Leave your ego at the border, was a welcome, flapping sign; the first thing Drake saw as he walked into the village. Somebody had scrawled the words on a dusty gray sheet and hung it between two buildings. With Alicia, Mai, Luther, Kenzie and Dahl he strode up Main Street, getting a feel for the place. They were well-armed and well-fed, ready to depart immediately, and were just waiting for somebody to call a meeting to order.
It happened quickly, as soon as the last team attended the meeting point—a simple desk set up in the street where codenames could be ticked off. When all were present an Englishman of maybe fifty walked up behind them, climbed up onto a rickety wooden chair and called out for some attention.
“I’m not in charge,” were his first words. “I’m not your leader, and I’d never want to be. You all know Cambridge? You all know Whitehall? They asked me to speak first so we can come to order and make a plan. Are we ready?”
A general affirmative filled the air.
“Then send your captains forward. Right here and now. We’re gonna make this plan and go kick some terrorist arse!”
Cheers erupted and feet shuffled. Drake slipped sunglasses on since the bright yellow orb was beating down hard, causing sweat to pop out along the creases of his forehead. Dahl nudged him.
“Wanna toss for leader?”
Alicia nodded at Kenzie. “You do Dahl. I’ll do Drake.”
The Swede closed his eyes wearily. “I meant—”
“I know what you meant,” Drake said. “But really . . . honestly . . . I think we have a celebrity in our midst.”
More and more as they’d moved along with the crowd, as people pressed around them, he had noticed respectful and admiring eyes being turned upon Luther. To some he was a real myth, to others no less than a legend. Drake remembered Crowe calling him the old-school blood warrior. The man that brought hellfire to every enemy of the United States.
He wasn’t a man prone to egotism. “I think we have our captain right here.” He nudged the big, bald warrior. “Go forward, mate.”
“Me?” Luther tried to look modest.
“You’re bloody famous, mate. Go for it.”
Dahl grabbed Luther’s huge shoulder before he could move. “But don’t fuck it up.”
Luther shrugged and walked through the crowd, joining over a dozen others. First, they divided their hundred or so soldiers into four teams—one for each direction of assault. Aerial recon pictures showed the terrorist camp as it was—five main areas positioned either side of a wide stream—a parking zone, a place for all the tents where the trainees slept, a teaching school, a meeting house and a makeshift town. Nothing was obvious or perfectly clear from the surveillance, but at least the teams knew what they were dealing with.
Four teams then, Drake thought. After that they were keen to allocate four points of contact within those teams—not leaders, they were quick to point out. Luther quickly became the point of contact for the team Drake and his companions became part of. It would be Luther’s job to ensure his larger team coordinated seamlessly with the other three.
And then they were ready to move. No exorbitant, intricate plans. They were here to neutralize a terrorist camp and destroy Tempest’s worldwide reach. Only Drake and the others knew there were two attacks coming—the other being at the heart of the secret organization and led by Hayden.
It took some time to maneuver so many men into place, but with the help of cutting edge comms, and years of training that suited this very purpose, they were ready.
Drake had eyes on the camp. A river ran through the middle, about as wide as a man lying lengthways, flowing rapidly. It filled a natural depression in the ground; the parking area, roughly graveled over, to his left had enough space for three buses and half a dozen cars. Beyond that stood a low building made of metal sheets which they told him was the training shop—the school. At the far side he saw a big huddle of tents, one brushing up against another and a brick-lined well. To the right of that, across the river, he spied the meeting house—somewhere to let off steam, perhaps.
One more set of structures was visible, and the most surprising. To his immediate right they had built what appeared to be a makeshift American town, something small but with the correct decor, even some of the correct brand names. It was for familiarity, Drake realized. Something to help these new recruits feel more confident.
The new team ranged alongside and behind him, performing last-minute checks. The sun was already arcing down the western skies, about halfway now, but better for Drake, since the temperature was dropping. Lying low, trying not to inhale sand, he was staggered by the incredible array of Special Forces soldiers all around him.
