Matt Drake 11 - The Ghost Ships of Arizona (17 page)

Both swayed, the pain momentary blinding them. Hayden struggled to shake it off.

It was at that moment that Torsten Dahl entered the fray.

The door to the room clicked open—the trio having asked for extra keys in case of a crisis—and the Swede filled the space. Hayden experienced a silent moment of rejoicing.

“Mr. Dahl,” Beauregard said. “This party is already full.”

“Oh, no,” the Swede growled. “I don’t think so. I’ve been looking forward to this for a bloody long time.”

Webb stepped forward then, looking to intervene. “Then you will have to wait a while longer. This exercise is over.”

Hayden paused in her fast and silent deliberations over the loyalties of Beauregard Alain. “Exercise?”

“To prove that at any time, and anywhere I can get to you.”

“Fuck you.”

“Look for me soon.”

As if by prearranged signal Beauregard burst into sudden, violent action. A charge at Hayden brought Dahl into the room and Kinimaka leaping hard, whereupon Beauregard merely tangled her feet, tripping her to the floor. Webb eased toward the door as Beauregard maneuvered Kinimaka straight into Dahl.

“Tricky little bastard!” Dahl grunted, a muffled shout as the Hawaiian took him to the floor.

Beauregard took hold of Webb’s arm and finessed him around the struggling pile. Webb looked like he wanted to say more but the Frenchman dragged him even harder. The deadly assassin’s worst fears were realized when Dahl, never one to lose hope, threw Kinimaka to the side and reared to his feet.

Webb found himself flung into the corridor. Beauregard faced Dahl, all concentration. “One on one,” the Swede said. “No tricky bollocks. Fight me.”

“It’s coming,” Beauregard said. “Soon.”

Dahl lunged, a fist already in full flight. Beauregard stepped back and closed the door. The entire piece of wood and its frame juddered as Dahl punched it closed. “Ow!”

Outside, swift feet spirited Webb away. Hayden rushed to the door and flung it open, saw Beauregard headed down the stairs. Should she give chase? Yes, but all that had just transpired had served only to drain her. Shockingly, the will wasn’t there.
Is this how a victim feels?

With the fight inside her leeched away she retreated back into the room. Two pairs of eyes stared at her.

“We have real work to do,” she said firmly. “Get dressed and let’s get back to the Sierra Nevada plant.”

“We just let the Pythian boss get away,” Dahl moaned.

“No we didn’t. We allowed Beau to stay undercover for when he’s desperately needed. I assumed that’s why you let him slip away?”

Dahl gulped slightly. “Umm, yes, sure. That works.”

“Good. So get the hell outta my bedroom so I can shower and change. And make yourself useful—try and think of a way to own that Webb asshole once and for all.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Fuck ma’am. You trying to shit me, Dahl?”

The Swede thought better of any more banter and quickly retreated. Kinimaka gave her a slightly hurt look.

“You want me to go too?”

“Unless you wanna do it in the shower with Dahl in the adjoining room?”

Kinimaka nodded. “Gotcha.”

Hayden waited until the door was closed before she sat on the bed, gripped her head between her hands and sobbed.

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

Tyler Webb was truly ecstatic. What a way to leave things with Hayden Jaye!
Utterly superb.
The hotel room visit had been the culmination of the current phase of stalking and now, with her wits in tatters, he intended—actually circumstances were forcing him—to take a relatively short break.

No mind. The bitch will be thinking of me every hour of the day and especially through the night. Wondering . . . feeling my eyes upon her . . . imagining what isn’t even there. Every sound, every admiring or odd look. Every turn of phrase from a stranger.

The game was set then for a grand finale. But first he had important matters to attend to. Ramses had been in touch and the great bazaar now had a date if not yet a venue. Still, Webb knew the approximate location and that he had to get his real life into gear if he was to attend. Beauregard was prepped. The components would, hopefully, be acquired without incident.

And Julian Marsh’s crazy plan was, quite literally, soon to go nuclear.

Interesting.

