Blood Vengeance

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The Blood King, with Gabriel and several other men at his side, walked calmly into the lobby of the Hotel Dillion and fanned out. Many were looking disheveled and, feigning distress, threw themselves into easy chairs and began talking loudly about the death of the Secretary of Defense. Kovalenko and Gabriel approached reception, joining the largest of the queues which had formed for late rooms in the wake of the President’s departure. The demand for rooms would only grow as word about Gates’ demise got out, and when the world learned of what was about to happen.

The Hotel Dillion, closely guarded and practically locked-down, continually swept and searched during the President’s brief tenure, had instantly reverted back to a well-run, well-organized business upon the departure of the last Secret Service agent. It was all part of the hotel’s policy with the White House.

As he waited, the heavily bundled-up Blood King fielded a number of calls. The first was to inform about the demise of Ben Blake and two other men who had defended him. Kovalenko’s mouth stretched into a wide, satisfied grin but his words didn’t reflect the pleasure he felt.

“And the parents?”

“The same, sir.”

A pleasant metallic taste filled his mouth as he bit his inner lip in happiness.

“And so to the next. This cursed Ninth Division, where Drake ‘earned his stripes’, as they say. Let their blood wash the streets clean.” Kovalenko knew, though Wells had died, many more of Drake’s respected superiors and team mates were controlled by the well-established British secret ops’ fully deniable asset they called the Ninth Division.

“Yes, sir. In particular we’re going after Crouch and Cohen.”

“Good.”

The next call was more local.

“DC team here, sir. Jaye is at least badly injured, possibly dead. The Hawaiian, Smyth, Karin Blake and Komodo are with her. We have a fix on their new position.”

“Do not fail me this time.” Kovalenko jabbed the end button, seething. There should have been no mistakes. His men had recruited the best mercenaries out there for this wild, audacious coup. Hard, fresh, unconscionable men at the top of their game. The Blood King would brook no slip-ups.

Whilst waiting for more teams to check in — notably the Kitano and Myles units — he took a few minutes to evaluate and memorize the area around him. Right now the hotel was buzzing: a bustling enterprise where businessmen and tourists, and even the staff, passed through without taking the time to appreciate the history that nestled all around them. Built in 1850, only fifty years after the completion of the White House, the Scotch and Champagne Bar had been a sparkling meeting place even back in the days of Abraham Lincoln. Kovalenko eyed the entrance to the bar just off the reception area. If he had time and the right plan he would have liked nothing better than to simply plant Coburn’s head in there, but more complex strategies had been drawn up to ensure exit routes and the future prospects of his men. With that particular thought in mind he turned briefly to Gabriel, the tall African, by his side.

“Our man on the inside. What’s his name again?”

Gabriel grinned widely in that unnerving way of his. “Marnich. Agent Marnich.”

“They should be here soon.”

“An’ we be ready fo’ dem.”

Kovalenko again blessed his good fortune in running into Mordant and Gabriel. Two lieutenants who could facilitate such dazzling havoc as this were invaluable.

With no more calls coming in, Kovalenko pocketed the phone. He didn’t know and wasn’t worried that some kind of authority might be monitoring the calls. They would be late.

And then, as if in answer to his thoughts and wishes, the front door of the hotel slammed open.

The Blood King smiled, a gifted predator in his element.

Coburn.