“A hundred of us, five hundred of them,” Luther said through the comms. “Little fuckers don’t stand a chance.”
“Make it real,” Dahl said. “Be strong.”
They would attack simultaneously from four directions, concentrating on four different areas. Luther coordinated smoothly with the other three team controllers and gave everyone a countdown.
“Twenty seconds.”
The mind-boggling Spec Ops force took a moment to reflect. Drake, Alicia and Dahl grinned at each other and then found themselves feeling humble, part of a phenomenon, ready to stand alongside a hundred like-minded warriors as part of one of the most critical, heroic armies of all time.
“Go!”
The call went out. Drake started to run, rushing down the slope in a battle charge with Dahl and Mai to his right, Alicia and dozens of others to his left. A kind of greatness touched them. There was no retiring from this selfless bravery. It was everything they were made of.
“The end of Tempest starts now,” Drake said.
They hit level ground where the parking area began, hearing gunfire from the south already. Drake was running with his gun pushed snugly into his right shoulder, cautiously scanning the way forward. The air smelled of oil and diesel; Drake saw it in exposed-top drums. The sound of fighting grew louder. Among the buses he crept, drawing ever closer to what they assumed was the school building.
Terrorists lounged among the vehicles. Kenzie shot one climbing down from the front of a bus, rifle slung over his back. Many others that were trying to see the source of the new noise then realized they were under attack.
Drake saw one duck behind the front of another bus, threw himself to the dusty sand floor and took out the enemy’s legs. Dahl ran around to finish him. Beyond that, heads bobbed up at the next bus’s windows, followed by gun barrels. The attacking force wasted no time. They riddled the windows with bullets, smashing every single one on that side, then threw in grenades.
Drake fell to one knee, fingers in his ears as the bus exploded, detonating flames into the air. Black smoke billowed.
Drake and Alicia were up almost before the shrapnel finished flying, moving closer to the flames to skirt the back of the bus.
The school was up ahead, maybe thirty meters distant. Men were piling out of the only door as if there were a pack of lions inside. Drake saw their play immediately.
“Move!”
Firing hard, they ran at the school. There was still a chance that they could stop most of the terrorists from exiting through the only door. The soldiers numbered eighteen—the remainder were still mopping up around the parking area—and ran in a single wave, an unbroken line of accurate, deadly gunfire.
The escapees fell instantly, still half a minute away from any kind of shelter. The hardiest fell to their stomachs and started firing back.
Drake picked one of them off, his bullet destroying the top of the man’s head and making his entire body slump. They fired round after round into the exit door; men slumping down there on top of one another. Windows smashed all around the building as the trapped men sought a means of escape.
“Circle it,” Luther hissed. “Custer’s Last Stand style.”
“You want us to run around this building in ever decreasing circles?” Alicia hit back, off comms.
Luther ig
nored her, closing in. Those to the left peeled left whilst those to the right went right. They ran around the school, circling it and covering every window. Drake saw two of his own fall, but didn’t know their names. Bullets flying toward them were rare—they had timed their attack to perfection—but Misfortune and Bad Luck were bastards that trod everywhere.
Drake dropped to one knee, firing with precision, switching his aim by millimeters every time, picking off everything he saw moving. Alicia and Dahl were at his sides and Mai beyond them. Slowly, they advanced, not still for long. In this kind of battle, movement was essential.
Drake saw four windows along this side and Special Forces soldiers ranged all the way around. Terrorists were starting to stay inside now, pointing whatever weapons they had through the damaged window panes.
“Grenades,” Luther said.
They ducked and weaved as they dashed forward, throwing their grenades before they became sitting ducks. Even then an RPG was pointed out of the window, its wielder uncaring about his own safety. Not all flew in through an open gap; some bounced back off the metal structure.
Drake threw himself to the sand and gravel floor, hands over his head.
