Brothers In Arms (Matt Drake 5) Page 9

  “Here, have it back,” she muttered, burying it through his sternum.

  He was the last.

  Smyth stayed on one knee, eyes sweeping the bloody mess for survivors. “Jeez, lady,” he breathed. “If I didn’t have a crush on you before I sure as shit do now. That was—”

  A booming gunshot drowned out his words. The bullet nicked his ear. Smyth whipped round calmly and fired. The guard collapsed noisily.

  “Grab some weapons,” Mai said without stopping. “And light these bastards up. There’s more outside.”

  *****

  Drake allowed the current to take him closer to the big, steel-hulled ship. They had been waiting for the distraction of Mai’s fire to use the ropes they had salvaged from one of the Zodiacs. A rough plan to be sure, but then a man from the north of England prided himself on being rough around the edges.

  Now it was a bigger gamble. The warship’s own dinghies were already back in place and the great anchor was rising with a savage clanking sound, as if all the ghosts of purgatory had risen at the same time. Drake heard shouts from up top. Even the Naval Officers were sounding shocked. Mai and Smyth had set something alight alright.

  “Now or never.” Romero pushed him. “Do it.”

  Drake set his jaw. Mai could still make it. He set his sights to the back of the ship where several taut lines had still to be cast off and above that, where the depth charge rails were. Hand over hand he climbed up, facing the skies, listening only to the sounds of Romero aping him on a nearby line and the tramping of feet above. Once, when the sound of voices became too clear, Drake froze, hanging in mid-air, praying for a stroke of luck. Then more cries struck the air. Drake scurried up the last few feet like a rabid monkey.

  The Korean staring over the ship’s rail got the shock of his life, but before his eyes had widened to more than a saucer’s diameter, Drake snapped his neck and hurled him into the waters below. Romero nodded as he alighted to his left.

  “Good work.”

  Drake made to skulk over to the starboard side, but Romero grabbed his heavy jacket. “We should get below. Our mission can’t fail now, bud. She’s on her own.”

  Drake angrily shook the marine’s hand off and moved stealthily onward, but then stopped. “Balls,” he whispered.

  Romero was right.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Lauren Fox didn’t like to think too hard about what her next client might enjoy or fantasize about. Like any girl, she had her hang-ups, but they weren’t overly plentiful. The way her clients looked or dressed didn’t matter. They had been vetted by the agency. They weren’t serial killers or cops or wives or private investigators. Actually, one of her best clients was a private investigator, but he was an old friend and harmless, in all aspects. All things said, she was an easygoing girl—which was just as well in her profession. But some requests were just plain wrong.

  Lauren climbed out of the shower, dabbed herself dry with a luxurious towel and crossed over to her vanity. Expensive perfumes and after shaves lined up like willing suitors, eager to play. She checked the discreet carriage clock. Her next client was due in twenty minutes. Still time to tidy and prep, and turn herself into the high-class, two-thousand-dollar-an-hour call girl he was expecting.

  She dabbed on a little Notorious, dressed quickly in sexy underwear and styled her hair. If a client ever saw her getting dressed, they wouldn’t believe it was the same woman who controlled them so easily when she stripped. But they never would see her. Even with the overnighters and the weekenders, she retained a measure of privacy.

  Ten minutes to go. Lauren shook off the everyday world and put on her game face. It was almost fantasy time. The new client—a guy called Quinn—hadn’t requested anything specific, but sometimes they were the nastiest ones—the ones that couldn’t quite explain themselves over the phone.

  No matter, she thought. There were protocols in place and she’d already discovered she was none too shabby with an improvised weapon. Lauren Fox was streetwise to the max, quick-witted and smooth talking. All abilities that helped evoke the false veneer that she treated her rich clients to every day.

  Nightshade.

  The buzzer sounded and she checked the little monitor out of habit. Guy looked okay, but so had Freddie White, the one she’d had to subdue with a toaster whilst naked and standing on one leg because he’d been trying to eat the other.

  She still bore the teeth marks.

