Matt Drake Book 9 - The Plagues of Pandora Read online

  The Plagues of Pandora

  (Matt Drake #9)

  By

  David Leadbeater

  Copyright 2015 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 to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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

  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 Alicia Myles Series

  Aztec Gold (Alicia Myles #1)

  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 Trilogy #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

  Follow the author’s Blog http://davidleadbeaternovels.blogspot.co.uk/

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

  [email protected]

  Dedication

  This one is for the readers, for everyone who has ever enjoyed one of my books and for those who know every character within this one.

  CONTENTS

  Other Books by David Leadbeater:

  CAST LIST

  PROLOGUE

  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

  CAST LIST

  THE SPEAR TEAM

  Matt Drake, Torsten Dahl, Mai Kitano,

  Hayden Jaye, Mano Kinimaka, Smyth,

  Karin Blake, Komodo, Yorgi, Lauren.

  ALICIA’S TEAM

  Alicia Myles, Rob Russo,

  Michael Crouch,

  Zack Healey, Caitlyn Nash.

  THE DISAVOWED

  Aaron Trent, Adam Silk, Dan Radford

  Claire Collins.

  THE PYTHIANS

  Tyler Webb — Leader and Founder

  General Bill Stone — U.S. Army

  Nicholas Bell — Owner of Sanstone Building and Builder.

  Miranda Le Brun — Oil Heiress

  Clifford Bay-Dale — Man of Privilege

  Robert Norris — Principal SolDyn Board Member

  PROLOGUE

  Some said that age clung to the crumbling relic like a filthy, protective shroud. Others likened it more to a house of insanity, and that the shroud was protecting the villagers from the place itself rather than the other way around. Over the years it had represented many things to the maturing community; from the proverbial haunted house with its rambling, untended gardens to a symbol of their own steady decay to a representation of hate in harder times—the dying, blazing sun setting behind it, pouring its terrible fire through the jagged, cracked windows straight down into the center of town. The children harbored many a fear and undertook dares and monster-quests nearby, but they were fine and their parents were fine and the place eventually passed beyond their concerns, its illusory image overshadowed by responsibilities and life changes, television and wine. And of course most children are always fine . . . until maturity makes the dares and the challenges they set themselves take on a darker, more adult nature.

  But when the sun started to go down, and the darkness sent its black fingers creeping like giant spiders across the land; when the devil’s fire—as the elders called it—started to glimmer and glow through those knife-edged windows and ragged cracks, it was easy to remember why the place was shunned, why nobody ever bought it or chose to visit, and why every member of the population harbored the same uncanny thought deep, deep inside their hearts where most feared to go.

  The house on the hill had always been there, and for one purpose only.

  Its purpose was to kill.

  *

  The village was aghast when, in 2014, the house was purchased by an unknown buyer. A public meeting was held, its attendees so shocked they could barely offer speculation. Comment and gossip was rife throughout the community; the main consensus being that bulldozers would soon roll in and raze the eyesore to the ground. And one day heavy machinery did indeed roll in, on the back of huge Mack trucks, but not a wall or even a brick was disturbed.

  What were they doing up there?

  It was always they—the faceless, shadowy owner or organization behind any new project. And there was always a faceless, shadowy organization. The money men rarely kick-started anything without some kind of profitable agenda.

  In early March 2014, the village was brought to its knees when each household received an invitation to attend a celebration up at the house—an opening ceremony of sorts where the new owner would meet and explain his plans for the prominent place.

  It is widely believed that the phrase “curiosity killed the cat” didn’t exist before the world’s first woman, Pandora, was given a box and told, by the
very real gods themselves, never to open it. Upon doing so she released all the sins of the world, including sickness, crime, vice, poverty and plague. Pandora’s Box is an origin myth—an attempt to explain the beginning of something.

  The villagers, although horrified, amazed and fretful, were hugely curious. What could go wrong on a warm and sunny afternoon in America? What could happen when a man or woman was surrounded by hundreds of their peers, in the course of celebration?

  The only odd thing about it all was that no children were specifically invited. The cards all read: Anyone between the ages of 16 and 100.

