The Edge of Armageddon (18 page)

Following Moore’s instructions the ten strong team wasted even more precious minutes diverting down a side street to commandeer a pair of police cars. The call was made by the time they got there and the cops were waiting, their efforts at clearing the streets starting to show reward. Smyth climbed behind one wheel, Dahl another, and the vehicles flicked on their sirens and flashers and tore around the corner of 3
rd
Avenue, burning rubber straight toward the zoo. Buildings and scared faces flashed past at forty, then fifty, miles an hour. Smyth smashed an abandoned cab aside by slamming its front end, shunting it straight. Only one police cordon stood in their way and they had already received orders to let them pass. They shot through the hastily cleared intersection approaching sixty.

Drake almost ignored a new call on his cell, thinking it might be Ramses ringing back to gloat. But then he thought:
even that could give us some clues
.

“What?” he barked tersely.

“Drake? This is President Coburn. Do you have a moment?”

The Yorkshireman started in surprise, then checked the GPS. “Four minutes, sir.”

“Then listen. I know I don’t have to tell you how bad this will be if that bomb is allowed to go off. Retaliations are inevitable. And we don’t even know the true nationality or political penchants of this Ramses character. One of the larger emerging problems is that this other character—Gator—has visited Russia four times this year.”

Drake’s mouth turned to sand. “Russia?”

“Yes. It’s not decisive, but . . .”

Drake knew exactly what the pause meant. Nothing needed to be decisive in a world manipulated by news channels and social media. “If this information gets out—”

“Yes. We’re looking at a high-level event.”

Drake certainly didn’t want to know what that meant. He did know that, presently, there were men out in the wider world, vastly powerful men, who had the means to survive a nuclear war and often imagined what it would be like if they could live in a brand new, barely populated world. Some of these men were already leaders.

“Disarm the bomb if you have to, Drake. I’m told NEST are en route but will arrive after you. And so is everyone else. Everyone. This is our new darkest hour.”

“We will stop it, sir. This city will survive to see tomorrow.”

As Drake ended the call, Alicia put a hand on his shoulder. “So,” she said. “When Moore said this was the Tropical Zone and a mini rainforest, did he mean there would be snakes too?”

Drake covered her hand with his own. “There are always snakes, Alicia.”

Mai coughed. “Some larger than others.”

Smyth swung their car around a blockage, sped by a flashing ambulance with all its doors open and paramedics working on people involved in the incident, and jammed his foot on the gas pedal once more.

“Did you find what you were looking for, Mai?” Alicia said evenly and politely. “When you left the team behind?”

It had all happened so long ago now, but Drake vividly remembered Mai Kitano walking away, her head brimming with guilt at the deaths she had inadvertently caused. Out of that single incident during the search for her parents—the killing of a Yakuza money launderer—much had changed.

“My parents are now safe,” Mai said. “As is Grace. I beat the clan. Chika. Dai. I found much of what I sought.”

“So why did you come back?”

Drake found his eyes fixed firmly to the road, and his ears pinned firmly toward the back seat. It was an unusual time to be debating consequences and questioning decisions, but it was quite typical for Alicia, and might be their last chance to set at least something straight.

“Why did I come back?” Mai repeated lightly. “Because I care. I care for this team.”

Alicia whistled. “Good answer. Is that the only reason?”

“You’re asking if I came back for Drake. If I anticipated that you two would build some kind of new rapport. If I thought for one second that he’d have moved on. Even, if he might give me a second chance. Well, the answer is simple—I don’t know.”

“Third chance,” Alicia pointed out. “If he was dumb enough to take you back again it would be your third chance.”

Drake saw the approaching entrance to the zoo as he felt the rising tension in the back seat, the poignant and precarious emotions bristling. They needed a room for all this, preferably a padded one.

“Wrap it up, guys,” he said. “We’re here.”

“This ain’t done, Sprite. This Alicia is the new model. She’s decided not to run into the sunset anymore. Now, we stand, we learn, and we deal with it.”

“I see that and admire it,” Mai said. “I do like the new you, Alicia, despite what you might think.”

Drake turned away, filled with mutual respect, and at a total loss as to how this scenario might eventually play out. But it was time to file it all away now, place it on the shelf, because they were heading fast towards the new Armageddon, soldiers and saviors and heroes to the very end.

