The Matt Drake Series Books: 7-9 (The Matt Drake Series Boxset 2) Read online

  Ben fished out his key. “Bugger all, I’m sure.”

  He paused as his mobile phone sang a little text-message tune. “Who the—”

  “Not your dad is it?” Stacey’s tone was only mildly mocking. She knew how close Ben was to his family. She was lucky enough to have a tight-knit family of her own.

  “No. It’s bloody Karin. Over in the States. Says she’s okay and that they saved the world again four days ago.”

  “She texted you that?” Stacey leaned over his shoulder.

  Ben tapped out a quick reply. “It’s probably true.”

  “Do you miss them all?”

  “Sometimes.” Ben pocketed the phone and played with the loose lock. “Getting into this place is a work of art,” he grumbled. “We’ll have to ask Mike to—”

  “Here,” Stacey grabbed his arm. “Step aside, geek. Let me help. Us district nurses can do more than save lives you know.”

  Ben playfully fought her off, silently reflecting that this was the kind of tussle he could handle. The experiences of the ‘Odin thing’, and subsequent adventures had scarred him deeply, leaving him more of a timid, amicable guy than he had been before, much to his surprise. But there was no doubt getting out had been the right move. At least once every night he woke up soaked in sweat, the tatters of a nightmare still entangled with his brain, the blood of a dying soldier stained into and soaking right through the palms of his hands.

  Stacey had questioned it at first, but he had mumbled something about a childhood trauma and she hadn’t said anything since. He didn’t know if she believed him, but didn’t care. Some things he would never share. And Stacey was too nice a girl to bring it up again.

  Ben heard the lock click. Stacey stepped back. He turned to her with a smile on his face. “There, see—”

  The man standing behind her materialized out of nowhere. He was big, with a crew cut and a scar stretching all the way across his forehead that almost matched his mouth, which was grinning from ear to ear.

  “The Blood King sends his regards,” the man growled.

  Stacey jerked, her eyes wide, and blood flew from her wide-open mouth. The blade of a knife burst through her chest. Ben stared, staggered, and fell to his knees. Drops of red spattered his face.

  “Wha—”

  The scarred man threw Stacey’s body to the ground and stepped across her. The red pool was already flowing toward him. He felt the hair on his head pulled hard and looked up into the cold eyes of a killer.

  “Don’t worry, sissy boy, you’ll be meeting your parents soon enough. They’re next.”

  The knife came down fast, but then suddenly clattered away as a shot rang out. A curse split the night’s odd silence. Ben felt his head released as a creeping coldness started to soak through the knees of his jeans.

  Stacey?

  Something hit the killer head on: another body. The sound of men struggling tore through Ben’s malaise as he realized one of those men was trying to save his life. He rose on shaking legs. Stacey’s body lay still before him. Beyond that, the killer groaned as a broad-shouldered figure straddled him and began to pound.

  “Sam?”

  “Ben!”

  The shout came from around the corner of the house. Ben whirled to see Jo, another of Drake’s old SAS pals, beckoning him over. “Hurry.”

  Ben stared at his girlfriend’s dead body. He couldn’t just leave her there, sprawled and lonely and broken. He fell to his knees, and it was only the pain of striking the ground that jerked his mind back to what the killer had said.

  My parents are next.

  Another shot rang out. Ben screamed as a body dropped next to him, almost knocking him over: a second killer. Another knife clattered across the driveway. Then Jo was at his side.

  “Need to get outta here, kid.”

  “He said my parents are next,” Ben said as he was pulled away. “What’s happening? And why are you here?”

  “Your lucky day. We’ve been around, on and off, for weeks. Never could be sure the vendetta was lifted. You, being the isolated one of the team, were the one to watch.”

  Ben tried to get his head around it. “You were using me? Us?” His head swiveled inexorably back toward Stacey.

