Matt Drake 11 - The Ghost Ships of Arizona (6 page)

The Yorkshireman played backup to Dahl for a while, running and covering and pinning the enemy down. At last they cleared the breach in the wall and met up with Hayden.

“You see how many are inside?” she asked.

“Dozens,” Drake said. “I lost count.”

Dahl bashed the head in of a man who suddenly rose beside them.

“Fucking zombie,” Smyth growled.

Drake looked back to their transport. Inside, Karin, Lauren and Yorgi were monitoring the comms. “You guys hear anything?”

“You have major backup on the way,” Lauren said, probably talking for Karin who would be collating the information. “But it’s still fifteen minutes out. Maybe a few cops here in five, but that’s as good as it gets. The FBI are en route too.”

Drake shook his head. “These pricks will be vamoosed by then.”

“Contact from inside the substation suggests they are trying to defend.”

“No,” Hayden said. “Tell the staff and security men to stand down and hide as best they can. This ain’t worth their lives and the mercenaries are tooled up to the max. We’re gonna try to slow them down.”

“Understood.”

Drake climbed over what was left of the wall first, much to Dahl’s annoyance. The Swede quickly jumped across next and then the entire team were running carefully between pylons and junction boxes, exploring the starkly-lit alien world and trying to keep sight of the mercs ahead. Drake squinted, aware that such bright lights would leave an afterimage on his retina and impair his vision once they were clear. An explosion rang out. They saw an entire section of wall collapse and then the mercs were inside, scrambling over the rubble. Gunshots sounded, but Drake just hoped they were warning rounds and that the staff had heeded their warnings.

Another contingent of men had stayed behind, either to aid escape or deter the authorities. Drake and his team did not stop. They raced ahead, taking cover behind pylons and wincing as bullets chimed and reverberated around them, sometimes passing straight through.

To a man, they dropped to the ground.

Drake aimed for legs, taking three men down. He crawled to the next available cover. Dahl fired at his side and Smyth beside him. The ground was hard concrete, almost blinding in the artificial light. The entire place hummed as if possessed by a swarm of bees and, above, sparks flew as if neighboring pylons might be attracted to each other.

The SPEAR team fell among the remaining mercs, their speed stunning as they converged from three sides. Drake slammed the butt of his rifle into one man’s face, always wanting the death toll to be as low as possible, and fighting against elements of old training that urged him to never leave a live enemy behind.

The world was different now, and it was hard not to change with it.

Dahl rendered another merc comatose to the side, then Smyth disarmed a third. Hayden shot a fourth an instant before he fired on her, his loosed shot slamming into a nearby pylon. Kinimaka was down, struggling with another but using his considerable weight, twisting the man’s arm until he let go of his weapon.

Dahl surveyed the facility. It seemed an RPG had been brought to bear on the main door, blasting it right off its hinges. Hayden’s phone chirped, much to her annoyance.

“Fuck’s sake! Even in the middle of a battle they can’t leave me well alone!”

Drake hauled up one of the survivors and pulled off his ski-mask “So tell me, matey. What’s going on?”

The mercenary struggled. He was a battered-looking individual—face crisscrossed with old scars and an odd “broken” look to his jaw, as if had dislocated once and never properly reset. His eyes fired bullets as violently as any old Uzi.

“Go fu—”

Drake shook him, then realized how futile the gesture was. “Not even a cryptic clue?” he asked. “A tidbit?”

“Like I said, asshole—”

Smyth stepped in just as Hayden cursed. The entire team turned toward her as she stared in dumb disbelief at the facility all around them.

“It’s a ruse,” she whispered. “This entire attack. These men . . .” She gestured at the dead and wounded. “The poor bastards who work here . . . it’s all a fucking trick.”

“
What?
”
Drake couldn’t stop his eyes practically bulging.

Dahl clucked, disbelieving. “Not a chance. This is a
full scale assault,
Hayden.”

“I know. And the mercs who blasted their way inside? They ran straight through, leaving by the rear even now, according to those stuck inside.
While an even larger force is currently attacking the main San Jose substation.
”

“I don’t . . . get it,” Lauren said through the comms.

