Well, one thing was different. Alicia Myles was at the bar, downing a double-shot. Drake thought about leaving. There were other bars to avoid his sorrows in, and if most of them looked like this, he’d feel right at home.
But maybe the call to action had altered his view a little. He walked over to her and sat down. She didn’t even look up.
“Fucksake, Drake.” She slid her empty glass toward him. “Buy me a drink.”
“Leave the bottle,” Drake instructed the barman and poured himself half a glass of Bacardi Oakheart. He lifted his glass in a toast. “Alicia Myles. A ten year relationship that went nowhere, eh? And here we find ourselves, in paradise, getting drunk in a bar.”
“Life has a way of fucking you up.”
“No. The SRT did that.”
“It sure didn’t help.”
Drake glanced sidelong at her. “Is that a sentence of honesty? From you? How many of those have you sunk?”
“Enough to take the edge off. Not as many as I need.”
“And yet you did nothing to help those people. In that village. Do you even remember? You allowed our own soldiers to interrogate them.”
“I was a soldier, like them. I had my orders.”
“And then you threw down to the highest bidder.”
“I served my dues, Drake.” Alicia topped her rum off and banged the bottle down hard. “It was time to reap the rewards.”
“And look where that got you.”
“You mean look where it got us, don’t you?”
Drake remained silent. It could be said that he’d taken the high road. It could also be said that she’d taken the low road. It didn’t matter. They had ended up in the same place with the same losses and the same future.
“We deal with the Blood Vendetta first. And Kovalenko. Then we see where we’re at.” Alicia sat gazing into the distance. Drake wondered if her thoughts centered around Tim Hudson.
“We still have to talk about Wells. He was my friend.”
Alicia laughed, sounding like her old self. “That old perv? No way was he your friend, Drake, and you fucking know it. We will talk about Wells. But at the end. That’s when it’ll happen.”
“Why?”
A soft voice floated over his shoulder. “Because that’s when it has to happen, Matt.” It was Mai’s feathery tones. She had sidled up to them with soundless ease. “Because we need each other to get through this first.”
Drake tried to hide his surprise at seeing her. “Is the truth about Wells so terrible?”
Their silence said that it was.
Mai moved between them. “I’m here because I have a lead.”
“A lead? From who? I thought the Japs had subbed you.”
“Officially, they have.” Mai’s voice carried an amused lilt. “Unofficially, they’re talking to the Americans. They know the importance of capturing Kovalenko. Do not think my government are without eyes to see.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Alicia snorted. “I just wanna know how you found us.” She shook her jacket as if to throw off a tracker.
“I’m better than you,” Mai said, and now laughing. “And this is the only bar for three blocks.”
“It is?” Drake blinked. “How ironic.”
“I have a lead,” Mai repeated. “Do you want to come with me now and check it out or are you both too drunk to care?”
Drake was off his stool in a second and Alicia swung around. “Lead the way, little sprite.”
A short cab ride later, they were huddled around a busy street corner, listening as Mai updated them.
“It comes directly from a man I trust at the Intelligence Office. Kovalenko’s ranches are managed by a few individuals he trusts. This has always been the case, though it aids him now more than ever when he needs time to… well, do whatever it is he plans to do. In any case, his Oahu ranch is managed by a man called Claude.”
Mai drew their attention ahead to the line of young people filing through the arched and gaudily lit entrance to an upscale club. “Claude owns this club,” she said. Flashing lights advertised ‘Live DJ’s, Friday night bottle specials and special guests.’ Drake scanned the crowd with a sinking feeling. It consisted of about a thousand of Hawaii’s most beautiful young people in various states of undress.
“We might stand out a bit,” he said.
“Now I know you’re all washed up.” Alicia smirked at him. “The Drake of a year ago would’ve stood by the two hot women he’s with, grabbed a cheek in each hand, and goosed us over there.”
Drake rubbed his eyes, knowing she was uncannily correct. “The mid-thirties changes a man,” he managed, suddenly feeling the weight of Alyson’s loss, of Kennedy’s murder, of constant intoxication. He did manage to fix a steely eye on both of them.
“The search for Claude starts here.”
They smiled their way past the doormen to find themselves in a narrow tunnel filled with flashing light and fake smoke. Drake was momentarily disoriented and put it down to the weeks of inebriation. His thought processes were fuzzy, his reactions more so. He needed to sharpen up fast.
Beyond the tunnel, a wide balcony gave a birds-eye view of the dance floor. Bodies moved in unison to the deep-bass beats. The wall to their right held thousands of bottles of liquor and reflected light in sparkling prisms. A dozen bar staff worked the punters, reading lips, giving short-change and serving the wrong drinks to the club’s uncaring patrons.
Same as any bar anywhere. Drake laughed with some irony. “At the back.” He pointed, not needing to be covert in the crowd. “The roped-off area. And beyond that, curtains.”
“Private parties,” Alicia said. “I know what goes on back there.”
“Of course you do.” Mai was busy scanning as much of the place as she could. “Is there a back room you’ve never been in, Myles?”
“Don’t even go there, bitch. I know about your exploits in Thailand. Even I wouldn’t try some of that stuff out.”
“What you heard was hugely understated.” Mai started down the wide staircase without looking back. “Believe me.”
Drake frowned at Alicia and nodded toward the dance-floor. Alicia looked surprised but then realized he meant to cut right across and head for the private area. The Englishwoman shrugged. “You lead, Drake. I’ll follow.”
Drake experienced a sudden, irrational rush of blood. Here was a chance to get closer to the man who might know the whereabouts of Dmitry Kovalenko. The blood he had shed so far was but a drop in the ocean compared to what he was prepared to spill.
As they threaded through the laughing, sweaty bodies out on the dance-floor, one of the guys managed to spin Alicia around. “Hey,” he shouted to his friend, voice barely audible above the pumping beat. “I just got lucky.”
Alicia struck stiffened fingers into his solar plexus. “You were never lucky, son. Just look at your face.”
They moved on swiftly, focusing beyond the pounding music, the swaying bodies, the bar-staff threading in and out of the crowd with trays balanced precariously above their heads. A couple was arguing loudly, the man pressed against a pillar with the woman screaming into his ear. A group of middle-aged women were sweating and puffing in a circle with a round of vodka-Jell-O’s and little blue spoons held in their hands. Low tables dotted the floor everywhere, most loaded with gaudy umbrella-drinks. No one was alone. Many of the men did double takes when Mai and Alicia passed, to the great annoyance of their girlfriends. Mai sensibly ignored the attention. Alicia provoked it.
They approached the roped-off area, which consisted of a thick, gold braid stretched between two heavy-duty, brass rope stands. It seemed the establishment assumed no one would actually challenge the two bruisers situated at either end.