The Tomb of the Gods (Matt Drake 4) (21 page)

The top half of the immense garden had been turned into an ice rink, its surface glistening under halogen floodlights. All around it trees were decorated with Christmas cheer and illuminated by hanging strings of lights. Artificial snow lay on the ground, scattered loosely and in heaps everywhere. The old men had created a winter wonderland for themselves only, a lonely, crazy vision.

“Freaks,” Hayden muttered as she came up alongside Drake, the ever-present Kinimaka looking concerned at her side. “Drake, I’m not buying this. Those guys out there—they’re amateurs. And we’re being told that they found and massacred the Shadow Elite?”

Drake looked back at Dahl. “Stay with them, please. We need to know what happened here.”

Dahl nodded. Drake moved carefully out of the house and into the crisp, cold night. His SAS pals shadowed Mai and Alicia as they skirted the high curb that surrounded the ice rink, heading for tree-cover. Ahead, among the trees, Drake saw a man appear. At first, he looked shocked. Drake took a second to line up a shot and fired, but the man screamed out a warning a split-second before the bullet smashed him off his feet.

Now other men darted fast between the trees, firing hard. Some looked back, and others moved forward and shooting blindly over their shoulders. Drake hit the deck with the rest of his team, shielding their bodies behind the curb, but not one single bullet impacted anywhere near them.

“Go?” Sam checked with Drake.

It was tempting. A strong, fluid team like theirs could rip through a horde of terrorists in seconds. . .but if just one of those wayward bullets struck lucky…

But the eight pieces of Odin were heading for an auction to be attended by the world’s richest and deadliest terrorists. Something had to give. A soldier was a soldier because he risked everything for the country and the people that he loved. A hero was a hero because he felt the fear and went in anyway.

“Fuck it,” he said. “Hit ’em.”

As one they rose and ran in double formation around the circumference of the ice rink, firing precisely and constantly. Two of the fleeing men were hit and went down hard, skidding in the artificial snow. Bullets scudded off tree trunks and through leaves, shattering multi-colored lights and bringing the heavy ropes of trimmings cascading to the floor. Enormous ice sculptures were hit and chipped, some toppling over and smashing to pieces as they landed.

Drake used the excellent tree cover to dart forward without stopping. Quickly he caught sight of the terrorists’ rear guard and squeezed off half a dozen shots. Men fell screaming, falling among scattered tree lights and bringing even more heavy trimmings to the floor. Drake quickly sped past them, taking point with Mai, confident his team would mop up and ensure that those who fell but weren’t really dead were soon made that way.

He crouched in the snow, breathing lightly, reloading. The flakes crunched as Mai dropped to his side. It was so quiet around them he could hear her low breathing. He peered through the laden branches, pushed a paper lantern aside.

“Like old times?” Mai said.

“You and me?” Drake said. “I guess so. Very old times.”

“Still strong and warm in my memory, Matt.”

He paused for a second to stare at her. There had been no signs, no warning that she still felt that way. “Whoa, and you’re telling me now. Right now.”

Mai fired as a head popped up. “We’re both soldiers. This is what we do. And well, it’s almost Christmas. What better time could there be?”

With that, she sprang up as fresh as if this were her first day of conflict and dashed to the next tree. Drake ducked down as a bullet whistled past surprisingly close and then rose up, firing. A second later, he rejoined Mai.

“My feelings for you never changed,” he told her. “Not once through all the years. But seriously, before we look at that, I have to finish all this.” He paused.

“For Alyson?” Mai charged again, and now Drake ran with her, half a step behind. Terrorists were fleeing ahead of them, their colorful clothes easy targets, their cries better than homing beacons.

“Yes, for Alyson.” Drake panted, firing and talking and scanning for prey. “And for Kennedy. This whole Odin thing is what dragged her in. It’s how we met. I want it all behind me before I even try to move on.”

“Fair enough.” Mai hurdled a fallen terrorist, skipping off his back as he tried to rise, firing between her legs and into his body. “I’ll still be here. . .” She shrugged as she landed like a cat. “For a short while.”

