The Blood King Conspiracy (Matt Drake 2) Read online

  “It was muffled, but I heard screaming and fighting and a few words at the end.”

  “Where was she?”

  “Miami. At a safe-house. That’s all I know. All I’m allowed to know.”

  Kennedy laid a hand on his shoulder. “Any ideas what she was working on?” Straight to what she thought was the heart of the matter, Drake thought.

  Ben shook his head. “No idea.”

  They all stared at the empty screen.

  Then Ben said, “The last thing I heard her say, well, scream, was we’ve found the secret to the Bermuda Triangle.”

  Kennedy took a deep breath.

  Drake didn’t move for a moment, and then closed his eyes. Here we go again.

  *****

  Drake and Kennedy made eye contact and doubled-ribbed Ben for his increased pleasure. “Barry Manilow, eh? Didn’t know you were a fan, Blakey?”

  “Worst song of all time?” Kennedy bobbed her head with mock-seriousness. “I think so.”

  Drake snapped his fingers. “Maybe you could cover it on the new album?”

  Ben’s worried, blank face showed that he wouldn’t be placated lightly.

  Drake and Kennedy immediately began to make calls. Since the ‘Odin thing’ they both had access to some high level people, including the U.S Secretary of Defence’s aide, a weedy, geeky guy who always ran around with a briefcase that practically dwarfed him.

  As the phones rang and buzzed and lost signal they met each other’s eyes. Kennedy had been living with Drake for six weeks now, ever since the demise of Abel Frey. She had taken an extended vacation from the NYPD with a view to never going back. The couple were warily enjoying their time together, careful not to push the wrong buttons or scratch at any raw wounds.

  For now, none of them needed to work. There had been some quiet remuneration after they helped save the world. Ben was even looking at moving out and renting his own place, especially since his band, the Wall of Sleep, had picked up a recording contract on the back of his Odinic success; a development that held much juicy mileage for Matt and Kennedy.

  Drake got hold of Wells immediately. “Hey.”

  “You again.”

  “Missed me?”

  “Only in the field.”

  Drake paused. “I guess we never did get that Mai time, eh mate?”

  “I’m used to being let down, Drake . . . by you.”

  “Christ! Don’t be a pansy, Wells. Something big has come up.”

  “It might. If I got me some Mai time.”

  “Listen. It looks like a crack CIA team were . . .” Drake hesitated to repeat anything final. “hit today. In Miami. It happened a few minutes ago and I need details, Wells. Real fast.”

  The SAS Commander seemed to take an interest. “Really? OK, mate, I’ll make a call.”

  Drake was about to hit another number when Ben shouted again. He raced back into his lodger’s room, Kennedy a step behind.

  “Someone just burst in,” the young man was pointing at a black screen. “I heard voices, shouting. I heard real shock, Matt, as if someone got the shit scared out of them. Someone swore, and then I think the laptop was slammed shut.”

  “Can you Skype it?” Kennedy asked. “You know. Make it ring again.”

  Ben clicked a few buttons. Nothing happened. “The connection must have gone down.”

  Kennedy shook her head. “All we friggin’ need. Wait . . . Hi, is that Justin?”

  The Secretary of Defence’s aide was called Justin Harrison.

  Kennedy affirmed it was and hit him with the news. To the guy’s credit if he worked as fast as he walked they’d have answers in about five minutes.

  Drake sidled quietly out of the room and tried one last number. The phone was answered on the first ring.

  “Long time, my friend. Long, long time.” The voice that whispered in his ear was a memory of former, delicious days, sorely missed and revered.

  “Well, I thought I had retired.” Unconsciously he tried to clean his Yorkshire twang up to suit her cultured tones.

  “It will never end, Matt Drake. You should know that. It never ends for people like you and me.”

  “I know you’re in Florida.”

  “Hmm. How do you know that?”

  “I still have friends in the loop.” He tried to not to sound too defensive.

  “I’m sure. Is Mr Wells now a stalker as well as a pervert?”

  Drake winced. “To be honest, he’s always been a bit of both.”

  “Of course. Well, what do you need?”

