The Bones Of Odin (Matt Drake 1) (4 page)

The rooftop shooter was long gone, but the Mondeo was back there, keeping pace.

He turned right and then right again, got lucky at the lights. The
Musee Du Louvre
shot by on the left-hand side. This was no good: the roads were too crowded, the lights too frequent. They needed to get the hell away from central Paris.

“Rue De Rivoli!”

Drake frowned hard at Ben. “
Why the hell do you keep shouting out street names?”

Ben stared at him. “I don’t know! They . . . they do it on TV! Is it helping?”
“No!” he cried back above the roar of the engine as he zoomed down a slip road and away from the Rue De Rivoli.

A bullet ricocheted off the boot. Drake saw a passer-by crumple in agony. This was bad; this was serious stuff. These people were arrogant and powerful enough not to care who they hurt, and could obviously live with the consequences.

Why were the Nine Pieces of Odin so important to them?

Bullets struck concrete and metal and zinged patterns all around the Mini.

At that moment Ben’s mobile rang. He made a complicated shoulder-wrenching manoeuvre to twist it out of his pocket. “Mum?”

“Christ!”
Drake cursed quietly.

“I’m fine, ta. You? How’s Dad?”

The Mondeo powered its way up to the Mini’s boot. Glaring headlights filled the rear-view, along with the faces of three jeering Germans. The bastards were loving this.

Ben was nodding. “And sis?”

Drake watched as the Germans pounded the dash with their guns in frenzied excitement.

“Nah. Nothing much. Umm. . .what noise?” He paused. “Oh . . . Xbox.”

Drake floored the accelerator. The engine responded speedily. Tyres squealed, even at sixty miles-an-hour.

The next shot destroyed the back window. Ben scrambled down into the front crawlspace without being asked. Drake allowed a moment of assessment, then bounced the Mini up onto the empty pavement before a long line of parked cars.

The Mondeo’s occupants fired recklessly, bullets shattering through parked car windows to strike and glance off the Mini. After a few seconds he tramped on the brakes, reversed with a screech, threw the little car into a quick 180, then raced off back the way they had come.

It took the Mondeo’s occupants precious seconds to realise what had happened. That car’s own 180 was sloppy and dangerous, and took out two parked cars with an awful crunch. Where in God’s name were the police?

No choice now. Drake threw the car around as many corners as he could. “Get ready, Ben. We’re gonna run.”

If Ben hadn’t been there he’d have stood and fought, but the priority was his friend’s safety. And getting lost was the prudent move now.

“Ok Mum, catch you later.” Ben flipped the mobile closed with a shrug. “Parents.”

Drake rode the Mini up the kerb again and braked hard half-way across a manicured lawn. Before the car stopped they flung their doors wide and jumped out, heading for the nearby streets. They had mingled with home-grown Parisians before the Mondeo was even in sight.

Ben managed a little croak and blinked at Drake. “My hero.”

****

They hid out at a little internet cafe near a place called Harry’s New York Bar. To Drake this was the wisest move. Inconspicuous and cheap, it was a place where they could continue their research and decide what to do about the Louvre’s imminent break-in without concern or interruption.

Drake set up the muffins and coffees whilst Ben logged in. Drake hadn’t been affected by the trauma so far, but guessed Ben had to be a little disturbed. The soldier in him didn’t have a clue how to handle him. The friend knew they should talk. So he slid the young man’s food and drink across, settled into the cosy booth, and held his gaze.

“How you doing with all this crap?”

“I don’t know.” Ben said truthfully. “Haven’t had time to take it in yet.”

Drake nodded. “That’s normal. Well, when you do . . .” he gestured at the PC. “Whatcha got?”

“I logged back onto the same website as before. Amazing archaeological find . . . nine pieces . . . yada, yada, yada . . . ah yes - I was reading about Odin’s spectacular ‘end of the world’ conspiracy theory.”

“And I was saying . . .”

“It was a load of bollocks. But not necessarily, Matt. Listen to this. As I said, there
is
a legend, and it has been translated into many languages. Not just the Scandinavian ones. It seems pretty universal, which is highly unusual according to the crusties who study this sort of thing. It says that if Odin’s Nine Pieces are ever assembled at Ragnarok they will reveal the way to the Tomb of the
Gods
. And if
that
Tomb is ever desecrated . . . well, sulphur and brimstone and all Hell breaking loose is just the start of our problems. Notice I said
Gods?”

