Sunlight filtered down from between torn clouds, but Webb had been told to expect regular cloudbursts followed by baking heat. Apparently, Ramses had installed what he called a cool canopy, where you could relax whilst being sprayed by gentle mists, but Webb hadn’t bothered to check the emailed guide to find its location.
Possibly a mistake.
The sound of another chopper landing made him peer into the trees. The place was filling up rapidly. Right then, the sound of loud music reached his ears, spreading through the forest and he saw a chain-gang of twelve half-naked slaves being led among the revelers. None of them looked happy, but that fact only made Webb take a longer look. Perhaps this bazaar wouldn’t be so tedious after all. He wondered what other diversions might be available, wishing again that he’d studied the guide and read the itinerary. Beauregard stayed alert at his side.
“Let’s wander,” Webb said. “See what else is on offer.”
Beauregard led the way along the path, circuiting the clearing and starting along another route. As they walked, they passed tents to left and right, their doors pinned open so the curious could peer within. Webb halted as a man with too much testosterone tried to barge Beauregard aside into the undergrowth, a jest for his companions’ appreciation, only to find himself unceremoniously dumped on the tail-end of his spine.
“What the—”
“Stay down,” Beauregard intoned. “Or it will be worse.”
“We shall see.” The man, a large olive-skinned individual, with golden teeth and fistfuls or rings rose and took a lunge at Beauregard. Webb barely saw the Frenchman move, but soon he was a lithe shadow across the path and the other man squirmed in his grip, blood already coating one half of his face. The man kicked. His comrades stepped to help but Beauregard twisted one more time.
“Any closer and it breaks. Is that what you want?”
Everyone paused. Webb was interested to see the security guards looking on—it seemed scuffles had been expected to break out at an event like this. Most likely they would only intervene if proceedings got really out of hand.
Beauregard loosened his grip. “Are you calm?”
The olive-skinned man nodded, tried to collect his dignity and then continued along his way. Beauregard watched until all was clear.
“Are we safe?” Webb asked.
“For now,” Beauregard said.
Webb snorted. “Don’t fill me with too much confidence, Alain, will you?”
He inspected tent after tent, spotting arrays of weapons, communications devices, rocket launchers and super-computers. Pure yellowcake, used to process uranium. One gaudy tent held two dozen easels, to each of which was pinned the photograph of a rare supercar or utility vehicle the customer might be interested in. Bids were being taken, the most of which Webb saw were currently attached to a six-wheeled, midnight black Mercedes G-Wagon. He moved on, uninterested in most kinds of transport, came to the end of the row of tents and then stopped dead in his tracks.
“What on earth is that?”
Beauregard shrugged, uninterested, but Webb strode right up to the spectacle. A high wrought iron fence ringed a deep pit, at the bottom of which caimans thrashed to and fro. People were holding onto the bars, staring down.
“Do they do anything?” Webb asked a man with a goatee after a minute’s perusal.
“Well, dude, I guess they might chew on ya a little if ya fall in. An’ I guess they might drown ya if they’re anything like crocs. But tricks? Illusions? Nah, I don’t think so.”
Webb shook his head. “I don’t get it.”
“The people they throw in every few hours do. They get it big time.”
“Ahhh.” Webb turned away, attracted by the intensifying dance music now and yet another large tent. Once inside, he was witness to what could only be described as a slaver’s auction. Men and women were dragged up to a podium, turned back and forth, prodded, displayed, and then subjected to a bidding war waged by members of the audience. All manner of depraved thugs shouted enthusiastic numbers at the auctioneer, who was only too happy to comply with their demands to show off the current lot in a number of reprehensible ways. Webb decided the bidding was a little too downbeat even for him, his own stalkings were so much more thrilling, dangerous and psychologically tormenting, when a twenty-something blond women struggled up to take center stage.
Webb stopped in his tracks. A thick, terrible desire for ownership filled his heart, making his blood run hot. “Oh, dear.”
