Matt Drake 11 - The Ghost Ships of Arizona (13 page)

Drake shook his head. “Does Beauregard know you call him that?”

“Who cares? Really though, dude, there isn’t much more to him. Honestly, he’s about 90 percent appendage.”

Drake definitely didn’t want to go there. “Where are you?”

“Sat outside a nice little café in Knightsbridge. Watching the world go by.” Alicia sounded almost wistful for a moment. “But judging by the sudden warning twitch in my loins I’m guessing you need me. Got yourselves in trouble again?”

“It’s an odd mission,” Drake admitted. “Entirely different to what we’re used to.”

“Well, so long as there’s no sand involved. You know how I feel about sand and those spidery things.”

Drake winced but kept it professional. “Hardly any sand at all. Honest.”

“Wanker.”

“Bitch.”

“All right, ya had me at ‘balls’. Less of the fuckin’ sweet talk. I’m getting tired of sitting around all day anyway.”

Drake knew her latest mission had only just ended. Still, Alicia would not, could not, stop moving forward. The singular explosion he had been expecting still hadn’t happened and the Englishwoman was becoming more pent up, more angry and disturbed by the week. The demons of her past, riding their chariot of war, were close to catching up.

If only he had known then
how
close, he might never have made the call.

Drake explained a little of their mission. “The stories of these ships,” he said, “are uncannily accurate across the board. Embellished, yes, but most likely true. I’d doubt that Bell and his freaky friends expect to discover much more than treasure chests inside but even that, when you calculate how much it’s probably worth, is a scary addition to their wealth.”

“You haven’t mentioned Webb.”

“He’s not around. Probably back in DC sniffing panties.”

“Now there’s an image. So how many ships have you seen?”

“Well, none.”

“Ah, and you lost your guide, your ammo, and your Swede. I can see why you need me.”

“We’re hiring Jeeps,” Drake told her. “Tracking them down the old fashioned way. Ain’t no other choice. A chopper would probably be shot down, same for a small plane. And the Internet can’t tell us what’s happening out in the middle of nowhere. So it’s gonna be us, a few Jeeps and an ancient treasure. Up for it?”

“No need to lay it on so thick. I’m already walking,” Alicia said. “Can’t you tell I’m walking? Just crossing Sloane Street on my way to the underground. I’ll be there as soon as I can, Drakey.”

“Good. Track me using the GPS signal. Failing that, track Hayden. We should join up again soon. With the team so depleted it’s becoming a hell of a struggle.”

“I get it. Without me you’re weak, horny and depressed. It’s understandable. Say no more, Drakey, I’ll liven y’all up a bit.”

Drake ignored the fake accent and concentrated on what truly concerned him. “And that kinda worries me.”

Even from several thousand miles away he could tell she stopped walking. “What?”

“Stop standing and gawping at the phone.” Drake found himself reverting to his native accent. “It’s nowt, just an old tosspot speaking out of turn. Forget it.”

Alicia was quiet for a moment, then: “It’s okay. I do know what you meant and, well . . .”

“What is it?”

“I think it’s about time I got all this off my chest.”

Now Drake gawped at the phone, imaging an atomic explosion.
Oh fuck . . .

“The desert’s not a bad place for that,” he tried.

Alicia laughed, thank God. “Don’t be a knob end. Coming to terms with my life is not exactly something I can plan out.”

“I understand. Just one thing . . .”

“Yes?”

“I’d like to be there when it happens.”

Alicia now definitely had a smile in her voice. “You do? Wow.”

“Despite it probably being the most dangerous thing I’ve ever done—yes. We’ve been together since the beginning, Alicia. You and I. From the early days of the Ninth Division. Africa. The shit we did in the late nineties. And now—”

“And we
were
together. I still know what makes you squeal like a girl.”

Drake laughed quietly. “And I—you.”

“Don’t
ever
call me that again,” Alicia said in mock exasperation.

“Or else?”

“Else you might not regret it,” Alicia whispered.

Drake found himself staring at the rugged desert, the glare that frazzled the middle-distance, the silent swoop of a kestrel. The world was practically motionless out there—in stark contrast to the refurbished pinball machine that had just turned on inside his own head. A volcano could lie dormant for many, many years but sooner or later . . .

