Blood Vengeance

CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT

Through flames of light and shadow they came, the last of the Blood King’s army; faces cast in flickering fire; eyes blackened into demonic pits by the lowering dark; teeth bared and mouths spread wide as if all they wanted was to devour their enemy.

Initially there were a dozen of them. They were followed by Kovalenko himself, flanked by Gabriel and Mordant, The Twins grinning fiercely. This was their arena, their element. This was where they would shine.

The two forces paused for a beat, every man and woman there recognizing the significance of the moment. Who would win and who would die? This place, right here and now, was where the real warriors would prove themselves. Courage was everything. Those who turned away, those who ran, would keep running forever.

“Live or die this day,” Dahl whispered amongst his own. “Live or die.”

Drake turned to them all. “If this is the last and best fight of my life I could not have stood among worthier friends. Thank you.”

Then the ranks broke and the screams went up. The charge was on. Dahl smashed into one well-built merc so hard he actually sent the man tumbling back into the flaming chopper. The mad Swede didn’t even break stride. He barged aside another man, breaking the guy’s shoulder in the process, leaving him on his knees and heaving with pain. Drake hit a third head on, using his forehead harder than at any other time in his life. Fresh blood spattered his face, and he ran right over the collapsing man. Alicia broke a man’s windpipe without losing a beat.

All eyes were on the Blood King.

If this is the last and best fight of my life…

The Blood Vendetta would end today. No more innocents would die. They carved through the Blood King’s ranks; a deadly, unstoppable phalanx of invincible purpose, and it was Dahl, Drake and Alicia who suddenly found themselves facing off with Mordant, Gabriel and Kovalenko.

Time stood still. For them, the whole world might as well have stopped turning. Violent flames lit the scene, flaring, bursting and wreathing between metal, stone and shadow. Kovalenko gave them his most smug grin.

“You cannot beat these men, dah? I am glad it has come to this — to us. A much more fitting end. I could not have written it so well.”

“This madness is finished,” Dahl said. “You are finished.”

“Ah, the great Torsten Dahl. The hero himself. What is it they call you? The Mad Swede? Your family were moments away from good Russian execution, my friend. Moments. They will not survive next time.”

Drake took a step forward. “You killed my friends. You killed Ben and his parents.” He counted each atrocity off on his fingers. “You murdered my team’s families. You might have killed Hayden. Mai. Chika. Jonathan. You kidnapped the bloody President and launched a drone strike on Washington DC. What kind of demon are you, Kovalenko? Is there even a name for the part of Hell you come from?”

“Meh.” Kovalenko flicked it all away with a shrug. “A man born in blood aspires to be serial killer. A man born of evil father aspires to become good marine. But a man born in war aspires to war.” He shrugged. “It is the way of the world.”

With that, Gabriel and Mordant lunged as one, the pair seeming to share some kind of psychic link. Dahl blocked a strike from Mordant, backing up. Drake met Gabriel head on, and felt the power and fury of the man’s blows immediately through every bone in his body. Christ, this guy hit hard. The manic grin never left the dark-skinned face and the body almost seemed to jive to an inner beat. But the blows were relentless, precise and debilitating. An arm that blocks ten severe strikes is not the arm it once was. Drake strove to get on the offensive, but Gabriel never gave him a chance.

In front of the Yorkshireman, Alicia lashed out at the Blood King. Kovalenko was tough, strong and trained, but he was no match for either the Englishwoman’s skill or her fury. He staggered almost immediately, caught himself, then found he was being driven toward the flames.

“Bitch,” he spat. “I am King. I will end your days.”

“Those men who hang around me and have a God complex,” Alicia said. “Those men who fuck with my friends and family often find their balls being kicked so hard they end up with three Adam’s apples. Here, let me demonstrate.”

Alicia feinted and waded in, jabbing Kovalenko’s throat so that his hand went up, then she put her entire weight behind a knee to his groin. Eyes bulging, the Blood King tried to fall to the ground. Alicia didn’t let him. By digging her fingers into the meat of his throat, she ensured he would stay upright.

“Time for my blood vengeance,” she said, then paused when she heard Drake’s cry.

Kinimaka went down on one knee, using his Glock to pick off the slow and the careless. But he knew he couldn’t stay in one position too long for risk of becoming a sitting duck. Not that anyone had ever compared him to a duck, he knew. In the bird comparisons, he’d have to be an albatross. He slipped over to the wall, noting that six mercs remained on this side of the battle. He met a challenge head on, arresting the guy’s swing and literally hurling him off his feet and against the wall. The man connected hard, then fell back, lifeless.

