Theatre of War (Matt Drake 28) Tenth Anniversary Novel

by David Leadbeater

  “Oval Office?” Hayden asked.

  Sutherland nodded ahead. “We’re closing in.”

  Hayden braced herself. The conversation with Sutherland from thirty minutes ago stabbed at her mind.

  “How are we gonna get close to the President?” she’d asked.

  “Comparatively easy for the Assistant Director of the FBI,” Sutherland had told her. “We make an appointment.”

  Hayden had felt her eyes widen. “You have to be joking. That’s your entire plan? Make a friggin—”

  “We need him alone,” Kinimaka pointed out.

  Sutherland had nodded. “Of course. That’s the reason for the appointment. The President is normally alone when receiving people in the Oval Office, if requested. It’s standard protocol. He’s safe there. With three doors all guarded by Secret Service, guests vetted by secretaries and more security measures than you can count, it’s a haven within a haven.”

  Hayden shuddered at the idea, but then another thought occurred to her. “Won’t they be waiting for us? You’re not exactly on the Scourge’s safe list.”

  “It’s a gamble,” Sutherland admitted. “But I doubt the Scourge tell Lacey everything. He’s a marionette, not a true figurehead.”

  “We get what we can, and we communicate it to Drake,” Hayden said. Cellphones were obviously allowed inside the White House so long as they cleared security first.

  “Lacey knows you two,” Sutherland had reminded them. “So stay back at first. Don’t forget, if we get a minute with him, we’ll be lucky, and it’ll be the most important minute of our lives.”

  Hayden slowed as the outer chambers of the Oval Office came into view. The atmosphere here was calm and stable, in contrast to the rest of America. It was a sham engineered by President Lacey and his masters, created to keep America running on at least a lower level until the Scourge felt ready to pick up the pieces.

  Sutherland addressed the secretary, introducing Hayden and Kinimaka as advisors. They’d already cleared a rigorous security check. Again, Sutherland was gambling—albeit with experience—that the names of advisors wouldn’t be passed on for the President’s attention. All he knew was that he was meeting the Assistant Director of the FBI.

  And with far less but similar experiences of meeting a president here, Hayden believed that he was right.

  Secret Service stood to both sides of the room, watching everything. They must know something was wrong inside the US, and particularly inside the White House, but their remit was to protect the nation’s leader.

  Sutherland was asked to wait. Hayden’s heart rate rose by ten beats per minute.

  Plush sofas sat around the rear of the room. Hayden retreated to the closest, standing next to the arm and trying to look inconspicuous. The hum of conversation, of telephones beeping and trolleys being wheeled back and forth, loaded with documents, filled her ears. A tiny alarm sounded but it was just someone’s reminder to take a tablet.

  Kinimaka made sure he was safe before sitting down, mindful of his penchant for clumsiness and not wanting to draw attention. Even then the couch creaked as he sat, making a Secret Service agent flick a glance toward him and then narrow his eyes as he assessed what kind of threat the big Hawaiian might pose.

  Minutes passed. Endless minutes loaded with tension. Hayden licked dry lips and tried to listen to the hum of the air conditioning to occupy her thoughts.

  “Mr. Sutherland?” the secretary’s voice rang out. “The President will see you now.”

  As one, they rose. They smiled. They made ready.

  Sutherland went ahead with Hayden close behind, Kinimaka trying to stay a few paces behind them and looking anything but discreet.

  Sutherland put his hand on the door handle and took a deep breath. “Been great working with you,” he murmured.

  Hayden knew this was a one-way street, a suicide mission. There was no way back, no way out. She felt proud to be pursuing it for her country, for real American citizens, and with Kinimaka at her side.

  Sutherland pushed his way into the Oval Office.

  Hayden was immediately struck by the wide space, the gleaming floors, the brand-new carpets and fixtures, and the famous wide window at the far end. Two unfurled flags stood either side of a small desk before the windows. A black leather chair sat behind the President’s desk, and private photographs and paintings adorned the walls. The desk itself was bare other than a phone and, curiously, a plastic in-tray.