  Odd, they speculated. Maybe the new owner was a touch eccentric, with a smattering of loon in his nature. A movie star perhaps or a writer. Nay, an ex-president. The speculation continued.

  But curiosity compelled most of the township to accept the mysterious invite. Only the die-hard pessimists and worrywarts held out. And human nature obliged many of the attendees to believe the blanket invites had been misspelled—why shouldn’t they take their children to what amounted to a Sunday afternoon barbecue?

  The day arrived; the night before one of those blood-red sunsets that sent swords and lances of dripping red light stabbing and piercing toward the heart of the township, straight from the cracked and crazy visage of the house on the hill. The Sunday itself, though, was one of those days when even the brisk breeze warms your heart, the children’s laughter is light, and the unexpected smile of a stranger can lift your spirits. Many were nervous and laid off the caffeine, perhaps wishing for something a little stronger. Kids of all ages caught the mood of their parents and became more somber as the time approached. Like a funeral procession the villagers began to march through their town, each person looking up at the ever-nearing fractured glass eyes that had watched over their town for at least fifty years. In one form or another they had all visited the house before and although experiences differed between the timid and the daring, heads were filled with trepidation, expectation and most of all—curiosity.

  And just like the world’s very first woman, made of clay, on the command of the god Zeus, they would go forward and open the box.

  Into the newly landscaped grounds they marched, amazed by the splendid remodeling, which served only to make the house’s continuing ugly and threatening visage all the more hostile. Several turned away at that point, to the indecisive looks of their friends that stayed. More eccentricities followed, as a sumptuous banquet had been laid out, a rich and wealthy buffet, but no waiters to serve it.

  And no host.

  Only the townspeople and their fascination.

  As the sun blazed down from on high, as the townsfolk ate and kept watch on that legendary house, as their children drifted inexorably toward the goblets of red wine and platters of assorted chocolates—their parents more concerned with keeping them away from the haunted bricks and mortar than the everyday alcohol and sugar—as conversation passed and frustration began to set in, a voice finally boomed out from within the house itself.

  “I will be with you shortly,” a voice that clearly belonged to a well-manicured, well-educated man spoke out. “But first, won’t you join me in a toast to celebrate the passing of the old regime and the beginning of the new?”

  The villagers thought they understood. A drink to represent the house’s upcoming demolition. What a good idea, they thought. Many poured wine and champagne, fruit juice and glasses of water. They were about to meet their benefactor, a symbol of their future, a man that would now be inextricably entwined with the name and renown of the place where they were raised.

  As one, persuaded by the promises of the unseen man, the attending township raised glasses to their lips and drank.

  After a while only the cries of babies remained.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Tyler Webb, a weapons billionaire well on his way to establishing his own notorious, murderous and immensely powerful secret order, studied the faces of the men and women seated around him.

  “We are the Pythians,” he said. “What news today?”

  Before anyone could speak he flicked a glance sideways, taking in the spectacular view offered through the trees by the eternal falls, never changing, all enduring. In a way, he hoped his new secret order might go the same way. Conversely, thinking of the time when he grew too old to manage and lead it forward anymore, he already felt a pang of jealousy toward the nameless figure that might.

  General Bill Stone of the US Army spoke up. “The ‘house on the hill’ scenario has played out. We have announced our presence in the United States. We have announced our resolute intentions and the gravity of our actions. We have an army—recruited around the world and being deployed as we speak, and,” he paused, “our first foray, the Pandora plague, is underway. We are starting to mobilize. Three sites have now been identified—London, Paris and Los Angeles—”

  “Wait,” Nicholas Bell, owner of one of the world’s biggest construction companies, and least liked of the Pythians, interrupted the general. “I was the only one here that stood opposed to the ‘house’ operation. I’d like to know the true depths of what we wrought.”

  General Stone hesitated, clearly unwilling to articulate and unused to being disrupted mid-flow. Tyler Webb stepped in smoothly.

