The Bones Of Odin (Matt Drake 1) (13 page)

The Germans had horror written all over their unmasked faces. Drake didn’t spot the man in white, and wondered if this mission had been too risky for him. He saw SWAT approaching them in a sweeping pattern, the Swedes having surrendered authority when the Americans arrived.

The Canadians were escaping with the Wolves! Drake attempted to rise but found it hard to lift his body, much shaken by the near miss and the astonishing scene.

Kennedy helped out by elbowing him hard before wriggling out from under him, sitting up, and wiping blood from her scalp.

“Perv.” she muttered, in mock anger.

Drake pressed a hand to his ear to help staunch the flow of blood. As he watched, three of the five remaining Swedish Special Forces troops tried to head off the Canadians as the first used his rappel unit to leap out the destroyed window.

But Alicia spun around, her face sporting a playful smile and Drake cringed inside. She skipped forward and darted through them, a black widow of violent execution, bending highly trained soldiers in a way that broke their bones with consummate ease, taking less than twelve seconds to decimate the team.

By then, three Canadians had jumped soundlessly and expertly out of the building.

The remaining Canadian solider sprayed cover fire.

The New York SWAT team assaulted the Germans, driving them towards the rear of the room, dropping all but three of them where they stood. The remaining three, including Milo, dropped their weapons and ran.

Drake flinched as the T-Rex finally gave up the ghost and collapsed in a pile of old bones and dust.

Kennedy cursed as the fourth Canadian jumped, quickly followed by Alicia. The final soldier took a bullet to the skull as he prepared to leap. He fell back into the room to sprawl amidst the burning rubble, just another casualty of a madman’s war, and his race towards apocalypse.

NINETEEN

NEW YORK

Almost immediately, Drake’s wits were evaluating and analysing. Milo had inferred something about Ben and Professor Parnevik.

He fished his mobile out, and checked it for damage before hitting speed-dial.

The phone rang and rang. Ben wouldn’t leave it this long, not Ben . . .

His heart sank. He’d tried to protect Ben, promised the lad he’d be alright. If anything . . .

A voice answered: “Yes?” A whisper.

“Ben? You okay? Why are you whispering?”

“Matt, thank God. I got a call from Dad, wandered off to talk, then looked back and saw these two goons hitting the Prof. I started to run towards them and they took off on motorbikes with a few others.”

“They took the Prof?”

“Sorry, mate. I would’ve helped him if I could. Damn my Dad!”

“
No!
” Drake’s heart was still recovering. “It’s
not
your fault, Blakey. Not at all. Did these bikers have big rucksacks strapped to their backs?”

“Some did.”

“Okay. Stay there.”

Drake breathed deeply and tried to calm his nerves. The Canadians would have been in a hurry. Ben had dodged a nasty one, thanks to his dad, but the Professor was in deep shit. “Their plan was to abseil out of here onto some waiting bikes,” he told Kennedy, then looked around the demolished room. “We need to find Dahl. We have a problem.”

“Only one?”

Drake surveyed the devastation they had made of the museum. “This thing just exploded big time.”

*****

Drake exited the museum among an assortment of government personnel. They were setting up a staging post outside the Central Park West entrance, which he deliberately ignored when he spotted Ben sitting on a bench opposite. The kid was crying uncontrollably. What now? Kennedy sprinted beside him across the stretch of grass.

“It’s Karin,” Ben’s eyes were overflowing like Niagara Falls. “I e-mailed her to ask how she’d gotten on with the Valkyries and got . . . got this MPEG in . . . in reply.”

He spun his laptop around so they could see. The screen showed a tiny video file playing on repeat. The clip lasted about thirty seconds.

In black-and-white stop-motion it showed fuzzy images of Ben’s sister, Karin, hanging limply in the grip of two heavily-set masked men. Dark patches that could only be blood were smeared around her forehead and mouth. A third man had his face up to the camera, shouting in a thick German accent.

“She put up a fight, the little minx, but rest assured, we’ll be teaching her how stupid that is over the next few weeks!” The man wagged his finger, spit spraying from his mouth. “Stop helping them, little boy. Stop assss . . . isss . . . ting them. If you do, you’ll get her back in one piece - ” a nasty laugh. “More or less.”

