The Bones Of Odin (Matt Drake 1) (17 page)

His e-mail pinged. A video-feed came up on the screen, showing the new girl, Karin Blake, sitting on her bed in chains.

“At last.” Frey got his first look at her. The Blake woman had marked every one of the three mercenaries he’d sent to abduct her, one quite viciously. She was highly intelligent, quite a catch, and she’d just been locked in her little prison back at La Verein to await Frey’s arrival.

Fresh meat for his delectation.
From the blood of innocents -
his eternal bliss. She was his property now. She sported short-cropped blonde hair, a nice fringe, and a pair of wide eyes - though Frey couldn’t be sure of the colour at this pixel quality. Nice body - not the skinniness of a model; more curvy, which would no doubt appeal to the lower masses.

He tapped her digitised face. “Be home soon, my little . . .”

At that moment the door burst open and the brute Milo came through, cell-phone brandished in one hand. “It’s her,” he cried. “Alicia!” There was a goofy grin on his idiotic face.

Frey kept his emotions hidden. “
Ja? Halo?
Yes, tell me. That last Piece in New York, it should have been
mine.
” He didn’t trust the English bitch one bit.

He listened to her, smiling when she explained where they should head to next, frowning when he heard that the Swedes and their companions were already en route, and then he couldn’t help but beam when she promised that soon he would hold both of the Canadians’ Pieces in his hands.

Then
he’d be able to figure out that odd writing around the edges of the Shield, and to see if the other Pieces were fashioned from the same rare material.
Then
he’d have three Pieces and the upper hand.

“You are, if nothing else, resourceful,” he said into the phone, whilst staring at Milo. “I look forward to
using
that resourcefulness when we meet, soon.” He hadn’t speared an English rose in quite some time.

Frey smirked on the inside when Milo’s eyes lit up at the thought of being reunited with his girlfriend. Alicia’s reply still echoed through his brain.

Any way you like, sir.

TWENTY-EIGHT

OAHU, HAWAII

On September 12
^th
the midday sun over Hawaii was obscured by a dark rain of ‘jellyfish’ parachutes - the signature chute of the American military. In a unique operation, Delta commandos landed amidst Swedish SGG and British SAS - and one New York cop - on a remote beach at the north side of the island.

Drake hit the beach at a run, the sand cushioning his landing, clicked free of the dragging chute, and turned quickly to check Kennedy’s progress. She landed amidst a couple of Delta boys, falling to one knee but soon regaining her feet.

Ben would stay with the aircraft, continuing his research with the help of Hayden, who had been sent as a U.S. ‘advisor’ on the mission.

In Drake’s experience, advisors were usually better trained versions of their bosses - spies in sheep’s clothing so to speak.

They ran across the beach under the hot Hawaiian sun, thirty highly trained special-forces soldiers, before hitting a gentle slope with the advantage of a tree-lined canopy.

Here Torsten Dahl stopped them. “You know the drill. Quiet and hard. Vault room’s the target. Go!”

The decision had been made to hit the ex-Serbian Mafia leader’s mansion with maximum force. Time was horribly against them - their rivals might also know the location of the Valkyries by now, and to get the upper hand in this race was vital.

And during his term of leadership Davor Babic had not been a merciful man.

They topped the slope and ran across a road, straight up to Babic’s private gate. Not even the breeze stirred against them. A charge was set, and in under a minute the high wrought-iron gates were tumbling pieces of metal. They charged through the gates and spread out through the grounds. Drake sheltered behind a thick palm tree, studying an open lawn that led to a massive set of marble-lined steps. At their summit was the entrance to Babic’s mansion. To either side were a bizarre array of statues and Hawaiian cultural treasures, even a Moai figure from Easter Island.

No activity yet.

The Serbian Mafia retiree was fatally complacent.

An SAS man, his face half-hidden, slid in beside Drake.

“Greetings, old pal. Nice day, eh? Love that direct sunlight on the lenses. Wells sends his regards.”

“Where is the old wanker?” Drake didn’t take his eyes off the garden.

“Says he’ll get in touch later. Something about you owing him some Mai-time.”