  “It sounds stupid now. But have you . . .” he shook his head in embarrassment. “ . . . heard anything about the bloody Bermuda Triangle!”

  Her laugh was like the barely remembered sound of summer rain to his ears. God, he missed that sound. “I know the operation you are talking about. I know some things but not enough. Let me give you a call back.”

  “Brilliant.” He listened as she closed the connection. He closed his eyes, remembering. After a few seconds he heard a sound from behind and whirled to look.

  Kennedy stood in the doorway, staring. “Who was that?”

  “Old contact.” Drake collected himself and strode past her towards Ben’s room. “What do we have?”

  Ben’s eyes were watery. He shrugged. “I don’t know. Nothing, I guess.”

  It was Kennedy’s mobile that rang first, a tune by The Pretty Reckless that shattered an uncomfortable stillness. She answered and punched the speaker button.

  “It’s Justin Harrison.”

  “I know,” Kennedy drawled, still showing her cops’ abruptness. “What have you got?”

  “Bad news I’m afraid, Miss Moore. The CIA are still gathering information, but it seems one of their high-security Miami safe-houses was literally taken out. Quite a mess down there. Reports of some very bad deaths. Terrible stuff, Miss Moore.”

  Kennedy’s eyes filled with tears. Drake felt his own throat choke up. “Hayden? Hayden Jaye? Is she-?”

  “Well, like I said, they are still gathering but it seems three agents are missing. Possibly taken captive or . . . well, who knows? Names are Jaye, Kinimaka, and Godwin.”

  Drake felt his hands clench into fists at the careless use of Harrison’s rhetoric. Names are . .

  “She’s missing? Hayden is missing?”

  Ben was on his feet, trying and failing to keep his emotions in check.

  Drake looked at Kennedy as she cut off the connection. “Fancy a trip to the homeland, love?”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Deep inside the Florida Everglades, Hayden Jaye twisted on the concrete floor. Her hands were still bound but she used Mano Kinimaka as a fulcrum and pushed to her feet.

  She looked around.

  They had been thrown into a makeshift cell. The place they were in was a ramshackle mess; nothing more than a few old buildings knocked together. Obviously a temporary base, but for how long? Their cell was full of empty, torn-apart cardboard boxes. Wyatt Godwin, the only other surviving member of her team, sat propped in a corner and gave her a weak smile.

  Beyond a row of heavy, black bars lay a vast, untidy room, dominated by a chaos of technological clutter and weaponry that had clearly just been thrown together. Hayden counted dozens of men making their way among the jumbled islands; none wore masks.

  She turned to Kinimaka. “Any ideas?”

  The giant shrugged, displacing dust from his shoulders in a mushroom cloud. “Everglades. Trees. Water. Gators. The four airboats we all arrived on.”

  It had taken four airboats to carry the members of their enemy squad. When they arrived at their destination Hayden had seen nothing but derelict walls and overgrown doorways, but inside, the place was a veritable, if untidy, shopping mall of advanced machinery.

  Hayden stared at Kinimaka. “Airboats.” She repeated. He nodded.

  The bars rattled. Hayden spun to see the devil responsible for the murder of three CIA agents pressing a leering face between the narrow gaps. “Ed Boudreau,�
�� he thrust a gloved hand through and made a play of shaking thin air. “Pleased to kill you.”

  “Likewise,” Hayden whispered, knowing she shouldn’t but unable to stop herself. Her father had been better than that, had taught her better than that.

  “You look quite a mess, my dear,” Boudreau said. “Oh, my, is that brain in your hair? Who’d have thought an enemy agent would actually have one and then lose it, eh?”

  Kinimaka used the wall to stand up behind her. She didn’t see him, she felt the rumbling and the shaking.

  “Hey, hey big boy,” Boudreau laughed. “Calm down. I’m not going to start with either of you two.” His gaze fell upon Wyatt Godwin. “Hi there.”

  “So what do you want?” Hayden continued to evaluate their surroundings, as she knew the other two were doing.

  “You touched on the subject briefly, remember? Back when your friends were painting the walls? It’s a local phenomenon known as the Bermuda Triangle. Been around a few years. Tell me what you know.”