  President Lacey stood staring out the window, clad in a dark suit and with his hands clasped behind his back. It gave Hayden precious seconds to advance over the presidential seal embroidered into the deep blue carpet surrounding the famous desk.

  Sutherland moved faster.

  As President Lacey turned, opening his mouth to start a conversation, Sutherland approached him, shielding his hands and body from the cameras that he knew gazed down on the room. Obviously, there were no microphones in here.

  Sutherland let Lacey see the sharp letter opener he’d picked up as he passed the secretary’s desk.

  “Make a sound, a movement, and I’ll slit your throat,” Sutherland hissed. “We know who you are, and we’ll die if we have to.”

  Lacey’s gaze flicked calmly from Sutherland to Hayden and Kinimaka and then filled with a quiet recognition. “I’ve been expecting some form of objection, of challenge,” he said coolly. “But not from those who killed my predecessor.”

  “We didn’t kill—” Hayden began furiously but then realized Lacey was baiting her. For the cameras, she held back.

  Sutherland advanced another step. “Tell us what we need to know, or those windows are going to require a very specialized kind of cleaner.”

  “They suspect something’s wrong.” Lacey nodded at the outer door. “But what can they do? I’ve trained for this for twenty years. We all have, never knowing if we’d get the opportunity. Can you imagine that kind of dedication? I actually welcome your challenge, because I’ve trained for that too.”

  Hayden studied him. “He’s stalling,” she said. “How long do you normally get for this appointment? Five minutes?”

  Sutherland nodded, not moving. “Four left,” he said. “Ample time to get what we need.”

  Lacey waited, saying nothing.

  Hayden acted for the cameras, taking a notebook out, but kept her face pointed at the floor as she said: “Do it. Do it to him now... and God help us.”

  She clenched her fists. Kinimaka coiled himself beside her, ready to spring into defense. The last good seconds of their lives were now, presumably, behind them.

  Sutherland leapt at Lacey, grabbing him by the throat as he sank the letter opener into the man’s midriff. He didn’t stop there, but drove him back against the window and jabbed the weapon in twice more, drawing blood and gasps from the President.

  Hayden and Kinimaka whirled as the doors smashed open.

  “Stand down!” someone shouted. “Step away!”

  Four Secret Service agents, all with guns trained on them, dashed into the room. Four more followed.

  Hayden and Kinimaka faced down the guns while blocking the agents’ view of Sutherland and Lacey.

  “Shoot them!” someone cried.

  At her back, Hayden heard Sutherland again driving the letter opener into the President’s midriff. She heard his harsh, gruff whisper.

  “Where are the Scourge? Where are they? Tell me now or I swear, I’ll slice you open.”

  Time stretched around them like a cracking tree limb. It was all blurring, distending so far it was ready to snap. Hayden saw Kinimaka step in front of her, saw four Secret Service agents level their guns, heard another shout a final warning.

  Sutherland screamed point blank into the President’s ear. “Now! Now! Talk or die!”

  Gunfire broke the spell. Bullets ripped into Mano Kinimaka, driving him backward.

  More hit Hayden a split-second later, thudding into her chest with an explosive agony. Both she and Mano fell to the blue-carpeted fl
oor, the presidential seal suddenly, ironically, an inch from their eyes.

  “Shit,” Mano muttered. “That hurt.”

  Hayden kicked out as Secret Service agents rushed past her. She tripped one, broke the knee of another.

  Kinimaka was up, rising like a wild beast and yelling at the top of his voice, striking out at more agents.

  They fell. Their guns scattered.

  Still more crowded into the doorway. And their next shots wouldn’t be aimed at center mass, where bulletproof vests could stop a round.

  Hayden kicked out again and again, yelling at Sutherland to get the job done.

  Lacey screamed.

  Sutherland shoved the letter opener into the President’s throat, drawing blood.

  Lacey, face squashed against a window, leaking red all over the glass and breathing raggedly, let out his last, defiant gasp. “Fuck you, America.”

