Matt Drake 14 - The Treasures of Saint Germain (16 page)

“We’ll be careful, Hayden,” he said. “All of us. Hey guys, take it easy. We’ll meet you in Zurich.” He started to walk away.

Dahl looked worried. “Drake?” he said.

“Yeah?” The Yorkshireman turned, pleased that the Swede cared.

“Don’t fuck it up.”

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

Karin Blake knew what hell looked like. She knew what utter defeat tasted like. And she knew the sensation of soul-destroying desolation. Since Matt Drake entered her life she had lost her brother, her parents, and recently the love of her life. She had tried to do good; fought on the side of the noble and the virtuous. She had checked all the right boxes—but somehow still lost out on life.

So she made Drake enroll her in a program, ostensibly to prepare a way for her into the team with confidence, into the field with some experience, and with more than just a dojo-earned black belt to call upon. The Yorkshireman pulled many delicate strings and cancelled out several favors to get the Englishwoman into the American Army program, but somehow managed to pull it off.

Fitting, actually.

It had a fateful sense of irony that Matt Drake had fought tooth and nail to sign her up for the months’-long, extremely intense, grueling super-program that would eventually—

Barked orders interrupted her train of thought.

“Enemy sighted. Stay alert, stay frosty. We’re being told to engage.”

Karin knew this was no drill, no extended training exercise. She looked forward to real-world action after training for so long. The months had been punishing, backbreaking, consuming her every waking minute and short hours of slumber. Soon after she started the proliferating exhaustion, she stopped remembering her dreams, which was a godsend.

Soon after that, the overwhelming pain and demanded effort robbed her brain of alternative thought processes, which also was a blessing in disguise. Being able to move, sleep where she could, wake on demand, know which injuries were serious and which would be laughed at, engage her genius intellect at select times, get along with the boys and earn their respect, stand up for herself when the need arose—all this and more crammed her day with details.

Guilt flourished, though, when she realized she hadn’t thought about Komodo in twenty four hours. More guilt when she remembered a week had passed since she contacted the SPEAR team. Then the guilt compounded when she realized she couldn’t remember the exact date when Ben and her parents died.

Emotions compressed inside her.

They became a raging sea, wild and untamed, kept in check only by the regime she followed. And in some rare moments of alacrity she knew—it was a damn good job the struggles expended her. A good job indeed.

Karin turned her rage toward the program. She became the best and the baddest version of herself, when either version was called for. Initial team sessions were hard, but first she outthought her fellow trainees and then she began to outfight them. What she lacked for in strength she gained in ferocity, in unfettered cruelty. She would strike at the most vulnerable place at the precise moment and without mercy. The men soon learned to take her seriously.

Another barked order. “We’re now on point, people. Strap on and strap in. This just got very real.”

Karin allowed the here and now to intrude. In truth, this was about as much thinking time as she’d had in the last few months. She decided now that she didn’t like it. Bring on the goddam war, and bring on the friggin’ pain.

The guys in her class sat all round her, filling the back of the high, black, unmarked truck. Palladino, Perry, Garrett and Winters, and many others, waiting with grim faces, little banter and unknown expectations. They had never been thrust into actual battle before—and now only through sheer misfortune. It was one thing to know you would be fighting a real enemy that day, quite another to stumble upon it during an exercise.

Karin stood up, braced herself, and peered through the narrow rectangular window into the front cab. She wore black fatigues and a Kevlar jacket, boots and helmet. She carried a rifle and handgun, knife and other weapons. She had provisions, medical supplies, emergency necessities and Bluetooth arrayed around her body. She felt none of it; saw only what was directly ahead.

Two dirty white trucks filled with dirty white boys, running for the hills.

Palladino joined her at the window. “So that’s Mullholland Drive, eh Kaz?” he muttered. “First time I seen it.”

She accepted Kaz or Blake. She knew neither moniker showed disrespect.

“Just a road filled with soon-to-be-dead men,” she said. “Any minute now.”

Both trucks narrowly missed an oncoming car, the impact avoided through luck rather than intention.