And if they were watching, perhaps playing chess, even God and the Devil would have caught their breath.

Smyth squealed the tires around a final corner and then crushed down on the brake pedal with a heavy foot. Drake was opening the door before the vehicle stopped, and swung his legs out. Mai was already free of the back door, Alicia a step behind. Smyth nodded at the waiting cops.

“They said you needed to know the fastest way to the Tropical Zone?” One of the uniforms asked. “Well, follow that path straight down.” He pointed. “It’ll be on the left.”

“Thanks.” Smyth took a guide map and showed it to the others. Dahl came jogging up.

“We ready?”

“As we can be,” Alicia said. “Aw, look,” she pointed at the map. “They call the on-site gift shop a Zootique.”

“Then let’s roll.”

Drake entered the zoo, senses attuned, expecting the worst and knowing Ramses would have more than one nasty trick up his unaffiliated sleeve. The group spread out and thinned out, already moving faster than they should and without due care, but knowing every second that passed was a new death knell. Drake took note of the signs and soon saw the Tropical Zone up ahead. As they approached, the scenery all around them started to move.

Eight men burst from cover, knives drawn as they had been ordered, bidden to make the rescuers’ last battle painful and extremely bloody. Drake ducked under a swing and hurled its wielder over his back, then met the next attack head-on. Beau and Mai stepped to the fore, their combat skills essential today.

The eight attackers all wore stab vests and face masks and they fought with skill, as Drake had known they would. Ramses never picked from lower down the pile. Mai redirected a swift jab, tried to break the arm but found it wrenched away, her own balance upset. The next stab glanced off her shoulder, absorbed by her own vest, but giving her a moment’s pause. Beau passed among them all, the veritable shadow of death. Ramses’ legionnaires fell away or skipped aside to avoid the Frenchman.

Drake fell back against a barrier, arms upraised. The fence cracked behind him as his opponent struck with both feet off the ground. Both men tumbled away to another path, struggling as they rolled. The Englishman slammed fist after fist against the legionnaire’s head, but succeeded in only hitting an arm raised up for protection. He heaved the body to where he wanted it, rose to his knees and pounded down. A knife slunk up and jabbed at his ribs, still painful despite the protection. Drake doubled down on the attack.

The melee near to the entrance of the Tropical Zone intensified. Mai and Beau found their opponents’ faces. Blood splashed across the group. Legionnaires fell with broken limbs and concussions, and the main offender was Mano Kinimaka. The huge Hawaiian bulldozed his attackers as if he was trying to challenge the very waves, smash them apart. If a legionnaire came into his path Kinimaka struck without mercy, a superhuman linebacker, an indestructible plow. His path was entirely errant, so both Alicia and Smyth found themselves diving out of his way. Legionnaires landed beside them, groaning, but were easy to finish.

Dahl traded hand-to-hand blows with something of an expert. Knife thrusts came in hard and fast, low then high, then to the chest and face; the Swede blocking them all with lightning reflexes and hard-earned skill. His opponent didn’t let up, clinical in his execution, quickly sensing he had met an equal and needed to change it up.

Dahl sidestepped as the legionnaire introduced feet and elbows as follow ups to the knife attacks. The first elbow caught him across the temple, raising his awareness and helping to anticipate the myriad assaults. He fell to one knee, punching under an arm straight to the pit and the nerve cluster there, making the legionnaire drop his blade in agony. In the end though it was the brawling Kinimaka who smashed the fighter off his feet, pure charging muscle breaking bone and tearing tendons. Mano sported blackening bruises along his jawline and cheekbones and ran with a limp, but nothing could stop him. Dahl imagined he’d smash right through the wall of the building like a Hawaiian Hulk if the door was locked.

Kenzie found it simpler to dart around the edges of the fray, damaging those she could and bemoaning the fact that she still didn’t have her katana. Dahl knew she possessed a learned, special skill and could have assailed one legionnaire after another, each a one-thrust kill, saving the team precious time. But this day was almost done.

One way or another.

Drake found his fist flurry deflected. He fell to the side as the legionnaire caught his wrist and twisted. Pain warped his features. He rolled with the abnormal bend, relieved the pressure, and found himself face to face with his assailant.

