But constructing a plan that enabled him to stalk his worst enemies, now that was engaging. That was unadulterated. That was sex to the power of twelve. And, oh the slow sweetness of it all. It would begin, very soon. Steady. Gentle. Rising to a crescendo. A climax. It would satisfy every vilest desire that slithered through his abnormal world.
CHAPTER FIVE
Drake and Dahl, with Grace at their heels, made their way to the SPEAR team’s headquarters inside the Pentagon. Hayden and Kinimaka were already present, looking worse the wear from their partying last night. Hayden drank from a two-liter water bottle and Kinimaka held an outsize mug of coffee close, wrapping his huge hands around it.
“Damn, that Claire Collins sure can party.” Hayden breathed between gulps.
“Have they left already?” Drake asked.
“Yeah. Caught a case this morning and are on their way back to the West Coast.”
“The woman’s an animal.” Dahl smiled in memory and then slipped back into stoic face. “Where are we with Mai?”
Hayden pointed at the high resolution screen to her right. “Karin is running character recognition software right now.”
Karin looked up from where she sat tapping away at a keyboard, Komodo at her side. “Sorry, Matt. Sorry to hear what happened.”
“Don’t be. We’ll have her back by nightfall.”
Komodo grinned, the soldier always game to get fully involved.
“Where’s the rest of the guys?” Dahl nodded toward empty chairs. “Hangover?”
“Smyth and Lauren are on their way.” Karin grimaced when everyone looked straight at her. “Don’t ask. Yorgi’s awaiting information because they still won’t give him access to the Pentagon. And, well, Crouch’s crew have received some kind of urgent message from a guy called Greg Coker.”
Drake shook his head. “Don’t know him.”
Karin shrugged. “Me neither. Apparently he helped them out on the Aztec gold adventure. His family was threatened by some South African crime lord. Now, Coker’s contacted Michael, gibbering about his family being in some kind of trouble. Crouch and crew are already on a plane.”
Drake felt a little saddened. “Alicia?”
“I really thought she’d stay to help Mai.” Dahl exhaled gloomily.
“Cheer up, Eeyores,” a female voice came from behind them, just closing the restroom door. “As if I’d let you get all the kudos for rescuing the Sprite. Bitch would never let me live it down. And of course, now she owes me one.”
Drake saw through all the excuses. “Good on ya, love.”
Dahl veered toward the more practical side of things. “What of Crouch and his new troubles?”
“Oh, Greg Coker’s an arse. Overreacting. Probably got snowed in or something.” Alicia moved forward into the room. “What do we have?”
Drake smiled and tried to hide it. I’ve missed her style. Not that he would confess to calling it actual style. But the Englishwoman did have a way about her.
Karin spoke up. “Here. The three character symbols Mai drew on the floor are being processed through my program. I don’t know how many millions of characters it has to scroll through but it could take a while.” At that moment her computer pinged. She looked appropriately startled.
“Works every time.” Dahl grinned, leaning over her shoulder, then breathed. “Oh, shit. How can that be?”
Drake could already see the interpretation. Each character was a syllable . . .
. . . and written in the Japanese writing system known as Katakana. The three syllables, read left to right, spelled out the word: YAKUZA.
Grace took a deep breath, slamming her hands over her mouth to stay quiet. Drake was severely taken aback. So this was not Ramses, then? Not any of their old enemies, but one of Mai’s old enemies. Had they finally taken revenge for the Cosplay humiliations? And what did the blood mean? Was it even Mai’s?
Most important of all—where the hell is she now?
Hayden also looked stunned. “All right,” she said. “In reality, I’m surprised, but maybe they caught her sleeping.”
Dahl snorted. “Not bloody likely. I must say though, Mai has not been herself lately.”
Drake caught the hint for information. “Don’t ask,” he said. “It has something to do with her trip to Tokyo a while back. She killed a guy for the Tsugarai and then the Yakuza killed most of the rest of his family for safekeeping, leaving only a daughter alive. She’s been struggling over killing that guy. That’s all folks. Talking to Mai sometimes is like talking to a Banyan.”