  “Don’t be a little fool.” Jo swung Ben around as two more men approached. Both wore black leather jackets and had an East European hardness to their features. They came at Jo without hesitation. An underhand knife thrust tore through his jacket, but snagged the arm long enough for Jo to break his attacker’s windpipe with stiffened fingers. The second man struck a second later. Jo rolled with the blow, coming around and hefting the big man over his shoulders with ease. A shrug, and the knifeman landed neck first.

  Sam ran up. “C’mon. Quick.”

  The two army men led Ben down the darkened street. Lights were blazing in windows up and down the quiet neighborhood. Curtains twitched. Sam pointed out a blue Mercedes A Class.

  “In there.”

  “What about my parents?” Ben knew he sounded like a whiny child, and his thoughts should probably be more centered around his own situation and Stacey’s, but his parents meant the world to him.

  Sam opened the door wide. “Get in.”

  As Jo cracked open the back door, two dark figures climbed out of a car opposite, dropping instantly to a firing stance. Jo threw Ben to the pavement and leaned across the Mercedes’ roof, gun in hand. Three shots crashed loudly through the night, returned twice by the attackers. The closest of them twisted and screamed before curling into a ball and trying to jam his body underneath his own car for cover. Sam scrambled around the back of the Mercedes as Jo laid down covering fire.

  The other car shuddered as its windows smashed and holes appeared in its front wing and engine compartment. Ben imagined the local York residents on their mobiles, calling the police. He crouched by a back tire, protected, eyes again drawn toward the front door of his flat. The darkness huddled there was the dead body of Stacey Fielding. What am I going to tell her parents?

  At last the firing stopped, and Jo was back, flinging open the door and all but throwing him inside the car. The seats fit snugly around his body, the suddenly operational satnav screen a blinding light. Sam rammed in the key and peeled away from the curb.

  Jo laid low in the back, already on the phone, shouting orders at some unfortunate operator. It took a code word and five minutes of cursing, but Jo got his message across in the end.

  “Firearms officers and ARVs are on the way to your parents’ place in Leeds. ETA five minutes.”

  “ARVs?” Ben fought to focus.

  “Armed Response Vehicles. Each one is equipped with a safe that’s armed to the teeth. Those guys don’t fuck about, mate. Your folks will be secured in a jiffy.”

  “Take me there,” Ben said, and Sam nodded.

  “We’re already on the way, mate.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  President Coburn rose to take the podium amidst thunderous applause. Taking a moment to compose and fine-tune the words in his head, he gazed across the faces of the audience. Many of the people out there were friends, acquaintances and staunch supporters he could rely on. A goodly amount were critics, and a select few currently straddled the fence. The Correspondents’ Dinner was always an astute affair, it had to be. His speech was riddled with incisive wit and insider jokes that would be the envy of any stand-up comedian, mostly based around current issues and some even poking a bit of gentle fun at the President himself.

  Coburn glanced to his right where the First Lady was seated several positions down. Tonight, she positively glowed. Her hair had been styled by the owner of a local popular salon that sported the kind of name Coburn could never get his head around. Her silky sparkling midnight-black gown was the product of another odd name, a loaner for the night. No way in this, or any, economy could they justify spending thousands of dollars on a scrap of material she would only wear once. It wasn’t as though they were movie stars.

  Coburn put these though
ts away for the night, allowing himself one brief incredulous moment when he thought about how far he had come. From a boy on the streets to an army officer. To hard, harsh battle, then to military rank and beyond—the inner circle. Was it luck, providence, or plan? He still didn’t know. Then to the rosewood-clad rooms and the nights and days of the campaign trail. To the Oval Office . . .

  Where would it end? Certainly not here at the Hotel Dillion, at the Correspondents’ Dinner in the heart of DC.

  At last, the applause began to subside. Coburn smiled and gave the audience a once over. “I want to start tonight by thanking everyone here for the outstanding work they do on behalf of our country. And Bob,” he looked to the man on his right, “my staff, and the extraordinary First Lady.” He continued as more applause broke out, “And in particular the men and women who wear uniform and protect our way of life day after day, wherever they may be.”

