Matt Drake 07 - Blood Vengeance (16 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

Kinimaka
knew instantly that Hayden was dying, bleeding to death, and that he only had one chance to save her life. Everything came down to this. All his training, every scrap of his experience. Act fast. Push everything else aside and work like he’d never worked before.

He would
still have to go through the motions, but following those procedures saved lives more often than not. The new gunshot wound underneath Hayden’s heart was a through and through; it appeared not to have rattled around inside her body since the entrance and exit wounds were in perfect alignment, but sometimes even that assumption had been proved to be a mistake. Kinimaka had known bullets chew people up inside, bouncing from bone to bone, and still line up when they came out.

Her airway was fine; she was breathing raggedly and even muttering. Her eyes were bright, so bright they made his heart lurch and his nerves rattle. Kinimaka felt such a rush of anxiety and love he
began to doubt his ability and almost stopped what he was doing to call Smyth to take over. But no, this was Hayden. His boss and his friend for so long, now his lover.

But battlefield medicine was about as precise as the name suggested. He recognized she was strong enough to place her hands over the wound to control the bleeding, and laid her out in the back seat.

“Drive steady,” he told Smyth.

Then he turned back to Hayden. “Hold your hands tightly here. I know it hurts. Press, Hay, just press.”

As she groaned, Kinimaka looked around for something to make a seal. The first thing he saw in the rear footwell of their stolen car was a CVC plastic bag—not good enough, but inside it were several items. Quickly he tore open a package and grabbed the plastic, placing it over the wound. There was no tape around so Kinimaka forced Hayden to hold it in place. Using a plastic seal this way slowed the bleeding and helped prevent the development of a collapsed lung. It would ensure that, if she came out of this okay, she would have every chance to get better without some kind of disability. He wrapped her up warm, minimizing any exposure, and let her lie in the most comfortable position.

Karin stared over the back of her seat. “Don’t elevate her legs, Mano. She’ll bleed easier.”

Kinimaka bit his tongue. He knew that, but Karin was only trying to help. “Thanks.”

Smyth swerved around a slower car. “Sorry,” he said through gritted teeth. “How’s she
doin’?”

“I can’t tell. We need to get her to that safe house.”

“Doin’ my best.”

With no pursuit and quiet roads the Suburban made good time. Once they entered the restricted area, using their SPEAR IDs, the roads truly opened up and Smyth soon powered down the street where their old safe house sat. Komodo called ahead, using an old CIA code that Kinimaka remembered, and forced a laugh.

“Looks like they sent everyone here. Place is gonna be crowded.”

“Never mind,” Kinimaka said.
“So long as we can make her comfortable.”

Hayden’s eyes fluttered. Her breathing came in shallow gasps, but even that was better than it had been before. Kinimaka had done all he could for her, short of finding a surgeon and an ER. Contrary to popular TV, the bullet didn’t need to be removed straight away. To do that would only increase the blood flow.

What remained of their team climbed wearily out of the black Suburban, taking a second to bask in the rays of the rising sun, then positioned themselves to help extract Hayden from the car. It was a slow process and risky, but she couldn’t stay there. By the time they approached the door it was already open.

Lauren Fox greeted them, “Hey.”

Smyth made eyes at her. “Hey.”

“We cleared a room for her.”

Kinimaka moved slowly, taking every ounce of Hayden’s weight and trusting Komodo to protect the area around her wounds as best he could. They moved through a dimly lit room and paused.

“In here.” Kinimaka recognized the Russian thief, Yorgi, standing waving in a doorway. As he started to move again he saw Sarah Moxley sitting in a cloud of depression on one of the sofas.

“Sarah?”

The woman barely looked up, her thoughts still dwelling on the dreadful scene that had started this night off— the murder of Jonathan Gates.

Kinimaka moved on, addressing Lauren, “You three don’t seem like the likeliest of roommates.”

“I was staying here
already.” She shrugged. “Bit of a long story, but let’s just say I ain’t exactly some five-star general’s flavor of the month. Jonathan was going to sort it all out.” She paused. “Shit.”

“What did you do?” Kinimaka squeezed his bulk through the bedroom doorway and carefully maneuvered Hayden between Komodo and himself.

“Not
me,
exactly. Nightshade. My alter ego. We needed information from General Stone but then Jonathan’s good conscience got in the way. By the time he pulled me out we think Stone had gotten wise.”

Smyth was following hot on her heels. “You’re a hooker aren’t you? We got a hooker on our team. That’s just fuckin
awesome.
” Then he sobered. “Poor Romero. He would have loved that.”

