“Who the hell are you?”
The Yorkshireman flashed his badge. “Part of Gates’ team.”
A look of respect entered the cop’s eyes. “Alright. Sure. Take your time. But she ain’t gonna be cleared to leave for a while.”
Drake enfolded Sarah Moxley in his arms. The sobs that wracked her body brought his own grief bubbling back to the surface. “I’m sorry, Sarah. I’m so sorry.”
“He… he was a good man. He didn’t deserve this. There are so many others—”
Drake put a finger to her lips. “Don’t finish that thought,” he said. “You might regret it later. Do you know the assassin’s identity?”
“They’ve told us nothing.”
“Once we get going on this,” he said, “The bastards who planned it will have nowhere to hide. Trust me.” He didn’t care that he’d told himself he’d never make that promise again. Not after this.
But Moxley suddenly pulled away. Tears streaked her face and her lipstick was smudged, but her eyes bored into him with a mix of intellect and fear. “You mean you don’t know?”
“Know what?”
“The Blood King did this. At least, he organized it. The killer said as much before someone saved my life by shooting him.”
Drake felt the bottom of his world fall out for the second time in thirty minutes. He pulled further away from Moxley and held her at arm’s length. “Are you sure?”
Her expression conveyed the words she couldn’t speak. Drake fished out his phone and looked at Dahl.
“Call your family,” he said. “Kovalenko ordered this.”
Dahl went white, turning away as he made the call. Drake pressed a speed dial number and waited for the call to connect. The seconds passed by like hours, each one cleaving a year from his life.
“Hello?” Mai’s voice, at last, thirteen hours ahead.
Drake told her everything.
“Oh, my God. Poor Jonathan. But I have to call Chika and Dai. I have to go. Matt, thank you, but I have to go.”
Drake understood. His next call was to Ben Blake. In his experience, the young man never parted for more than half a minute with his phone and always answered. He waited expectantly, but this time it just rang and rang. Drake checked his watch. It was early morning over in the UK. Maybe…
“Hello?”
“Ben? Are you okay?”
“I’m sorry, sir. This isn’t Mr. Blake. This is Chief Inspector Mills of the West Yorkshire Police. Who am I talking to?”
The world swayed, but Drake clung to hope. “This is Matt Drake. I’m Ben’s friend. I currently work for the US government. Is Ben okay?”
There were a few seconds of silence. “Right, sir. You’re in Mr. Blake’s contacts and I can see old text messages and calls made between you. I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Mr. Drake, but Ben Blake was murdered a short while ago. He was killed alongside his parents and two other men, who we believe were active members of the British Army. Do you have any knowledge of this?”
Drake didn’t even feel his legs give way as he crashed to the floor.
CHAPTER TEN
Drake became aware that he was crawling through the wreckage, looking for his cell phone. In another second, Dahl was there with him.
Drake swiveled his head, believing he couldn’t feel any worse, but suddenly became heart stricken as he looked into the Swede’s face. “Your… your kids?”
Dahl swallowed hard. A cop came up to them and ordered them to get up. A man dressed in an army uniform backed him up. One look at the two men’s faces and both officials backed away.
Dahl breathed low. “They’re fine. So’s the wife. Special Forces are with them as we speak, taking them out of the country.”
“Thank God. Ben’s… dead. So are Sam and Jo. Fuck me.”
Dahl sat down hard, deflated. “The Blood Vendetta. Kovalenko must have reactivated it. Do you think he escaped this morning?”
“Shit. I do now.”
Dahl glance around the devastated restaurant, taking in the haunted eyes of a dozen law enforcement officers looking back at him. “This is like the scene of a national disaster. Nobody knows what’s happening.”
Drake looked up. “If Kovalenko is free, it’s only gonna get worse.”
Dahl flipped his phone open again. “Where the hell are Hayden and the others?” Desperately, he hit the speed dial.
“Try everyone,” Drake said. “Try—” Suddenly he shot up. “Fuck!”
“What is it?”
“Alicia!”
Drake dialed and held the phone close, certain that he couldn’t handle another tragedy. When the familiar crazy-ass tones filled the phone with life he felt utter relief.
“The Drakester! What the fuck do you want, man?”
Again, he went through the story. “You need to get the hell out, Alicia. Leave and run, right now. All of you.”
“That bastard Kovalenko ordered all that? I wish I was with you right now, Drake. I really do.”
“Don’t worry. Just get to safety. And stay off the radar and out of contact, Alicia. We don’t know how far Kovalenko’s claws reach this time, but you can bet your arse it’s pretty damn deep.”
“I always bet my arse, Drake. And I’ll do it again now. We’re out of here, and once we’re safe I’ll come to you.”
“No. Don’t—”
“Fuck you.”
The line went dead. Drake closed his eyes. He couldn’t think about that right now. Alicia would do as she pleased no matter what he said. For once, he allowed Dahl to help him to his feet and take charge without comment.
“There’s an RV point near the hotel.” The Swede pointed to the building where President Coburn had been in the throes of an after-dinner speech. “We need to go there now. I just heard something about the President.”
Drake stared. “No.”
“It’s not good.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Blood King, with Gabriel and several other men at his side, walked calmly into the lobby of the Hotel Dillion and fanned out. Many were looking disheveled and, feigning distress, threw themselves into easy chairs and began talking loudly about the death of the Secretary of Defense. Kovalenko and Gabriel approached reception, joining the largest of the queues which had formed for late rooms in the wake of the President’s departure. The demand for rooms would only grow as word about Gates’ demise got out, and when the world learned of what was about to happen.
The Hotel Dillion, closely guarded and practically locked-down, continually swept and searched during the President’s brief tenure, had instantly reverted back to a well-run, well-organized business upon the departure of the last Secret Service agent. It was all part of the hotel’s policy with the White House.
As he waited, the heavily bundled-up Blood King fielded a number of calls. The first was to inform about the demise of Ben Blake and two other men who had defended him. Kovalenko’s mouth stretched into a wide, satisfied grin but his words didn’t reflect the pleasure he felt.
“And the parents?”
“The same, sir.”
A pleasant metallic taste filled his mouth as he bit his inner lip in happiness.
“And so to the next. This cursed Ninth Division, where Drake ‘earned his stripes’, as they say. Let their blood wash the streets clean.” Kovalenko knew, though Wells had died, many more of Drake’s respected superiors and team mates were controlled by the well-established British secret ops’ fully deniable asset they called the Ninth Division.
“Yes, sir. In particular we’re going after Crouch and Cohen.”
“Good.”
The next call was more local.
“DC team here, sir. Jaye is at least badly injured, possibly dead. The Hawaiian, Smyth, Karin Blake and Komodo are with her. We have a fix on their new position.”