“I’ll see you soon,” he said without emotion.

“Yeah, soon.”

The call ended.

Drake considered the desert with unseeing eyes.

*

Later, when the Jeeps were ready and the team had refueled, reloaded and repacked, Drake considered their situation. This was truly the oddest mission of his life. Motivated, intelligent people were out there, wading through sand dunes seeking something huge and preposterous. Forget the Grail, El Dorado and Atlantis this was off the nutball scale.

Or is it?

Documented evidence existed that ships had somehow made their way inland. Why couldn’t one of them lie somewhere within this vast, barren expanse? Explorers and sensationalists and publicity-seekers—not to mention the local councils—played up the ghost ship part as much as Scotland played up its ‘monster’, so maybe the real truth lay somewhere in between.

And perhaps the treasure was genuine.

Nicholas Bell and his Pythian pals believed so. They were looking to fund some kind of mega end-game.
Saint Germain?
Drake wondered.
Or something else?

And what more did Webb need to put it into motion? The niggling, bothersome part of his mind pointed out that Webb was strangely absent from this party, and when the chief party planner didn’t turn up . . . something bigger just had to be underway.

The finale was close and the Pythians would either rule or be completely destroyed.

Drake walked away from the safe house and contemplated his companions. Smyth sat in the passenger seat of the second Jeep, tooled up, hard-faced and capable. Lauren had the seat behind him, her hands resting on his seatback as she leaned forward in conversation. His own Jeep was being driven by Yorgi with Karin in the rear. He climbed up next to the Russian.

“You ready?”

Yorgi nodded, eyes practically taped to the windows.

“Stop staring at the new girl,” Drake said. “She’ll get nervous and leave us.”

“Did you
talk
to her?” Yorgi whispered reverently. “I doubt even Dahl could make her nervous.”

Drake frowned hard. “What the hell do you mean ‘even Dahl’? I’m pretty sure I made her a little nervous.”

Yorgi started to smile and then clearly thought better of it. “Of course,” he said in a thick accent. “Of course you did, my friend.”

“Whatever.” Drake stared across at the other Jeep where Smyth sat next to the new girl, the driver. Her name was Jenny Rathe and she was a short-haired redhead with a smooth pale face and blue eyes that glinted like menacing icebergs. Outwardly, this woman appeared safe and approachable and even cautious. Underneath this outward demeanor, Drake gauged she had the potential to be entirely treacherous, hard and jaded. The jury was out, but people he trusted vouched for her as the best, hardest and most reliable guide in the business. The fact that she’d been in California wasn’t entirely down to good fortune—the US government were more involved in searching out old legends than they would ever take credit for.

Jenny was no trained fighter, not a soldier, but possessed a sharp tongue and could hold her own in a mean fist-fight, or so she said. She was also extremely healthy and in great shape; at twenty-eight possibly the best shape of her life. A gym enthusiast, a sport fanatic, and an American car lover, Drake instantly knew she’d be the best guide for them. Maybe she could dodge bullets too. Indeed, her only debatable quality was that Price had sent her.

So far Karin had barely noticed her, Yorgi was drooling and Smyth was doing his best to remain professional. Lauren was watching Smyth, predictably. Drake wondered if those two were sleeping together yet. He kind of hoped so—they were both good people.

Yorgi slipped the Jeep into gear and gazed through the windshield. Drake rested a hand on his arm.

“I think you should let our guide go first.”

“Ah, yes. It is good that one of us is on the ball, yes?”

“A nice football reference, mate. We’ll turn you into a passable Englishman yet.”

“Oh please, no.”

Jenny eased forward, aiming her vehicle toward through the gates and toward the road. Yorgi followed slowly. Drake’s mind became focused on the utter silence that emanated from the back seat. Karin Blake was more than a physical passenger back there, she was a blunt force, commuting through life vacantly, indifferently, showing no indication that she might know the way back from the sharp turns her consciousness had taken.

Drake wished that he could help. As of now, he didn’t want to make it worse but as with Alicia, a crunch of some kind was inevitable.

The desert opened out on both sides, as deadly and barren and lonely as the worst kind of grief.

