Matt Drake 14 - The Treasures of Saint Germain (11 page)

“Best hurry,” Kinimaka came over the airwaves. “We don’t know this man’s exit strategy.”

“One thing’s for sure, it won’t be discreet,” Smyth said.

Dahl tried to leap over the back of an empty chair, missed and went sprawling, but immediately picked himself up. The scrapes didn’t matter; the bruises routine. “Where are the Spanish cops?” he asked.

“Right with you now. They’re cutting Webb off at the pass.”

Dahl glanced ahead and saw cops racing for the next set of stairs in time to intercept Webb. The Pythian made a desperate leap, landing just three or four steps ahead; Dahl joined the cops in the chase, now turning more heads than the household names that occupied the pitch.

People roared in encouragement.

Dahl bowed slightly as he ran. Best to acknowledge praise when one received it. Webb led the pack, running for the upper stands. Already people were leaning over the barriers up there to get a better view of what was happening. Dahl passed two slow-moving cops and then one more as the man slipped to a tumult of applause.

Pitiless, these soccer fans. Pitiless. And where the hell is Beau? The Frenchman’s usually lightning quick.

The Swede looked for a way to head Webb off, but the stadium was uniformly laid out and offered no short cuts. “Where are you?” He keyed the neck mic.

“Coming in from your right,” Drake shouted and then he was there as Dahl swept around a sharp bend, the Yorkshireman using his shoulder to reduce speed.

“Just behind you,” Smyth said.

“And me,” said Yorgi.

“I am, of course, ahead,” Beau said, the slippery tones extremely smug. “And waiting for Webb.”

And now Dahl saw the Frenchman. Somehow he’d gotten above Webb, probably vaulted from seatback to railing and over vendors, knowing him, and was crouched on top of a barrier waiting for Webb to race into range.

Dahl slowed and readied.

“The last of the Pythians is about to go down,” Drake said.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Beau sprang. Webb didn’t see him coming, but certainly felt the impact, letting out a grunt and a half-scream before collapsing to the floor. Beau bounced off the Pythian’s stomach and landed on two feet, as fleet as a cat and more deadly. Drake and Dahl slowed even more, coming up to a struggling Webb. Hayden’s hesitant but hopeful voice filled his ears.

“Did you get the bastard?”

Drake paused, cautious. Webb was already upright, glaring at Beau as if he might have the power to melt the man with eye lasers. Luckily for him, he was unscathed.

“You betrayed me, Beauregard Alain. Protected my back long enough to thrust a knife into it. You were never a believer.”

“In chaos and death and the accumulation of supreme power? No, I will never believe in that. These days, I believe only in myself.”

“Then you are weak. Just like the rest of them.”

“Hey, pal,” Drake called out. “You’re the one who’s about to go weak. At the knees when I break your bloody nose.”

“Get in line,” Kinimaka growled.

Webb turned to stare at them, the whole scene now peculiarly still. The crowd still roared and the fans cheered or jeered depending on who had the ball and the state of play or the referee’s decision. But a small sphere enveloped them—the sphere of absolute focus.

“Do you think I would do all this with no backup plan? Ladies and gentlemen—” the madman spread his hands “—I have, and they’re
limitless.
”

There it was then. Drake held his breath, conscious that this monster could cook up the most terrible of brews. Yorgi suddenly had eyes everywhere.

“She’s run off,” Dahl said. “Your woman friend. Gone.”

“You will never stop me. Never kill me,” Webb said with a smile. “Do you know why?”

Drake stood prepared. “Because death’s too good for you,” he said with a surety.

“Because I am the next ascendant. I will find the elixir. And
I
will not only join the Master—I will assume his position!”

The cops moved in slowly. Dahl chuckled. “I know one position you’re going to be assuming, old boy. Just as soon as we get you into general population.”

But Webb flung his hands into the air, a black device in one hand, and pressed a red button.

“Let them fly!” he screamed. “Let them fly now!”

*

Drake froze, ready for anything, the first image he had of the new threat was a sparkling rush from above. Flashing edges of light caught his eyes, which were drawn to the skies.

People in the crowd were letting loose small drones, not many but enough to scare the security and some of the crowd. Drake took immediate shelter behind the concrete wall at his side, but the drones just hovered there, menacing.