  “Alright, alright,” said Hayden looking away. “It’s a song by Barry Manilow. Early ‘80’s, I’m guessing. Did we win?”

  “He did.” Boudreau motioned at Godwin. Guards appeared, levelling lethal-looking weapons at Kinimaka and her. “Don’t move.”

  Hayden sucked in her lips. They were dead anyway. Why not try their luck now, when there were three of them? Why wait?

  Survive as long as you can. The old Jaye creed had been all but branded into her. One minute, to the next, to the next. Don’t provoke. Every next moment might bring you the chance you need.

  Godwin struggled hard, giving one guard a bloody nose, but he was no match for three. They manhandled him out of the cell and threw him to the ground before Boudreau. “Nothing fancy,” the leader said, taking out his field knife. “Tell me what you know, and it’s quick. Dick me about and it’s choppy choppy time.” His grin left no doubt in Hayden’s mind which scenario he favoured.

  “Listen!” She hoped the desperation didn’t show too much in her voice. She couldn’t bear to watch another member of her team murdered before her eyes. Commonsense and training urged her to shut the hell up. Heart and mind said otherwise.

  “We don’t know much. What we learned, well, we only learned yesterday.” Was it really only yesterday that her team had been laughing, excited, looking forward to their futures? Was it really only yesterday that she’d been talking to Ben Blake and torn between two minds about what to do with him?

  “It’s something to do with the Queen Anne’s Revenge,” Hayden blurted. “You know, Blackbeard’s ship?”

  If her father could see her now . . .

  “The pirate?” Boudreau smiled condescendingly.

  “Yes! They found it in ’96 off the North Carolina shore and have been excavating and salvaging it ever since. And, well, pirates . . . well they tend to hoard a lot of . . . umm . . . treasure.”

  Surprisingly Boudreau wasn’t laughing, only appraising. “You’ll be telling me the Bermuda Triangle is naught but pirate booty next! Aarghh!”

  With the last exclamation Boudreau sank his knife to the hilt into Godwin’s thigh. The shock was so sudden that even Godwin just stared for a second. Then Boudreau twisted the hilt and ripped the blade back and Godwin started to twist and scream. Blood pooled rapidly through his trousers and across the floor.

  “Anything else?”

  Hayden stayed quiet.

  “Tell me about the Blood King?” Boudreau all but bellowed. “Tell me about the Blood King!”

  Hayden stepped back despite herself. Boudreau had gone red in the face and was sending spittle flying in her direction. Christ, even the very mention of the Blood King sent this American bad-ass into seizures.

  How could that be?

  “We know nothing, Boudreau. Beyond his name, and that he is looking for the item we confiscated from the Queen Anne’s Revenge. That’s it.”

  She turned a regretful gaze towards Godwin. The man’s eyes had rolled up into his head. A guard was kicking him, another stabbing him. Inside five minutes one more CIA agent lay still and bleeding at Boudreau’s sin-stained hands.

  Hayden met the eyes of Mano Kinimaka. It was a look of finality and goodbye. A look that said ‘don’t judge me on how I die, judge me on how I’ve lived.’

  Kinimaka’s heavy brows raised in an open expression of sorrow. The Hawaiian was a very open man, not used to concealing his feelings.

  Boudreau was already at the cage and tapping the bars with his knife, sending rivulets of blood spattering across the floor.

  “You ready?” He grinned at Hayden.

  Then someone shouted, a scared holler that seemed completely out of place coming from the rough brawler who stood clutching a sat-phone.

  “Boudreau!”

  The leader’s face showed anger. “What?”

  “It’s him! It’s him!” The phone was being brandished as if it were ablaze.

  Hayden watched closely as Boudreau’s face adjusted instantly from confident fury to abject terror.

  Instantly.

  Hayden stared in utter amazement. Whoever was on the end of that sat-phone had one of the scariest and most capable enemies she had ever known almost pissing his pants in fear.

  It beggared the obvious question – who?

  The Blood King?