Kinimaka whirled to see Smyth beset by two adversaries, but before he could even begin to race over to help, Karin had stepped up. Without regard for her own safety, she used long-ago learned martial arts skills to get the attention of one of the men. Karin wasn’t stupid, and would know that local dojo learned skills were no match for military training, but she waded in anyway, limbs kicking and punching. The man facing her looked bemused, as if he couldn’t figure out if he was actually being toyed with, but his lollygagging cost him dearly. Smyth dispatched his own opponent, then turned to disable Karin’s, finishing the man with a kick to the nose. Lights out never came so fast.

Komodo smashed both arms down onto a merc’s shoulders. The man staggered under the hefty blow, falling heavily to his knees. Flames lit Komodo’s face as he lifted the man by his own jacket before throwing him into the inferno.

Kinimaka almost cheered. The odds were now four good guys against two bad. His heart soared, but then two new sounds reached his ears; one uplifting, the other terrible. First he heard the sound of raucous American voices, marines coming to their aid. But on the heels of that came the roar of two ascending choppers — the Blood King’s choppers coming to strafe the battlefield.

Drake cried out as Gabriel snapped a quick kick to his right knee, almost breaking it in half. The pain shot through his body like a barbed arrow as he fought to stay upright. Gabriel sought to press his advantage. Drake let the momentum take him, folded, let Gabriel’s flurry strike nothing but thin air, then came up on the other side.

“Not so easy, pal.”

“You fight like a fairy, mon. Tinkerbell. Tinkerbell Drake! Haha.”

Drake was getting pissed off with all the recent aspersions on his good name. First that hairy bastard, Zanko, and now Gabriel. But then Zanko did end up taking a head dive down the deepest, darkest pit on Earth.

“Like the fairies, do ya? I heard jail will do that to a man.”

Gabriel fumed and lunged. Drake danced around the swipe and dealt him a crushing blow to the temple. He had found Gabriel’s first flaw but how could he exploit it? Past the dark man he saw Dahl engaged with Mordant. The albino looked like a ghoul in this vivid half-light: monstrous, a legendary apparition. But this was an apparition made of solid flesh and bone, and one that could fight well. He held Dahl in a bear hug, exerting every ounce of pressure on the Swede. Neither man uttered a word or sound, but the silent struggle was immense. Mordant’s face was set in a demonic rictus, a snarl of exertion.

Drake caught several blows on his elbows, more strikes with his thighs and knees. He stopped bone-breaking jabs with deft flicks of his wrist, glancing them away. But he couldn’t get close to Gabriel, couldn’t break down the man’s defenses. Every new thing he tried, Gabriel countered. The two men were evenly matched.

It was only when Drake heard the arrival of the Americans that his spirits lifted. A wide grin stretched across his face in direct contrast to the crestfallen look that transformed Gabriel’s. A moment later, the sound of ascending choppers turned the tables again. This place was about to go ballistic.

Fuck me, he thought. Our arses are about to be lit up like Times Square and we’ve nowhere to bloody go.

Dahl matched Mordant muscle to muscle, sinew to sinew. The battle of pure strength strained him to breaking point, but he was rewarded by the sight of the albino’s ugly face stretched with agony, the red of his gums and eye sockets standing out like bright-red wounds.

“When you cringe like that,” Dahl whispered. “Your face looks like it’s turned inside out.”

“Fuck.” The albino crushed harder. “You.”

“No,” Dahl growled. “You killed Romero and maybe Hayden. So fuck you!”

With a bellow and an effort that almost burst his heart, Dahl somehow managed to lift Mordant off his feet. The albino gaped around, at a loss for the first time in his life, but even Dahl couldn’t hold him for long. The Swede threw him to the ground and followed up with a colossal blow that would have broken some men in half. The albino gasped, but still managed to roll away. As Dahl lunged after him he spun back, swinging an arm, catching Dahl across the face. Blood poured from a fresh cut over his eyebrow.

“First bloo—” the albino started to say.

Dahl punched him in the mouth. Teeth flew and blood exploded. “You were saying?”

The albino struck again. Dahl took it squarely on the forehead, using the precious seconds to get up close to his enemy.

“Jesus fuck,” the man gasped at him. “You are one mean mother.”

Dahl jabbed him twice, following it up with a punch to the ribs. A sharp crack made him smile tightly. “Stop talking,” he said. “You aren’t good enough.”

Mordant jackknifed his body, squirming far enough away to make a gap. Dahl followed relentlessly. When the albino feinted and suddenly came in close, Dahl knew what was coming. Many prisoners used the forehead to get ahead. When Mordant’s forehead dipped, Dahl’s elbow came up simultaneously, purposely positioned slightly lower.

