The Gates of Hell (Matt Drake 3) (19 page)

“So the Tomb of the Gods has some link to the Gates of Hell,” Drake thought aloud. “But what do the whorls mean?”

“Repeated patterns,” Karin said quietly. “Tell me. What kind of markings, ancient or

Modern, consists of many repeated patterns?”

“Easy.” The big Komodo hunkered down next to them. “A language.”

“That’s right. So if this is a language—” She indicated the chamber walls. “Then they tell quite a story.”

“As do the ones Dahl found.” Drake nodded. “But we don’t have time to analyze it now. Kovalenko’s through that gateway.”

“Wait.” Ben gripped the bridge of his nose. “These markings…” He touched the archway. “Are
exactly
the same as the ones on the devices. To me, that says this gateway is a fixed version of the same contraption. A time travel machine. We’ve already concluded that the gods may have used the portable devices to flit through time and influence fate. Maybe this thing is the master system.”

“Listen,” Drake said quietly, “that’s fine. You’ll figure it out. But beyond that gate—” He jabbed a finger into the pitch black. “Is the Blood King. The man responsible for Kennedy’s death, among hundreds of others. It’s time to stop talking and start walking. Let’s go.”

Ben nodded and stood up, looking a bit guilty as he brushed himself off. Everyone in the chamber drew a deep breath. There was something else beyond the gate that none of them wanted to mention:

The reason Captain Cook had changed the archway’s name from the Gates of Pele to the Gates of Hell.

CHAPTER THIRTY

The state of Hawaii shuddered in the grip of a madman.

If a helicopter could sweep by, one capable of offering a wide, panoramic view of the dark, immoral events that were unfolding across the islands, it would swoop first across Oahu to take in the besieged hotel, the Ala Moana Queen, where expert members of several SWAT teams had just started to move against a well-armed, well-motivated force of mercenaries who held all the high ground and countless hostages. It would zoom past at pace, avoiding the hellish clouds of black smoke that poured from at least a dozen shattered windows, warily pinpointing the openings where masked men with rifles and grenade launchers could be seen herding helpless men, women and children into groups that would be easier to slaughter.

And then it would roll away, up and to the right in a great arc, at first toward the sun, that fat yellow ball inching its way toward an uncertain and possibly disastrous future, and then dipping beneath and to the left on its terrible journey of discovery toward Kauai. It would pass near Diamond Head, oblivious of the heroes and villains searching for secrets and chasing terrible dreams through the extinct volcano’s darkest and most dangerous subterranean caverns.

On Kauai, it would plunge toward the sweat-drenched man who had chained himself to the railings of a coffee shop, sealing its patrons inside and clearly showing off a vest packed with dynamite and the shaking hand that clutched a dead-man’s detonating device. If the picture panned in close, it would see the desperation in the man’s eyes. It would clearly reveal the fact that he couldn’t possibly hold out much longer. And then it would soar high, rising again over the rooftops to follow the graceful curve of the exotic coast. On to the burning ranch where Hayden Jaye had just faced off with Ed Boudreau whilst Mai Kitano and the rest of the marines fought in close hand-to-hand combat with dozens of Boudreau’s mercenaries. Amidst the appalling din of death and battle, the injured hostages wept.

And onward. The past and the future were already colliding. The ancient and avant-garde locked in conflict.

Today was a day gods might die, and new heroes might flourish and rise.

The helicopter would make one last fly-by, tearing across the contrasting landscapes and dynamic ecosystems that made up the Big Island. Racing over one more ranch, it would focus for a few moments as Alicia Myles, Mano Kinimaka and their team of marines stormed a well-defended compound where hostages and mercenaries and men wearing necklaces made of dynamite came together in one almighty clash. Around the edges of the battle, powerful vehicles revved and made ready to evacuate the Blood King’s men by land and air and water. The camera would start to zoom away as Alicia and Kinimaka lifted their heads, aware of the absconders and already making tracks to intercept and eradicate them.

And at last the helicopter would veer away, just a machine but still a machine teeming with images of man’s folly, of the courage they can display and discover, and of the worst evil that they can do.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Drake stepped beneath the archway Captain Cook had christened the Gates of Hell to find himself in a rough-hewn, narrow passageway. He switched on a rifle light and attached it to the barrel. He also strapped on a shoulder light and adjusted it so that it illuminated the walls. For a while there was a plethora of light and no obvious peril.

