The Edge of Armageddon Read online

  Edge of Armageddon

  (Matt Drake #13)

  By

  David Leadbeater

  Copyright 2016 by David Leadbeater

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher/author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  This ebook is for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with another person, please purchase any additional copy for each reader. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Thriller, adventure, action, mystery, suspense, archaeological, military, historical

  Other Books by David Leadbeater:

  The Matt Drake Series

  The Bones of Odin (Matt Drake #1)

  The Blood King Conspiracy (Matt Drake #2)

  The Gates of hell (Matt Drake 3)

  The Tomb of the Gods (Matt Drake #4)

  Brothers in Arms (Matt Drake #5)

  The Swords of Babylon (Matt Drake #6)

  Blood Vengeance (Matt Drake #7)

  Last Man Standing (Matt Drake #8)

  The Plagues of Pandora (Matt Drake #9)

  The Lost Kingdom (Matt Drake #10)

  The Ghost Ships of Arizona (Matt Drake #11)

  The Last Bazaar (Matt Drake #12)

  The Alicia Myles Series

  Aztec Gold (Alicia Myles #1)

  Crusader’s Gold (Alicia Myles #2)

  The Disavowed Series:

  The Razor’s Edge (Disavowed #1)

  In Harm’s Way (Disavowed #2)

  Threat Level: Red (Disavowed #3)

  The Chosen Few Series

  Chosen (The Chosen Trilogy #1)

  Guardians (The Chosen Tribology #2)

  Short Stories

  Walking with Ghosts (A short story)

  A Whispering of Ghosts (A short story)

  Connect with the author on Twitter: @dleadbeater2011

  Visit the author’s website: www.davidleadbeater.com

  All helpful, genuine comments are welcome. I would love to hear from you.

  [email protected]

  Contents

  Other Books by David Leadbeater:

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY NINE

  CHAPTER ONE

  Julian Marsh had always been a man of contrasting colors. One side black, the other gray . . . to infinity. Oddly, he never showed any interest as to why he evolved a little differently to the rest, merely accepted it, learned to live with it, reveled in it. To all intents and purposes it made him an object of interest; it diverted attention from the machinations going on behind the distinctive eyes and the salt-and-pepper hair. Marsh was always going to be outstanding—one way or another.

  Inside, he was a different person again. Inner focus centered his attention to a single nucleus. For this month it was the cause of the Pythians, or rather what was left of them. The odd group had attracted his attention and then just dissolved around him. Tyler Webb was more a psychopathic mega-stalker than a cabalistic leader. But Marsh enjoyed the opportunity of departing alone, of masterminding a personal, eccentric design. To hell with Zoe Sheers and whomever else remained operational inside the sect, and to an even deeper hell with Nicholas Bell. Strapped, cuffed and waterboarded, no doubt the ex-builder would be spilling all to the authorities to gain even the slightest reprieve.

  For Marsh, the future looked bright, if a little tinged. There were two sides to every story and he was very much the two-sided man. After a regretful departure from Ramses’ ill-fated bazaar—the pavilions with all their offerings appealed so very much—Marsh took to the skies with the help of an abyss-black helicopter. Swooping away he quickly turned his mind to the new adventure at hand.

  New York.

  Marsh checked the device at his side, moving it closer, unsure as to what he was seeing but confident about what it could do. This baby was the ultimate bargaining tool. The Big Daddy of absolute persuasion. Who could argue with a nuclear bomb? Marsh left the device well alone, checking over the outer pack and loosening the shoulder straps to accommodate his hefty frame. Of course, he would have to subject the thing to tests and verify its authenticity. After all, most bombs could be prepared to look like something they weren’t—if the cook was good enough. Only then would the White House bow.

  Risky, risky, one side of him said.

  But fun! the other insisted. And worth a little radiation poisoning if it came to that.

  Marsh laughed at himself. Such a rogue. But the mini Geiger-counter he’d brought along remained silent, feeding his bravado.

  Being totally honest though, flying was not his thing. Yes, there was the exhilaration but there was also the chance of hot death—and right now that really didn’t appeal to him. Perhaps another time. Marsh had spent many agonizing hours planning this mission, ensuring every waypoint was in place and as reasonably safe as could be, though considering the places he would be stopping off, that notion was almost laughable.

  Take right now, for instance. They were headed over the canopy above the Amazon rainforest on the way to Columbia. A man waited for him there—more than one, in fact, and Marsh had imprinted his personality on the meet by insisting they wear white. Just a small concession, but an important one to the Pythian.

  Is that all I am now?