  The toaster still stood like a trophy in her kitchen, dented, but still usable. This guy—Quinn—didn’t look anything like Freddie. He looked more like an all-American football player, a fraternity jock, a rich kid enjoying daddy’s money. She hesitated for a second, finger poised over the lock-release button, wondering why he hadn’t looked up.

  “Come on in,” she said sweetly, but still he stared at his feet. Of course, many of her first-timers did. Most of them were call-girl virgins, or at least high-class call-girl virgins. It took several sessions for the shyness to wear off.

  They were the best ones, of course. The sweet, shy ones. And the agency had already vetted him. Lauren jabbed the button and waited to hear footsteps outside her door. A lightning check of her attire, a glance in the mirror and she flicked the lock open.

  Quinn stood outside, and now he was looking at her.

  “Hey? You okay?”

  She could tell immediately that he wasn’t. The question was a way of stalling, of gaining precious moments to think. And the bulge that ran down the trouser leg of his tight jeans? That shape was definitely all wrong.

  Lauren threw the door back in his face as hard as she could. He caught it, making the frame shudder. She backed into the apartment, unable to tear her gaze away from those dead eyes. The eyes that saw her, knew her, but stared at her with the coldness of a shark or a crocodile assessing its prey.

  Quinn advanced stiffly into the apartment, lacking even the presence of mind to close the door behind him. Lauren backed up until she felt the base of the bed at her heels. Her cell phone lay on the bedside table. The agency would already be wondering why she hadn’t dialed the special support number, the one that approved the client. But they would wait a few minutes before acting. And, right now, that was a few minutes too long.

  Quinn lunged. Lauren flung herself across the bed and reached for the phone. Quinn’s hand closed over her ankle. She screamed and lobbed the phone at his head, making him flinch. So much for that idea. She leapt for the kitchen, but he blocked her path and came on. Again, she was backed up against the bed. She jumped onto it, feeling wobbly and unsafe. Quinn’s emotionless eyes tracked her every movement. For a college kid, he moved like he knew how to handle himself in a fight.

  And that’s just what you’re gonna get, asshole, Lauren thought. No way would she give up easily. Every day of her childhood she’d had to fight tooth and nail not to be bullied or cut or raped. Those days still lived strongly with her. This crazy mother had picked on the wrong girl.

  She launched herself off the bed, catching him by surprise. Her thighs locked around his head and her weight sent him crashing to the ground. She landed on his face and neck, wishing for once that she was a little heavier. She heard his nose crack, maybe the sound of his jaw breaking. His grunt was lost in the flesh of her thighs and ass.

  “Not quite the treatment our clients usually have in mind,” said a deep voice from the open doorway.

  Lauren looked up, instantly relieved to see Arnie standing there. Arnie was an awesome guy, a bouncer, a broken-nosed boxer, a friend to all the girls. The way he looked had given him his nickname. But not a girl at the agency ever forgot to lay one on him every chance they got.

  Now Lauren rolled off Quinn, slightly surprised when he climbed straight to his knees. Asshole was probably on some serious shit anyway, eyes like that.

  Blood from his broken nose spattered across her expensive white rug.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

  She saw his hands were down his pants. She heard Arnie
approaching. Then she remembered. “Shit, he’s got—”

  But by that time, his hands were free, gripping a small 9mm pistol. Lauren hit the carpet, but Arnie never even saw it coming. He walked straight into the first round, looking shocked when his right ear exploded in a gout of blood, and staggered when the second round slammed into his gut. The third bullet thudded into the meat of his shoulder, spinning him around and the fourth imploded the back of his head.

  He collapsed, dying fast, eyes staring hard into Lauren’s with a glint of blame. Her brain screamed at her. It was fight or flight. She had seconds to decide. . .

  No decision necessary. To run was to die. Had always been the case for her. She kicked out, striking the weapon and sending it arcing high onto the bed. When Quinn went for it, she grabbed his ankles and pulled hard. Again he fell, landing on his nose. His scream shattered the almost silent cocoon of exertion that had surrounded them. The young man pushed up off his arms, blood now coating his face and the front of his clothes. He swung a haymaker. It glanced off her temple, making her see stars. She reeled back, settling on her heels.

