Matt Drake 14 - The Treasures of Saint Germain (34 page)

“Do not hesitate!” Beau screamed at them.

They squeezed their triggers but at that moment Kenzie was upon them. The Israeli was a vision of death in artistry, her katana falling and slicing this way and that, and her body rotating twice. When the mercs lay dead she held out a hand.

“Cheers,” Drake said.

“Cold-blooded killers deserve a violent end,” she said. “And I am happy to oblige.”

Mai stood nearby, throwing off another guard. “Are you hurt?”

“Well, my nipples do smart a bit.”

“He’s fine,” Alicia said. “We eat bullets for breakfast.”

Before anyone could respond, Dahl threw two mercs toward them. “Stop gibbering and finish these two boys off, would you? I have my hands full.” The Swede punched two more, breaking bones, a nose and a kneecap. One huge forearm knocked a man’s jaw out of line in a spray of incisors. When they all looked up, Webb was climbing the hastily lowered steps of the plane.

Beau was waiting on the tarmac, staring at the SPEAR team as the plane swallowed his boss and then started to taxi away again.

Hayden was closing in on Amari.

The final RPG-toting man had been taken out and now two more SWAT choppers were swooping toward the bunch of struggling mercs. Angry voices shouted down through loudspeakers, warning the fighters to stand down, instructing them to lower their weapons.

Drake couldn’t shake off Kinimaka’s words:
If I die today I hope . . .

CHAPTER FIFTY TWO

Hayden fought in the burning pit.

With the raging sunlight beating down from above, the melting asphalt radiating it from below and the glaring brightness all around, she battled her way close to Amari. The Arab and his remaining four acolytes were weak but crazed, untrained but desperate, which made them as dangerous as their mercs in her eyes. No telling what they might do.

She leapt at a man with a facial scar and goatee beard, fired first and sensed him fall away. Her vision filled with another jacket, another merc, always another. Kinimaka moved between crates and drums to her right and Smyth to her left. Lauren and Yorgi were paces behind. Hayden came around another metal barrel, ducked a blow and fell backwards.

Kinimaka took the merc out as he strode after her. She picked herself up, moved forward. A chopper skimmed low overhead. A bullet zipped right through an oil drum, ricocheting past both her and Smyth before either could blink, spilling out viscous liquid in a thick stream. They reached the end of the barrels and Amari was right before them, facing away, facing the jet that carried Tyler Webb.

“Stop it! Stop that plane!”

His acolytes screamed and surged forward, a cluster of grenades held in their hands.

“The Ascended Master must not be disturbed!”

Four acolytes, four men loyal to Amari and his madness, held the grenades aloft.

“Master of Alchemy! Mystic Adventurer! Masonic Guide! I implore your forgiveness for I have failed you!”

Pins were pulled. One grenade in each man’s hand to make eight in total. They would either hurl them or run onto the plane with them. Their dice were cast long ago.

Smyth was on one knee. “All we need is the front runner.”

He breathed, let it escape, and then fired. His bullet took off the top of the lead man’s head, sending his body sprawling and his primed grenade bouncing. Anyone close by scattered except for the other acolytes. Their mission was divine . . . and blind.

Two grenades exploded, shrapnel shredding the remaining three acolytes in their steps and sending their own bombs into the air. Then came explosion after explosion, flames gouting and fragments flying. Amari watched it all with an open mouth and a face awash with tears. Whether for his friends or for the Count Saint Germain, Hayden knew not.

Amari turned to her, shrieking.

Hayden trained her weapon and stepped forward.

Amari ripped open the front of his shirt to reveal wires, dynamite, and duct tape.

“No! We can—”

Kinimaka flung his entire bulk over her as Amari detonated both the bomb, and himself.

CHAPTER FIFTY THREE

Hayden felt Kinimaka’s body buffeted by shrapnel. She could barely breathe as his full weight pressed down upon her. Not a sliver of that glaring light shone through; she lay in a safe cocoon of darkness amid the mayhem. Time went by, and then the bulk was pulled off her. Hayden looked up into the dying day.

“Mano?”

Lauren fell to her knees. “He’s . . . he’s . . .”

“I’m okay,” came the rumble of his voice. “Battered, but okay.”