The fragment began to repeat itself.

“She’s a second Dan,” Ben was babbling. “Wants to open her own martial arts school. I didn’t think anyone could b-b-beat her, my - my big sister.”

Drake put an arm around Ben as his young friend broke down. His gaze, seen by, but not meant for Kennedy, was pure battlefield hatred.

TWENTY

NEW YORK

Abel Frey, world renowned fashion designer, multi-millionaire, and owner of the infamous 24-hour Party-Chateau -La Verein sat backstage at Madison Square Garden and watched his minions scuttle about like the free-loading vermin they really were.

During solstice or periods of hiatus, he provided for them in the confines of his extensive home in the Alps – everything from world-famous models, all the way down to lighting techs and security staff - the parties never stopped for weeks on end. But when the tour was on, and the name of Frey graced the spotlight, they scurried and worried and catered to his every whim.

The stage was taking shape. The cat-walk was half erected. His Lighting Designer was interfacing with the Garden’s crew, trying to come up with a mutually respectful
Magic Sheet:
a synchronised light and sound schedule - for the two hour long show.

Frey intended to hate it and make the bastards sweat and start again.

Supermodels strutted back and forth in varying stages of undress. Backstage at a fashion show was the opposite of a stage show - you needed less material rather than more - and these models - at least the ones who lived with him at La Verein - knew he’d seen it all before anyway.

He encouraged exhibitionism. In truth, he demanded it. Fear reined them in, these cattle. Fear and greed and gluttony, and all the other wonderful common sins that chained ordinary men and women to holders of power and wealth - from the Victoria’s Secret candy-stripers to the East European ice sculptures and the rest of his fortunate staff - every last snivelling bloodsucker.

Frey saw Milo threading through the nubile bodies. Saw the models shying away from the violent brute. Smiled inwardly at their obvious tell.

Milo didn’t look pleased. “Back there!” He nodded towards Frey’s makeshift travelling office.

Frey’s face hardened as they sat in private. “What happened?”

“What
didn’t?
We lost the chopper. I squeaked out of there with two guys. They had SWAT, the SGG, that fucker Drake, and some bitch. It was hell in there, man.” Milo’s American inflections literally wounded Frey’s more cultured ears. The brute had just addressed him as ‘
man’.

“The Piece?”

“Lost to that bareback whore, Myles.” Milo was grinning.

“The Canadians got it?
” Frey gripped the arms of his chair in anger, causing them to distort.

Milo pretended not to notice, betraying an inner unease. Frey’s ego made his chest swell. “
Fucking useless bastards!”
He screamed so loudly Milo flinched.
“You useless bastards lost out to a bunch of fuck-shit Mounties!”

Spittle flew from Frey’s lips, spattering the table that separated them.
“Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for this moment? This
time
? Do you?”

Unable to control himself, he slapped the American Special Forces man across the face. Milo’s head whipped around and his cheek coloured, but he gave no other reaction.

Frey forced a superior cocoon of calm to envelop him. “My life,” he said with a supreme effort that he knew only those with high-breeding could pull off, “has been dedicated - no
devoted
- to finding this Tomb . . . this Tomb of the Gods. I will transport it - piece by piece - to my Chateau. I am a ruler - ” he said waving a hand towards the door, “and I do not mean a ruler of those idiots. I can force five supermodels to fuck my lowliest guard, just because I had the idea. I can force a good man to fight to the death in my Battle Arena, but that doesn’t make me a ruler. Do you understand?”

Frey’s voice dripped with intellectual superiority. Milo nodded, but his eyes were blank. Frey read it as stupidity. He sighed.

“Well, what else do you have for me?”

“This.” Milo stood up, and tapped for a few seconds on the keyboard of Frey’s laptop. A live feed came up, focused closely on an area near the National History Museum.

“We have men posing as a TV crew. They have eyes on Drake, the woman, and the boy - Ben Blake. Also SWAT and whatever SGG remain and, look, I believe
that
- ” he tapped the screen lightly, leaving unwanted smears of sweat and God knew what else behind, “is an SAS team.”