  Hayden sank back against the far wall, grateful for the respite and for the various trackers that some geek had sewn into her clothing a couple of weeks ago.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  As soon as the plane landed at Miami International, Drake, Ben and Kennedy were up and out of their seats with the masses, waiting to disembark. The journey had been long and strained, not helped by the fact that they had been unable to glean any more useful information. Drake was hopeful that as soon as he hit U.S. soil his previous phone calls might bear fruit. He had a nasty suspicion that Justin Harrison might not provide them with as much help as he was promising.

  Through customs and past the carousels they went, on edge every step of the way. Into the bustle of the airport and scanning the crowds. Ben saw the man first.

  ‘Drake party!’ his card yelled in big, black letters.

  The three of them hurried over, Drake worrying about how to keep his best friend’s spirits up. Banter was pretty much out of the question. Support was always good, but the lack of news and contact was making them all fretful.

  Their chauffeur drove in silence, taking them through Miami and across one of its sweeping bridges that led to the beach, and pulled up outside a big white hotel called the Fontainbleu. Drake pinched his nose as they drove, partly to alleviate the tension and the tiredness, but also to pause and come to terms with the utter vastness of this city compared to the one they had left behind.

  He took the quiet time to run a few things over in his head. The past six weeks, since the end of the ‘Odin thing’, had been quite a ride. Kennedy and he had developed feelings for each other, but both knew they were skirting around the more profound problems in their lives - his wife, Alyson’s terrible car crash and the memories of his days in the SRT, and Kennedy’s dreadful memories of Thomas Kaleb, both before and during the arena battle.

  And again he had been trying to get the soldier out of his head, stubborn in the belief that he would never need that part of him again.

  It never ends, Matt Drake. It never ends for people like you and me.

  He still had feelings for her. Mai. And right now he was closer to her than he’d been for many years. He wondered if their paths would cross.

  Within minutes they were being shown to their rooms. Drake stayed True Brit and forgot to tip. Ben walked over to the room’s oak-stained desk and plonked himself down.

  The kid looked around. “Laptop?”

  Drake felt a bit of deja vu left over from the Odin adventure, but gave him the big Sony without comment. He walked over to the rectangular windows and stared at the hotel opposite before turning his glance down the long straight road known as Collins
Avenue.

  The sudden silence was oppressive. Energy gnawed at him, a caged lion desperate for release. To hell with the mirror-clear, blue-and-green patchwork ocean; to hell with the bikini babes and Miami Beach. What they needed now was information about Hayden and her team.

  Kennedy stared at him from across the room. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

  “Hope not. Cos that’d make you a lesbian.”

  “Quit it for a second, soldier boy. You know what I mean.”

  “We’re being compartmentalised. Kept out of the loop. They don’t want us here, and they don’t want us interfering.”

  “Like we interfered with Abel Frey.” Ben mumbled.

  “Governments don’t think that far back,” said Drake walking over to his friend. “Or forward for that matter.”

  Ben had typed ‘Bermuda Triangle’ into his laptop and was studying the returns. “Plenty here. Flight 19 was the first loss in the ‘50s. Woah! Listen to this, the flight leader was heard to say- ‘We are entering white water, nothing seems right. We don't know where we are, the water is green, no white.’ His last words. It’s claimed that, ever since, there has been an unknown pattern of random, supernatural events in the region.”

  “And who knows, maybe before,” said Kennedy shrugging.

  Drake grunted. “There’s nothing supernatural about it. I bet, if you check, random events happen all over the ocean. The Bermuda Triangle’s just got a better PR team.”

  At that moment there was a knock at the door. Drake scooted over and Kennedy pulled Ben over to the curtains, partially hiding him. Drake didn’t peer through the keyhole, instead he shouted in broad Yorkshire. “Who’s there?”

  “Justin Harrison,” an impatient voice answered. “Open up!”

  Drake did as requested. Jonathan Gates’ secretary minced in through at the speed of sound, huge briefcase slamming around his legs. The guy must end up bruised all over by the end of that day and probably wondered where the hell he got half of them.

  Ben met him head on. “Where is she?”

  “We’ve found them. Well, we’ve found the general area using trackers. Then they stopped working. But we know within a few miles’ radius.” Like bullets, Harrison’s words ripped through the air at the speed of light. “Teams are being prepped. They’re going in.”