“Neither do I. Clearly . . . our informant . . . either lied or was fed false information. This attack is all subterfuge whilst the Pythians hit their main target.”

“But we’re in San Jose,” Yorgi said. “How many substations are there?”

“Many thousands,” Hayden said. “Karin. Where’s the principal San Jose substation?”

“Not three miles from you,” Karin said. “And get this. That same substation was hit by a sniper attack, disabling it a few years ago, and then suffered another security breach a few years later. The Pythians appear to have targeted a facility that has a long history of breaches.”

“Three miles?” Dahl heard only what was currently relevant to him. “Then let’s get over there.”

Drake nodded and raised his weapon as sirens sounded close by. “What are we waiting for?”

Hayden was already stalking away. “Get the fucking transport ready. This time we’ll be going in hot.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Hayden had ensured all combatants were in the first of their two SUVs, whilst communications would be handled by the second. That way they could drive as far inside the power plant as they were able.

Reports indicated that the second assault force was even larger. Drake began now to realize the size of the new problem they were up against.

“Beauregard told us that they’d swamped the ranks with mercenaries,” he said. “I guess we didn’t fully understand how many until now.”

The SUV jounced along the badly asphalted road. Hayden grunted. “He might have been right about that point,” she said. “But why send us to the wrong substation?”

“We can’t answer that now,” Dahl said. “Let’s leave the questions for later and work on getting a step ahead of our enemy this time.”

“Better still,” Kinimaka muttered. “Our focus should be on finding this asshole, Webb. Put an end to the threat at its source in one big swoop.”

Drake agreed. “He’s right. Cut off the head and the body dies. We’re not talking a terrorist organization here, folks, we’re talking a bunch of rich autocrats.”

“As much as I agree with both of you,” Hayden said, pointing ahead. “We already have our main focus right now. Webb has been firing attack after attack at us since the Pythians began. He will implode soon. He has to. Right now we have this facility and the ghost ships to focus on. Our job, for now at least, is pretty clear.”

The San Jose substation bore every resemblance imaginable to its smaller sister. PG&E, it seemed—the people who owned the facility—weren’t big on change.

Smyth, driving their SUV, aimed for the demolished outer wall. No mercs guarded this entry point and the vehicle bounced through, riding the rough terrain presented by the scattered heaps of bricks. Drake clung on to the grab handle whilst scanning the area ahead.

“There.”

Smyth saw it too, aiming the SUV around the gravel track toward the jagged hole in the building’s wall. A man was staggering out of there now, a man, wearing a blood-soaked shirt and tie.

“Hurry!” Hayden cried.

Smyth juiced the throttle. The vehicle eventually slewed to a halt before the wavering man. Drake leapt out of the door.

“Where are you hurt?”

The man fell to his knees, holding his chest. Hayden dropped beside them.

“. . . came through about ten . . . ten minutes ago . . .” the man gasped. “. . . crowd of them with guns, all screaming . . . I didn’t drop fast enough . . .”

Drake saw the bullet wound and quickly put pressure on it. “Ten minutes?” he glanced worriedly at the others.

“Not good,” Dahl said.

Hayden attended the man. “Go,” she said. “I’ll look after him. You guys need to hurry.”

Drake hurdled the rubble and landed inside the building. Alarms blared and emergency lights shone. He raced down a narrow corridor and then through an already blasted-apart door into a spacious high-ceilinged room. At its far end stood a complex of offices and it was from this direction that a barrage of bullets erupted. Drake dived to the floor, rolling as the air was crisscrossed with death. As he did so, mercs fell from above and jumped in from the sides.

An ambush.

A forest of feet obscured his vision. Pain erupted where boots kicked at him. Then two enormous pairs smashed among them—Dahl and Kinimaka laying waste to their enemies. Drake rolled and jumped up. A foot smashed him in the ribs but he ignored the pain. He caught the arm of his attacker and broke it, then twisted and engaged another. A merc landed a blow on the back of his neck, making the joints creak. Drake saw stars for a moment, turning amidst half a dozen enemies all intent on stamping him to mush. Bullets still hammered above their heads, probably fired from gung-ho assholes. Drake somehow managed to stay on his feet, using the crush of the mercs themselves to remain vertical. This was close combat like he’d never dreamed of. A blow to the ribs at this distance was a mere slap, a “love tap” as Drake used to call them. He pushed and fought to gain some room, wary of knives but unable to see much of anything.

