“Only that you should all start vetting second and third degree memberships,” Webb said. “Our sphere of influence should increase exponentially, and soon. It goes without saying that all second and third degree members will have no direct contact with the principle or first degree members. Use go-betweens. Miranda? Do you have any input?”
Miranda Le Brun, the sixth member of the Pythians and a bored oil heiress, simply shook her long hair from side to side. “No.”
“Okay then. More manpower will be available soon. Pursue the Pandora angle to its limit. Prep the ‘house on the hill’ scenario, keeping in mind that any other scenario would be preferable at this point. We don’t want to become known as mother-and-child killers.”
“But if needs must.” Bay-Dale spread his hands expressively, smugly.
“There comes a time.” General Stone said firmly. “When the best man’s boot should be stamped on the frail weakling’s neck. With our inauguration, that time has arrived.”
Webb gauged the feelings of his new order. All eyes were amenable to any possibility. Good, he thought. It means I chose them wisely.
The world was about to shudder in fear. It was about to be gripped and squeezed by the hand of the new Pythians as they sought to establish a devastating foothold. And more than that — the new rulers were coming and they were not benevolent masters.
Fear, Webb thought. Fear is the master of the working class as well as the elite. We will own them all.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Drake slid the rented 4x4 into a spare bay and looked dubiously at the rusting pay-and-display machines.
“Wonder if we should pay?”
“We’re not tourists, Drake,” Dahl said severely.
“I bloody well know that.”
“Though by the way Drakey was driving,” Alicia put in breezily, “you might think otherwise.”
“Shut it,” Drake said. “Haven’t been behind the wheel for ages. Haven’t had a good car chase for… months. Remember?”
“Yeah. The American freeway and airfield chase.” Dahl smiled in fond memory. “Shelby Mustang ate you up that day.”
“Bollocks,” Drake said. “In any case, next time will be the decider.”
“You’re on. Once we sort out Coyote we’ll book a track day. You, me and two Aston Martins.”
“Wouldn’t you prefer a Saab?”
“Can we stop talking about cars?” Mai spoke up. “And concentrate on the tiny problem at hand. You know — Coyote?”
Drake took another three-sixty perusal through the windows. “Well, this is Sunnyvale. Quiet town, which is good. Everything matches what we learned on Google Maps.” They had memorized the town’s layout prior to setting off and driven around it before parking. “Half an hour to kick off. We should get going.”
“And dark already,” Mai noted.
The team climbed out of their car, standing for a moment to take in the feel of the place. The setting was quiet, broken only by the occasional passing car or barking dog. No youths roamed the streets or lingered outside the local newsagents and takeaways. Roadways and streets were wide and obstacle free. Streetlamps were fully functional. One downside was that at least three different routes led to the castle, more to the train station. Stores and businesses closed early here, which the team counted as a plus. Market Street was built on a sharp incline, and contained the wrapped-up white hulks of many stalls. Alleys, dark narrow passageways and winding paths lay everywhere, havens for murderous assassins.
“This way.” Dahl marched off. Drake and the women followed. The classified ad had provided a telephone number in addition to the STD code, the digits of which were actually coordinates. Dahl would now locate them on his preloaded mobile app and pinpoint their rendezvous area. A faint breeze whispered around the foursome, cool and carrying with it the mingled scents of hearth fires, cooked dinners and beer from a nearby pub. Sounds surrounded them too — the laughter of locals chatting across a garden fence, the trundling noise of someone maneuvering their wheelie bin up a paved path, the rapid passing of a man on a fast bicycle, the loud booming of a TV show behind drawn, bright curtains.
Dahl led them past a mid-size roundabout and along a route that led out of town, noting the small police station and fire station that nestled in next to each other along the way. Alicia examined them with a critical stare.
“Let’s hope they’re filled with red-blooded, meat-eating, rugby-playing village boys,” she said. “I have a feeling we’re gonna be needing ‘em before the night’s out.”
Mai cackled. “Feeling a little horny, Taz?”
“Piss off.”
Dahl walked past the edge of town, until flat fields and hedgerows filled the landscape. Out here the wind picked up several notches and lost a few degrees of warmth.
“I’m not lost,” the Swede said as Drake opened his mouth. “As you know navigation is one of my many fortes.”
Drake held up his hands. He could already see their destination, unlike Dahl who had his nose almost buried in the smart phone. In the end, he just pointed.
Dahl nodded. “Yeah, that’s where I was headed next.”
At the center of a nearby field, two dimly lit cabins stood amidst a chain-link fence with builders’ wooden signs all around. It was a flippant disguise, but it would work for a night or two. Way beyond the paddock Drake saw a carnival outlined against the dark Ferris wheel and other rides slinging passengers around.
“I guess we know where most of the villagers went,” he said.
Dahl took point again. Drake was under the impression that the Swede wanted this business over with quickly so he could get back to his family. Twenty four hours, Drake reasoned. It wasn’t so long when you put it into perspective.
On the approach to the paddock’s locked gates, Dahl slowed. Men melted out of the night, weapons raised. One of them approached.
“We’ve been waiting for you.”
Drake shrugged. “We’re here now.”
“Follow me.”
They were led through the gates and into a sparse cabin. A pockmarked wooden desk held papers and other contraptions that were being closely guarded. The man walked around the table.
“All right. Listen up. Last Man Standing is kill or be killed. Only one person can win. Got it?”
“We hear you,” Mai said evenly.
“As for other competitors… there’s Vincent, an undefeated assassin also known as The Ghost. Gretchen, a Russian special-forces killer. Blackbird — once of Mossad and their best. Need I say more? Duster, a Cockney lunatic. Santino, a nasty piece of work from Mexico City. Oh, and Gozu…” the hard-faced man cast a faintly amused glance toward Mai. “I’m told to tell you he’s the clan’s second Grand Master assassin. And finally, we have the best of the best. Possibly on level par with the Coyote herself, though never let her know I said that.” The man winked. “We have the most notable French contract killer of all time — Beauregard Alain.”
“Shit, you’re kidding me.” Alicia said. “I’ve heard of him.”
Drake nodded. “That bell end escaped an entire SAS unit fifteen years ago. Killed two men in the process. Hope he’s slowed down a bit.”
“Believe me,” their greeter assured them. “He hasn’t.” He handed out sheets of paper with facts, figures and mugshots attached. “Everyone has a set of these. Learn their faces well so you don’t off any of these poor townsfolk tonight, eh? And by ‘off’ I mean—”