In seconds, Healey had reached Crouch and, still firing with one hand, reached down with the other to help him out of the river.
“You made them run?”
“Us,” Healey said. “And them.”
He pointed over Crouch’s streaming shoulders.
He looked back, and saw two hovering choppers, packed with men. Crouch took another moment to look around.
“Where’s everyone else?”
“I… I don’t know, sir. You’re the first we found. We thought we’d lost you too.”
The enormity of their loss hit Crouch and he slumped. The Ninth Division had been decimated. Files and hard drives were replaceable. Men and women were not — particularly the group he had helped train and nurture during his reign.
Crouch felt fury infuse his body as he stared around at wreckage and death.
“Somebody’s going to pay for this,” he said. “And if it’s all down to Coyote then that bitch is soon gonna wish she’d never been born.”
CHAPTER THREE
Loss is the great identifier, the character builder, one of those times in life when one must prove one’s mettle and struggle through. But there are many iterations of loss, many levels. Loss doesn’t differentiate, doesn’t take sides; it hits us when we’re at our best or at our lowest ebb; and it takes no prisoners.
Matt Drake never got to say goodbye. Not to any of them. Alyson left their home in anger. Ben, Sam and Jo were murdered in the street. And Kennedy Moore — shot dead onboard a warship.
What did they all have in common?
The fact that they all expected to see each other again. The firm knowledge that, despite the anger and the miles apart, their last look had been one of friends that say “see you soon”, not “goodbye forever”. The fact niggled and messed with Drake’s mind. He never got to say goodbye; never told most of them how he felt. And what about all that was left unsaid? Unknown?
Lost in time along with hearts, souls and minds that would never feel, never shine, never hold a loved one or a newborn child again.
On his way to the funeral in Leeds, Drake made a detour. He took Mai to the place where Alyson died.
With death playing such a major part in his life during the events in DC, and over the last year or so, it seemed right that, here, now, as they paid their respects to Ben and his family and were finally tracking down the enigma that was Coyote, that he visit the site where his wife and unborn child died more than eight years ago. The B-road was a meandering mess, replete with blind hills, curves and concealed exits from which tractors blasted out. More hazardous still were the steep and sudden drop-offs at either side of the road. No wonder the cops had ruled Alyson’s death an accident.
When Drake reached the place, he pulled off the road and parked on the grass verge, front left tire partly in space. Mai had to clamber across the driver’s seat to get out and join him at the edge of the road.
Drake stared down, eyes far away, oblivious to the fine English sleet that coated his head and shoulders. “They found the car on its roof. Eventually. Alyson… she died alone… in pain… knowing that her… her—”
Mai laid a hand on his shoulder. “Matt. This will not help you. We have been too close to death of late. It’s like rubbing shoulders with the Reaper. Such exploits can only end one way.”
Drake heard her words and immediately flashed onto her recent time in Tokyo. “What happened with you?”
“We will talk later.”
He nodded absently. The sharp slope, he saw, led to a jagged pile of rocks and a small stand of trees. How had Coyote planned it? And why? If Coyote actually was Shelly Cohen, then they had been friends. They shared a mutual respect.
He was aware of what had happened to the Ninth Division. Thank God Crouch and some of his team had made it out. And to those that hadn’t… he bowed his head again, thinking about how death and destruction could swamp you with its relentlessness.
Mai patted his arm. “We should go.”
He took a last look, knowing that this was the last time he would ever visit this place. A raw sliver of hurt opened wider inside his gut. Not a sign remained. Not a single sign that Alyson and Emily had died here, alone. It shouldn’t be this way. When a man’s wife and unborn child died there should at least be some mark, some final sign or piece of evidence. It was all so — uncaring.
Drake turned away and strode back to the car. When Mai had settled herself he put the car in reverse and then stamped on the gas.
Worse was soon to come.
Drake found himself seated beside Karin, amidst a large crowd, on the afternoon of Ben Blake’s funeral. Seeing so many people both angered and pleased Drake. In the end Ben had forged his own path. The members of his band were there. His girlfriend’s grieving parents. Other college friends that Drake didn’t know. Kids that shared the block of houses where he lived.
Mai, Alicia and Torsten Dahl stood on the fringes like dark-clad guardians, watching over it all. Komodo was seated to Karin’s other side, a great hulking black-suited figure with a soldier’s frame and tears in his eyes.
Drake fought his way through it, thinking a war would be easier than a fallen comrade’s funeral. When the rituals were done and the formalities over, Karin turned to him with a look of utter despair in her eyes.
“We’re here for you,” Drake said, feeling simple and foolish. What were you supposed to say at a time like this?
“I feel like I might scream,” Karin said.
I know the feeling, Drake wanted to say, but stopped himself. Karin had lost her brother and her parents in one day.
Instead he held her. The sleet coated them like a soothing balm and the commiserations of fellow mourners gradually faded away. The last fading vestiges of Ben Blake were lost, a firefly’s last spark in the night.
Drake became aware of their surroundings again; the crowd melting away. Something was happening at a nearby hotel, a final farewell, but Ben’s sister and the rest of the SPEAR team felt no compulsion to be there. The smell of a freshly dug grave stung Drake’s nostrils. The low murmur of consolation rolled around his ears. When Mai, Alicia and Dahl joined them at the front he knew that he needed nothing more than this.
Karin clung to Komodo. “Let’s get out of here.”
Drake started to walk, his eyes barely raised. It was only when Alicia grunted in surprised disapproval that he looked up.
Half a dozen black cars were parked along the road that cut through the graveyard, effectively boxing their own in. As they watched, every door opened and tall, wide men in suits climbed out. Dozens of them. In their hands were clasped every numb weapon a savvy street-youth could imagine — from hammer shafts to stone-filled socks to baseball bats. Drake made himself blink twice before he allowed himself to believe what he was seeing.
“What is this?”
“Don’t worry.” Dahl put himself first in line. “I have this.”
“But Torstyyy,” Alicia mock-whined. “There are more than two dozen of them.”
“Ohh, I’m scared now.”
Alicia smiled and cracked her fingers. “This will actually provide a little light relief.”
“Isn’t that what they’re here for?”
“Hope so.”
“Wanna challenge? Best head-count wins.”
“You’re on.”
As the gang approached, Dahl and Alicia opened out a gap in front. Mai glanced over at Drake to gauge his reaction. The Yorkshireman shrugged.
“Go for it.”
Faced by a force more than seven times their size, the three-person phalanx waited to act. Komodo covered Karin who stared with utter disbelief; even now, after all that had happened, unable to consider this kind of event happening on the day of Ben’s funeral. Behind her, several mourners were returning, good men and woman all, having seen what was taking place. Cellphones were already out and the more adventurous were stalking up to the front.