Hayden swallowed in relief, then sat up. The scene all around them was gory, the crates and oil drums devastated. Liquid leaked along the ground in streams and all manner of objects spilled from the crates. Smyth fell beside Lauren.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m good.”

Kinimaka crawled up to Hayden. “Good to be alive.”

But then Hayden reached out, grabbed him by the jacket and pulled him close. Their eyes were inches apart, their noses brushing. She could feel the beat of his heart, the warmth of his skin, and the blood that trickled from his wounds straight onto hers.

“Stop saving me, Mano.”

“I don’t . . . I . . . I . . .”

“Get it through your head. We’re done. Stop hovering, following and shielding. It’s why I went to Dubai without you. To get some damn space.”

“I saved your life. I . . .”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” Hayden knew then that there would never be a time as meaningful, as piercing as this. If she wanted clear of the Hawaiian then she would have to use this moment, this event which he’d clearly hoped would reunite their affections, to take it well beyond the point of no return.

“I don’t fuck rule followers, Mano. I only fuck the winners who break ’em.”

The Hawaiian stared in shock, in horror. Smyth and Lauren turned quickly away and Yorgi pretended he hadn’t heard a thing. Hayden dusted herself off and stood alone. Her eyes, misted with tears, surveyed the battleground.

“Get your asses into gear, guys. We ain’t done yet.”

CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR

Drake and Dahl struck the remnants of Webb’s mercs hard as Alicia, Mai and Kenzie raced past. The jet was moving a little faster now, still trying to taxi to the right position for the runway. Beau hadn’t moved, and was clearly the last line of defense as Webb no doubt continued to mix his potions.

So Beau would die for Webb’s cause? Drake couldn’t comprehend it.

Dahl ducked behind a girder fixed into the ground at the end of a hangar. Bullets ricocheted past, sending sparks into his exposed cheeks. He fired around the girder, blindly. Drake peered out low, almost prone. The angle confused the mercs and he took two out.

“Last one,” Dahl said.

Help came from the skies as a chopper descended fast, men firing on the mercs’ hiding place. A scream and a thud and someone yelled “all clear” and Drake emerged at pace. The chopper disgorged its SWAT contingent.

Drake saw the women converging on Beau and took only one second to consider the volatile three-way melting pot seething around that confrontation, before noting a change in the jet’s engine note.

“Now that can’t be good,” Dahl muttered.

“Summat’s not reet,” Drake intoned a little broad Yorkshire.

“The nose is all lined up,” Dahl said. “You ready for a sprint?”

“Balls, it feels like I’ve been sprinting all day.”

“You beat me, I’ll teach you how to drive a boat!”

“Hey—”

But Dahl was already off, running directly for the plane as it taxied away. Drake accelerated as best he could, chest still throbbing from the bullet’s impact. A couple of the SWAT guys joined them and the chopper pilot decided they might need a little backup, especially if the plane got away. He lifted his skids and glided along at their side, now the pace vehicle of their race or a goal to reach.

Drake and Dahl came up to the plane fast, running alongside, but within seconds it had started to pull away.

Both doors were latched shut, but then the one just behind the wings cracked open and a tattooed hand appeared, holding a gun. Bullets flew haphazardly, not aimed but intentionally causing concern among the runners. Drake tried to aim his rifle then his handgun, but the jogging destroyed his aim.

“Fuselage,” Dahl suggested. “Cockpit.”

Engines roared.

“No time!”

Drake knew he needed to get closer. Without hesitation he leapt for the wings, seeing the open door and the unseeing arm as a way inside. The only way. His jump was timed just right. As he landed on the rounded edge of the wing and grappled for the flaps to pull his body up, the plane accelerated again, leaving Dahl’s jump two feet too short. The Swede hit the asphalt hard.

Drake worked his fingers into the flap, praying it wouldn’t close, and heaved his body upward. First chest, then hips, then knees; he wriggled and hoisted his bulk onto the smooth wing. Rushing air battered him like a living thing, like an enemy. Loose clothing flapped and tried to throw him clear, and at this speed falling onto the runway would be a killing blow.

Drake crouched and looked back, saw Dahl picking himself up and signaling the chopper. Then he stared at the door. The huge arm was still there, popping off shots at random. Steadily, he crab-walked up the wing toward the plane, careful to keep his footing and lean into the tearing wind.