Beauregard turned to see what had happened. “What is it?”
“I . . . I want her. I must have her.”
“Why? Isn’t your vice somewhat different?”
“Yes, of course. But I still must have her.”
“Why?”
“She reminds me of my mother.”
*
Some time later, after Webb identified several more potentials for new ownership, they went in search of food. Many mouth-watering meals were available, from fast-food stands to sit-down, seven-course banquets. Webb decided to kill some time by attending the more lavish set-up and got a little frisky with the whisky. Already, he had a feeling of wellbeing deep inside and he hadn’t even started searching for the nuke yet, never mind the scroll.
That thought though, sobered him more than a little. With a glance of regret he rose from the low table, settled the bill for his meal via pre-paid credit card, and exited the tent. Earlier, he had seen tents full of military hardware. Already, the vault above was starting to darken but he would not retire tonight without being in possession of a suitcase nuclear weapon. And there was so much more to explore. Webb decided it was going to be a very full and stimulating night.
And then tomorrow.
The culmination of all his days.
Beauregard dogged his trail, but Webb was feeling more and more confident by the moment. No Pythians to drag him back, no Matt Drake and Co. to thwart his plans. Not even an appearance of Ramses himself to drive home his terrible threat. So far.
No threats whatsoever.
Webb relaxed as he spotted a tent sporting a discreet nuclear waste symbol. That was a start. Happy, he moved among the hundreds of lethal people shopping, negotiating, plotting and playing at the last bazaar.
CHAPTER TEN
They came down through the low clouds, choppering in to around three-quarters of their journey’s end. They figured the bazaar would have close-in security as well as several outposts dotted around to build up a more long-reaching picture, so they would start from afar, but not so far that it would take hours to traverse a narrow, meandering river. They all wore their backpacks and carried an excess of weapons and thick rubber boots to help with the rainforest’s saturation levels. They left the chopper and approached the bank of a river where two large skiffs sat waiting, fishermen close by. Payment was made, the gas tanks filled, and then the team were putting out into the middle of the river. The sun was a haphazard affair, visible on occasion but always dappled and seldom welcome. The heat was like nothing Drake had experienced before.
It was late afternoon on the day before the bazaar was due to start. The team had chosen to depart today to allow all of the players time to depart and ensure Ramses’ security teams would have their hands full. They were hoping to determine its location tonight and do a proper scout tomorrow. Drake soon became bored of the twisting river and its earthy banks overhung with wide-leafed branches, every square foot seemingly teeming with life. The air smelled marshy, one moment offering the scent of fresh greenery, the next the stench of decay. The two fishermen piloted the long skiffs with skill, grins rarely off their faces. Hours passed, and soon a perennial darkness started to fall. Two natives watched them from a flattened bank as they passed, nets clasped in their hands.
Alicia perched beside Drake. “This is the life, eh?”
Drake gave a low whistle. “Despite your recent life change, I just know that’s a lie. Who you gonna piss off out here, Myles? A baboon?”
“Are you saying I
live to upset everyone?”
“Nope. It just comes natural.”
“Ah, well, speaking of baboons, have you heard from your tiny girlfriend?”
Drake paused as movement inside the jungle caught his eye, but it was only a passing monkey. “Nothing meaningful. I think Mai is a little lost.”
“Any chance we’ll be seeing her soon?”
“Why? Missing the provocation?”
“Nah. The Sprite’s no match for me.”
“I’m not too sure, Alicia. No doubt Grace will have a say in that.”
“Did I hear a touch of bitterness there?”
Drake rolled his neck to ease the tension in his shoulders. “If you did I’m sorry. Grace deserves all the Mai-time she can get.”
Alicia smiled at that. “And the world moves on.”
The skiffs negotiated their way along the river, fanned by a blissful breeze. Drake dug into his rations and drank water. By the time the fishermen pulled onto a sandy slope and beached the craft it was full dark and the team were working by torch light. Dahl had kept hold of the GPS and assured them that the site of the bazaar was but a few miles of heavy slog away.