Lauren ignored him. “It’s an old story
I guess now, involving General Stone. Not worth resurrecting again and again.”

Kinimaka placed Hayden on the bed and stared
down at her with anguished eyes. He thought her breathing had grown even more ragged, but was that just his imagination? Komodo looked over the bed at Lauren.

“An old story, huh?
You mean it’s last week’s news, don’t you? I’ve come to realize that’s how fast this team moves. But Lauren, a five-star general? That ain’t just gonna go away.”

“I know, man, I know. But I’ve been taking
pretty good care of myself all these years. I can sure do it again.”

“You think just because you’re streetwise you can handle this man’s influence?”

Kinimaka tuned the conversation out, leaning over the bed, closer to Hayden. Damn, how they needed her expertise and leadership right now. The harsh breaths she took, lying down, told the story of how near death she was. His mind, usually so clear and concise, was in pieces right now. He knew he should be doing something, but couldn’t quite focus on it. Should Hayden’s welfare come first? The team’s? The civilians’? Or should they be trying to help Coburn? What would Kovalenko do next?

He sat on the bed, wincing as it creaked under his weight. Hayden’s eyes fluttered open.

“Mano?”

“I’m here. You’re safe. I’m going to use the tech in here to find a safe hospital and call an ambulance.
They can’t follow us everywhere can they? How the hell do they keep on finding us?”

“The . . . the
Grid,” Hayden whispered. “I figured . . . it has to be . . . it’s compromised—”

Her eyes closed again and she stopped talking. Kinimaka leaned in. “The what?
The
Grid?”

“It’s the only . . . way—”

Hayden’s words rattled like a last breath. Kinimaka pulled away, heart flipping, but saw her eyes wide open and staring. The life in them was vivid, the will to live dazzling. Quickly, he checked her dressings.

“You think the
Grid’s compromised?”

Hayden gave a bare nod.

“But that means . . .”

Kinimaka stared around the bedro
om and through the door at the other part of the safe house. All seemed well, but an icy sliver of dread slipped down his spine. In that single quiet moment he felt every hair on his body stand on end.

“Oh no.”

The safe house door exploded.

CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR

Drake pelted along the street, all thoughts of his own safety put aside, as the five-man terrorist team fell into disorder at the top of the Metro steps, right underneath the long metal and glass canopy that curved above the Foggy Bottom GWU Station. Some kind of internal battle was going on. One man tore away from the rest, ripped off his balaclava and started to shout.

“The President!” the team leader shouted.
“Right there! That’s him!”

Drake took off like a missile, Dahl and Alicia at
his heels. The rest of Team Bravo divided around them, spanning the street, and sprinted as if they were inches away from winning gold.

Which they were.

President Coburn wrenched himself away from the grip of a man and backed off. Another man ran at him, but Coburn punched him in the nose, stopping his advance with one blow.

Drake almost cheered.

The team leader screamed into the comms.
“Send everyone! Coburn’s here! Send fuckin’ everyone!”

Drake raised his rifle. He breathed deeply, letting the habitual custom relax him. He ran at full speed, without compromising his skills, an
d felt the presence of Team Bravo all around. Ahead, the President swiped at another hooded figure, but this one stepped away and around the blow, showing practiced ability. The figure danced around behind the President and caught him around the throat, halting all his movements, then forced him roughly down the steps. The rest turned, firing a quick burst before following.

The team leader’s voice reflected his anger.
“Hurry!”

Alicia was the first to fire back. Drake
mentally kicked himself for not following suit. No one had shouted out a change of the original no-fire orders so he had just gone with it. Once a soldier . . .

But not Alicia.
She had opened fire, probably hoping she took out Kovalenko and ended this whole clusterfuck. They hit the top of the steps just in time to see legs disappearing into the circular space of the station below, and started to leap down three or four at a time. The words Foggy Bottom—GWU Station shouted at him as he passed beneath a thick concrete roof. When Drake saw a rifle pointing up from the wide-open space below, he threw himself to the side, hitting the wall hard. A volley of shots passed among Team Bravo, striking no one, but slowing their pace.

Drake start
ed down again, trying not to look at the shiny escalator sides. The team gained level ground, now standing in the surprisingly small entrance to the below-ground station. Ticket machines bordered the small space in a blue-and-silver half-circle. Yellow ‘Wet Floor’ cones lay scattered about. Through a wide opening Drake saw several barriers that led to the tracks and a couple of information-cum-guard stations. Large-scale maps dotted the walls amidst advertisements and electronic signs. The area was deserted apart from the five men they were pursuing, who even now were racing across the station at an angle to put as much distance as possible between them.