The explosion was mighty, shattering the metal structure, making its panels collapse outward. Fire shot out in all directions, scorching the earth and anything that stood in its way. A couple of men in Luther’s team were singed, but nothing too dramatic. Luther would see them as “enthusiastic.” His yell of victory was fired by bloodlust.
“School’s fucking right out, boys. What’s next?”
Drake rolled and jumped to his feet. Judging by the chatter on the comms the other teams were experiencing more resistance. The parking lot had been cleared, but they had lost four men.
“Major battle over at the tents and the river,” Luther said. “Let’s go.”
Drake still scanned for movement, trusting nothing. Dahl slapped at his own clothing, emitting a cloud of dust. Sand dripped from the folds of his jacket in rivulets.
Alicia reloaded. “No time to pretty yourself up, Torsty. Let’s face it—that’s a long job.”
“Hey, Drake’s the one putting the beef on.”
They jogged around the remains of the school, feeling the heat of unrestrained flames on their faces.
“Nothing wrong with that, pal,” Drake drawled. “Bloody hell, that’s a real mess.”
Luther stared at the incredible melee between the tents and the river.
“Time to get stuck in, boys.”
CHAPTER FORTY
Hayden was feeling lightheaded, and not from the swift flight. Events had spiraled into a fast-moving reel of incredible incident, starting with them arriving back in DC and being shoved into a matte-black, frighteningly quick saloon car. Washington DC was shuddering in silence, it seemed; the city moving along as normal but with an underlying sense of intense fear and violence. Only those few in the know had an idea of what was truly happening, but their uncertainties and their phone calls and their warnings soon escalated around the city.
Hayden recalled being taken from the blacked-out landing strip straight to a private hospital. There they met Lauren and took a precious few minutes to express their joy at seeing her.
Smyth had been beside himself. He ran in, despite all their recent differences, taking her weight from the bed and hugging her close. Hayden had pretended not to see the tears in his eyes and the big smile on Lauren’s face.
“Thank you,” Hayden said. “Thank you, thank you, for everything.”
“Been a long time since Transylvania,” Kinimaka said. “You knew better than we did, girl.”
Lauren grinned, crushed by Smyth, but not unhappy about it. “I got there in the end, didn’t I?”
“Damn right you did,” Hayden said. “Coburn, and we, owe our lives to you. How’s the arm?”
“It’ll be fine,” Lauren said. “Eventually.”
Hayden saw the tiredness in Lauren’s face, the utter exhaustion, and reflected over what she’d been through during the last few weeks. Constant pressure, constant fear, twenty-four-seven.
“Look,” she said. “We’ll continue this when Tempest are busted. Right now, we gotta move.”
Minutes later they had been speeding again in their unmarked car, leaving Lauren behind and discussing a plan with Coburn and his trusted advisors that would end this thing. Coburn had been hustled to safety after speaking to Lauren at the press conference, thwarting Tempest’s plan by but a few hours.
“You know where they meet?” Coburn asked.
“We do.” Hayden hadn’t wanted to reveal it to anyone but the President. There were no second chances tonight. “We can be there in half an hour.”
“Agent Jaye, I am still the leader of the greatest nation of the free world,” Coburn said. “I think I might be able to rustle you up some support.”
Hayden hated to question this man and gritted her teeth after asking: “One hundred percent trustworthy?”
“Six men. Delta. I trained with two of them, and they trained the others. I stand by them.”
“Sounds perfect, Mr. President. I forgot you were military.”
“Not something you should admit to me, Agent. Can I trust you?”
Hayden knew it was just a small reprimand. “Yes, sir. Let’s meet ’em.”
“And thanks,” Smyth put in. “Thank you for helping Lauren.”
“My pleasure, soldier. She saved my life.”
“Are you safe, sir?” Hayden asked as they re-routed to a new address.
Coburn chuckled. “I believe that question is moot. Is the President ever safe? Before this very real threat there was another looming. Worse, if you can imagine that. Out of Russia.”