“Civilians are in the way,” Palladino said. “Bear it in mind.”

“Civilians are always in the way,” Karin said. “And often get killed.”

“You never told us much about yourself,” Palladino said with a perceptive touch.

“We’re not here to get cozy, Palladino. We’re here to learn how to kill these mothers before they kill us. Don’t pretend you don’t want to.”

Karin ignored his confused expression, watching as the chase unfolded. Both white trucks swerved and bounced wildly around the bends and switchbacks, drivers becoming increasingly panicked and pushing overloaded vehicles beyond their limits.

“They’re transporting guns,” Palladino pointed out. “Sooner or later they’re going to realize that.”

Karin checked the truck’s big side mirrors, and saw a phalanx of flashing black-and-whites following. “Yeah, and it’ll be bloody messy.”

“Now is that bloody? Or messy? Can’t tell with that accent of yours.”

“Palladino.” Karin gave him the eye. “I don’t want to be friends with you or anyone else. We work together. Concentrate on the job.”

“Sure, sure.”

Karin ignored everything around her to assess the unfolding events. Their driver—Callahan—steered carefully and with unwavering attention, staying close to the trucks but trying not to appear too threatening. The protests of the engine and squeal of the tires belied his efforts but his skills were obvious. As they roared along the asphalt a sharp, blind hill gave the trucks ahead some airspace, and Callahan didn’t back off. Karin held on as the truck left the road, then crashed down, sending two men sprawling. She didn’t move to help, preferring to keep her distance.

Outside, one of the trucks jolted along the grass verge, roof and sides shaking and jouncing against their padlocks, juddering as if from a localized earthquake. More guys crowded around.

“Move aside, Blake. Let someone else see.”

Karin retreated, and that was when the shooting began. The back door of the rearmost truck rolled up noisily and bullets began to smash and punch through their vehicle. Karin ducked low and two of the guys went three shades whiter than pale.

“What do we do?” Winters asked.

“Don’t get shot.” Karin bent even further, figuring her position behind the front engine would also help. Four others figured it out too; some looked too scared to move.

“So this is what we’ve been training for,” Hildreth, their current team leader bellowed. “You guys are exactly where you should be, just a tad earlier than expected. And on American soil.” He added the last sentence a touch awkwardly. “Consider this a bonus.”

Karin smiled grimly, noting the mixed emotions that crossed her colleagues’ faces. All was not well there it seemed, and some might now willingly take the lonely walk down Washout Lane.

For the better,
she thought.
I don’t want losers watching my back.

For now, though, they were a team. Callahan flung the truck around a sweeping corner; a bullet crunched through sheet metal and traveled through them, striking a small, young guy called Wu in the chest. The impact knocked him to his knees, where he waited for several moments, panting.

“I’m okay,” he said eventually.

“Duh,” Karin said. “We figured that when you weren’t part of the stain on the back door.”

“And a good job that wasn’t me,” said Perry, the tallest of their group at almost seven foot. “ ’Cause it would’a taken my friggin’ balls off.”

There were a few guffaws, mostly nervous laughter. Karin knew how close they had come. Another bullet whizzed through, this time over head height, and when she chanced a look into the cab she saw Callahan fighting the wheel, windshield smashed to hell, and his co-driver nursing an arm wound. They were getting shot to shit up there.

“We have to do something,” she said. “Or they’re gonna die.”

Hildreth might be team leader but he was still a new recruit. “What do you suggest?”

Karin didn’t answer, instead smashing out the viewing panel and resting her rifle on the frame. When the trucks aligned she squeezed off half a dozen shots, scattering the men inside and winging one quite badly. It was a chaotic scene in there, with crates haphazardly stacked, some piled to the roof and listing badly, some with lids broken, jagged wood sliding around and men falling over everything, firing blindly as they rose up. Shots barely missed companions, some punching through their own truck. Others got lucky, flying over Callahan. Karin let loose her rifle again, adding to the general mayhem. Screams and shouts rang out and the truck incredibly tried to pick up speed.