Mordant’s nose exploded against his sharp bone.

“Aaahhh!”

Dahl sat back. His body was exhausted, screaming for a moment’s respite, which he was smart enough to allow. When Mordant also sat back, the two enemies faced each other in the heat of battle, their own blood and sweat coating the ground between them, and the prison fighter inclined his head.

“Not bad for an Englishman.”

Dahl roared, “I’m not bloody English,” sprang to his feet and leaped forward. His huge hands grabbed hold of Mordant’s jacket and shoved him hard down to the floor. Dahl heaved his tired body on top, pushing his knee against Mordant’s throat and bringing all his weight to bear. The albino struggled weakly, unable to breathe.

When it was over, Dahl cast around. “All right. Who wants to go next?”

Drake pushed Gabriel away and threw himself against a wall as the first chopper thundered overhead. A double line of shells strafed the ground. The bullets passed through the approaching American forces, the castle walls, the burning helicopter, and the Blood King’s own men, but didn’t strike a soul. Kovalenko was on his knees, cowering before Alicia, and, though it was a simple sight, Drake’s soul soared.

“Your boss,” Drake panted. “Is beaten.”

Gabriel shrugged. “Never trust a fookin’ Russkie, mon. Never trust anyone. There ain’t no good men left no more.”

Drake smiled as he felt familiar presences at his back. “I wouldn’t say that,” he said. “You just have to belong to the right family.”

Kinimaka struck from the left, Komodo from the right. Drake took a breath and allowed Smyth to skip by him and assault Gabriel head on. The wiry African traded the three men blow for blow; he drew blood from Komodo’s nose and Kinimaka’s cheek, but was always on the back foot, always wilting. In minutes he was on his knees, still fighting hard, taking crushing blows and coming back for more. He fell at last when Kovalenko’s second chopper blasted overhead, the stream of bullets actually passing through the middle of his body.

“Shit.” Smyth jumped away. “Thought the bastard was never going down.”

Drake regarded the twitching body with respect. “Truth be told, I don’t think he was. Bloody hell, I feel like one gigantic bruise.”

Smyth squinted at him. “Your lip is puffing up a bit.”

Drake jerked his head back in shock. “Was that a joke? Whoa, Smyth, watch it. We’re gonna start thinking the Koreans replaced you with a robot, mate.”

There was no time for a rejoinder as the choppers swooped back around. Then several things happened all at once. The American marine commander appeared through the black smoke, screaming at Drake’s team to take cover. Something big was coming. The Blood King’s helicopter team opened fire again; bullets thwacked off stone and dirt, and whickered through the heavy, menacing air. Kovalenko rose like an avenging demon, using the last of his strength to push Alicia aside and make a beeline toward Drake.

The supersonic roar of a jet-fighter, a Raptor, boomed like God’s own thunder across the valley, shaking the very mountains. With a whoosh like an ocean boiling, the first missile was loosed, scoring a direct hit on the first chopper, causing a mid-air explosion. The second missile destroyed the second chopper a moment later; fire, machinery, flesh and bone thrown skyward and straight down to the ground.

Drake suddenly found himself in a hellfire battle. Charred bodies and burning chunks of metal rained down all around him and his team. Boulder-sized chunks of jagged metal delved into the earth. A huge intact rotor blade slammed against the tiled roof directly above them and started to slide down, still spinning faster than the eye could follow.

“Move!”

Drake hurled his battered body from under the roof, dragging Komodo with him. Alicia and Dahl hurtled clear. The Blood King slipped and fell, directly in the path of the onrushing rotor blade.

At the last second, Smyth audibly cursed, reached down and scooped Kovalenko up; the Delta man running and dodging deadly debris, all but dragging the Blood King with him. The rotor smashed into the ground, crunching its blades. Deadly shards sheared away in the collision. Drake heard the sonic boom of the Raptors coming around and the shouts of the American commander to say all was well on the ground.

All’s well? Are you fucking kidding me?

Drake looked up, still dodging and ducking as death rained from the skies. The bulk of both choppers now crashed down into the courtyard with an almighty noise, not exploding but sending out another wave of compressed machine and body parts.

Drake staggered as the shockwave struck, shielding his face with his arm and turning away. Something hard glanced off his Kevlar vest, leaving yet another bruise; something soft and wet collided with his leg. He didn’t look down. A spray of tiny objects spattered past, at last leaving a vacuum in their wake.

Only a burning hell remained, but it was now a safer hell. Drake turned to see where Smyth and the Blood King had landed.

“Looks like you got to the gates of Hell twice, Kovalenko.”

The Blood King grinned back at him.

“Which one of you assholes dies first, hey?”