The same volcano, Drake mused, that had sent the ash cloud across Europe recently, disrupting air traffic and people’s holidays.
Drake sipped his coffee and listened to the wind howl. The mantel clock chimed midnight. A glance at the wealth of information provided by the internet told him Ben would make more sense of it than he could. Ben was like any student — able to make fast sense of the mush that came with technology. He read that Odin’s Shield sported many fancy carvings, all of which were being studied by basement-boffins, and that J.R.R.Tolkien had based his wandering wizard, Gandalf, on Odin.
Random stuff. The symbols or hieroglyphs that ringed the outside of the shield were believed to be an ancient form of Odin’s Curse:
Heaven and Hell are but a temporary ignorance,
It is the Immortal Soul that sways towards Right or Wrong.
No script existed explaining the curse, but still everyone believed in its authenticity. At least — it was attributed to the Vikings, not Odin.
Drake sat back in his chair and ran through the events of the night.
One thing cried out to him but at the same time gave him pause. The guy in white had mouthed ‘’til Paris, six tomorrow.’ If Drake followed that path he could be putting Ben’s life in danger, not to mention his own.
A civilian would let it go. A soldier would reason that he’d already been threatened, that their lives were already in danger, and that any information was good information.
He Googled: Odin+Paris.
One bold entry leapt out at him.
Odin’s Horse, Sleipnir, was on display at the Louvre.
Odin’s Horse? Drake scratched his head. For a God this guy was laying claim to some highly material things. Drake brought up the Louvre’s home page. It seemed the sculpture of Odin’s fabled Horse had been discovered years ago in the mountains of Norway. More tales followed. Drake soon became so wrapped up in the many tales of Odin that he almost forgot He was, in fact, a Viking God, simply a myth.
The Louvre? Drake chewed it over. He finished his coffee, tired now, and pushed away from the computer.
In another moment he was asleep.
He woke to the sound of the croaking frog. His little sentry. An enemy might expect an alarm or a dog, but he would never suspect the little green ornament nestling beside the wheelie bin — and Drake had been trained to sleep light.
He’d fallen asleep at the computer desk with his head in his arms; now he came instantly awake and slipped into the darkened hallway. The back door rattled. Glass smashed. Only seconds had passed since the frog croaked.
They were in.
Drake ducked below eye-level and saw two men enter, sub-machine-guns held competently, but a little shabbily. Their movement was clean, but not graceful.
No problem.
Drake waited in the shadows, hoping the old soldier in him wouldn’t let him down.
Two came in, an advance team. That showed someone knew what they were doing. Drake’s complete strategy for this situation had been planned years ago when the soldier’s mentality was still strong and experimental, and he’d simply never had to change it around. It was now re-focusing in his mind. When the first soldier’s muzzle poked out of the kitchen Drake grabbed it, jerked it towards him, then twisted it back. At the same time he stepped toward his opponent and spun, effectively wrenching the gun away and finishing up behind the man.
The second soldier was taken aback. That was all it took. Drake fired without a milli-second of pause, then spun and shot the first soldier dead before the second had even crumpled to his knees.
Run! he thought. Speed was everything now.
He sprinted up the stairs shouting Ben’s name, then squeezed off a burst of automatic fire over his shoulder. He reached the landing, shouted again, then hit Ben’s door at a dead run. It burst open. Ben stood in his boxer shorts, mobile in hand, sheer terror etched into his face.
“Don’t worry,” Drake winked. “Trust me. This is my other job.”
To his credit, Ben didn’t ask questions. Drake focused hard. He had disabled the house’s original loft-hatch, and then installed a second one in this room. After that he’d reinforced the bedroom door. It wouldn’t stop a determined enemy but it would certainly slow them down.
All part of the plan.
He bolted the door, making sure the integral bars were fixed to the reinforced frame, then pulled down the loft ladder. Ben shot up first, Drake a second later. The loft space was large and carpeted. Ben just stood and gaped. The entire wall space to east and west was dominated by large bespoke bookcases overflowing with CDs and old cassette cases.
“These all yours, Matt?”
Drake didn’t answer. He crossed over to a pile of boxes that concealed a door tall enough to crawl through; a door that led to the roof.
Drake upended a box on the carpet. A fully packed rucksack fell out which he secured over his shoulders.
“Clothes?” Ben whispered.
He patted the rucksack. “Got ‘em.”
When Ben looked blank Drake understood just how scared he was. He realised he’d turned back into that SAS guy a little too easily. “Clothes. Mobiles. Money. Passports. I-pad. I.D.”
Didn’t mention the gun. The bullets. The knife…
“Who’s doing this, Matt?”
A boom came from below. Their unknown enemy hitting Ben’s bedroom door, perhaps now realising they had underestimated Drake.
“Time to go.”
Ben turned without expression and crawled out into the windswept night. Drake dived after him and, with a last glance at the walls full of CDs and cassette tapes, pulled the door shut.
He’d adapted the roof as best he could without drawing people’s attention. On pretence of installing new guttering he’d fixed a three foot wide walkway that ran the length of his roof. It was his neighbour’s side that would pose the problem.
The wind tugged at them with eager fingers as they traversed the treacherous roof. Ben stepped carefully, bare feet slipping and jarring against the concrete tiles. Drake held his arm tightly, wishing they’d had time to find his trainers.
Then a strong gust howled around the chimney breast, struck Ben full in the face and sent him stumbling towards the edge. Drake pulled back hard, heard a shriek of pain, but maintained his grip. After a second he reined his friend in.
“Not far,” he whispered. “Nearly there, mate.”
Drake could see that Ben was terrified. His eyes darted between the loft-door and the edge of the roof, then to the garden and back again. Panic twisted his features. His breathing was coming too fast; at this rate they’d never make it.
Drake stole a glance at the door, steeled himself, and turned his back to it. If anyone came through they would see him first. He took hold of Ben’s shoulders and locked eyes.
“Ben, you have to trust me. Trust me. I promise I will get you through this.”
Ben’s eyes refocused and he nodded, still terrified but putting his life in Drake’s hands. He turned and stepped forward gingerly. Drake noticed blood dripping from his feet, draining into the gutter. They traversed the neighbour’s roof, stepped down onto his conservatory and slithered to the ground. Ben slipped and fell halfway, but Drake had gone first and broke most of his fall.
Then they were on solid ground. Lights were on next door but no one was around. They had probably heard the automatic fire. Hopefully the police were on their way.