  The ovation swelled, every person in the room adding voice to the acknowledgement.

  Coburn studied faces again, letting each man and woman see that he noticed them. “So, time passes. We all get a little grayer, a little larger—” He glanced at Bob slyly to a few guffaws. “My military days . . . they ain’t coming back. I may have lost a step and, despite appearances,” he lowered his voice, “have even been known to make the odd mistake.”

  He put a finger to his lips. “Shh. Don’t tell anyone.”

  Fresh laughter rang out, fuelled by the free champagne. “This job can indeed take its toll.” He raised his voice. “Just ask the men and women of the White House Press Corps.”

  Someone choked with laughter in the front row. A few others made unhappy noises. That was the purpose of Coburn’s speech tonight. To take a little and give a little back. The TV stations not so much, he thought. MSNBC and Fox News were in the firing line tonight. Maybe next year it would be CNN.

  “The media highway changes so rapidly these days, don’t you think? Former advisors taking the wrong turn—” He referred to a recent scandal. “Every day a new government conspiracy. Ah,” he laughed, “They just don’t know us at all.”

  “But we have all seen the darkness.” He launched immediately into a fresh tack, buoyed by his own beliefs. “We have touched it. It has blighted all our lives. But in darkness, good can be allowed to shine. And yes, we have all seen it shine. First responders leaping through flames to save those who can’t save themselves, civilians rushing into danger to help each other.” He paused. “We have all seen the good sparkle in the dark.”

  A tumultuous applause broke out. Coburn swept the crowd with his eyes. Even the people on the fringes were clapping, the wandering staff stilled, rapt with concentration. Even the presidential aides, usually vying for attention, for recognition, barely moved a muscle.

  But there was one select group of men who remained far above the captivations of a presidential speech. These men would never be beguiled. They were the best of the best. The Secret Service knew every inch of this hotel like the backs of their hands. They had memorized every square foot of the twelve floors, the three hundred and thirty nine rooms, the forty one suites all the way down to the kitchens, the basement and the sub-basement underneath with its tunnels, which also existed as a blueprint in every one of the forty shrewd minds that formed the President’s protective detail. They had swept for bugs close to the stage and behind it, using a Digital Spectrum Analyser; every one of them was acquainted with the EER – the primary Emergency Escape Route drawn up around the hotel.

  Now one of them spoke into his wrist mic, then stepped forward unexpectedly, leaning toward the President’s ear. “We need to leave, sir.”

  Coburn didn’t argue. He knew these men and their utter professionalism. With a quick glance at Marie, the First Lady, he ducked his head and fell into line. Under his breath he whispered, “What’s going on?”

  “Trouble across the street, sir. We aren’t taking any chances.”

  Coburn paused. “With Jonathan? The Secretary of Defense?”

  In answer, an agent encircled his waist with an iron-like arm, making him realize he’d slowed down. Several others crowded around him, herding him away from the stage and through a network of passages. Other black-suited men manned entry points and fell in as they passed, calling all-clears and prepared for every single outcome.

  Coburn heard the chatter alongside him. “Eagle One is on the way. Prepare for evac.” And more, “Report on exterior needed now. Is the route clear?”

  “Don’t worry, sir,” He recognized the voice of Marnich close to his left ear. “We’re only two blocks from the White House.”

  Coburn said nothing. He hadn’t even thought about his own safety. His only thoughts were for Jonathan Gates and Marie, his wife. She would be undergoing a similar evac, through another route. Thank God the kids weren’t here.

  “Maybe you should give me a gun,” he finally said. It was a one-liner that regularly passed between Marnich and himself, born of yearnings for his simpler fighting days that would never return. Marnich was one of the agents who truly understood the urge.

  “Only when we get you back to the White House, sir.”

  In other circumstances, Coburn would have laughed. Tonight, he didn’t think he would ever laugh again. He slowed as they entered the parking structure. “I want two of you to go over there with the Secretary,” he said firmly. “And I want reports. Regularly.”