They had come through the thick of the trees by now and were nearing the rear of the garden. Drake could spy the high stone wall between branches. With quickness born of years of warfare, he spied an enemy muzzle poking around a tree trunk, spun and fired, sending the muzzle flying and the man who held it straight to hell.

Terrorists milled around ahead, gathered at the foot of the wall, some already climbing the half dozen rope ladders that had been thrown over. Mai fell to one knee and started to pot them, like ducks in a shooting gallery, but Drake searched frantically for any signs of the objects they were pursuing.

No,
he thought.
A false trail? No way. These people weren’t that clever
. And Drake was pretty sure their own presence had come as a surprise to the terrorists. But still. . .

Then, with a thunderous sound that might spell the doom of the world, there came the roar of a powerful engine starting up. Drake knew it immediately for what it was. The getaway vehicle.

They were already escaping with the eight pieces!

“The wall!” he cried. “Hit the wall with everything you’ve got!”

Hayden and Kinimaka and the SAS team ran together and let loose a wall of lead. Terrorists crumpled to the ground where they stood. Those who tried to return fire died just as quick or were knocked aside by their falling comrades. Men fell backward from the walls, plummeting like empty sacks, crushing those beneath. Deadly chips of rock blasted back as bullets riddled the stonework, stitching ragged lines across the pitch-face blocks.

Drake didn’t hesitate. He reached the base of the wall and flung himself at the nearest swinging ladder, grabbed a rung and started climbing. A terrorist climbed above him, just nearing the top of the wall. Drake quickly closed the gap and wrenched the man off the wall, hearing his scream as he cartwheeled through the air and crunched solidly against the ground.

He was vaguely aware of Mai on the rope next to him, keeping pace. He was also faintly surprised that he was in front of her, but then the roar of the terrorists’ getaway vehicle and the sight from the top of the wall jolted all other emotion except terror from his body.

The vehicle, a dark colored van with what sounded like a performance engine, shot off down the darkened boulevard that backed on to the mansion. Within a second, it was turning at a junction, skidding a little, and then powering away along an unseen road.

A line of some half-dozen terrorists had been left behind and were pointing their weapons right at Drake and Mai on top of the wall.

Then they opened fire.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Drake leapt off the wall the instant he saw that the unpitying black eyes of six muzzles were fixed on him. By the time the terrorists opened fire, he was already in free fall. The bullets whizzed over the top of the wall, some catching its top ledge and sending fragments of stone showering down around him.

He let go of the gun. His questing hand reached for and caught the swinging rope ladder. He clutched at it, felt his palms burn, but seized it even harder. Abruptly his fall was arrested; his shoulder muscles complained and his back hurt as he swung into the wall. With a swift kick, he planted his feet on the springy rungs and safely climbed back down to the ground.

Hayden was in his face. “What happened?”

“Twats got away,” Drake said. “The pieces are gone.”

“And we have no one out there,” Hayden hissed. “Because we’re all in here! Shit!”

“The secretary, Gates, has been seeking out local assets for days,” Kinimaka said. “So has Komodo. They have men prepared to fight. We need them now.”

Sam looked at Drake. “The regiment has two teams within an hour’s flight,” he said.

“Put them on standby,” Drake told him and started back toward the house. “Dahl also has plenty of local assets. But first of all, we need to find out where they’re going and when they plan to make the sale. This kind of event would be bloody impossible to change.”

“Right.” Hayden kept pace with him as they tramped through the snow back through the trees to what used to be the Shadow Elite’s mansion, now their crypt.

A strained silence surrounded the team as they trudged around the floodlit ice rink and approached the open French doors. The sense of foreboding was strong, as every man and woman imagined what a committed terrorist might do with a doomsday weapon.

Dahl met them at the door. “You failed? Trust a bloody Yorkshireman to fuck it all up.”

Drake couldn’t even muster the willpower for a retort. He pushed past the Swede and the Norseman, straight up to the still prone Holgate, who was being attended to by Komodo with Ben, Karin and Gates looking on.

“He still conscious?”

“Barely.”

“Wake the twat up.” Drake growled. “Don’t care how. We only need him alive for a minute or two.”