As they traversed the winding passage, Drake spoke over his shoulder. “Tell me, Ben, about Cook’s logs.”

Ben exhaled quickly. “It’s nothing more than an overview of this huge trap system. Cook called it the Gates of Hell because of the nature of the traps. He didn’t even see what’s at the end.”

“So who built the traps?” Drake asked. “And why?”

“Nobody knows. The markings we found outside and the ones from the Tomb of the Gods aren’t on these interior walls.” He coughed and added, “Yet.”

Komodo’s voice boomed from behind them. “Why did Cook not see the end?”

“He ran,” Karin said quietly. “In fear.”

“Oh, crap.”

Drake paused for a moment. “So, since I’m just a dumb soldier and you two are the brains of this op, let me get this straight. Essentially, the logs are the key to the trap system. And you two have copies with you.”

“We have one copy,” Ben said. “Karin’s got the other in her head.”

“Then we have one copy,” Komodo grumbled.

“No—” Ben began, but Drake stopped him. “He means that if she dies we have one copy, kiddo. A photographic memory ain’t much use when you’re dead.”

“I didn’t. . . yes, well, sorry we don’t think like soldiers.”

Drake noticed the tunnel start to widen. The faintest of breezes wafted past his face. He held up a hand to slow them down and then poked his head around a corner.

To behold a stunning sight.

He was at the entrance to an enormous chamber, oblong in shape and with a ceiling lost in darkness. The faint light emanated from glow sticks that the Blood King’s men must have left behind. Directly opposite him and guarding the tunnel that continued into the depths of the mountain was a sight that made his heart pound.

Carved into the very rock face above the tunnel was a giant face. With slanted eyes and hooked nose and what could only be described as horns sprouting from its head, Drake’s immediate conclusion was that this was the face of the Devil, or a demon.

Ignoring the face for now, he scouted the area. The walls were curved, their bases shrouded in darkness. They needed to get some extra light in here.

He beckoned the others slowly forward.

And then, suddenly, a noise blasted through the cavern, a noise like a hundred flamethrowers firing at once or, as Ben put it,
‘sounds like the bloody Batmobile.’

Fire shot down through the carving’s nostrils, creating a furnace around the rock floor. Two separate licks of flame blazed from each nostril, and then a few seconds later one blast from each eye.

Drake studied it uneasily. “Maybe we set off some kind of mechanism. A pressure sensitive trip switch or something.” He turned to Ben. “Hope you’re ready, mate, cos as one of my favorite Dinorock bands, Poison, used to say—this ain’t
nothin’ but a good time.”

Ben’s mouth twitched into a brief smile as he consulted his notes. “This is level one of hell. According to the writer, a man called Hawksworth, they named this level Wrath. I guess the reason’s obvious. They later cross-referenced it to the devil, Amon, the demon of wrath.”

“Thanks for the lesson, kid.” Komodo growled. “Does it happen to mention a way past?”

Ben laid the text on the floor and spread it out. “Look. I saw this before but didn’t understand it. Maybe it’s a clue.”

Drake squatted next to his young friend. The copied logs were elaborately penned and illustrated, but Ben’s finger drew his eye toward to an odd line of text.

   
1( || )—move to 2( |||| )
—
move to 3 ( || )—move to 4 ( |||||| )

And the single inscription that followed it,
“With Wrath, have patience. A careful man will plan his route if the lines of navigation lie before him.”

“Cook was the greatest navigator of all time,” Ben said. “That line tells us two things. That Cook navigated the route past the demon and that the way through needs careful planning.”

Karin was watching the bursts of fire. “I count four,” she said speculatively. “Four eruptions of flame. The same total as—”

A shot rang out, shocking through the stillness. A bullet ricocheted off the wall by Drake’s head, making sharp fragments of rock fracture the air. In a millisecond Drake had his gun up and fired a shot off, and in another millisecond he understood that if he ducked back into the passageway, the sniper might keep them pinned down indefinitely.