  “My friend, my friend,” he addressed Bell. “The Pythians do not discuss the trivialities of who lived and who died. Of how many. We set our path to ultimate power in motion and will not be deterred. The so-called innocents will die to facilitate our rise. That,” he spread his hands magnanimously, “is how it should be.”

  Webb noticed that Bell looked a little sickened before he turned away, nodding amicably. His immediate thought was to bring the man closer, much closer. “Nicholas, why don’t you move to DC for a time? Bill is the architect of both the ‘house’ and Pandora projects. If you were closer to him you might be better able to affect the plans.”

  His manipulation worked. Nicholas Bell, the rough multi-millionaire builder, nodded, seemingly appeased.

  Immediately, one of his other minion-associates, Clifford Bay-Dale, the energy boss and the man nobody liked, raised his voice. “And my own project is next, I’m sure?”

  Webb nodded slightly. “The lost kingdom sounds intriguing, my friend. We will table your presentation as soon as Pandora shows success.”

  “What about my galleons?” Miranda Le Brun asked, the jaded oil-heiress finally showing a spark of interest.

  “In good time.” Webb smiled. “Your enthusiasm for our battle suffuses me with delight. We will all have our day, to the cost of the poorer world, until the pinnacle of our desires can be found. It will all end, one day, with Le Comte de Saint Germain.”

  The interest he saw in the eyes of his collaborators gave him a rush of almost sexual desire. They didn’t know the full plan yet. Only he, the great Tyler Webb and nano-weapon expert, knew that.

  General Stone, he noticed, didn’t look at all pleased at the prospect of hosting the somewhat uncouth construction magnate in his home town. Not a single protest issued forth though, a testament to the general’s iron discipline and willingness to bow to the man in charge.

  “How goes it with the second- and third-degree members?” Webb asked.

  “Kendra Nelson,” Robert Norris, executive of SolDyn, said. “Is on board. A second-degree asset that, I have hopes, may be groomed one day to rise to first degree.”

  Webb frowned. “We will never have more than six first-degree members.”

  Norris also smiled. “I know.”

  Webb took his meaning and fought hard to keep his mouth from broadening into a grin. Plans were afoot, layer upon layer; the intrigue and insider play was good.

  “Alex Berdal,” Miranda said. “Third degree.”

  “Zoe Sheers,” Bell added. “First degree.”

  Webb urged himself to triple check that last offering. He nodded and added one more name to the list. “Lucas Monroe,” he said. “First degree. Primary.”

  They all stared at him
, perhaps wondering why his nomination should be the primary, perhaps wishing they were his equal, but only Nicholas Bell spoke up in that crass way of his.

  “What friggin’ reason do you have to offer Monroe as a primary?”

  Webb ignored the question so completely it surprised the entire room. “On to our final item of business.” He eyed the falls again, conjuring the image of a diverting evening planning some random unfortunate’s demise over a bottle of expensive brandy, a Sony laptop, a bevy of criminals and a wealth of technology, whilst sitting before the great floor-length window in his bedroom with the spectacular real-life cascade as his hanging picture, his muse. His latest stalking victim was a blond couple from Missouri, innocent, fresh, just starting out in life. His pleasure would be to personally destroy them.

  “How comes the factory?”

  Again Bill Stone answered, this being his project. “Prepared but not yet operational. Some of the more . . . sensitive . . . items and staff are taking a little, um, procuring.”

  “By any means,” Webb told him. “Make it happen.”

  “That is my maxim, sir. Our main obstacle is its obscure location. Greece isn’t the easiest place in the world to recruit from, no matter the means you use.”

  “Understood. There is still time before we’re able to advance with the plague pits. But use your time well, Bill, for once we hit the ‘go’ button—nothing on earth should be able to stop us.”

  “For now,” Bay-Dale sniggered, his visage and conduct like that of a sneaking rat, a cowardly bully. “Let us revel in the outcome of the ‘house’ project and what fear it has wrought among our enemies, our subjects and even among our associates.”

  “The Pythians have arrived.” Webb lifted a glass of red wine, fully aware of its symbolic representation to his associates in the matter of how the villagers had been poisoned. “A toast.”