“Same room?”
“Smyth said he wanted to keep me safe,” Lauren drawled in her New York accent.
“From a goat?”
“I have no idea where the goat came from,” Smyth snapped. “Or where it went. Let’s leave it at that.”
“Some protection you were,” Alicia muttered. “If that goat had been even half-trained it coulda taken you both out.”
“It was worth it,” Lauren said in a sad voice. “I have to return to hospital today.” The doctors were still testing her body after being infected with the Pandora plague.
Drake listened to the banter as his phone connected. When the call was answered it was by a man in weary tones.
“Dude, it’s after midnight.”
“Is that Dai? Dai Hibiki?”
“Who is this?”
“Matt Drake.”
All of a sudden the voice changed. “Oh, hi Matt. Is everything okay?”
Hibiki was a cop, through and through. Even mostly asleep he would regard a phone call from Drake as unusual.
“Not really, no.” Drake went through the events of the last few hours, barely believing the facts as he spoke them aloud. Hibiki stayed silent throughout. After a few minutes Drake heard a female voice asking if everything was okay.
Chika. Of course, Hibiki and Mai’s sister were seeing each other.
Drake couldn’t help that now. It remained imperative that Hibiki be brought up to date. Drake paused when he finished and then said, “I understand if you want to come back to me later.”
“I’ll do that.”
“Good. But don’t take all day, mate. If Mai’s on her way to Tokyo you need to be ready.”
“Not Tokyo, possibly. But Japan, yes. I will not sleep until this matter is dealt with. You should know that. We keep a very close eye on the Yakuza and there has been no talk of any move in that direction. Not even a whisper. I will start the squeeze now with everything I have.”
Drake ended the call and turned back to address the room. “He’s on board.”
“Random thought,” Komodo put in. “Do you guys think this has anything to do with the Pythians?”
“We can’t tell.” Hayden sighed. “But I do know we have to move fast. If the Yakuza have Mai they won’t keep her alive for long.”
CHAPTER SIX
Callan Dudley had no problem projecting the crazy Irishman image. It came naturally to him. He also knew the importance of terror, of bullying and intimidating his prey so harshly they could barely think. Time was, back in Ireland he’d have done it for a free pint. Today, he was working for a boatload of cash and for the Pythian group, and with the greatest set of feckin’ arseholes on the planet — the 27-Club.
So they made the mother kneel down on all fours and then covered her in vodka. They bruised the daughter and her boyfriend around the face. When Boyle and Brannan returned to the house looking slightly disappointed and reporting that they’d found no presence of security or bodyguards, Dudley thought it might be time to explain his requirements to their captives.
“Malachi?” He always deferred to his older brother.
“This is yer party, brother. Take it away.”
Dudley motioned McLain and Byram to force the aging, gray-haired man to his knees. Their target, a Lawrence Walcott, the Secretary of the Smithsonian Museum, appeared to be around fifty, with salt-and-pepper sideburns and a wispy moustache. His eyes of course were wide, frightened, his knees trembling.
Dudley enjoyed getting up into the old man’s face. “I’m gonna ask yer some questions. Yer lie yer daughter and her shagger get a bat? Understand?” Lawrence Walcott wanted to, he really did. Dudley could tell he wanted to. But the Irish accent was too much for him.
As expected. Dudley turned to Malachi. “Show him.”
Malachi, grinning, punched first Walcott’s daughter and then her boyfriend in the stomach. Their cries were pitiful, making Dudley laugh.
“Yer get me now?”
“Yes, yes. Please…”
Dudley took a moment to think. Despite the Irishman’s crass violent streak, his penchant toward chaos and brutality, now that his brother and friends had joined the true fight he wanted to prove his worth.
And that meant sometimes having to think.
“Check outside again,” he told Boyle and Brannan. “And check the house too. The Smithsonian has its own police force, an Office of Protection Services. Look for a hidden alarm.”
“Already on it.”
Dudley turned back to Walcott. “So yer want to save time and pain? We’re looking for the Peking Man. And we know it’s in the museum.”
Walcott’s face ran through an entire gamut of expressions. Of course the man was no fool. It would occur to him very quickly that there was no point questioning Dudley’s knowledge, if only for his family’s sake. It would also occur to him that Dudley wasn’t swinging in the wind here — the Irishman knew. So where did that leave him?
Dudley thought, Damage. Quickly, he turned again to Malachi. “The wife now.”
Walcott protested. Dudley gave him a slap. Daley, watching carefully, giggled. Dudley turned to him with a grin. “Yer like that?” He slapped Walcott again, this time reddening his other cheek. Daley burst into laughter. At the same time Malachi was hauling the wife up by the hair and throwing her over the couch.
“The feckin’ Irish bastards have yer now.” Dudley squeezed Walcott’s jaw hard. “If yer want to live you’d better keep yer nose clean and not fib to me.”
Walcott nodded, face screwed up in agony. The asshole’s wife was groaning too as Malachi worked overtime, practicing his jabs, so Dudley thought this an appropriate time to twist the proverbial knife.
“Yer gonna take us to this Peking Man. And give it over. Then we’ll be gone.” Dudley explained that Walcott would acquire the long-lost, probably stolen, relic whilst his family remained under Irish guard. Only when the 27-Club walked away with the artefact would Walcott’s family be released.
“When? Now?” Walcott looked incredulous. “It’s the middle of the day. There will be a thousand people wandering around.”
“Not in the archives,” Dudley said. “It’s not like yer have it on show or admit to ever stealing it. An’ doing it at night would be even more fierce. As yer know.”
Walcott’s face fell even further.
“Family or job?” Dudley smiled, a hunter facing his prey. “Choose.”
He waited, thinking through what the Pythians had already told him. This lost relic, the Peking Man, would make China sit up and take notice, even beg. Couple to that the knowledge of where the Americans found it in 1945 and what they were actually doing there back then, and you had not only China’s attention but their complicit support and enduring assistance. Dudley wasn’t aware what the Pythians required from the Chinese but he knew it wouldn’t be a free tour of the Great Wall. Once the Peking Man was obtained their mission became even more obscure. Something about tablets and Mu. None of it really mattered to Dudley. The Pythians had told him that China might start a war with Taiwan. The war was everything.
Any war.
He grinned, looking over at his brothers. Not only Malachi, but all of them. Brothers in battle. Comrades-in-arms. The 27-Club existed only so its members could live out their ferocious dreams.
Because his oldest brother, Kevan, could not. Dead at twenty seven, killed by the British, Kevan was the reason the 27-Club had been born. Malachi founded it, recruiting his friends to the cause — every one under twenty seven — and then Dudley joined too, already a capable underground brawler at home with violence and unable to reconcile his brother’s death. After that, it was pure mayhem. The 27-Club did indeed make waves, bloody gore-filled ones. They wreaked havoc through many a country before Malachi turned twenty seven himself and then they waited. The gang didn’t slacken in its cruel dealings. If anything, Malachi took more risks.