Panic swept the area.

Drake knew how this went. Everyone who’d seen the cops chasing a man now saw the drones and assumed the worst could be happening. These drones were tiny, though, too small to hold any real threat, but nobody really knew that.
How had Webb pulled this off?

No matter. They’d come to that eventually. Right now . . . He cast around for Webb.

“Where . . . ?” Dahl surveyed the area.

Now they saw Beau, presumably in pursuit of Webb, leaping from railing to railing, but the crowd were starting to get in his way. Some were already clogging the aisles, others sheltering there. In another moment the drones all dived and spun in the air and then made their way back to their owners, eight in total.

No danger. Just threat.
This was what Webb had been reduced to, but the madman still made good use of implied terror.

Somewhere above, at the Nou Camp’s top level, Webb raced up the stairs, heading for an exit. Hayden jumped on the comms, filling Drake’s ears with American expletives. Drake cut across her.

“Do you have eyes on him?”

“Yeah, but go. Just go!”

Drake took off fast, jumping two or three steps at a time, trying to pick his way through a confused, milling crowd. His urgency seemed to upset them even more and some followed in his wake, making it harder for Smyth and Dahl behind. Beau slipped up ahead, distracted by an anxious couple tugging at his arm, and trying to calm them.

“Slow down, people.” The voice drowned out Hayden and surprised Drake.

“Argento? What—”

“You’re inside a full capacity Nou Camp stadium. I don’t have to tell you what will happen if panic fills that place. Now slow down and act as if all is well.”

“Armand!” Hayden cried.

“I understand your frustration, but Webb is one man. And this is his get-out plan. One hundred thousand souls are packed into that stadium. Think smarter. Use the CCTV, Hayden, and catch him outside.”

Despite everything, Drake agreed with the Italian. With a conscious effort and fighting every instinct in his body, he slackened the pace and smiled around into concerned faces.

“All okay, folks,” Dahl called out. “Just a pickpocket.”

Drake shook his head. “You’re worse than a daily rag for finessing the bloody facts. As if they’re gonna believe you.”

Dahl shrugged. “They want to, that’s what counts, mate.”

Drake saw it in their faces. None of them wanted to miss the match, this highlight of their week or, for some, their year; none of them wanted to walk away from the global atmosphere. Their own optimism bred new belief that someone had played a malicious prank.

“You’ll be okay,” Drake said to a dithering couple. “Take your seats.”

He believed it. Webb had shown his new and apparently only recourse—contacts who couldn’t or wouldn’t cause mayhem on a large scale. At least for now. Maybe it was Webb’s way of staying below the radar. Or maybe he had so few collaborators left this was all they could whip together.

Still, they seemed effective.

Drake reached the top of the steps, thankful that the crowd appeared to be settling. Thank God that the cult had held off. Perhaps
they
were waiting for Webb outside. Drake passed his thoughts along.

They pushed through a door and then switched right along an open area, looking for some stairs. Eateries stood to their right, causing Kinimaka to give vent to a groan of longing.

As he ran, Drake caught sight of familiar faces running straight at them, chasing a fleet figure. “Hey!”

“Quit fucking goggling and stop that roadrunner bitch!” Alicia’s mild tones caressed his ear drums.

“All right, all right. Calm down.”

Drake saw the woman who Webb had been meeting with race toward him, as fast as anyone he’d ever seen. Mai and Alicia were chasing hard but dropping back, no match for the quick runner.

“Ha.” Drake couldn’t help himself. “You two stop to get your nails done?”

Dahl also planted himself in the way. “I see it’s a good job I’m here. As usual.”

The woman didn’t slow; face untroubled as she saw the obstacles in her path.

“Er, excuse me, love—” Drake began as the gap closed fast.

Dahl braced himself. The woman had her long blond hair wrapped into a vicious bob which slapped both sides of her face as she ran. The trainers were vivid green, Asics, and brand new. The outfit was tight, made for running, the Barcelona shirt now gone, and the small baseball cap barely hanging on. Drake saw only one way to go and moved forward himself, not believing she would actually tackle the two of them but preparing for the chance.