  End of fight, time to die. Quinn was six inches from the gun. No way to reach him in time.

  So Lauren did the only thing she could—for the first time in her life, she chose flight. But not toward the open door. Instead, she sprinted for the window. It was always left slightly ajar, secured on its hinge-clip. Now she hurled her entire body at the frame, smashing the hinge and crashing through the window, glass shattering all around her. The apartment was three floors up.

  She hit the concrete floor of her balcony, still rolling, and slammed firmly into the thin, iron railings. The entire row of balconies shuddered, but held. Twisting her body she looked up just as Quinn fired. What remained of her window smashed outward in an explosion of glass and splintered wood. The bullet whizzed past her, whining like an angry wasp as it went, half-destroyed by the impact.

  Quinn advanced across the bed, lining her up in his sights.

  Now what? The leap had gained her seconds. The gap to her neighbor’s balcony looked like the Grand Canyon. And not only that—she couldn’t hit it running, she’d have to jump atop the railings and then make the leap from a standing start.

  No good choices left.

  Scrambling forward, red silk kimono untied and flapping behind her like a cape, she grabbed hold of the bars as another shot rang out. The bullet pounded into the concrete a hair’s breadth from her right knee, digging up sharp shards and dust and spraying her with metal fragments.

  Lauren climbed onto the railings, bare feet slipping across the cold metal. She had nothing to hold onto, but leaned against the brick wall. The wind whipped at her. The terrifying drop lay before her, three floors straight down to the street. She swayed, and suddenly understood what people meant when they said “my heart climbed into my mouth.” It was the undiluted fear of imminent death.

  She waited, not even considering the jump.

  When Quinn strode over the destroyed threshold of the window frame, Lauren lunged at the hand holding the gun. Time stood still as Quinn held onto it and turned the barrel toward her, but Lauren fell at his feet and heaved her entire body in the air, sending his shot high into the sky and loosening his grip on the trigger.

  Sirens filled the streets below.

  Quinn didn’t react. With the gun dangling loosely from one finger, he sought to subdue her with his free hand. Not a chance. Lauren, seeing one more opportunity, seized his wrist and upper arm and spun as hard and fast as she could. He spun with her. When she let go, the momentum she had built up sent him smashing into the railing.

  And as his upper body leaned backward, she leapt at him, both feet hitting his torso hard. The force of the blow sent him cartwheeling into space, free falling soundlessly all the way to the street. Lauren landed hard on her shoulder, almost crying with the pain, but shocked and relieved and happy to be alive.

  Her seventy-year-old neighbor now poked her silvery head over the adjacent balcony. “Not like it was in my day,” she said with a dry crackle in her throat. “Back then, a man respected a girl. Even if he had just paid for an hour on her ass.” She chuckled. “Bastard.”

  Lauren shook her head. Her neighbor, Miss Finch, was a reluctantly retired prostitute who Lauren had made the mistake of confiding in one drunken, wretched night. She’d regretted it ever since. Now she hung her head and crawled away to meet the cops.

  This confrontation promised to be just as hard as the last.

  From below, a gunshot rang out.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Mai hurried away as the kitchen began to burn. Flames were already leaping over the surfaces and would soon start capering up the walls to the ceiling. It was the signal Drake needed, in more ways than one.

  The unspoken possibility had lurked like a disgruntled poltergeist between them all day. The chance that the teams might become separated, forced to go on alone. Mai and Smyth would have to continue as if the worst had happened, whilst hoping for the best. Same for Drake and Romero. There was no other way.

  She followed Smyth to the rear of the building. The marine grunted. “Thought you might like to see something I found earlier.” He pointed to the floor.

  Mai’s eyes followed his fingers. The rough frame of a trapdoor lay beneath a hastily upended bed. The door was closed.

  “Thoughts?” Mai’s mind worked overtime, never stopping evaluating their situation.

