CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
Whitehall was a tide of humanity at 9 a.m., a feeding ground for all players from the oldest profession in the world to the nastiest, right up to Admiralty House. Here, a line of policemen stretched across the road, stopping passers-by and office workers, halting traffic. Horns blared amid the hubbub. Uniformed officers sporting guns could be seen situated on every corner and on rooftops. As they made their way slowly against the flow Drake questioned Hayden as to the seriousness of the attack.
“Shots fired in the vicinity of the Prime Minister is always considered serious,” she said. “It’s the way it was done that raises questions. Mercs matching the descriptions of those we encountered in Knightsbridge fired shots in the air as Prime Minister Ronson descended the steps from the Department of Energy. He escaped unhurt and three men were cornered. Now they’re trapped in the Clarence pub, one of those quaint, tight, narrow-corridor establishments you Brits love.”
Drake slowed as the crowds began to thin, relieved that they had left their non-combatants back at the hotel. As they approached the cordon he was impressed by the action of the police and their calm demeanor. What could have been a volatile situation was being defused by self-confidence and composure.
“So why us?” he wondered. “Don’t we have more important things to do?”
Hayden tugged at the sleeves of her jacket. “You’d think. But these mercs are more interested in us than giving up.”
“I don’t understand.”
“They’ve been tweeting about us from inside the Clarence. Our names. Comments on the SPEAR team. Abuse. Challenges. The usual macho bullshit.”
“So we’re here to shut them down?” Dahl rumbled. “Let’s get it done quickly.”
“We’re here to see if we can figure out what the hell’s going on. Mercs don’t fire into the air and then trap themselves so easily. They don’t tweet like idiots — most of them.”
“So something’s up.” Drake waited as they were shown through the cordon. He moved ahead, eyeing the buildings on both sides of the normally busy road. “Have all these offices and shops been searched?”
“You kidding?” Hayden looked incredulous. “That would take days.”
As if in response to Drake’s words small coffee shops and cafes to both sides of the street emitted a stream of men. Drake, trained to have some of the best perceptions on the planet, paused at the cordon, sniffing trouble; Dahl did the same. The others walked ahead momentarily. Even Mai, though her awareness was tragically elsewhere of late.
“Wait,” Drake hissed. “Something’s not right.”
The police cordon was snaking as men turned, whispering to each other. Eyes shot up, to the left and right. Drake narrowed his vision. Pedestrians to both sides suddenly shifted away, heading back into shops or hurrying up the street.
Komodo was alongside them now. “What I’m thinking,” he said. “Can’t be right.”
The stream of men fanned out. Cops stared in disbelief and denial. Radios squawked. A woman screamed.
Drake saw no advantage in waiting. The men staring him down weren’t mercenaries, they were terrorists, and they had been waiting in coffee shops and cafes outside the cordon, already prepped before Prime Minister Ronson was fired upon. No way could these men have drifted here afterward in such numbers. Drake ran even as guns appeared from underneath coats, as a grenade bounced toward the middle of the road, and as a tall, swarthy malnourished man revealed what was strapped to his body.
“A present from Ramses,” he said and released the dead-man’s trigger.
The central London street turned into a battleground. Drake dropped and rolled. The man exploded a moment after the grenade. Body parts and shrapnel burst everywhere. Drake held a hand across his head and rose the second he felt the shockwaves pass. Luckily the terrorists were running forward, closing a gap they shouldn’t have. In their hands were a number of traded and bought weapons. Clearly, the weapons black market, always strong in London, was flourishing. Drake swiveled on his back and kicked out the legs of the nearest man, sending him sprawling. He caught a glimpse of the police line behind him, breaking up as some reached for weapons and others parted to let armed forces race through. Shots came from above — snipers positioned on the roofs. Dahl ducked as he was about to run smack-bang into a scrawny man, sending him ten feet into the air and catching his weapon on the way down. Komodo fought hand to hand with another terrorist.
Drake fired twice and took two out. Hayden came up to him. “They’re here for us,” she breathed. “Look at them.”
Drake already knew. The terrorists, fourteen strong, were converging on the SPEAR team and ignoring the cops, the specialists and everything else. Sensing he was pinned he immediately leaped up onto the front end of a car, rifle steady, aimed and pressed snugly to his shoulder, squeezing off shot after shot. He then ran hard, jumping from the hood of one car to another, firing without let up.
Dahl flung one terrorist against the other, starting a pile. A third pointed a gun at him, found it wrenched from his hands, and was added to the heap. Komodo ducked behind it. Hayden stayed back, maybe still a little sore from her gunshot wound in their battle through the nightmare streets of Washington DC during the Blood King’s blood vengeance, a time when so many had died. Though fully healed, she had yet to see full combat. Kinimaka stood beside her.
Mai and Smyth found themselves ducking and diving, more target practice and distraction for the terrorists than anything else. But the contrived tactic was working. Faced by capable operatives and with men dying every second the terrorists were starting to wilt. They were not military or even militia, just a bunch of men hardened by oppression and bullying and three months’ training.
Cops joined the uproar. Special Forces slid through. Drake rolled across the roof of a car, down onto its trunk and then slithered to the road as bullets stitched a ragged line after his boot heels. He thought about sliding under the car but decided it was a bad idea. One rolled grenade and he was in bits. He nipped out around the side and fell to the sidewalk, catching a glimpse of a terrorist being thrown into the air, arms and legs flapping, and knew instantly where the mad Swede was. Hayden and Kinimaka were further down the row of cars, taking cover. Drake inched up until he could see through the side window.
Eight terrorists were dead or incapacitated. Of the six remaining one was losing to Komodo, one to Mai and three others were fleeing from the cops. That left…
Booted feet smashed onto the front end of the car Drake was hiding behind. A figure came into view, already firing. Drake rolled onto his back, gaining half a second, but the weapon was swiveling too fast. He squeezed the trigger, unable to aim fast enough but hoping the shots would make his assailant flinch back.
No luck. The man was hell bent on dying anyway and came on. The bullets from his gun blasted a line across the sidewalk, along a brick wall, through a glass window and then back toward the sidewalk again as he crabbed forward. Drake shuffled backwards but nowhere near fast enough.
Bullets mowed concrete as they churned around his boots. Firing, he rolled one last time. The shot went wild. There was no satisfaction on the terrorist’s face, just an anesthetized, dazed expression.
Then his chest exploded and he fell face first, weapon silenced and clattering to the floor.
Drake took a breath, then saw who stood behind the fallen man. Hayden Jaye crouched and trained her gun to the left as Kinimaka offered Drake his right hand. “Up ya come, bud. Won’t do to get shot before lunch.”