Shouting came from the far side. More alarms began to bay. Through a brief gap between the bobbing heads, Drake saw the alarm room light up like the Fourth of July, and men bent over flickering screens. Something significant was going on in there. Then, Dahl and Kinimaka were back, physically grabbing hold of mercs and pulling them out of the crush of bodies, launching them through the air. Smyth knelt and shot the flying bodies as they landed.

“Like shooting tin-cans in a field,” he murmured, shifting his sights to take out a soaring merc as he might a clay pigeon. “Next!”

Dahl obliged, hefting a struggling ski-mask covered man out of the throng and then flinging him into space. The next merc caught the Swede by surprise, hammering a closed fist at his solar-plexus and then immediately grinning.

He’d fully expected Dahl to go down after that enormous hit.

The mad Swede bellowed in anger, picked the man up and used him as a battering ram to take out three more. At last, Drake began to see some light. Ducking and rolling he escaped the crush, swinging his weapon around as he went.

“Fire!”

Drake, Dahl, Kinimaka and Smyth were all on the outside of the merc pack now and, upon seeing guns swiveling toward them and no sign of enemy surrender, immediately opened fire. Bodies fell and twisted. Blood sprayed and then curdled on the floor. Shots went off as mercs folded, now just lead fired up at the roof. Drake turned to check the state of what he believed was the main operations room.

Mercs were piling out and forming a perimeter. Other men moved within that perimeter, guarded, making swiftly for a far door.
The bastards have already taken what they came here for!

“Attack!”

Drake knew there was no alternative, and that single word would convey all he wanted to say.
No option, no surrender. Take these fuckers to hell!

Fanning out and moving slowly forward, the four men opened fire without relenting. Their Sig MPX’s barked and spat with fury, emitting the fire of devils desperate to be unleashed. Bodies collapsed all along the mercenary line and at least one of their dependents keeled over, his blood spraying against the office wall. Return fire was hesitant, the entire line now in two minds and intimidated under fire. The four-man SPEAR team increased their speed, unconsciously working as one, fully aware of the men at their sides and what they might do next. Some bullets flew between them but they did not flinch. The force of their fire decimated the mercenary line. Behind that line several men ran and hit a far door, booting it open, one with a package strapped to his back. Drake forced the advance even more, feeling the risk was worth it, and riding their wave of luck.

Until it all crashed down.

Smyth took a bullet to the chest. One minute he strode with them, a solid and proven link in the chain. They were invincible, unstoppable. Then a well-aimed slug kicked him off his feet, depositing him onto his back with a heavy grunt of pain.

The sight of their comrade falling hit the rest of them hard. Memories of Komodo were fresh in their brains. When Smyth was hit, Drake instantly dropped to his knees beside the man only to find both Dahl and Kinimaka doing the same.

Their eyes met above the groaning body.

“Thank God for Kevlar,” Drake breathed, voicing the thought that came to them all at the same time.

“Isn’t it time for something new?” Dahl wondered.

Smyth grimaced as he tried to sit up. “Fuck me, guys. What the fuck are you doing down here? The assholes are getting away!”

Drake breathed out long and carefully, tempted to let his fist give the explanation but quickly rising above such crassness. Instead he leaned on Smyth’s impact zone as he stood up.

“Shall we?”

With Smyth carping after them Drake, Dahl and Kinimaka ran headlong for the far door. Drake picked off a covering henchman. Dahl turned as another leapt from the shadows, knife in hand. The blade passed by the Swede’s neck, drawing a single speck of blood but not an ounce of reaction beyond swift retribution. Dahl left him motionless, head canted at an unhealthy angle.

Drake slowed quickly as he reached the door, wary of booby traps, but there were none. The comms system crackled and Lauren reported the arrival of a huge contingent of cops and agents and ambulances. Kinimaka shouted that they should be redirected to the building’s rear.

“They will be too late,” Dahl intoned.