Blood Vengeance

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

Before Matt Drake entered the Hotel Lewison Park, he took one more call. The initial plan was to ignore everything, get to the meeting, and find out what the hell was happening, but when he saw the caller ID he simply stopped and stared in disbelief.

“Bloody hell. I don’t believe this.”

Dahl looked over his shoulder like an annoying parrot. “You don’t believe what? Who is it this time?”

“Stop squawking.” Drake turned away and pushed the green button. The call connected instantly and, despite the distance, the voice that spoke sounded crisp and clear.

“Is this Matt Drake?”

“Yes sir, Mr. Crouch. How are you?”

A moment of silence followed. Michael Crouch was the highly respected leader of the British special ops unit known as the Ninth Division, a secret section that specialized in dangerous missions, usually involving traitors and extractions, and with the perpetual support of the SAS, though they could literally call on anyone inside the British Isles and more than a few outside the borders. Drake had not spoken to Crouch in eight years.

“Good, Drake, good. We’re all gutted to hear about Sam and Jo. They were… stalwarts.” Crouch wasn’t a big speaker. What he had to say was usually summed up in just a few words. But the meaning behind them was always straight from the heart.

“Thank you, sir.” Drake wanted to say more, but with thoughts of Sam and Jo came thoughts of Ben and his parents, and Hayden, Mai and Alicia, and everyone else who might be under threat from the Blood King. “They were.”

Crouch sighed. “Been a while, Matt. Been a while. I’ve heard all about your latest exploits. Just remember, lad, you’re British.”

Drake knew Crouch wouldn’t expand on that statement and, in any case, he didn’t have to. There was a certain reserve associated with and expected from a British soldier. The SPEAR team didn’t usually display it.

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” All the time he was thinking what the hell are the Ninth Division calling me now for?

Drake waited. Crouch was the deserved top dog of the supreme and most secret unit of the British Special Forces. He was the man everyone wanted on their side, many steps above what Wells had been. He hadn’t just called for a chat.

“What exactly are you into, lad?”

Drake stared at his reflection in a nearby window. He hadn’t expected that. “I’m not sure what you mean, sir.”

“We know about the Secretary of Defense, the President and Kovalenko. But what’s the bastard’s plan? What’s the feel over there, Drake?”

The Brits were after an inside man then, probably shitting themselves over in Whitehall in case the Blood King had any special plans for them. Crouch must be under immense pressure but, good man or not, Drake wouldn’t betray the people he worked for.

“We’re heading into a meeting right now, sir,” he said. “After that, I’ll tell you what I can, but only that.”

Crouch sighed again. “Thought you might say that. Here, you talk to him.”

Drake blinked at himself in the window. What next? Then the dulcet tones he remembered from many previous ops soothed their way across the airwaves.

“Hey, Matt. Shelly here. How about lending us a hand on this one?”

Drake almost shivered. Shelly Cohen possessed the type of voice you might hear on a late night radio show — sweet as honey, melodic and very comforting. She was the beating heart of the Ninth Division, warm but at the same time as hard as nails, your friend but always pushing you toward that next great goal. Along with Crouch the two were a formidable team.

“Hi, Shelly. Always good to hear your voice. I told Crouch I’ll do what I can.”

“I see. Well, the PM has our balls in a vice with this one. Anything you can do will help.”

Jesus, he thought. How can she make the phrase ‘balls in a vice’ sound so sexy?

“I will,” he said. “For you. Um, for you all, I mean.”

“Of course. Well, speak soon. And stay frisky.”

It was her motto, the phrase she used with the boys in the field when they were in harm’s way. It was a double entendre of course, but one that helped endear her to every soldier. The other thing that defined her was her penchant to venture into the field quite regularly herself, often unsupported and on dangerous missions. Shelly Cohen was a bit of an unattainable legend back at the Ninth Division. Drake couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of her in eight years.

“Friskier than ever,” he said, then realized she’d already hung up. Dahl was at his side, staring at him.

“Who are you talking to? One of those sex-talk call centers?”

“Yeah.” Drake pocketed the phone. “It was Swedish. Your wife answered.”

“Well, the VP is waiting,” Dahl said impassively. “The wife will have to hang on.”

They trotted toward the heavily guarded hotel, IDs at the ready.

“Jesus, Drake,” Dahl said. “I thought we’d encountered almost everything. But this.” He shook his head. “All this that’s happening tonight. It just takes the fuckin’ gold medal for batshit crazy.”

“Don’t worry,” Drake replied, stress thickening his Yorkshire accent. “We’re gonna find Kovalenko right quick and stick a grenade down his gob.”