Webb seated himself behind his makeshift desk, still trembling with excitement. He even let out a little giggle to ease the tension. But there were jobs to do. First he organized a flight for himself and Beauregard, the jet even now being prepared on a private runway ten miles from his current location. It would fly them anywhere in the world at a moment’s notice. Then he arranged the fundamentals for the next and probably final stage of his plan—he would be moving to New York as soon as he returned from the bazaar. DC was entirely too hot right now and this backward hovel just wouldn’t do. The New York office was perfect, even loftier than his office back in DC where he enjoyed his daily scrutiny of the ants scurrying below. It would be a fitting palace from where to end the Pythians.

And it would end, he had decided. The Pythian ideal, the anti-shadow organization, did have its place—but it was just too much hard work. Webb meant to cut everything loose. But only when he could go out with a huge bang.

Of course, the culmination of the Saint Germain exercise would have the entire world chasing him. Not an enviable situation by any means. But the world would soon forget . . . and he would live on. The biggest thing that had ever happened in the world would make him—

A knock at the adjoining door interrupted his meanderings.

“Yes?”

A long-haired brunette entered from the room next door. “I have Nicholas Bell on the phone for you, sir.”

Webb waved. “Fine. Put him through.” He needed an update on the ghost ships anyway. Their discovery would add the funding he required to advance his plans exponentially. As he waited for the connection his mind flicked to Zoe Sheers. The newest Pythian had yet to offer up any proposal. Well, he could always send Beauregard round to accelerate her thinking.

“Hello?”

“Bell? What do you have? The ships? C’mon, man, time is short and so will be your lifespan if this doesn’t pan out.”

“Again, we believe we are in the right area, sir. Drake is on the case, actually here somewhere in this godforsaken scorch pit. And I’m told that the Sierra Nevada facility is about to be taken apart.”

Webb held on to his excitement. “Oh? Excellent. That will be three.”

“And then it’s ‘Goodnight, America’.”

“Let us hope so. The Z-boxes are of Chinese manufacture and unproven. It would not surprise me if they hadn’t programmed in a back door of their own and are copying everything we do. It certainly wouldn’t surprise me if they could track the devices somehow.”

“Do you think they might alert the Americans?”

“That depends on many things—the mood of that day’s official. What meat he had for lunch. Who overtook him on the way to work. One day they cooperate the next they hack each other to death. I would not like to forecast tomorrow.”

“Then we’ll keep digging.”

“Dig harder.”

Webb hung up. Everything was coming together nicely. He called up Beauregard and told him to make ready to leave. Ramses was next.

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

Mai Kitano struggled to remain conscious. The battle with the devil, Aoki, had robbed her of more than just strength. It had taken her last shred of mental energy along with her blood, her flesh, her will and her clothes. Only Dai Hibiki was present to help her. The Japanese cop rushed to her side, covering her as best he could and tearing off his own shirt to help staunch the flow of blood that came from the gash across her face. When he saw the Yakuza step toward them he reached into the back of his waistband for a gun.

The older man held up a hand. “It is finished,” he said. “Mai Kitano defeated our best in fair combat. She is absolved of her sins against the Yakuza. Let this be an end to it.”

Hibiki nodded; Mai barely registered any of it. All she knew was that Dai and she were soon alone and he was struggling to lift her, to maintain her dignity, and curtail her blood loss all at the same time.

“Not far,” he whispered, most likely reassurance for himself. “Come on.”

He carried her back to their car, laid her in the back seat and then bent over her for a while. Mai faded in and out, unsure what he was doing. The shirt pressed hard against her face. The next thing she knew they were driving for a time and then screeching to a halt. Hibiki ran around the car, hefted her and carried her up a path. Mai felt nothing but a sense of numbness, not entirely unpleasant.

It was Chika’s voice that pierced her cloudiness and then the resounding slap that stopped Hibiki in his tracks.

“You both left it this long to tell me! Neither of you is going to get away with that.”

Hibiki grunted. Mai attempted to speak but couldn’t seem to make the connection between mouth and brain.

“Shit, and she’s almost naked. What the hell have you been doing to my sister?”

Hibiki pushed past Chika, then knelt and deposited Mai very gently on the couch. “She fought as hard as anyone I’ve ever seen,” he said. “And she won. The threat is lifted. Now, I need to grab my kit. Wait here with her.”