“Why?” he asked.

“Just here to slow you down,” the legionnaire smirked. “Tick tock. Tick tock.”

Drake pushed hard, now on his feet. “You’ll die too.”

“We all die, fool.”

Faced with such fanaticism, Drake struck without an ounce of mercy, breaking the man’s nose and jaw, his ribs too. These people knew exactly what they were doing, and still they struggled on. Not a man among them deserved to draw another breath.

Gasping, the legionnaire thrust his knife at Drake. The Yorkshireman caught it, twisted it clear, and reversed it so that it sat up to the hilt in the other man’s skull. Before the body hit the grass Drake joined the main melee.

It was a bizarre and crazy battle. Blow upon blow and defense after defense, endless pivoting for position. Blood wiped from the eyes, elbow and knuckle collisions shaken off in mid-skirmish and even one dislocated shoulder slammed back into place using Smyth’s own bulk. It was raw, as real as anything ever got.

And then Kinimaka ranged around it all, slamming, barging, destroying where he could. At least three of the downed, broken, legionnaires were his doing. Beau took care of two more and then Mai and Alicia finished the last together. As he fell they came face to face, fists raised, battle rage and blood lust flashing between them, catching fire like lasers from their eyes, but it was Beau who split them apart.

“The bomb,” he said.

And then, suddenly, every single face turned to Drake.

“How long do we have left?” Dahl asked.

Drake didn’t even know. The battle had taken every scrap of concentration. He looked down now, dreading what he would see, pulling back his sleeve and checking his watch.

“We haven’t even seen the bomb yet,” Kenzie said.

“Fifteen minutes,” Drake said.

And then the shots rang out.

Kenzie felt the impact like a missile strike. It knocked her off her feet, hammered her lungs, and momentarily tore all consciousness from her mind. Drake saw the bullet strike and dropped to his knees, breaking the inevitable fall. She had never seen it coming, but then neither had anyone else. Smyth had taken a hit too. Luckily, both bullets struck vests.

Reacting fastest, still with the words “fifteen minutes” bombarding his brain, was Torsten Dahl. As the two legionnaires rose from the ground, bullets rapidly fired and now taking better aim, he charged them, arms out, roaring like a train carrying lost souls from the blood-coated depths of Hell. They hesitated in surprise, and then the Swede battered them, one with each arm, and propelled them both backwards into the side of a wooden hut.

The structure shattered apart around the men, planks of wood breaking, splintering and tumbling through the air. The men fell on their backs among its contents, which proved to be most useful to the mad Swede.

It had been a workman’s shed, a place full of tools. As the legionnaires struggled to pick up their guns, one groaning and the other spitting teeth, Dahl lifted a well-used sledgehammer. The fallen men saw him coming out of the corner of their eyes and froze, disbelief unmanning them.

Beau came alongside him, saw their reaction. “End them. Remember what they are.”

Kinimaka paused too, chaffing at the bit as if he wanted to stomp them into dust. “They shot Kenzie. And Smyth.”

“I know,” Dahl said, dropping the sledgehammer and leaning on its handle. “I know that.”

Both men saw the pause as a sign of weakness and went for their guns. Dahl launched himself through the air, raising the sledgehammer at the same time, and brought it down as his body descended. One blow smashed a legionnaire in the center of the forehead, and he still had strength and skill enough to turn, lift the shaft and pulverize the temple of the other man. When he was done he rose to his knees, gritting his teeth, and threw the sledgehammer over his shoulder.

Another legionnaire then sat up, groaning, head canted to the side as if in agony, and raised a pistol held between shaking hands. In that split second it was Kenzie who was fastest to react and put herself at great personal risk. Without pause she shrugged off the previous bruises, blocked the man’s sights and rushed at him. The gun she held in her hand launched like a brick, end over end so that it impacted with the center of his face. He fired as he fell backwards, the shot passing overhead. When she reached him Kenzie retrieved her own weapon, but not before emptying his into his chest.

“How long?” Dahl breathed as he stormed toward the door that led to the Tropical Zone.

Drake raced past.

“Seven minutes.”

That’s not long enough to disarm an unfamiliar nuke.