Dahl’s voice crackled through the comms. “Problem, mate. They’re not going to let the plane take off. They’re gonna destroy it rather than risk Webb escaping. You have only a little time to get clear.”

Drake cursed. The decision had been made only when the plane hit a certain speed. There was now a real chance it could achieve a clean take-off and the next step was fighter jets shooting it down in the air—which nobody wanted to risk. Drake clambered forward another three steps.

“Is it your bird alongside?”

“Yeah. We have missiles.”

The Swede sounded happy at that. Drake cursed.

“Mate,” Dahl said. “You have less than two minutes and then we destroy the plane.”

*

Alicia came to a deliberate slow halt as she approached Beau. There was no recognition on the Frenchman’s face, no glow of guilt nor flicker of regret. She knew he would likely kill her, but didn’t falter for a second.

It was ironic then when the two people she found backing her up were Mai Kitano and Kenzie. Of all her colleagues around the world these were the two she least trusted and had most contention with. She backed away from Beau a little if only to catch their eyes.

“You’re kidding me here, right?”

“This man can only be beaten by a team,” Mai said. “Acting together. Today, that is us.”

“No enemies here,” Kenzie said. “For today then.”

Alicia felt a rush of pride, of companionship. Together, they would prevail against the unbeatable. She met the dead eyes of the Frenchman.

“Better go fetch your armor, motherfucker. You’re gonna need it.”

They burst into motion. Mai took Beau head on, her Ninja skills as lightning fast as his own. Alicia came in from the left, striking suddenly and as hard as steel. Kenzie jostled to the right, swirling her katana in a blur as much to distract Beau as to assail him.

If they were hoping Beau would fold quickly or have a bad moment they were disappointed. The slim body weaved and slid among them, smoke in motion once more, and sent out finger strikes like knife blades and punches as hard as boulders.

Mai deflected a throwing star that Alicia didn’t even see until it hit the ground. Kenzie struck downwards with her katana but then held it, shuddering, in mid-air as Beau somehow managed to push Mai’s arm into its arc. The freeze motion left her open to a triple strike, sending her to her knees, gasping and groaning, the sword lying on the floor.

Beau skipped around her, using her shoulders to shift a straight run into a pivot and spin, landing both feet on Alicia’s stomach and sending her tumbling. Mai faced him then, jabbing and striking and dealing out kicks that would fell a lion. Beau took them and gave back even more, bruising Mai’s ribcage and thigh bones, making the recently healed scar across her face burn brightly.

Another shuriken saw light, whipped underhand and embedding its razor-sharp blades into Mai’s wrist as she flung a hand before her face. The Japanese woman left it there and flung herself at him, striking with the wounded arm, Beau’s own shuriken blade slamming down into his skull. The blades bit and blood flowed. Beau staggered away.

“First blood,” Mai said. “To me.” For now the shuriken had closed its own wound.

With Beau falling back, Kenzie rose and came forward with the katana. A feint to the left, a double spin of the blade to the right and then she struck hard and fast, straight at the man’s nose.

Beau held up an arm to ward the deadly blade off.

Kenzie brought it down grimly, sparing him no mercy. Her mouth fell open in shock when the katana struck Beau’s arm, but instead of severing the limb, it only glanced away. For the first time Beau gave her a tiny smirk.

“You are no match for—”

Alicia was having none of it. She blitzed her former lover, hitting every part of his body she could reach, bloodying his nose and breaking a finger. He twisted an ankle as he fell to one knee, then thrust with an uppercut that left her jaw shaking and brought blood from her gums. Alicia spat the red into his face. Beau punched her so hard she fell to the ground. Her own previously shed blood smeared her face.

Mai hit out at Beau twice more, the embedded shuriken tearing the flesh from his cheek right down to the bone. Then Kenzie struck fast, the katana slices sending him stumbling away and, finally, looking worried.

Alicia crawled after him, snagging an ankle as he tried to skip away. Her outstretched arm tripped him. Mai came down knees first onto his solar plexus, a finger jab simultaneously smashing his exposed throat so hard he wouldn’t speak for a week. Then Kenzie struck third and with perfect timing, the katana unsteady in her bruised hands and the pommel catching him squarely on the forehead.