  Marsh laughed aloud, causing the pilot of the chopper to glance around in alarm.

  “Everything okay?” the scarred, skinny man asked.

  “Well, that depends on your point of view.” Marsh laughed. “And how many points of view you have. I prefer to entertain more than one. You?”

  The pilot turned away, grunting something unintelligible
. Marsh shook his head. If only the unwashed masses knew the forces that crept and sneaked and undulated beneath them, never caring or considering the chaos they caused.

  Marsh watched the landscape below, wondering for the millionth time if this point of entry into the US was the right way to go. When it came down to it, there were only two real options—through Canada or through Mexico. The latter country was closer to the Amazon and riddled with corruption; chock-full of men who could be paid to help and keep their mouths shut. Canada offered a few safe havens for men like Marsh, but not enough and nowhere near the variety present in South America. As the monotonous landscape continued to unfold below, Marsh found his mind wandering.

  The boy had grown up privileged with something far beyond a silver spoon in his mouth; more a solid gold ingot. The best schools and the best teachers—read “best” as “most expensive”, Marsh always amended—tried to straighten him out, but failed. Maybe a stint in some kind of normalized school would have helped, but his parents were wealthy pillars of southern society and far out of touch with reality. Marsh was raised by servants and saw his parents mostly at meal times and luxurious functions, where he was ordered not to speak. Always the critical eye from his father, ensuring immaculate behavior. And always the guilty smile from his mother, knowing that her son was growing up loveless and alone but quite unable to bring herself to raise any form of challenge. And so Julian Marsh grew, developed and turned into what his father openly described as “an odd boy”.

  The pilot spoke and Marsh completely missed it. “Say again?”

  “We are approaching Cali, sir. Columbia.”

  Marsh leaned over and watched a new scene unfold below. Cali was known as one of the most violent cities in the Americas and the home of the Cali Cartel—one of the world’s biggest cocaine suppliers. On any normal day a man like Marsh took his life in his hands walking the byways of the El Calvario neighborhood, where rag-and-bone men combed the streets for garbage and slept in flophouses, where locals suffered the label of “tolerance zone”, enabling commercial drug use and sex to flourish with minimal police mediation.

  Marsh knew this was the place for him and his nuke.

  Setting down, the pilot showed Marsh to a gray pickup truck, wherein sat three bulky men with cold, dead eyes and expressionless faces. Openly carrying firearms, they ushered Marsh into the truck, offering only a brief greeting. Then they were driving through the damp, cluttered streets, filthy buildings and rusted overhangs, offering his well-traveled eye yet another alternate view of the world, of a place where a chunk of the population “floated” from one hovel to the next, having no permanent home. Marsh withdrew a little, knowing he had little say over what happened next. These stops were necessary though if he were to successfully smuggle the nuke into the US, and worth any risk. And of course Marsh appeared as neutral as he could, keeping a few tricks up his multi-colored sleeves.

  The vehicle meandered its way up into some mist-covered, rolling hills, eventually pulling into a paved driveway that fronted a large, quiet house. The journey had been made in silence but now one of the guards turned an inflexible countenance upon Marsh.

  “We are here.”

  “Evidently. But where is here?”

  Not too disrespectful. Not too whiny. Keep it all together.

  “Bring your backpack.” The guard jumped out and opened the door. “Mr. Navarro is awaiting you.”

  Marsh nodded. It was the correct name and the correct place. He wouldn’t be staying here for long, just enough time to make sure his next mode of transport and its final destination was unhampered and secure. He followed the guard under a low hanging arch replete with dripping droplets of mist and then into the dark entranceway of the old house. No lights shone inside and the appearance of an old ghost or two would be neither a surprise nor a worry. Marsh often saw and conversed with old specters in the dark.

  The guard indicated an opening on the right. “You paid for a private room to yourself for a maximum of four hours. Go right on in.”

  Marsh inclined his head in thanks and pushed at the heavy door. “I also asked for permission to land an onward mode of transport. A chopper?”

  “Yes. That is good too. Call me on the intercom when it is time and I will escort you through the house.”

  Marsh nodded in satisfaction. The money he had paid, over and above what was required, should ensure the best service and, so far, it had. Of course paying beyond the asking price also aroused suspicion, but those were the risks.

  Two sides again, he thought. Ying and yang. Marsh and Marsh. Black and . . . black with crimson bolts flashed through . . .

  Inside, the room was sumptuous. A corner sofa occupied the far side, made of black leather and deeply plush. A glass table with drinks decanter, wine and spirits stood nearby whilst a pod-machine offered coffee and tea in another corner. Snacks lay out on the glass table. Marsh smiled at it all.