“Dirty old bastard.”

“Who’s Mai?” Kennedy asked. She had scraped her hair back again, and wore a shapeless army uniform over her pantsuit. She carried a pair of Glocks.

Drake, as usual, carried no weapons, save for his special-forces knife.

The new SAS guy said: “Old flame of Drake’s here. More importantly, who’re you?”

“C’mon guys. Focus here. We’re about to launch one of the biggest civilian assaults in history.”

“Civilian?” Kennedy frowned. “If this guy’s a civilian then
I’m
Claudia Schiffer’s ass.”

The Delta team was already at the steps. Drake stepped out of cover the moment they started up and raced across the open ground. When he was halfway across the shouting began.

Figures appeared at the top of the steps, variously dressed in suits and boxer-shorts and cut-off T-shirts.

Six brief shots rang out. Six bodies dropped lifelessly down the steps. The Delta team was halfway up. Urgent shouting was now coming from up ahead as Drake reached the bottom of the steps and crabbed to the right where the curving stone banister afforded a bit more cover.

A shot rang out, loud, meaning it came from the Serbs. Drake turned to check on Kennedy once more, then double-stepped to the top.

Beyond, a short expanse of gravel led to the mansion’s entrance which lay between the two halves of an H-shaped building. Armed men were filing out of the open doors, and from the flapping French doors to either side of the entrance.

Dozens of them.

Caught napping - but quick to regroup. Maybe not so complacent after all. Drake saw what was coming and took cover among the odd collection of statues. He ended up pulling Kennedy behind the Easter Island figure.

A second later, machine-gun fire erupted. The shaken guards laid curtains of lead in every direction. Drake dropped to his belly as several bullets hit the statue with dull thuds.

The guards came running forward. This was hired muscle, chosen more for their brawny stupidity than intellectual prowess. They ran straight into the Delta boys’ careful lines of fire, and fell writhing amidst hails of blood.

Glass shattered behind them.

More shots were fired from windows around the mansion. A luckless Delta soldier caught a bullet in the neck and fell instantly dead.

Two of the guards had blundered amongst the statues, one of them slightly wounded. Drake unsheathed his blade in silence and waited for one of them to step around the statue.

The last thing the wounded Serb saw was his own spraying blood as Drake slashed his throat. Kennedy fired at the second Serb, missed, then dived for cover as he raised a weapon.

The hammer clicked on empty.

Kennedy rose. Empty weapon or not, there was still an angry opponent facing her. The guard swung a haymaker, muscles flexing.

Kennedy stepped out of range, then leapt forward as his momentum left him exposed. A swift kick to the groin and an elbow to the back of the neck sent him crashing to the ground. He rolled, a blade suddenly in his hand, and slashed in a wide arc. Kennedy jerked back just enough to let the deadly tip pass her cheek before jabbing her stiffened fingers into his windpipe.

She heard soft cartilage break, heard him start to gasp.

She turned away. He was done for. She had no wish to watch him die.

Drake stood watching. “Not bad.”

“Maybe you’ll stop mollycoddling me now.”

“I wouldn’t-” he stopped short.
Had he?
He covered his shame with manly bluster. “Nothing like watching a woman with a gun.”

“Never mind.” Kennedy crept behind a totem-pole, another of the mansion’s incongruous features, and surveyed the scene.

“We’re splitting up,” she told him. “You’re going to find the vault room. I’m going round back.”

He made a reasonable job of hiding his hesitation. “You sure?”

“Hey, bucko, I’m the cop here remember? You’re the civilian. Do as you’re told.”

*****

Drake watched Kennedy creep off to the right, heading towards the rear of the mansion where satellite surveillance had shown a Helipad and several low-slung buildings. The SAS team had been deployed there already, and would be infiltrating it at that very moment.

He found his eyes lingering on her form, his brain suddenly wishing that the clothes she wore showed her ass off.

Shock jarred him. Humility and uncertainty joined forces in his head, causing a maelstrom of self-doubt. Two years since Alyson left, over seven hundred days of instability. Unfamiliar depths of constant inebriation, followed by bankruptcy, and then the slow, slow rise back to normality.