  “Sir, that can’t—”

  “It will happen.” Coburn read the lead agent’s mind. “And now. Send two of your best men, Jeff. Send them now.”

  The agent immediately ordered two men away, speaking through his military-grade communications device. The line was unhackable; the GPRS coordinates masked beyond anyone’s ability to crack.

  “A short hop to the White House,” Marnich said as they approached one of three identical black Escalades. The President would choose the vehicle at random before Jeff Franks would order the convoy to form an equally random procession and speed back to the White House. Coburn climbed into the back of one of the cars as Franks spoke constantly through his comms.

  “All secure. Eagle One is ready. Once we’re clear of the hotel, all personnel back home. Check in.”

  Every Secret Service agent checked back in the correct order and using the right code words, signaling their understanding that they should all immediately vacate the hotel and head back to the White House as per protocol, and that no one had been compromised. Franks climbed into the car.

  “Go.”

  The Escalade roared. Coburn hung on as the powerful vehicle tore across the empty first subfloor of the hotel’s parking garage and hit an up-ramp, passing another check point. Marnich sat to one side of him, Franks to the other. Fleetwood drove with Tyler in the passenger seat.

  Safely in the car, Marnich filled him in on the dreadful events of the night. It didn’t sound right, didn’t seem plausible. Coburn, struggling with the news, tried to peer around Marnich’s bulk as they bounded out of the garage and onto the open street, but the man didn’t stand on ceremony. He blocked the President’s view of the scene across the street, at the same time blocking anyone else’s view of him—not that the Escalade didn’t have black-out windows and rocket-proof cladding, but the Secret Service could never be too careful.

  “God, Jonathan,” Coburn whispered.

  Marnich checked his watch and glanced over at Franks. “We ready?”

  Franks tapped the driver’s seat. “Green lights all the way. Hit it.”

  Coburn peered ahead, gazing at the slightly undulating concrete roadway that led all the way to the great, wide, blockaded expanse of Pennsylvania Avenue bordering the back of the White House, amazed to see every set of stoplights suddenly turn green. The Escalade’s driver punched the accelerator, sending the car spurting forward. Coburn fell back, momentum driving him into his seat. The first set of green lights flashed by, marked on both sides by the bland façades of buildings whose windows literally blazed with light, government b
uildings, shops, restaurants and hotels. The heart of DC would not rest tonight.

  The driver let out a loud curse. Coburn forced his body forward, staring amazed as the few remaining sets of stoplights ahead suddenly changed, all hitting red in less than a second. The driver slammed on the brakes as Franks shouted, “Don’t stop!”

  “How the hell did that happen?” Marnich cried.

  Cars popped out across the intersections ahead. The Escalade’s driver had no choice but to slow down. Then the growing streams of cars began to swerve and plunge into one another as the stoplight sequences went crazy. Fender benders littered the road. The sound of screeching metal vied with squealing rubber as a nightmare pile up of vehicles began to block the road ahead.

  “Shit.”

  Franks thought fast and hard.

  “Sorry, Mr. President, but this is no fucking coincidence.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The restaurant was truly unique, and Jonathan Gates’ favorite haunt these days. The inner decor was the perfect mix of blond woods, intimate tables and intricately carved ceiling scrolls. Gates certainly did not surprise himself when he chose it as the place to take Sarah Moxley on their first date. It was a comfortable retreat for him, a home from home, an office away from work, only a few minutes from his workplace and the White House itself. Gates had organized more than one power lunch here, partaking of politics and fried green tomatoes, the food good enough to distract even the most resilient of campaigners and lobbyists.

  As Sarah Moxley took the seat opposite, he knew there would be no shop talk tonight. Despite her position as a reporter for the Washington Post, she had never once prodded him for information or brought up a story she was working on. It was one of the many good reasons that had brought them to this point.

  “You look lovely tonight,” Gates said, once his four DoD bodyguards had retreated to a respectful distance.

  “I do like the ‘no tie’ look,” Sarah replied. “I take it that means you’re ‘off duty’?”