  Sutherland jammed the letter opener up Lacey’s right nostril, jamming it in hard. “I will kill you,” he said, shoving and twisting the sharp object.

  Lacey squealed and staggered as his legs gave out, his heels scrabbling for purchase.

  Sutherland leaned on the letter opener, his own hands bleeding now such was the force he was exerting.

  “Then die.” He was out of options. The letter opener wasn’t enough.

  Sutherland smashed the end of the object into Lacey’s nose and felt a warm splash of blood wash across the back of his hand. He turned.

  Just in time to see Mano Kinimaka throw a handgun he’d taken from one of the agents in his direction.

  Sutherland caught it, turned it toward Lacey and shot the President in both thighs.

  As the man slathered out a scream and fell to the floor, Sutherland fired twice more, again into the meatier areas of the President’s thighs,

  Hayden saw the struggling pair no more as they disappeared behind the big desk.

  Men descended on her, knees first.

  She felt a blow to the face, several to the head, and then saw a viscous darkness closing in. The end was coming.

  They’d failed. In the end, Lacey had held out.

  Behind the desk, Patrick Sutherland shot the President one more time and bent his head toward the man’s lips.

  “England,” came the whisper. “Redheim Palace.”

  Before the Secret Service shot him, he forwarded the information to the only people that could save them, but in the end he slipped into oblivion with his head on the rogue President’s chest, leaking blood to mingle with Lacey’s and soak the polished floor of the Oval Office.

  CHAPTER FORTY FOUR

  In darkness, they carved through the turbulent skies above England.

  Drake sat ready with his team, holding onto a belief that Hayden, Kinimaka and Sutherland would be spared for now. Holding onto the faintest hope that Lacey had fed them the truth as he faced death. Holding onto everything that was slipping through their fingers as every desperate minute flowed by.

  Redheim Palace was a sprawling private residence set in the heart of Oxfordshire, a gigantic house built in the eighteenth century in the English baroque style. Ironically, and perhaps tellingly, it was one of only two non-royal houses in the country to officially hold the title of palace.

  Surrounded by acres of relatively flat greenbelt and nestled between two valleys, it was going to be nearly impossible to infiltrate with any hope of secrecy. With that in mind, the SPEAR team had decided to adopt a new policy.

  In Drake’s words, they were going to “do a Dahl.”

  The fast chopper, supplied by Sutherland’s closest British counterpart, a woman from MI6, was already approaching Oxfordshire.

  Drake was aware this was where they laid it all on the line.

  Live or die this day. Live or die.

  From searching for the bones of Odin to fighting in this theatre of war, they’d risked their lives a thousand times. Stared death in the face over and over. But together, they were as strong as any entity in the world. As strong as a force of nature.

  Stronger than the Scourge.

  The helicopter dipped, its nose dropping. The pilot told them they were ten minutes out.

  Drake made ready as he’d done countless times before. Descending into madness had become a habit for them.

  Around him, the others prepared. In the half-dark of the noisy cabin, he took one last, private look at them all.

  Just in case.

  There was Cam and Shaw, their two new capable and willing team members. Both had a lot to offer and a bright future with the team. Shaw, in her ubiquitous black jeans and leather jacket, her ponytail tied back, her knives at the ready and face set grim, was a deadly asset. Cam, with his bare-knuckle style, his incredible loyalty and young outlook on life. Both were perched on the edge of their seats, waiting to deploy.

  Beside them, Kenzie sat with Mai, both assassins resting easy and stretching limbs that had been cooped up for hours. Drake had such a long history with Mai Kitano that he wasn’t sure which memory to focus on, but chose instead to look at her now, to see her as the great warrior and friend that helped make his life worth living.

  And then, Alicia and Dahl. To one, he’d never admit it; to the other he already had—but the depth of love he felt for them was boundless.

  The chopper dropped like a stone. Through the cockpit window, Drake saw a massive mansion standing atop a knoll, surrounded by landscaped gardens. The chopper aimed for its roof.