Drake frowned. “Nah. How can there be a
tomb
of the Gods? They never
existed.
Ragnarok never existed. It was just the Norse place for Armageddon.
”

“Exactly. So what if it did exist?”

“So imagine the value of a find like that.”

“A tomb of the Gods? It would be beyond everything. Atlantis. Camelot. Eden. They would be nothing compared to that. So you’re saying that Odin’s Shield is just the start?”

Ben bit off the top of his muffin. “I guess we’ll see. There are eight other Pieces to go for, so, if they start disappearing,” he paused. “You know, Karin is the brains of the family, and sis would love making sense of all this internet crap. It’s all in bits and pieces.”

“Ben, I feel guilty enough involving you. And I promise nothing’s gonna happen to you, but I can’t involve anyone else in this.” Drake frowned. “I wonder why the bloody Germans kicked this off now though. Surely the other eight parts have been around a while.”

“Less with the football analogies. And they have. Maybe the Shield was special in some way? Something about it made everything else worthwhile.”

Drake remembered taking close-up snaps of the Shield, but they could save that investigation for later. He tapped the screen. “It says Odin’s ‘Horse’ sculpture was found in a Viking longboat, which is actually the Louvre’s chief exhibit. Most people wouldn’t even notice the Horse sculpture itself whilst walking around the Louvre.”

“The longboat,” Ben read aloud. “Is a mystery of its own - it’s constructed of timbers that predate known Viking history.”

“Just like the Shield,” Drake exclaimed.

“Found in Denmark,” Ben read on. “And see here,” he pointed at the screen, “it focuses on the other Pieces of Odin I mentioned earlier? The Wolves are in New York, and the best guess is that the Spear is in Upsalla, Sweden, having fallen from Odin’s body when he climbed down from the World Tree.”

“So that’s five.” Drake settled back into the comfy seating and sipped his coffee. Around them the internet cafe buzzed with restrained activity. The pavements outside were filled with people zig-zagging their way through life.

Ben had been born with a steel-lined mouth, and downed half of his hot coffee in a single gulp. “There’s something else here,” he tapped away. “Jeez, I don’t know. It looks complicated. About something called a
Volva.
Which means -
Seeress.
”

“Maybe they named the car after her.”

“Funny. No, it seems Odin had a special
Volva.
Wait - this could take a while.”

Drake was so busy switching his attention between Ben, the PC, the stream of information and the bustling pavement outside, that he didn’t see a woman approach until she stood right next to their table.

Before he could move she raised a hand.

“Don’t get up, boys,” she drawled in an American accent. “We need to talk.”

FIVE

PARIS, FRANCE

Kennedy Moore had been evaluating the pair for a while.

At first she’d thought it harmless. After a while, analysing the younger man’s scared but determined body language and the older dude’s vigilant demeanour, she’d come to the conclusion that trouble, circumstance, and the Devil had snagged these two in an unholy trinity of danger.

She wasn’t a cop here. But she was a cop in New York, and that relatively small island with its big concrete towers was a tough place to grow up. You developed cop’s eyes before you even knew your destiny was to join the NYPD. Later, you honed and recalculated, but you always had those eyes. That hard, calculating stare.

Even on
vacation
, she mused bitterly.

After an hour of sipping coffee and surfing aimlessly, she couldn’t help herself. She might be on vacation - which sounded better than
forced leave
to her
-
but that didn’t mean the cop in her just gave it up quicker than a Brit surrendered his virtue on his first night in Vegas.

She sidled over to their table.
Forced leave,
she thought again. That put her glittering NYPD career in perspective.

The older guy appraised her fast, raising her antennae. He weighed her up quicker than a U.S. Marine would assess a Bangkok brothel.

“Don’t get up, boys,” she drawled disarmingly. “We need to talk.”

“American?” the older guy said with a hint of surprise. “What do you want?”

She ignored him. “Are you OK, kid?” She flashed her shield. “I’m a cop. You be honest with me now.”

Older guy clicked immediately and gave a grin of relief, which was odd. The other one blinked in confusion.