“This is a good place to stop,” he affirmed.
“We’re putting an awful lot of faith in a crooked official,” Lauren said.
“It’s a good lead,” Hayden said. “You know as well as I do the enhanced satellite pictures show heavy disturbance in the area and unknown comings and goings. And the Mingaloa cartel that held sway over the area haven’t been heard from in months. The CIA thought they’d been absorbed by the Cinigan family.”
“Ramses annihilated them,” Kinimaka said, not without a hint of satisfaction.
“Maybe. Or maybe they’re working for him now. It doesn’t matter. The world’s worst mass murderers are all about to arrive at the same place at the same time.”
“And we’re walking right into the middle of them.” Alicia grinned.
Drake waved the two fisherman off and watched as Dahl and Smyth set about the tents. The ground here was soft and damp but no worse than anywhere else in the jungle and perhaps a little safer nearer the river. Kinimaka offered to take first watch and Yorgi went with him. Lauren sat down on the bank and Hayden radioed in their progress. Drake knew this wasn’t the ideal scenario—preferably the tents would have been pitched before all light left the world, but the team were experts and he expected not a guy rope to be out of place. He moved off and kicked around for some dry tinder, then brought it back to camp.
“Figured we could afford a small fire,” he said.
“I hope that’s insect free.” Alicia eyed the wood pile.
“I wouldn’t worry. You’re probably sitting on worse.”
The blonde rose in a hurry, dusting herself off. “Right then, I’ll help with the tents. At least that way we’ll get a ground sheet between me and their tiny teeth.”
“Don’t forget the suckers . . .” Drake laughed as she moved off.
In less than twenty minutes the team were done with their chores and gathered for the night. They sat by the bank, in silence, watching the quiet waters flow by. Of course, there could never be silence in a place like this—the jungle was alive with sound from those that crept to those that climbed and prowled.
Drake leaned in close to Alicia. “So, how are you finding it?”
“The creepy-crawlies? I’ll let you know when I see one of the little buggers.”
“No. I meant the . . . new you. How are you finding it?”
Alicia inhaled. “Well, it’s a battle if you must know, Drakey. Every minute. Like a bloody tug of war and no oily, hard bodied men on either side. And now I find myself stuck in the middle of a jungle with seven other rebels and not a minute of privacy.”
Drake considered that. “Gives you more time to accept it.”
“Oh, thanks, wise one. That really helps.” Alicia drained her bottle of water. “You should go into religion.”
“Nah. Couldn’t do with all the fighting and feuding,” he said a little ironically.
Alicia shook her head. “Says a man who’s here now nursing bruises that haven’t healed from the last battle.”
“Bruises?” Drake winced. “More like raw scrapes from sliding down that friggin’ cliff and onto the galleon. Dahl’s bloody fault.”
“Maybe. But you can’t deny it was the best ride in North America.”
“Steady on. You haven’t ridden everything in North America. Have you?”
Alicia caught his eye. “Are we talking flumes, coasters, that sort of thing? Or things that wear Levis?” Her eyebrows rose suggestively.
Drake looked up in despair. “Part of you will never change, Alicia.”
“Thank God for that.”
“In any case,” he went on. “Most of the bruises I have were inflicted by you.”
Alicia smiled sweetly. “You’re very welcome.”
Drake nodded as if he’d been expecting the reaction. “Once we end this maybe . . . we could take a break.” The pause and its significance was not lost on Alicia.
Her eyes bored into his. “Are you asking me to go away with you?”
“Well, Dahl keeps banging on about taking a family Caribbean vacation.”
“And you want to go with him?”
“No! I’m saying we also deserve a break. Stop busting my balls.”
Alicia didn’t let up. “Let me get this straight. You, Drake, Matt Drake, want to take me—the Tasmanian Devil—on a short break.” She shook her head. “Fuuuck.”