Drake waited for the onrushing storms.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Mai Kitano prepared for the greatest battle of her life.

A Yakuza communication turned up before sunrise that morning. It conveyed that their warrior had arrived near Tokyo and suggested a time and a place for their engagement. Mai liked the simplicity of the words—it inferred nor assumed anything. It was plain. And there could be no misunderstanding.

It gave her time to reflect, to prepare her mind and body for what was to come. There were no outcomes in her mental arrangements, only designs. She allowed Dai Hibiki to be her second, the one who would accompany and observe, the one who would be forced to deal with the aftermath.

Before departure, she spent a few final moments with Grace.

“I will be back soon.”

The young girl stared at the floor, her new, now natural bounciness depleted. “Will you?”

“If I do not do this a war will begin. It is a credit to my enemies that they even make such an offering.”

“A credit?” Grace looked over, her brow creased in confusion. “You’re crediting your enemies? I don’t get it.”

“There is nothing to ‘get’.” Mai didn’t explain how she was doing this to keep Grace and the entire SPEAR team safe. How much the safety of her sister and Hibiki mattered. How much she loved the new emerging woman that Grace was becoming and wanted to protect her at any cost. It wasn’t something she felt she could explain succinctly.

“Please. Be careful.” Grace’s eyes watered.

“I know of no other way to be.”

“I don’t know what I would do now if you . . . you . . .”

Mai struggled to hold onto her composure. Grace’s words raised in sharp detail Mai’s foremost concern. The young girl was doing so well, growing and developing in mind and body every day. The healing process was as well advanced as anybody could expect. If she suddenly hit a hairpin curve the terrible regression might be even worse than before.

There was no way out. This Yakuza sword was well and truly double-edged.
But it also gives me the greatest reason in the world to fight hard. To win.

The actual departure was even worse, Grace clinging as long as she could and Mai struggling to keep the tears from her eyes.
I have made you my ward, my conscience, my life, and now I am leaving you.

The congested road through Tokyo was almost as hard. Hibiki drove, taking the journey slowly. He knew by heart the place they sought. It was an old mountain monastery situated at the end of a steep winding road. Above the monastery was a flat plateau rarely visited, sealed off from tourists and where the resident monks occasionally worshipped.

Tonight, at sunset, it would be the unhallowed ground for Mai’s conclusive rite of passage. Mai watched Hibiki from the corner of her eye but saw no emotion there. It put her in mind of how Drake and the others would almost certainly deal with the same difficult problem—it was a soldier’s reaction minus the camaraderie and leg-pulling that came naturally to most Europeans.

Time slipped by and the roads grew less busy. The sun passed its zenith and began to wane, turning a burnished gold for what were possibly her final few hours on earth. She was thankful for it, and spent the time contemplating the events that had led her to this appointed moment.

Finally, she cleared her mind as all roads led to the monastery, with its plateau at the very top. Beyond a certain point they had to park up and walk, the twisting path passing under overhanging trees and growing narrower by the second. A cool breeze caressed Mai’s countenance as, finally, Dai Hibiki turned his overwrought face toward her.

“It’s just beyond that bend in the path. Mai, there
is
no point of no return. It does not have to be this way.”

Mai touched the Japanese man’s fair face with the back of her hand, looking infinitely sad. “Tell Chika I will always love her,” she paused, “and that I am sorry.”

“For not saying goodbye?”

“We did that last night. It did not need to happen again. I am just sorry it all ended up this way. Violence and death have been my mentors from a very young age.”

“The Yakuza can be beaten in other ways.”

“But not without further bloodshed. Let mine be the last drop spilt in the name of all this madness.”

Mai eased past Hibiki and negotiated the final bend in the path. Beyond, a flat paved area bordered with wooden benches extended into a wide, circular grassy expanse. Its borders were cobblestones, its boundary a sheer two-hundred-foot drop. A small contingent of Japanese men stood silently at the center of the clearing, but only one man mattered to Mai.

The Yakuza warrior, the very best of the very best, the unbeaten devil, stood with both arms crossed. More than a showdown, this truly was a battle to the death and the warrior looked more than ready. A scarred face topped an almost naked, absurdly muscled body. He did not speak but regarded her as though she were already dead.