“You believe . . .” Frey said. “You’re trying to tell me that we now have a multi-international race on our hands? And we no longer have the greatest resources.” He sighed. “Not that it’s helped us this far.”

Milo shared a secret smile with his boss. “You know it has.”

“Yes. Your girlfriend. She is our best placed asset, and her time is approaching. Well, let us hope she
remembers
who she answers to.”

“It’s more the
money
she’ll remember,” Milo said, with great vision.

Frey’s eyes lit up, and a depraved light entered his eyes. “Hmm. I’ll not forget that.”

“We also have Ben Blake’s sister. A wildcat by all accounts.”

“Good. Send her to the Chateau. We will return there soon.” He paused. “Wait . . . wait . . . that woman with Drake. Who is she?”

Milo studied the face and shrugged. “No clue.”

“Well,
find out!”

 Milo placed a call to the ‘TV crew’. “Use the facial recognition software on Drake’s woman,” he growled.

Four silent minutes later he received an answer. “Kennedy Moore,” he told Frey. “New York cop.”

“Yes.
Yes.
I never forget a depravity. Move aside, Milo. Let me work.”

Frey Googled the name and followed a few links. In less than ten minutes he knew everything, and his smile grew broad and even more twisted. The beginnings of a superlative idea grew past puberty in his mind.

“Kennedy Moore,” he couldn’t resist explaining to the grunt, “was one of New York’s finest
finest
. She is currently on forced leave. She arrested a dirty cop and got him sent to prison. His conviction led to the release of some of the people
he’d
helped convict, something to do with a broken chain of evidence.” Frey paused. “What kind of backwards country would implement a system like that, Milo?”

“The U.S.” His goon knew what was expected of him.

“Well, a wonderful lawyer got a man called Thomas Kaleb released - the ‘worst serial killer in Northern United States history’ it says here. My, my. This is deliciously gross. Listen!

‘Kaleb fixes his victim’s eyes open by using a staple-gun to fire fixings through the lid and the forehead, then forces live insects down their throats, forcing them to chew and swallow until they choke to death.’” Frey gave Milo wide eyes. “A little like eating at Mcdonald’s, I’d say.”

Milo did not smile. “He is a murderer of innocents,” he said. “Comedy does not jive with murder.”

Frey smiled at him. “You have killed innocents have you not?”

“Only in the execution of my job. I am a soldier.”

“Hmm, well, it’s a thin line, yes? Never mind. Back to the
job
at hand. This Kaleb has murdered
two more innocents
since his release. The clear result of an ethical doctrine and a bunch of moral values I’d say, eh Milo? Anyway, this Kaleb has now disappeared.”

Milo’s head swerved towards the laptop screen, towards Kennedy Moore. “Two more?”

Frey laughed now. “Ha, ha. You’re not so dense that you don’t get it, are you? Imagine her grief. Imagine her torture!”

Milo caught on and, despite himself, gave the grin of a polar bear ripping apart his first catch of the day.

“I have a plan.” Frey giggled with delight. “Oh hell, . . . do I have a plan.”

TWENTY-ONE

NEW YORK

Inside the mobile HQ chaos was king. Drake, Kennedy, and Ben followed Torsten Dahl and the furious SWAT commander up the steps and past the commotion. They passed through two compartments before stopping in the relative quiet afforded by an alcove at the end of the metal shed.

“We got a call,” the SWAT commander threw his weapon down in anger. “We got a Goddamn call, and fifteen minutes later three of my men are dead! What the . . .?”

“Only three?” Dahl asked. “We lost six. Respect requires we take a moment for . . .”

“Screw respect,” the SWAT guy was furious. “
You
invaded
my
turf, you English asshole. You’re as bad as the goddamned terrorists!”

Drake held up a hand. “Actually,
I’m
the English asshole. This prick’s Swedish.”

The American looked bewildered. Drake gripped Ben’s shoulders tighter. He could feel the lad shaking. “We helped,” he told the SWAT guy. “
They
helped. It could’ve been much worse.”

And then, as fate dropped its ironic hammer, there was the shocking sound of bullets peppering the HQ. Everyone hit the floor. Metallic pings bounced off the east wall. Before the firing had ended, the SWAT commander stood up. “It’s bulletproof,” he said with a little embarrassment.