Hayden knew the President and many DC officials received constant, credible information of assassination attempts. It wasn’t unusual.
But Russia?
“Are you close?” Coburn asked.
Hayden shook herself and checked the satnav. “Five minutes out,” she said.
“Then good luck to you all. Bring me back good news, my friends.”
“That,” Molokai said, “is never in doubt.”
*
Hayden knew that Lauren had discovered Tempest’s secret lair—a place they called The Chamber—after her incredibly brave final crack at being Nightshade for General Gleeson. The laptop gave them the location and, thanks to Lauren’s quick-wittedness, Gleeson never really knew, nor revealed to anyone what had happened. Hayden also knew that Tempest were fully invested now—from killing everyone that got in their way to abducting the Secretary of Defense. When they met up with the Delta team, she made sure they were fully prepared.
“You’re SPEAR?” the team leader asked. “I thought there were more of you.”
“We’re a little stretched right now,” Smyth said. “But eager to get this done.”
It was just passing 9:00 a.m. in DC. The Chamber was code for a meeting place inside Meridian Hill Park, a small gazebo-like structure where these seven powerful men could meet in person. This had been Tempest’s big moment and was now their crisis—it was obvious they would meet up. The question was: When?
They’d been dug in around the area since first light, shivering and cold. Nobody talked, nobody moved. It was only when the obvious form of General George Gleeson approached that Hayden felt the uplift in her heartbeat.
“Strike one,” she whispered. “Nobody fucking move.”
Two minutes later, Mark Digby drew near from a different direction.
“Strike two.” Hayden was already clenching her fists.
“And three.” Kinimaka nodded to the west.
“Look there,” Smyth hissed with real venom in his voice. “That’s Rick Troy, the President’s aide; the one that burned Lauren and ordered the kill.”
“Just a little longer,” Hayden told him. “Then you’ll get your revenge.”
And in full, she hoped. Each member of Tempest came with more than one bodyguard. The odds were good
that the men that tried to kill Lauren were here too.
“Ready,” the Delta team leader confirmed.
“Strike four,” Hayden said as another familiar face walked up to the brick-built structure and disappeared inside.
Kinimaka aimed a parabolic microphone at the building, listening to their comments through headphones. He gave them a thumbs-up, signaling that he was getting some key information. Of course, they didn’t need the extra evidence; they already had enough, but Hayden saw it as several more nails in Tempest’s coffin, and nobody could deny them that.
By 10:00 a.m. all the players were in place. Hayden signaled the Delta team that they were ready to deploy. A woman came sauntering along then, walking her dog along the dirt path, making the team hit pause.
“Wait,” Hayden said. “No risk to civilians right now.”
“Or canines,” Molokai added.
Hayden gave him a sidelong glance. “Those too.”
The dog-walker vanished only to be replaced by a jogger. Frustration set in. The team waited, primed to go but frozen in place. Another two minutes escaped from the day.
Hayden saw the moment finally arrive and gave Mano a nod which, for her, held multiple meanings; the most important of which was “stay safe.” Delta rose before SPEAR, climbing out of the underbrush. Already, they’d established there was no back door. They ran across the grass, shouting, drawing most of the bodyguards out into the open.
Hayden picked off two men, crossed the open greenery, and then ascended a gradual slope toward the front of the gazebo. Two dead bodyguards sprawled out and then rolled down the hill a short way. Hayden hurdled one, sidestepped the other. Delta Force ranged ahead, pinning men down or killing them. There was no respite. The park, the blue skies and the green shrubbery was no longer real for her—life had narrowed down to survival and victory, the unpleasant fall of what might have been a terrible empire.
More shots came from the gazebo as bodyguards hunkered down behind the walls, creating a stand-off. Hayden hit the grass hard, the slope affording her some cover. Within seconds, before she could ask, the Delta leader was shouting.
Weapons of the Gods (Matt Drake Book 18) Page 20
