Drake changed the clip in his Glock. Gleaming lights shone down from floating ceilings above their heads, designed for the cars but picking out the firefight in every detail. The cultists had chosen to take cover among a shining spectacle of highly polished Jaguars, an SUV and a blue sports car now fully peppered with holes. Drake groaned as bullets flew overhead, hitting displays behind them with the flags of Italian marques.
“This is not good,” he said.
Alicia knew him. “You mean for the event or the bloody cars?”
Drake gave her a ‘duh’ glare.
“Such beautiful bodywork and machinery being destroyed,” Drake said.
“Shall we concentrate on the terrorists?” Mai asked.
Argento’s voice filled the comms, strikingly high-pitched and different. “It is important that you protect the Alfa Romeo brand. Do you hear? Highly important. It is our great heritage, our undying passion, our—”
A flurry of gunfire shut him up. The cultists were well dug in now, the Jaguars listing badly, a bullet-strewn pair of vertical light-stands rising above them. A small fire had started to the right of the stage. Another man rose to take a pot shot at Webb, and Drake missed his forehead by an eighth of an inch.
Hayden cursed. “They’re helping him escape.”
The team evaluated, gauged distances, gaps and lines of cover. Then Torsten Dahl made a positive sound. “Just give me a minute,” he said. “And I’ll save the day.”
Drake started to say: “Oh, yeah, very droll—” but then the Swede was moving and the team scrambled to give him shelter. Their bullets tore apart front wings and all remaining panes of glass, burst tires and shattered rear lights. Drake managed to sever the cords of a hanging light which smashed down among their enemies.
Dahl bounded down a few steps and onto the floor, an eager guard dog, switched over to the right, and approached an adjacent podium. It took Drake only a moment to figure out what was about to happen.
“Oh, shit. Get ready—”
Dahl broke apart a two-meter-wide stand dedicated to the unveiling of a new style of alloy rim. The heavy, eight-spoked rims crashed to the ground hard, but Dahl reached down and took one under each arm. As the cultists looked over to assess the threat, Drake, Mai and Alicia rose firing, racing up the steps of the Peugeot stand to get a clearer line of fire. Cultists collapsed, groaning. Three aimed at Dahl and another charged the Swede.
Dahl spun fast then let go. An enormous, incredibly heavy rim arced through the air and hit the running man chest-on, its force crushing everything it touched. The second rim then went flying, smashing into the cultists’ main position, glancing off a head and a shoulder, causing total mayhem. Guns went flying. Heads smashed metal or each other. Dahl picked up a final rim and hurled it before anyone thought to move.
Drake, Mai and Alicia ran down the steps, still firing hard. Blood began to seep under the chassis of the ragged looking Jaguars.
The third rim came down like a descending meteor, denting a bright red wing and then deflecting onto a skulking, black-clad chest. The lurker let out a screech, but was afforded no mercy as a running Smyth finished him off. Dahl flexed his muscles to give them a little relief and then drew his own gun, flanking Drake.
“I think we now have your new online ID,” Drake mouthed. “Rim Tosser.”
“I was The Beach Runner last week.”
“Oh aye, but I think this one suits you better.”
The two men crept to the front of the Jaguars.
“Better than Office Bike, I suppose.”
“Hey, that’s Alicia’s.”
“Fuck off, you two.”
They sobered as the scene unfolded. The cultists were lying dead or dying, some with guns still clasped in their hands and still attempting to point them at the SPEAR team.
“Really?” Alicia said. “Even now? You people must be off your heads.”
“They belong to a cult,” Mai said. “Which is everything to them. They would rather die than betray its secrets.”
Drake remembered Mai had been sold into her own hell, not exactly a cult, but something close. He felt a pang of sorrow at moving on from their relationship so quickly. Had he done the right thing?
That’s me alright, he thought. Having to choose between two of the most dangerous women in the world. What could possibly go wrong?
Hayden shouted over the airwaves: “I’m not so sure these men are actual cultists, guys. More like hired mercs.”
Kenzie put a hand on Dahl’s shoulder. “You okay, Torst? I think you owe Jaguar a new car.”
Mai and Beau passed among the downed men, disarming and restraining for the cops. Another shot rang out then and Drake looked to the rear of the hall.
“Still some out there chasing Webb.”
Hayden panted over the comms. “We’re in pursuit. Webb’s close to freedom.”
“Not today.” Dahl clenched his fists and mock-glared at Drake. “Maybe this time you could even help.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Drake ran again, ignoring the aches and pains and bruises of battle. Experience helped him scan the plethora of hiding places from nearby to far ahead, and he noted only three remaining adversaries.
And Webb, the figure vague and approaching the auto show’s back doors, where metal overhangs, wide stanchions and high ceiling walkways cast everything into indistinct shadow.
“Bloody ’ell!”
Drake saw Hayden and Kinimaka, and sprinted along the aisles. The pair had halted alongside half a dozen motor show models, trying to instil some kind of calm among the women. It didn’t help when one of the cultists turned to take a pot shot. Alicia fired back amid the screams, scaring her enemy into flight.
They ran on, the bright lights glimmering and making them sweat, the shiny vehicles and vivid colors a pure assault on the senses, the remaining pockets of hidden civilians a heavy deterrent to engaging the cultists. They kept low, less threatening. Hayden climbed a podium belonging to Aston Martin to keep an eye on Webb.
Drake then saw the answer. Some of the cars at these shows were so unique, so secret, their success reliant on hype and expectation, that they were exhibited just a few short hours before being whisked away to private showings. Especially in the early evening prior to the show’s closing, cars were rolled and then driven out the back. Drake saw one such car at the side of the hall now, having been abandoned by the manufacturer’s representatives when the gunfight broke out.
Chiron, he thought.
Screaming for attention it drew him to the left as the others carried on. Drake keyed the comms.
“Two minutes.”
Now praying the firefight would have made even the most dedicated technician abscond without a second thought, Drake approached the outlandish car and reached down for the door handle. Glad to see it was at least open, he let the door swing wide and took a look inside. Unable to help himself, he took that extra second to revel in the utter luxuriousness of it all, the flawless interior art.
No keys dangled from any ignition, sending his heart sinking until he spied the butt end of a curved object protruding from under the steering wheel. Jumping in, Drake knew the starting procedure for this car’s predecessor and tried the same technique.
Demons roared from the back end, the tailpipes spewing forth hellfire and madness. Drake felt his face crack into a crazy grin, engaged drive, and set the hypercar into motion. Feeling more nerves than he ever did in battle, he guided the car around the back end of the auto show, passing between metal stanchions that loomed threateningly close. As he cleared the two pillars he got a look ahead.