“Mantrap,” the Spetsnaz commander breathed. “We saw two more back there.” He barked an order for one of his men to attend the victim, then turned back to Drake. “We have entered a house of horrors, no?”
“Yes.”
They rushed to the edge of the foliage that ended six feet from Zoya’s front door. Drake’s forehead creased. Was Zoya even here? He pointed out the shutters and door, indicating a multiple strike. The second team was about to hit the side of the house. Hopefully the third team was striking at the rear, but Drake didn’t have time to check as the Spetsnaz soldiers assailed their target.
Then the front door opened with a crash, literally flying back and smashing against its hinges, before tearing half away and hanging lop-sided. From out of the doorway emerged a king-size nightmare — Zoya, the grandmother of Zanko, almost seven feet tall and wider than the door itself, cut-off vest showing arms that were thicker than some men’s legs, a machine gun held easily in each paw-like hand.
“You fuckers!” she screamed. “Mother—”
The rest of her rant was lost as two Spetsnaz soldiers closed in on her. Drake cursed silently. They should have just shot and wounded this malicious brute, but chose instead to take her alive. It was their mistake. Drake never would have believed it if he hadn’t seen it, but Zanko’s crazy grandmother simply batted both special forces soldiers aside with her enormous arms. It must have been like being hit by a tree-trunk. Both men flew back, landing hard, rolling and then lay without moving. The woman boomed out a laugh reminiscent of some jungle animal’s distress call and swiveled both machine guns around.
“Oh shit!”
Men scattered like leaves in a storm. The heavy thudding berserker sound of high-caliber machine gun fire sent Drake’s heart into his mouth. Zoya’s cackling screech was even louder. “This is me!” she bellowed. “This is what I was made for!”
Even the trees shuddered under fire. One younger specimen groaned and collapsed, blasted apart, toppling in the direction of the house and smashing against the roof. Drake saw two men risk a glance out of their hiding places, only to be torn to bits. He sat with his back against the thick base of an old oak, reloading as splinters chipped off the tree and flew past him. Mai knelt between his legs, facing him.
“Didn’t see this one coming,” she said.
“Yeah, but we should have.”
Drake fired blindly around one side of the oak, Mai the other. Drake could see the Russian Spetsnaz commander pinned down behind a log, its entire length being chewed away by bullets. Drake sneaked a look around the tree and could barely believe his eyes. Zoya stood like a grotesque statue, unmoved, bleeding from at least three places, rock-solid and radical, the very expression of fanaticism taken to the extreme.
He looked back at Mai, barely believing his next words. “Grenade.”
To her credit she only blinked twice. Then she unhooked a Russian-made grenade, pulled a suspicious face at it, and lobbed it around the big tree.
“Let’s hope it works.”
Drake followed its flight, feeling hopeful, but Zoya spotted it immediately and roared as if the very noise would create a barrier. She let her guns drop to her side and lumbered toward the grenade as it flew at her.
Then she drew back her foot…
Drake gaped. “Fuck’s sake! She’s going to volley—”
… and kicked out. Zoya’s giant foot flew at the spinning grenade so powerfully her boot soared off, arcing up among the trees.
But she missed the grenade.
Drake ducked back in. Zoya’s elephantine bellow drowned out even the grenade’s initial blast, but ended abruptly as fragments shredded her body. A mammoth crash and sudden silence led to a dozen men popping their heads up.
Drake primed his gun. “Russian football.” He shook his head. “Never was up to much.”
CHAPTER FIFTY ONE
Drake, Mai and the Spetsnaz soldiers emerged warily, eyes fixed on the unmoving carcass blocking the way to the door. Everyone waited expectantly, but when no further defenders appeared, the commander looked to Drake.
“Do you think she guarded the house alone?”
Drake took a moment to reload and re-jig himself. “I wouldn’t be surprised.”
Mai crept toward the door. “Time to enter the monster’s lair.”
“Well, when you put it that way.” Drake covered her back, eyes flitting everywhere. But it wasn’t just enemy soldiers he was looking for, it was more of Zoya’s booby traps. When they approached the mammoth body, Mai stopped, staring down in awe.
“She was three times my size.”
“But she fell as hard as any extremist.” Drake sniffed. “Just like Zanko will if I ever see him again.”
They stepped over the body with the Spetsnaz soldiers coming up behind. Mai started up the steps and Drake almost put out a hand to stop her. A sudden vision had assailed him, of another person he loved being killed. He struggled to shrug the malaise off. It was something he’d labored under for too long, and he’d thought he had moved on. Maybe it was Mai’s own current period of disquiet that was affecting him.
Because if Mai Kitano felt insecure, then something was majorly wrong, and the shit truly was about to hit the proverbial fan.
Staying his hand, he followed closely across Zoya’s wooden porch and through the bullet-pocked door frame. Beyond that, they passed through a sparsely furnished living area complete with kitchen and king size bed. The dark, relatively small, space smelled of sweat and alcohol and, oddly, biscuits. Drake saw that the oven was lit, its motor whirring away, but knew better than to approach just yet.
One more open door stood before them and it was to this that Mai stepped next. But she stopped at the Zoya-sized gap and began to shake her head.
“You have to see this, Matt.”
Drake stepped to her shoulder. The sight that greeted his eyes made him draw a sharp breath. There, piled high and almost reaching the roof, was a heap of treasure — everything from piles of banknotes to coins and trinkets; from machine guns and landmines, claymores and at least one RPG with scattered grenades; from works of art still in their original frames to swords, spears and wickedly gleaming mantraps.
Mai looked at Drake. “The monster’s hoard.”
“Oh aye. Damn right. What a crazy loon.”
Mai pointed at the floor. It was the only room in the house that was carpeted. “Not a good sign.”
The Spetsnaz commander ordered one of his men to investigate, but Drake was already on his knees, carefully prizing up a side of carpet. Sure enough a nest of wires ran underneath and he could see the pale gray side of what looked like a laptop bag.
“Pressure pads.”
“Not a problem.” The Spetsnaz commander pointed at the roof, and within ten minutes, his men had set up a lift-and-pulley system. Drake eyed the shifting treasure pile warily.
“At least we know what the bloody sword looks like. Call Patterson in from the van. He might be able to help. I’ll go first.”
Mai made a face at the Russian-made pulley system. “You sure will. Have fun with that. Oh, and Matt? The clock is ticking…”
CHAPTER FIFTY TWO
Dahl knew that time was running out fast. The journey by plane and vehicle, ending in rough terrain, had taken many hours. On the way, Akerman only made matters worse by reminding him of one of his earlier translations, ‘The doomsday device is a weapon that will cause an overload of the elements. The Earth will quake. The air will be split apart by mega storms of unbelievable ferocity. Chains of volcanoes will erupt. And the oceans shall rise.’