“Move!”

Alicia ran with her rifle tracking one of the fleeing figures. Drake watched her closely. “Be careful.”

Alicia tracked her enemy but didn’t fire. The men were too close together. Dahl pulled his trigger, but f
ired high, ruining a sign that read ‘Elevator to Street’. As the fleeing men slowed near the top of an escalator, a shout went up and all five of them turned.

And stopped.

Drake put the brakes on. One enemy gun was pressed hard against Coburn’s head. The rest of the rifles were trained on Team Bravo. Drake zeroed in on the man closest to the President. It was possible to kill a man so that his finger didn’t twitch on the trigger, but a millimeter to either side of the kill point and you risked a catastrophe.

And this was the President.

The team leader spoke rapidly into his comms. Drake stopped not eight feet from the terrorist group. Behind and above them, they heard vehicles screeching to a halt and the sound of many thudding feet approaching the station. Sirens wailed and the sound of military choppers landing was loud even down here.

The man standing in the middle whipped his balaclava off. Dmitry Kovalenko, the Blood King, faced the man who had become his nemesis.

“Matt Drake.” The guttural growl was hatred incarnate.

“Fuck you. Let the President go.”

“How are your friends? And young Ben? How’re his mommy and daddy?”

Drake tightened his finger on the trigger.

“Oh, and your army mates.” Kovalenko spoke in mock English. “Spiffy are they?”

One more ounce was added to the pressure.

“Don’t shoot!” the team leader cried. “Stand down!”

Kovalenko grinned devilishly. “Shoot me and your President dies.”

Drake gritted his teeth so hard he tasted blood. The arm holding his rifle shook. He heard Dahl whisper a quiet “hold,” and Alicia’s indifferent grunt, saw the mocking challenge in Kovalenko’s eyes, but it was the look in President Coburn’s eyes which stopped him.

The Blood King’s men removed their masks. The one holding Coburn was the dark-skinned African. The man’s quiet smile revealed a wealth of confidence.

“Gabriel here and his brother, Mordant, are better than you will ever be, Drake. Better than you all. They would take title—” Kovalenko laughed. “Oh, and Mordant, even now, has just crashed party at CIA safe house. Your friends die as we chat, dah? How nice.”

Drake’s finger twitched again. He concentrated solely on Coburn’s eyes, seeing the intelligence there, the calm confidence, but most of all, the tactical prowess which said this man was a heroic strategist, a player in their game, and was just awaiting his moment . . .

Tension flooded his body like never before. This was the game of games, and with a reward beyond imagination.

“Da best is yet to come.” Kovalenko grinned. “Your mistake was to ever know my name, Drake. Now, my Blood Vengeance will take everything you ever loved and drive it into ground.”

“Excuse me,” Alicia said. “Do you have a point to make? These boots are friggin’ killin’ me.”

“And your disgraced biker gang, Myles? Did they die well?”

“Funny thing,” Alicia said emotionlessly. “I ended up killing most of the bad guys. Can you guess what I’m gonna do to you?”

Kovalenko raised his own gun. “So I shoot you now, dah? You can’t shoot me. I have the President.”

The gun discharged point-blank into Alicia’s face. She had no chance. Her body fell backward. Drake fired at the African, but he had already slipped down onto the escalator, the bullet fizzing above his head as he pushed President Coburn before him. Kovalenko’s men whirled and jumped in the African’s wake, dragging Kovalenko with them.

“Whoops,” the Blood King smirked with open arms. “Never was the best of shots.”

Drake fell to his knees, cradling Alicia’s head. He was surprised to find her shocked eyes staring into his own.

“Are . . . are you okay?”

“Yeah. I think so. Bullet passed by my helmet. I think it even glanced off.”

Drake breathed deep.
Thank you, God. Thank you. Thank you.

Dahl was by his side. “Don’t do that again,” he said sternly. “You gave me a goddamn heart attack.”

Alicia climbed to her feet. The team eased forward past the ticket barriers and stared down the giant escalator at the escaping terrorists. Dahl clenched his fists.

“Balls to the wall
.” He grunted. “Live or die. Shall we go save the President?”

“Fuck, yeah.” Alicia sprang forward.

“This ain’t happenin’ on my watch.” The team leader jumped after her.

Drake slammed Dahl on the back. “You with me then, mate?”

The mad Swede simply leapt onto the middle of the escalator and threw himself headlong down the curved shiny surface, firing as he picked up pace.

“Jump on, Drake! It’s crazy time!”