“Eh?”

The cop in Kennedy pressed the issue. “Are you here by choice?” It was all she could think of to get next to them.

The younger guy looked pained. “Well, the sightseeing’s ok, but the rough sex ain’t much fun.”

Older guy looked surprisingly grateful. “Trust me. There’s no problem here. It’s good to see some of the law enforcement community still respect the job though. I’m Matt Drake.”

He held out a hand.

Kennedy ignored it, still not convinced. Her mind snagged on that phrase
still respect the job
and flicked back over the last month. Stopped where it always stopped. At Kaleb. At his brutalised victims. At his unconditional release.

If only.

“Well . . . thanks, I guess.”

“So, you’re a cop from
New York?
” The younger man augmented the nuance with raised eyebrows that he directed at the older.

“Bloody subtle.” Matt Drake laughed easily. He seemed confident in himself and, though he sat easily, Kennedy could tell he had the competence to react in a second. And the way he constantly surveyed his surroundings made her think
cop.
Or
army.

She nodded, wondering if she should invite herself to sit down.

Drake indicated the free space, at the same time leaving him a clear way out. “Polite, too. I heard New Yorkers were the most over-confident people in the world.”

“Matt!”
The kid frowned.

“If by over-confident you mean egotistical and arrogant, I heard that too.” Kennedy slid into the booth, feeling a bit awkward. “Then I came to Paris and met the French.”

“Vacation?”

“So I’m told.”

The guy didn’t push it, just held his hand out again. “I’m still Matt Drake. And this is my lodger, Ben.”

“Hey, I’m Kennedy. I overheard what you were saying, the headlines anyway, I’m afraid. That’s what hit me up. And what’s that about Wolves in
New York
?” She raised her eyebrows in imitation of Ben.

“Odin.” Drake was studying her closely, watching for a reaction. “Know anything about him?”

“He was Thor’s dad wasn’t he? You know, in the Marvel comic.”

“He’s all over the news.” Ben nodded at the PC.

“I’ve been keeping pretty clear of headlines lately.” Kennedy’s words came fast, wrung tight with hurt and frustration. It was a moment before she could carry on. “So, not much. Just enough.”

“Sounds like you’ve created a few.”

“More than is good for my career.” She returned, and then gazed out through the dingy cafe windows into the street.

****

Drake followed her gaze, wondering if he should push her, and his eyes locked on to those of one of the lock-pickers from earlier, peering through the glass.

“Shite. These guys are more persistent than an Indian call centre.”

The guy’s face lit up with recognition when Drake moved, but now Drake decided he wasn’t fucking about any more. The gloves were well and truly off, and the SAS Captain was back. He moved fast, picked up one of the armchairs and flung it through the window with an almighty crash. The German flew backwards, collapsing to the pavement like dead meat.

Drake waved Ben to the side. “Come with us, or don’t,” he called to Kennedy as he ran. “But stay out of my way.”

He moved quickly to the door, flung it open, and paused in case there was gunfire. Shocked Parisians were standing about. Tourists were snapping away. Drake cast a probing gaze down the street.

“Suicide.” He ducked back in.

“Rear entrance.” He tapped Ben, and they headed towards the counter. Kennedy had yet to move, but it didn’t take a cop’s analytical mind to see these people were in genuine trouble. 

“I’ll cover you.”

Drake strode past the frightened counter-man into a dingy corridor lined with boxes of coffee, sugar and stir-sticks. At the end was a fire-escape. Drake hit the bar, then peered cautiously outside. The afternoon sun stung his eyes, but the coast was clear. Which, for him, meant there was only one enemy out there.

Drake motioned the others to wait, then strode purposefully towards the waiting German. He didn’t avoid the man’s punch, but took it hard in the solar-plexus without flinching. The shock on his opponent’s face gave him momentary satisfaction.

“Pussies aim for the plexus.” He whispered. Experience had taught him that a trained man would strike at one of the body’s obvious pressure points and pause for effect, so Drake compartmentalised the pain - as he’d been endlessly taught - and ploughed through it. He broke the guy’s nose, shattered his jaw and almost snapped his neck with two strikes, and then left him sprawled on the pavement without breaking stride. He waved the others forward.