  “Don’t look like anyone made it down there.” Smyth kicked at the dust that coated the frame. “They’re waiting for us outside. We no longer have the element of surprise. I’d say—” Smyth stamped lightly on the frame, watching it judder. “Take our chances.”

  “And hope it’s not a basement? A torture chamber? A storage room?”

  “Sure. Ya got a better idea?”

  Mai glanced up at the darkened windows. It wouldn’t be long before someone seized the guards’ attention and forced them back into shape. They might yet attack, despite the flames.

  “Damn.” She bent with Smyth and together they hauled the door upward. Cold, fresh air washed past their noses.

  “Good sign,” said Smyth, lowering his body down first. Mai took a moment to improvise two torches out of hardy bed sheets and shattered table legs, and hopped onto the ladder.

  Hungry flames ate away the darkness to reveal a room no larger than the kitchen upstairs. Ripped apart boxes were strewn across the floor. Mai almost started straight back up the ladder before she saw Smyth gesticulating toward a corner.

  “Breeze’s coming from that way.” The marine hurried over. Mai clung to the rungs, holding the flames away from her face. There was a sudden crash from upstairs.

  “Fire’s spreading,” she said. She jumped down. Smyth turned, a look of cheeriness on his face.

  “A tunnel.”

  “Stop smiling, Smyth. It doesn’t suit you.”

  Quickly, they traversed the short tunnel, Mai handing over the second torch and gripping hers as long as she was able. It turned out to be just long enough. A solid rock wall soon faced them, the only way up a well-made wooden ladder.

  “From the direction I’d say it’s going to bring us out in the lab.” Mai sighed. “At one time this could have been a way to transport patients unseen, or get the guards in and out during a typhoon. Crafty Devils, these Koreans.”

  Smyth studied the Japanese agent for a moment. “Still trust your friend, Hibiki?”

  “Do you trust Romero?”

  “It isn’t the same.”

  “Are you sure? What exactly do you know about Hibiki and I?”

  Smyth’s face twisted back to its customary scowl. Mai smiled at his back. “That’s what I thought you knew.”

  The marine scrambled up the ladder. Mai listened but heard no sounds of pursuit. In another half second, she was directly below Smyth as he inched open the trapdoor. Mai recognized the shadowy room immediately. It was the same room she had hidden in earlier, listening to the convers
ations of the doctors.

  “Slowly.” She hissed. “This room was clear earlier.”

  Smyth eased up the door until he could clamber out. Then he was up with a quick cat-like movement, weapon ready. Mai writhed her body after him with a fluid grace any middle-eastern belly dancer would have been proud of.

  They crouched in darkness, listening.

  Then, from behind them a voice whispered. “Don’t shoot.”

  Mai recognized the voice. Quickly she stayed Smyth’s hand. “Hibiki?”

  “I saw you earlier, Mai. I have been here for some hours, hoping you might return.”

  “Ya got fuckin’ lucky there, bro,” Smyth sputtered. “In more ways than one.”

  “Or we Japanese are better than you allow,” Hibiki said without inflection. “But Mai. What are you doing here?”

  “Long story that started with a message. From you.”

  “Ah. I was not sure it got out.”

  “It got out alright.” Smyth hissed, with one eye on the half-open door. “To half the world’s intelligence agencies.”

  Mai hung her head. “I must apologize. He is not with me.” She looked up. “Not for long, at least. Hibiki—” she said insistently. “Dai. What is going on here?”

  “I don’t have long,” Hibiki said. “They will soon miss me. But the truth is—I don’t know. Not exactly. It is a long-term op. Very long term. Worth keeping my cover for.” The Japanese agent hesitated. “Do you see?”

  “I see,” Mai said instantly. Inwardly, she worried about the fervent light in her old friend’s eyes. “Dai, listen to me. Are you alright? This has already been a long op.”

  “Nothing like yours.” Hibiki hit back. “When you took down the Fuchu triad. That was legendary, Kitano. Legendary.”

  “I know,” Mai said. She didn’t need to brag. “But this. . .it worries me. More importantly the endgame worries me.”

  “More reason for me to stay in.” Hibiki nodded. “Until we know.”