The Norseman immediately protested. “Excuse me! There is a lawful—”

Dahl’s fist stopped the rest of his tirade. “You keep opening it, I’ll keep filling it. No problem.”

Within a minute, Holgate was squirming and protesting loudly. Drake nodded in satisfaction. “Good enough.” He crouched until he could whisper in the man’s ear. “Now, you live or die,” he said. “And if you don’t care, then we can make you die easy or die hard. It’s our choice. You get it? For years, centuries, you people have written and played with the law. Bended it to your whim. But now. . .
now
we are the law. There’s nobody around to help you, Holgate.”

Defeated eyes turned toward him. “Aldridge? Grey? Leng?”

“All dead.” Drake didn’t care. “And they suffered badly, Holgate. How do
you
want to die?”

“The Shadow Elite—” the Norseman began haughtily, but then started choking.

“There is no more Shadow Elite.” Drake heard Alicia sigh. “Get it through your thick Viking skull.”

Holgate must have heard it too, for tears formed in his eyes. “My fault.” He whispered. “All my fault. I led the terrorists here. They were supposed to help me steal the pieces of Odin and transport them to the Czech Republic but, instead, they double-crossed me.”

“Shocker,” Drake murmured. “Tell me more.”

“I was bankrupted, my assets dissolved. But the group would never accept that. It wasn’t possible. It wasn’t even
considered
possible. Our families have succeeded through even the darkest days of the last thousand years.”

“And you bolloxed it all up,” Drake said. “I get that. But I don’t give a shit, see? What I want to know is where they’re staging this bazaar, how many terrorists are involved, and when is it happening? Quickly now, Holgate, before I let my team take turns shooting bits off you.”

“An old, deserted town in the Czech Republic. A ghost town. Tomorrow—three p.m. their time.

“And how many?”

Holgate shuddered as, for the first time, he stared Drake right in the eyes.

“Yes?”

“All of them.”

CHAPTER THIRTY

With the fight of their lives beckoning the very next day, it seemed only fitting they should spend this night, perhaps their last as a full team, relaxing together. Going up against so many at the same time made the possibility of them all surviving the battle slimmer than a razor’s edge.

Belmonte chose a Vienna hotel he was accustomed to and rented out a dozen rooms all on the same floor. The thief was spending money like it didn’t matter anymore, and maybe it was partly his way of atoning for Emma’s death. Giving up that which he loved the most.

Or—
almost
loved the most.

One thing was clear. Belmonte had suffered a life-changing event and would never be the same. All his priorities had changed forever.

The Hotel Imperial stood in five-star luxury, lit up against the night like a golden treasure at the end of a dark, perilous path. The lobby was an opulent, inviting mix of the deepest colors, rich reds and gilded edges, dark oak frames and a bright, shining chandelier above it all. To the right of the domed revolving door stood a tall, sparkling Christmas tree, adorned with splendid trimmings and sparkling lights. Large, beautifully wrapped presents sat all around its base.

“Oh, how the other half live,” Alicia said, stopping and looking around. Even the snappy Englishwoman pulled her coat tighter to hide her shabby clothes. Whilst Belmonte paid, the rest of the team hung around the lobby, staring at the hotel’s well-to-do occupants wheeling hand luggage around and chatting amongst themselves. After a while the master thief signaled them and they climbed a great red-carpeted stairway lined by heavy oak paneling, overseen by another outsized chandelier. At the top they were faced with marble pillars and a warmly backlit statue, above which hung an old, expensive-looking painting.

“This way.” Belmonte took off, picking his way down another plushly-appointed corridor before stopping and waving his arm. “Down there. Three-oh-five to three-sixteen. Take your pick.”

“Just one thing.” Alicia wasn’t ever one to express her thanks the right way. “My room had better have a pair of those fancy friggin’ slippers and a bathrobe.”

Belmonte slid his entry card into the lock. “I thought you’d be more interested in the complimentary massage service.”

Alicia’s eyes widened. “Damn right.”

The group began to drift off, looking to chill out for the first time in what seemed, to Drake at least, months. He chose a room, shouted, “Lobby in thirty for anyone who cares,” and entered his room alone.

Put his back to the door and closed his eyes.