  Seconds later they touched down. The skids hit and Dahl was out first, gun up, a hard look of determination on his face. Alicia followed. There was no talk between the team; they all knew what they had to do.

  Drake leapt out a second later, holding his Heckler and Koch MP5 out before him as the others followed. They raced across a roof for the second time in a few hours, aiming for the single door at the western end.

  But first, Dahl came to a whole row of Velux windows.

  Thinking on the fly, knowing their approach would have been seen and heard, he opted for the best chance of surprise.

  The Swede unleashed a volley into the windows, shattering them and forming a way inside. Then he attached the cord around his waist to a frame and lowered himself down, unlooping it at the bottom.

  Drake followed. Alicia was at his side. The whole team descended fast.

  Inside the house.

  Drake surveyed the room, a good-sized chamber, as the team moved forward. One saving grace was that the chopper remained overhead, surveilling the house from an aerial view with orders to let them know if anyone tried to leave. So far, the radio had been silent.

  Drake checked outside the room. The long corridor was empty. They raced down it, checking rooms as they went and sacrificing stealth for speed.

  Drake ran past potted plants, walls of paintings, and marble statues without slowing. Seconds later, he reached the head of a sprawling staircase.

  Gathered on the ground floor, filling the wide space at the base of the stairs, a group of gunmen stood, aiming their weapons upward.

  As Drake appeared, they opened fire, bullets filling the air from ground to ceiling, thudding into wood, plaster, marble and gold.

  “Kill them all,” Alicia hissed. “No fucking about.”

  The team were focused, hoping to survive but willing to die. There was no leeway in this mission, no time to soften up or use dark humor. It was kill or be killed, and the stakes were as high as they’d ever been.

  Seconds later, Cam, Shaw and Kenzie took grenades from their belts, pulled out the pins and lobbed them over the balcony. They took cover.

  Three explosions shook the floor and the house walls. Drake counted another five seconds. They rose as a unit, gauging the scene below. Mercs lay dead and dying, their blood coating the walls and floors.

  The SPEAR team looked only for danger, for an attack, today not seeing the human side of war. They raced down the staircase, picking off individual mercenaries who were crawling or scrambling for their weapons.

  Sh
ots to the head took care of all that lived.

  Grim-faced, Dahl led them to the right. A long corridor opened out into a ballroom. Mercs were gathered there, ducking in and out of the door, using the frame for cover. This time, Alicia and Mai threw grenades meant to kill, waited several seconds and then raced toward the carnage.

  Four men lay dead.

  Drake leapt past and beyond them. There was nothing other than the wide open room before him, the potential for hidden enemies, and unknowable threats. There was nothing but the desperate need to end this quickly, to stop the Scourge and find proof of the President’s and other top officials’ involvement in their hideous treason.

  Alicia and Mai fired their weapons in short bursts, taking out two more mercs who appeared in the corridor.

  Cam saw a gun pointed over the top of a high, gold-encrusted wardrobe that had to be two hundred years old, and wasted no time riddling it with bullets. A yelp and then a falling body signified that he’d hit his target.

  Drake ran the length of the room, stopped at the door, and nodded at Dahl. The Swede swept by, entering another room with Drake at his back. Together, they swept their eyes left and right, searching for guards to kill. They moved forward. Kenzie and Shaw then took point, rushing into another room.

  Together, they cleared the east wing.

  As they approached the back of the house, a torrent of sound crashed over them. Men and women were yelling, crying out, their voices urgent and forceful.

  Drake caught the harsh tones of orders, the strident pitch of superiors telling underlings what to do. An unkind smile latched onto his face. These royals—these Romanovs—would soon know what it was like to be subordinate.

  The team rushed through another room and emerged into a vast ballroom with gilt-edged paintings hanging on every surface. The room was brightly lit by three golden chandeliers.

  At the far side, three throne-like chairs sat empty. Servants rushed around the room, their standing obvious by the red robes they all wore and the way their eyes were cast downward. This room had no windows. A high domed ceiling shone with a painted tapestry, an old Russian scene that Drake recognized from something he’d been told once before.