Alicia slapped his shoulder. “Says the Drakester! We all have our secrets, lover boy.”
Drake gave her the eye. If there was anyone harboring secrets in this room it was Alicia Myles. “She has been off her game,” he admitted.
Grace ran fingers through her hair. “And she had been helping me. A lot.”
“Well, contrary to some popular opinions the Yakuza are not big here in the United States,” Kinimaka informed the room. “In our previous roles, Hayden and I barely came across them.”
Hayden nodded. “The nearest most of them come is Hawaii.”
“You’re saying they will have taken her out of the country?” Drake didn’t like where this was going.
“That depends entirely on what they’re going to do with her. If it was a quick kill then why not dispatch her immediately? It may be personal for the Yakuza or even a contract kidnapping. We simply have too many questions and not enough answers at this point to make a fair assessment.”
“I want to help,” Grace quickly butted into the lull. “Please, I so want to help. Mai has been like a . . . mother to me.”
“First, we need to cover all angles.” Drake turned away as Smyth and Lauren walked through the door, and swiped his cell out of standby.
Alicia looked over at him but then caught Smyth’s eye. “Hello you two.”
“Drop it, Myles. Nothing happened.”
Alicia studied them both, took in the disheveled appearance. “Can either of you even remember last night?”
“Nah, but I woke up soaked but fully clothed in the shower with a new photo of a goat on my phone. Lauren woke fully clothed in bed.”
“Same room?”
“Smyth said he wanted to keep me safe,” Lauren drawled in her New York accent.
“From a goat?”
“I have no idea where the goat came from,” Smyth snapped. “Or where it went. Let’s leave it at that.”
“Some protection you were,” Alicia muttered. “If that goat had been even half-trained it coulda taken you both out.”
“It was worth it,” Lauren said in a sad voice. “I have to return to hospital today.” The doctors were still testing her body after being infected with the Pandora plague.
Drake listened to the banter as his phone connected. When the call was answered it was by a man in weary tones.
“Dude, it’s after midnight.”
“Is that Dai? Dai Hibiki?”
“Who is this?”
“Matt Drake.”
All of a sudden the voice changed. “Oh, hi Matt. Is everything okay?”
Hibiki was a cop, through and through. Even mostly asleep he would regard a phone call from Drake as unusual.
“Not really, no.” Drake went through the events of the last few hours, barely believing the facts as he spoke them aloud. Hibiki stayed silent throughout. After a few minutes Drake heard a female voice asking if everything was okay.
Chika. Of course, Hibiki and Mai’s sister were seeing each other.
Drake couldn’t help that now. It remained imperative that Hibiki be brought up to date. Drake paused when he finished and then said, “I understand if you want to come back to me later.”
“I’ll do that.”
“Good. But don’t take all day, mate. If Mai’s on her way to Tokyo you need to be ready.”
“Not Tokyo, possibly. But Japan, yes. I will not sleep until this matter is dealt with. You should know that. We keep
a very close eye on the Yakuza and there has been no talk of any move in that direction. Not even a whisper. I will start the squeeze now with everything I have.”
Drake ended the call and turned back to address the room. “He’s on board.”
“Random thought,” Komodo put in. “Do you guys think this has anything to do with the Pythians?”
“We can’t tell.” Hayden sighed. “But I do know we have to move fast. If the Yakuza have Mai they won’t keep her alive for long.”
CHAPTER SIX
Callan Dudley had no problem projecting the crazy Irishman image. It came naturally to him. He also knew the importance of terror, of bullying and intimidating his prey so harshly they could barely think. Time was, back in Ireland he’d have done it for a free pint. Today, he was working for a boatload of cash and for the Pythian group, and with the greatest set of feckin’ arseholes on the planet—the 27-Club.
So they made the mother kneel down on all fours and then covered her in vodka. They bruised the daughter and her boyfriend around the face. When Boyle and Brannan returned to the house looking slightly disappointed and reporting that they’d found no presence of security or bodyguards, Dudley thought it might be time to explain his requirements to their captives.
“Malachi?” He always deferred to his older brother.
“This is yer party, brother. Take it away.”