With that in mind he ran, firing, into the chamber. Komodo, clearly having come to the same conclusion, followed him. The joint fire struck sparks off the surrounding wall. The hidden man ducked in shock, but still managed to fire another bullet which sizzled between Drake and Komodo.

Drake fell to one knee, aiming.

The man jumped out of his hiding place, weapon high, but Komodo fired first—a blast that sent their assailant flying backward. There was a high scream and the man landed in a tangle, rifle clattering to the floor. Komodo walked over and made sure the man was dead.

Drake cursed. “As I thought, Kovalenko left snipers to slow us down.”

“And to thin us out,” Komodo added.

Karin poked her head back around the corner, blond hair falling around her eyes. “If I’m right, the odd sentence is the keyhole and the word ‘patience’ is the key. Those two tram lines that look like two ‘I’s’? In music and poetry and old literature they can signify a pause. Therefore—patience means to ‘pause.’”

Drake looked at the sentence as the Delta team fanned out around the cavern, urged by Komodo and determined not to make any more mistakes.

Komodo shouted, “And men? Watch out for booby traps. I wouldn’t put it past that Russian prick to jury-rig something.”

Drake rubbed his sweaty palm against a rough wall, feeling the uneven stone as cold as the inside of a fridge beneath his hand. “So it’s, ‘wait for the first blast, then pause two and move to two. After the second blast, pause four and move to three. After the third blast, pause two and move to four. And after for the fourth blast, pause six and then out.’”

“Easy.” Ben winked. “But how long’s a pause?”

Karin shrugged. “A brief spell.”

“Oh, that’s helpful, sis.”

“And how do you number the blasts?”

“My guess is the one that reaches farthest first is number one, with number four the shortest.”

“Well, that makes some sense, I suppose. But it’s still a—”

“That’s it.” Drake had had enough. “My
patience
has been tested already listening to this debate. I’ll go first. Let’s do this before my caffeine high runs out.”

He walked past Komodo’s crew, coming to a stop a few yards short of the reach of the longest tongue of fire. He sensed each man turn to watch. He sensed Ben’s anxiety. He closed his eyes, feeling the temperature rise as another superheated discharge roasted the air before him.

Kennedy’s face swam before his inner eye. He saw her as she used to be. The severe bob in her hair, the featureless pantsuits—one for every day of the week. The conscious effort to detract everything away from the fact that she was female.

And then Kennedy let her hair down, and he remembered the woman he had spent two glorious months with. The woman who had started to help him move on from the crushing death of his wife, Alyson, and the pain caused by that fateful car crash so many years ago.

Her eyes flared right through his heart.

Before him, the fire burned.

He waited for the heat of the blaze to wane and paused for two seconds. As he waited, he was conscious of the burst of fire from the second eye already flashing down. But after two seconds he moved to that point, though every fiber of his being screamed that he shouldn’t.

The fire blasted him—

But died away the instant he finished his movement. The air around him was still hot, but bearable. Drake breathed, sweat pouring off him in waves. Unable to relax for a second, he began the count again.

Four seconds.

Flames crackled near him, trying to ignite the very spot he was about to occupy.

Drake made his move. The fire died away. The inside of his mouth felt like a salt-flat. Both his eyeballs stung as if they’d been scraped with sandpaper.

Counting, though. Thinking, always thinking. Two more seconds and move. On to the final maneuver. The confidence built in him now.

Pause six seconds, and then—

At six he moved, and the fire didn’t relent! His eyebrows singed. He fell to his knees, threw his body back. Ben shouted his name. The heat grew so intense he tried to scream. But at that moment it abruptly faded away. He slowly became aware of his hands and knees scraping the rough stone floor. Lifting his head, he quickly crawled through the tunnel at the rear of the chamber.

After a moment, he turned and shouted to the others, “Best make that last pause seven seconds, guys. ’less you wanna find out what a Kentucky Fried feels like.”

There was a bit of subdued laughter. Komodo immediately stepped up and asked both Karin and Ben when they would like to take their turn. Ben opted for a few more soldiers to go before him, but Karin was up for following Drake. It took Komodo himself taking her aside and having a quiet word about the prudence of ensuring Drake hadn’t just gotten lucky with the timings before they risked losing one of the brains of their op.