Drake frowned. “What’s wrong with that?”
“It’s weird. That’s all. Just weird.”
And despite himself Drake knew exactly what she meant. Their life was not the life of people that zipped off for short breaks to European hotels. Dahl could get away with it because he had a family and a totally separate life with them. But Drake? Alicia?
“I do know what you mean,” he said. “What the hell would we do with four days in Paris?”
“We wouldn’t go to Paris,” Alicia said. “Not us. If we went any-fucking-where it would involve a big room, a big bed and room service.”
Drake understood of course, and looked down. His relationship with Mai was barely cool, but it was over. She had made that perfectly clear. And now, with Alicia turning over a new leaf she was also uncovering a new possibility.
The jungle teemed around them. As a contrast to the more recent missions this was about as far as they could get. The next few days weren’t going to be easy. Drake took some time to acknowledge each member of the team, from those on watch to young Yorgi and Lauren Fox, the newest members who had earned their stripes. Dahl caught his gaze and smiled faintly as if accepting that the Yorkshireman was probably dreaming about being as good as the Swede, or maybe a step behind. Drake felt several moments of peace and happy acceptance. Even here, even tonight on the eve of what would surely be utter madness, his family were all around him, each man and woman content with their place in life. The watch changed and two more of the team headed into the darkness. A steady downpour then sent them all scurrying for manmade fabric cover, two to a tent and struggling to get comfortable. Rain drummed down for over an hour, drenching the forest and lending it life. Drake found it relatively easy to drift off, then woke himself up with a sudden feeling of satisfaction at that very thought. The years out of the service hadn’t turned him soft.
With a smile on his face he fell asleep.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Karin Blake had been battling inner demons her whole life. At a young age she had watched her best friend die because no one had bothered to listen to a young girl’s screams. Upon leaving home and then gaining the very best grades she had rebelled against the system and her loving family, and hit some kind of rock-bottom. Later in life, still rebelling but in a more positive way, she had clawed her way back to where she really wanted to be—as a useful and productive part of a team that truly cared for her. She had learned to forgive and then to love. Having
highly capable men and women relying on her told her just how positively she had been accepted.
And then, as her life tended to, everything fell apart. More death. First her parents and then her brother, and then her life’s love, gunned down in an alley as he tried to protect their team. Karin Blake was stripped to the bone, exhausted with life and all its suffering, looking to find a quick way out.
To combat those thoughts she turned to the only people who she thought might be able to help—the Army. Though she had never told Matt Drake, those days of quiet she endured whilst they chased down the ghost ships had been made up of her trying to find an alternative to an easy, quick departure from life’s chaotic terminal. In the end the answer was all around her—soldiers fighting for the best cause in the world whilst battling their own internal enemies. There was only one thing to do. Become a war machine.
Fort Bragg was, among many things, a training facility. Inside its AOR—its Area of Responsibility—recruits were trained up to become some of America’s finest soldiers. From the classroom to engagement training, vehicles to robotics, it had earned the enviable and apt reputation as one of the best in the world.
Karin had already been evaluated and thrust into lessons. Varied exercises existed that would reward her with engagement skills, egress skills, dismounted soldier training and “call for fire” expertise. There were virtual suites and good old fashioned obstacle courses and punishing down-in-the-mud days. But the rigors of any day were nothing when compared to the adversities she encountered when alone. They had already appointed her a psychological profiler who had the power to kick her out.
The men she had met—some of them practically boys—were supportive for the most part, only a select few following the old stereotype. The women were hard-faced and somehow looked a little lost, not in this place but with life, with day-to-day events in general. Karin remained aloof, friendly when required but almost unapproachable. She was not here to make friends. She was here to start afresh and, hopefully, become a valued field member of one of the best Special Forces teams on the planet. But she had already accepted that the key to her success was effort—determination, sweat and exertion throughout the day would pay off in the most positive way.
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