Dudley motioned McLain and Byram to force the aging, gray-haired man to his knees. Their target, a Lawrence Walcott, the Secretary of the Smithsonian Museum, appeared to be around fifty, with salt-and-pepper sideburns and a wispy moustache. His eyes of course were wide, frightened, his knees trembling.
Dudley enjoyed getting up into the old man’s face. “I’m gonna ask yer some questions. Yer lie yer daughter and her shagger get a bat? Understand?” Lawrence Walcott wanted to, he really did. Dudley could tell he wanted to. But the Irish accent was too much for him.
As expected. Dudley turned to Malachi. “Show him.”
Malachi, grinning, punched first Walcott’s daughter and then her boyfriend in the stomach. Their cries were pitiful, making Dudley laugh.
“Yer get me now?”
“Yes, yes. Please . . .”
Dudley took a moment to think. Despite the Irishman’s crass violent streak, his penchant toward chaos and brutality, now that his brother and friends had joined the true fight he wanted to prove his worth.
And that meant sometimes having to think.
“Check outside again,” he told Boyle and Brannan. “And check the house too. The Smithsonian has its own police force, an Office of Protection Services. Look for a hidden alarm.”
“Already on it.”
Dudley turned back to Walcott. “So yer want to save time and pain? We’re looking for the Peking Man. And we know it’s in the museum.”
Walcott’s face ran through an entire gamut of expressions. Of course the man was no fool. It would occur to him very quickly that there was no point questioning Dudley’s knowledge, if only for his family’s sake. It would also occur to him that Dudley wasn’t swinging in the wind here—the Irishman knew. So where did that leave him?
Dudley thought, Damage. Quickly, he turned again to Malachi. “The wife now.”
Walcott protested. Dudley gave him a slap. Daley, watching carefully, giggled. Dudley turned to him with a grin. “Yer like that?” He slapped Walcott again, this time reddening his other cheek. Daley burst into laughter. At the same time Malachi was hauling the wife up by the hair and throwing her over the couch.
“The feckin’ Irish bastards have yer now.” Dudley squeezed Walcott’s jaw hard. “If yer want to live you’d better keep yer nose clean and not fib to me.”
Walcott nodded, face screwed up in agony. The asshole’s wife was groaning too as Malachi worked overtime, practicing his jabs, so Dudley thought this an appropriate time to twist the proverbial knife.
“Yer gonna take us to this Peking Man. And give it over. Then we’ll be gone.” Dudley explained that Walcott would acquire the long-lost, probably stolen, relic whilst his family remained under Irish guard. Only when the 27-Club walked away with the artefact would Walcott’s family be released.
“When? Now?” Walcott looked incredulous. “It’s the middle of the day. There will be a thousand people wandering around.”
“Not in the archives,” Dudley said. “It’s not like yer have it on show or admit to ever stealing it. An’ doing it at night would be even more fierce. As yer know.”
Walcott’s face fell even further.
“Family or job?” Dudley smiled, a hunter facing his prey. “Choose.”
He waited, thinking through what the Pythians had already told him. This lost relic, the Peking Man, would make China sit up and take notice, even beg. Couple to that the knowledge of where the Americans found it in 1945 and what they were actually doing there back then, and you had not only China’s attention but their complicit support and enduring assistance. Dudley wasn’t aware what the Pythians required from the Chinese but he knew it wouldn’t be a free tour of the Great Wall. Once the Peking Man was obtained their mission became even more obscure. Something about tablets and Mu. None of it really mattered to Dudley. The Pythians had told him that China might start a war with Taiwan. The war was everything.
Any war.
He grinned, looking over at his brothers. Not only Malachi, but all of them. Brothers in battle. Comrades-in-arms. The 27-Club existed only so its members could live out their ferocious dreams.
Because his oldest brother, Kevan, could not. Dead at twenty seven, killed by the British, Kevan was the reason the 27-Club had been born. Malachi founded it, recruiting his friends to the cause—every one under twenty seven—and then Dudley joined too, already a capable underground brawler at home with violence and unable to reconcile his brother’s death. After that, it was pure mayhem. The 27-Club did indeed make waves, bloody gore-filled ones. They wreaked havoc through many a country before Malachi turned twenty seven himself and then they waited. The gang didn’t slacken in its cruel dealings. If anything, Malachi took more risks.