“Take ’em out,” Palladino whispered at Karin’s side. “You got ’em panicking now, Blake.”

“Amen to that, motherfucker.”

Karin emptied her clip.

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

The rearmost white truck veered violently across the road, bouncing back off a carved cliff face, barely staying upright. Men and crates spilled inside the back, coming together with a crash and a crack and agonized screams. Two whole crates slid clear of the truck, smashing apart against the asphalt and spilling dozens of rifles and magazines. Callahan rode right over them, unable to safely avoid the obstacle. Karin changed her clip and sighted again, ignoring the questions that arose at her back.

“What happened?”

“Did we get it?”

We?

“Take ’em out, Blake.”

She squeezed off more shots, hitting crates and one man’s leg. The sitting ducks in back of the truck were now screaming at their driver to turn on the speed, realizing they were facing at least one trained shooter. Still they scrambled to and fro though, returning fire and rummaging through open crates to see what weapon they could take up next.

Screaming sirens filled her ears and, closer, the comments of her team. Karin caught Callahan’s eye as the driver turned momentarily, nodded at the mouthed ‘thanks’, and told their co-driver to hunker down.
The tires,
she thought. Time to end the chase.

It had begun in east LA, a white gang taking delivery of weapons under the watchful eye of the DEA. Challenges had been issued and an assault made but the gang had proven too well-armed, and had made off toward the city. Several miles later they’d passed Karin’s team involved in their own exercise up in the hills, and Callahan had tuned the army radio to take in the police band. A quick decision and they had joined the chase, radioing in along the way and receiving criticism from every angle. Nevertheless, once engaged they hadn’t deemed it right to back off. Cop’s lives were at risk and the Army couldn’t lose face. The bandits were incredibly well-armed.

Karin squeezed off a shot at one of the rear tires, and saw her bullet take a chunk out of the road surface. Palladino breathed into her ear.

“I’d have made that shot.”

Karin sighed. “Even with luck? Not a chance.”

“Always better than you, Blake. Always. You know it, girl.”

The friendly rivalry was out of place. Karin ignored it and re-sighted. The jolting of the truck, the bouncing of the wheels, the flitting back and forth of the men in back and their attempts at shooting, were mere disruptions to the deep inner and outer focus required to pull the shot off. If she . . .

Then everything changed.

One of the gunrunners smashed open a random crate and started shouting in his excitement. Karin took her eye off the tire to watch it play out. Other heads whipped toward the man. When his arms came up, scooping out dozens of small black objects, Karin turned quickly to Callahan

“Get ready to ram him.”

The Irish driver was already goosing the gas pedal, on the same wavelength. The truck lurched, sending everyone staggering except for Karin. As she watched, the man with the grenades threw them haphazardly to friends and colleagues, an insane grin on his face. Then, before Callahan could close the gap, he hurled one at the approaching truck.

It bounced off, clattering down the road and into the grass verge.

“Forgot to remove the pin.” Callahan shook his head in disbelief.

The next arced high into the air, triggering a violent reaction from the driver. He wrenched the wheel to the left, sending even Karin staggering.

“What the fu—”

“Take it easy, man!”

The loud protests went up. Karin regained her balance. The grenade exploded as they passed, shrapnel peppering the side. After that it grew quieter inside as the men realized what had almost happened.

“Nice moves, Callahan,” Palladino muttered.

Karin regained the viewing panel, knowing it was far from over. Callahan had the gas pedal mashed almost all the way to the floor; the faces of the men in the truck ahead all too visible. It was do or die as they moved within easy throwing range.

“Ahead,” Karin said.

Callahan nodded in grim relief. A sharp bend lay just a few seconds away.

“Hang the fuck on,” he grated.

The white truck flung itself at the bend, barely slowing, but Callahan sped up. In a second, their truck smashed the rear side of the other as it turned, flinging it into a broadside. Men sprawled and collapsed in the back, grenades flying up into the air and among the crates. At least two of the men’s faces creased in terror.