  Comfortable, but only for a short time. Perfect.

  He slid in a pod of the strongest coffee and took a moment waiting for it to brew. Then he settled into the sofa and withdrew a laptop, placing the backpack carefully on the deep leather by his side. Never has a nuclear bomb been so pampered, he thought, wondering for a moment if he should prepare it a brew of its own. Of course, to a man like Marsh that was a no-brainer and within minutes the backpack sat with a steaming cup and a small iced cupcake at its side.

  Marsh smiled. All was well.

  A stint on the Internet; confirming emails told him that the onward chopper was already entering Columbia. No flags had been raised anywhere as yet, but it was still only hours since he left the bazaar in full swing. Marsh drank up and packed a small sandwich bag for the next flight, then buzzed the intercom.

  “I am ready to leave.”

  Twenty minutes later and he was in the air again, the flight of the backpack-nuke a twisted but comfortable one. They were aiming for Panama, where he would end the quick flights and begin the tiresome leg of his journey along the ground. The pilot veered his way through the air and through any patrols, the best at what he did and handsomely paid. When Panama’s sprawl began to appear out of the left-hand window, Marsh began to realize how much closer he already was to the United States of America.

  Hurricane’s a-coming guys, and it ain’t gonna pass easy . . .

  He settled in Panama City for several hours, changing twice and showering four times, each with a different scented shampoo. The scents mingled nicely and scraped away the faint aroma of sweat. He ate breakfast and lunch even though it was dinner-time, and partook of three glasses of wine, each from a different bottle and colors. Life was good. The view outside the window didn’t change and didn’t inspire, so Marsh fished out a case of lipstick he saved for just such an occasion and colored the pane bright red. That helped, at least for a little while. Marsh then began to envision what it would be like to lick that pane clean, but at that moment the ping of an incoming message interrupted his daydreams.

  ETA—15 minutes.

  Marsh grimaced, happy but dismayed at the same time. A forty-hour road journey lay ahead, along some of the worst roads in the region. Not a thought likely to inspire. Still, once done the next stage would be infinitely more interesting. Marsh packed up, arranged the coffee pods, wine bottles and utensils in order of color, shape and size and then headed out.

  The SUV was waiting, burbling at the curb, and looking surprisingly comfortable. Marsh arranged the nuke, wrapped a seatbelt around it, and then attended to himself. The driver chatted for a while before realizing that Marsh couldn’t care less about his own shitty little life, and then settled down to drive. The road stretched interminably ahead.

  Hours passed. The SUV glided and then jounced and then glided again, stopping several times for gas and spot checks. The driver wouldn’t risk being pulled over for a misdemeanor. In the end, this was just one more vehicle among many, one more spark of life traveling the eternal highway to destinations unknown, and if it stayed unremarka
ble it would pass unnoticed.

  And then Monterrey lay ahead. Marsh began to smile hugely, tired but pleased, the long journey over halfway gone.

  The suitcase nuke sat beside him, now only a matter of hours from the US border.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Marsh made the next leg of his journey under cover of total darkness. This was where everything would be won or lost; the unknown factor being raised an inestimable amount by local cartel bosses being introduced to the mix. Who could guess the minds of such people? Who knew what they would do next?

  Certainly not them . . . or Julian Marsh. He was transported ignominiously, along with a dozen other people, in the rear of a truck bound for the border. Somewhere along the way this truck veered off the track and vanished into the blackness. No lights, no guides, the driver knew this route blindfolded—and it was good that he did.

  Marsh remained aloof in the back of the truck, listening to families prattle and fret. The scope of his plan loomed before him. The moment of his New York arrival couldn’t come soon enough. When the truck ground to a halt and the rear doors swung open on oiled hinges he was the first out, seeking the leader of the armed men who stood watch.

  “Diablo,” he said, using the code word that identified him as a VIP traveler, and that he had agreed upon payment. The man nodded but then ignored him, herding everyone into a small huddle beneath the widespread branches of an overhanging tree.

  “It is vital now,” he said in Spanish, “that you move quietly, say nothing, and do as you are told. If you do not I will slit your throat. Do you understand?”

  Marsh watched as the man met every eye including his own. The march began a moment later, along a rutted track and through stands of trees. Moonlight flittered up above, and the lead Mexican often waited until clouds obscured the brightness before continuing. Very few words were passed, and those only by the men with guns, but suddenly Marsh found himself wishing that he spoke a little Spanish—or a lot, perhaps.