The woman skidded in, dropping low and kicking out at Drake’s knees. The polished floor was a perfect surface for her, almost as if she’d planned for it. He skipped left, avoiding a broken shin or knee, and tried to tackle her about the waist. The position was awkward. She sailed past.

Dahl waded in too, but the woman angled her body so that the mad Swede toppled over her. He hit the floor hard, groaning. Kinimaka positioned himself at the end of her slide, reaching out with open arms. The woman skipped left, then right, gave him a wide berth and prepared to take off again. In fact, Yorgi was the only one capable of matching her with his buildering skills and knowledge of parkour, but what he gained in movement he lacked in fighting ability. The woman met him head on—literally—and gave him a bloody nose.

Drake scrambled toward her, using the floor for purchase. “Shit, did you see—?”

“Slipperier than a Frenchman covered in baby oil,” Alicia agreed. “And nothing solid to hang on to her with. Shit, you two are bloody useless.”

Drake dived for the woman, a headlong plunge, just as she jinked right and scurried for the stairs. His outstretched fingers brushed her ankles, but she evaded him, leaving him sprawling and staring at the well-polished floor.

“Bollocks.”

“You were saying?” Mai panted as she skipped over him. “About nails?”

Drake rose, but Dahl cut him off, managing to barge the woman at the exact moment she turned on the speed. Her momentum changed and she staggered headlong, reaching to keep her balance. Then she spun, drove a hand under Dahl’s neck and another into his groin, left him shuddering and shocked, moaning on the spot.

“That was close,” Kinimaka said.

“Get the f-feeling she held back,” Dahl said.

“Good job you were here though,” Alicia mocked. “To slow her with your balls.”

At the top of the stairs now their quarry chanced a look back. Mai was almost upon her, Alicia a step away. Drake and Dahl scrambled up and Kinimaka lumbered alongside. The flight down to the next level wasn’t long. Mai slowed slightly and reached out.

Alicia barged past her. “Pull your big girl panties up, Sprite. This bitch goes all the way down.”

The Englishwoman barged hard into their quarry, smashing her against the handrail and forcing out a scream. Without pause the woman rebounded past Alicia, saw a gap, and leapt four stairs straight into it, landing like a cat and with perfect poise.

“Talk about a freakin’ cat burglar,” Kinimaka said.

Drake had never seen anyone so ‘on it’, except perhaps for Beau. This woman had mad evasion skills and was embarrassing the team. What had Webb required of her? Alicia was fuming, almost angry enough to take her shoe off and throw it at the escapee.

Dahl then stepped around them all. “Let’s stop pussyfooting around, shall we?”

The Swede reached out, ripped a metal trashcan from its moorings, held it aloft and dropped it over the railing, timed perfectly to land on the fleeing woman’s head. She never saw it coming, but the impact was a loud, resounding clang. The force of the heavy object sent her into a slump and a slither down the rest of the staircase.

Now, finally, she stopped moving.

“Shit, Torsty, we didn’t want to kill the bitch,” Alicia growled.

“She’ll be okay,” Dahl said. “See, she’s twitching.”

“Let’s hope she can still speak.”

Drake hurried toward her, then reached out tentatively. The woman was well and truly out cold. He keyed his mic.

“We have the woman. Beau’s on his own though, chasing Webb.”

“Seriously?” Hayden came back. “It took five of you to take her down?”

“She was one thorny little snag,” Alicia said.

“Beau?” Hayden said. “You there?”

“Lowest level,” the Frenchman said. “I have eyes on Webb. Thought he’d evaded me but I got lucky. Come fast, he’s about to run again.”

“Still in the chase, guys,” Hayden said. “Stay on it. Take Tyler Webb down.”

“And stay alert out there,” Kinimaka added. “We haven’t heard from this cult yet and I get the feeling we’re about to.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Tyler Webb was finding that the last few days of running had started to give him a new lease of life. Ignore the cramps and the pain, the shin splints, the knee jabs and the black spots dancing wildly before your eyes, and it really wasn’t too bad. Overcome the agony, and he felt he could probably run forever. Outrun an Olympian. Take on one of those new-fangled mud sports.

In any case, I can shake off Drake and his cronies
.

Not that he wanted to shake off
all
of them. Hayden Jaye—she still had possibilities which he longed to be in a position to explore. Maybe later. Maybe after.