Mai tried to focus, but the room swam so much it made her feel nauseous. Chika’s voice kept her grounded, kept her tied down to this place. When Hibiki returned she felt the shirt being gently removed from her face and knew there was more pain soon to come.

Why?

You are dying.

She knew the best way to stitch a facial wound as well as Hibiki, and now that she knew what was happening she was better able to focus. The longer the wound stayed open the greater the chance of infection. Hibiki could have taken her to a hospital but how many questions would that have raised? It was better this way. Hibiki would use skin adhesive or liquid stitches on her. He lowered his face to hers now, washed the wound and then pinched both sides of it together. Mai struggled, the pain almost impossible to bear. As Hibiki pinched even harder she sent her mind away, back into her consciousness and searched for a subject to consider.
How about Hayami?
The deadly, tragic issue that had started all this. In an odd way the forgiveness of the Yakuza had eased her inner burden, and the pain in her face made a great escape channel for the pain in her soul. She guided it out. Hibiki applied the liquid stitches, keeping the surrounding area clean and directing Chika to hold Mai as still as she possibly could. Mai didn’t feel the pain anymore. Part of this demon had already been laid to rest.

Where was Grace?

Mai flicked her eyes to and fro. As if by sisterly telepathy Chika appeared to understand exactly what she was thinking. With a dip of her head she whispered into Mai’s ear.

“Upstairs. Asleep. She knows nothing of your return.”

Additional good fortune. Grace had already suffered more than enough. No need to extend that suffering now that she was well and truly on the mend. Hibiki then entered Mai’s field of vision, his face staring critically at hers.

“It’s gonna scar.”

No shit, it was a fucking sword not a tenderizer.

But the scar . . . it was fitting. She would wear it as a tribute to the man she killed and the family he lost, the daughter who was still missing. She deserved lasting damage of some sort. Chika then held a bottle of water to her lips and Mai regained presence of mind enough to drink.

Already, a semblance of energy was starting to return. Hibiki and Chika were fussing over her other wounds, the sister firmly telling the boyfriend to attend to matters above the waist, not below. Mai felt the slightest of smiles curl her lips.

Life goes on. And people go on. And their mannerisms, quirks and personalities are the true heart that keeps the world beating.

She could live now.

A croak escaped her throat, low at first but then gaining in volume. “Ce . . . celebrate.”

Chika looked up at her. “What?”

“We should celebrate.”

“Give us chance to put you back together,” Hibiki said. “And we’ll do a Godzilla on Tokyo, believe me.”

“And we’ll take Grace.” Chika smiled, again reading Mai’s thoughts before she even uttered them.

Mai smiled. The world had turned and it was good. Who could have guessed she might come out on the other side with a chance at a real future?

Matt Drake, probably. And before the guilt of leaving him began to eat at her she buried it hard, covered it with a sense of achievement. Tomorrow was always uncertain and anything beyond that could wait.

Anything.

*

As Mai relaxed, allowing the painkillers and her friends to do all the work, she saw movement in the hallway. It was a fleeting shadow, possibly less—the mere suggestion of an outline, but it was most certainly there. Her eyes refocused and her wits returned instantly. Mai had been trained hard to be the best and not pain, nor stitches, nor a mix of alcohol and Tylenol was ever going to dull her responses. She knew where the closest weapon was, where the best cover was, how to save Chika from harm. She knew the fastest escape route, the lay of the land outside both ways, the time she could expect to pass before her opponent acted.

She braced herself.

But then the shadow moved and Mai saw by its very outline that it was Grace.
My Grace.
A moment later and she caught the girl’s breathing, the nasally rasp she had developed from a slight head cold. She relaxed.

Grace popped her head around the corner. “Guys?”

Still wary, still unsure of herself, Grace was well on the way to a wonderful emotional comeback. The horrors of her childhood were receding; the worst of the returning memories mostly dealt with and compartmentalized. They would never pass away, but they could at least be managed. Grace’s way of managing them involved copious amounts of fun, food, laughter and shopping, much of it at the same time. If Mai had thought it wasn’t helping Grace she would have gently eased her in another direction, but the young girl seemed to be flourishing. The next step would be a more stable environment and Mai began to think for the first time about heading back to the US, maybe sending her to a DC school . . .