun. His questing hand reached for and caught the swinging rope ladder. He clutched at it, felt his palms burn, but seized it even harder. Abruptly his fall was arrested; his shoulder muscles complained and his back hurt as he swung into the wall. With a swift kick, he planted his feet on the springy rungs and safely climbed back down to the ground.
Hayden was in his face. “What happened?”
“Twats got away,” Drake said. “The pieces are gone.”
“And we have no one out there,” Hayden hissed. “Because we’re all in here! Shit!”
“The secretary, Gates, has been seeking out local assets for days,” Kinimaka said. “So has Komodo. They have men prepared to fight. We need them now.”
Sam looked at Drake. “The regiment has two teams within an hour’s flight,” he said.
“Put them on st
andby,” Drake told him and started back toward the house. “Dahl also has plenty of local assets. But first of all, we need to find out where they’re going and when they plan to make the sale. This kind of event would be bloody impossible to change.”
“Right.” Hayden kept pace with him as they tramped through the snow back through the trees to what used to be the Shadow Elite’s mansion, now their crypt.
A strained silence surrounded the team as they trudged around the floodlit ice rink and approached the open French doors. The sense of foreboding was strong, as every man and woman imagined what a committed terrorist might do with a doomsday weapon.
Dahl met them at the door. “You failed? Trust a bloody Yorkshireman to fuck it all up.”
Drake couldn’t even muster the willpower for a retort. He pushed past the Swede and the Norseman, straight up to the still prone Holgate, who was being attended to by Komodo with Ben, Karin and Gates looking on.
“He still conscious?”
“Barely.”
“Wake the twat up.” Drake growled. “Don’t care how. We only need him alive for a minute or two.”
The Norseman immediately protested. “Excuse me! There is a lawful—”
Dahl’s fist stopped the rest of his tirade. “You keep opening it, I’ll keep filling it. No problem.”
Within a minute, Holgate was squirming and protesting loudly. Drake nodded in satisfaction. “Good enough.” He crouched until he could whisper in the man’s ear. “Now, you live or die,” he said. “And if you don’t care, then we can make you die easy or die hard. It’s our choice. You get it? For years, centuries, you people have written and played with the law. Bended it to your whim. But now. . .now we are the law. There’s nobody around to help you, Holgate.”
Defeated eyes turned toward him. “Aldridge? Grey? Leng?”
“All dead.” Drake didn’t care. “And they suffered badly, Holgate. How do you want to die?”
“The Shadow Elite—” the Norseman began haughtily, but then started choking.
The Tomb of the Gods (Matt Drake 4) Page 16