Not even there yet. Nowhere near.

Was it his vulnerability talking?

Plan B.

The job at hand. Try to regain that military focus and leave the damn civilian stuff behind for a while. He relieved both guards of their weapons, and sneaked through the statues until he stood at the edge of the gravel driveway. He noted three targets at three different windows, and fired off three bursts in quick succession.

Two screams and a yell. Not bad. When the surviving head popped back out, searching for his position, Drake reduced it to a red haze.

Then he ran, only skidding on his knees to a halt right up against the mansion’s exterior, his head against the rough stonework. He glanced back towards the Delta team as it rushed to catch up with him. Nodded at their leader.

“Straight through.” Drake nodded at the door, then to the right. “Vault room.”

They filed inside, Drake last, hugging the curve of the wall. A wide, wrought-iron staircase spiralled up before them to the mansion’s second level.

As they crept along the wall, more Serbs emerged along the upstairs balcony, right above them. In an instant, the Delta team had made themselves sitting ducks.

With nowhere to go, Drake fell to his knees and opened fire.

*****

Kennedy sprinted to the tree-line that bordered the mansion’s exterior wall and started to move faster. In no time she had reached the back of the house, whereupon a faceless SAS soldier fell on his belly before her.

Like a rabbit she stood still, mesmerized by the barrel of the rifle. For the first time in months all thoughts of Thomas Kaleb deserted her.

“Shit!”

“It’s okay,” a voice said next to her right ear. She sensed the cold blade only millimetres away. “It’s Drake’s bird.”

The comment swept away her fear. “
Drake’s bird?
I am
not!”

A man moved in front of her, smiling. “Well then, in the words of your President, Miss Moore -
whatever.
I would prefer to properly introduce myself, but this is not the time or place. Call me Wells.”

Kennedy recognised the name, but said no more as a large team of British soldiers materialised around her and began to make tracks. The rear of Babic’s property comprised an immense patio lined with Indian stone, an Olympic-size swimming pool surrounded by sun-loungers and white pavilions, and several squat, ugly buildings out-of-keeping with the rest of the decor. Situated next to the largest building was a round Helipad, complete with civilian chopper.

After years of walking the New York beat, Kennedy had to question then whether crime did, in fact, pay. It paid for these guys, and Kaleb. It would have paid for Chuck Walker if Kennedy hadn’t seen him pocketing that wad.

The sun-loungers had been occupied. Several half-naked men and women now stood around in shock, clutching clothes and trying to cover excess flesh. Kennedy noted that some of the older men couldn’t have managed it with a hippopotamus hide, whilst most of the younger women took care of it with just two hands and a twist to the left.

“Those people . . . let’s call them
guests . . .
are probably not a part of the Serbian group,” Wells said softly into a throat mic. “Move them away,” he nodded to the three lead men. “The rest of you head for the seaward side of those buildings.”

As the group began to split, several things happened at once. The chopper’s rotor blades started rotating; the sounds of its engines immediately overpowered the shouts of those nearby. Then, a deep rumbling, like the sound of a roller-shutter door preceded the sudden scream of a powerful automobile. From around the seaward side of the ugly buildings came a white streak of metal, an Audi R8 accelerating at top speed.

By the time it reached the patio area it was a lethal ton bullet. It ploughed into the stunned SAS men, sending them sprawling and tumbling through the air. Behind it came another car, this one black and larger.

The chopper’s blades began to rotate faster, its engines screaming. The whole machine shook as it prepared to take off.

Kennedy, dazed, could only listen as Wells barked orders. She winced as the remaining SAS soldiers opened fire.

All hell broke loose in the garden.

Soldiers fired on the speeding Audi R8, bullets struck through its metal casing, penetrating the wing and door skins. The car raced for the corner of the house, slewing at the last minute to make the tight turn.

Gravel shot from under its tyres like tiny missiles.

A bullet smashed the windshield, obliterating it. The car literally died in mid-flight, its engine quieting as the driver slumped behind the wheel.

Kennedy ran forward, gun up. “
Don’t move!”

Before she reached the car it was obvious that the driver was its lone occupant.