One by one, the club members all passed the age Kevan was when he died. All but one.
Dudley turned his attention to Walcott, feeling a surge of hatred and a deep rush of anger. “So what’s the decision? Don’t keep me waiting, old man. It’s me birthday today. Twenty feckin’ seven, I am.”
*
In the end it all went exactly as Dudley expected it to. By the skin of its teeth. But it was a bad situation all around. His mother, the Devil take her, used to say, “Yer can’t make a silk purse out of a pig’s ear”, and that was how he felt right now. Walking the National Mall without weapons he felt naked, exposed. So much space. So much greenery. So much regimented tourism it made him feel sick. He’d taken Byram and McLain with him; extra eyes and ears in case Walcott tried anything. But he needn’t have bothered. Walcott was a pure, dyed-in-the-wool family man. He’d do anything to protect them.
Dudley wished he could be there to see them die. But that old bleeder, Malachi, had earned the honor. No mind, Daley’s gonna record it.
At last the dull red brick façade of the Smithsonian Castle came into view, all spires and arches, windows and a great castle turret. Walcott headed straight up the steps toward the entrance but Dudley held him back.
“Remember now, be a grand fella.”
“Sure, sure. I know what’s at stake here.”
Dudley held out his cellphone, which held a photo of Walcott’s wife. “And don’t forget.”
Inside, they traversed a polished floor along a corridor that gave Dudley the impression it shone with gold. Clearly, it was a lighting trick, but the interior impression of the castle was one of enveloping warmth and security.
Dudley shepherded Walcott past a lone guard who offered only a flicker of recognition. Further they went, making use of an elevator and then a non-public corridor, this one painted bright white and looking as sparse as a monk’s cell. Now, Walcott le
d them down a clanking spiral staircase, moving deeper into the castle’s innards. Dudley had noticed a sign that read Archives several minutes ago.
“Yer sure?”
“It’s more than a secret. It was never meant to be found. At first a treasure, then secreted away after the tragedy, and now largely forgotten. There are hundreds of old treasures like this around the world, gathering dust, forgotten about by their owners. Who knows if they will ever again see the light of day?”
Dudley thought, What tragedy? But Walcott spoke again before he could ask. “Almost there.”
The now-familiar white walls surrounded them, the space large and full of rows and rows of shelves, all crammed full with sealed cardboard, wooden and metal boxes of every variety, a mishmash of hundreds of shapes and sizes. Dudley saw two other people wandering the stacks.
He leaned in to Walcott. “They gonna be a problem?”
“No. No. Your problem would really have been getting out once you produce and fill your backpacks. But I have an override card. As I said before, once we leave the building I can’t stop the guards challenging us. Even I can only go so far.”
Dudley patted him on the head. “Aye, we’re countin’ on it, old man.”
Byram and McLain gave him feral grins.
Walcott pushed further down the rows, entering an area where the shelves were made of old wood and spaced further apart to accommodate larger items. A fusty smell filled the air, the odor of ancient things. Dust motes spun in the air, visible within the beams of light cast by recessed bulbs in the windowless room. The only sounds were their careful footfalls. Dudley fancied they were way under the red-brick castle by now, possibly even branched out toward the national mall.
“How much further?”
“Not far now.”
Walcott walked with hunched shoulders, following the route by memory alone. His shoes started to leave a dusty trail along the floor. When Dudley brushed against a shelf, a bloom of dust puffed out. They walked through the deepest places of the Smithsonian, seemingly untouched for years and even unremembered by many. Dudley understood it now; he saw how easily something might fade away into history, might be allowed to do just that. Hide it away. Shove it in a box. Place it out of sight, deep, deep in the catacombs. Essentially it was the same principle as storing a container in an attic. Over the years, you forgot what was there and how important or sentimental it might be to you.
The Lost Kingdom (Matt Drake Book 10) Page 3
