Brothers in Arms

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

There was no comfort for Matt Drake. Not physically or mentally. His developing feelings for Mai were very much tempered by the self-hate and blame he nurtured for Kennedy’s death. Inner turmoil tore him apart, emotions ripping at his heart and his mind, making his stomach empty and his soul more than hollow.

The recent revelations about his old boss, Wells, weren’t helping. He found no closure in the fact that the man he had trusted and defended so long had turned out to be his enemy, and one of the catalysts behind the murder of Alyson and Emily — the car accident that ended their lives.

Arranged by an operative who went by the codename Coyote. Man or woman, group or corporation, they would pay. The Shadow Elite had paid dearly, but Drake knew even now it would be a mistake to think they were gone. The Shadow Elite had thrived for untold years by being part of a family. You didn’t destroy four families by chopping off their heads. It was the source that caused the festering, the root of the evil. And sometimes the root could be an entire network, or a single entity.

Some part of them still nestled in the shadows, spinning webs, he was sure.

And then he thought of Russell Cayman. The shadowy agent had not been heard of since he walked out of the third tomb of the gods carrying Kali’s bones. Was there a reason he had taken them? The Goddess Kali had been a manifestation of the worst kind of evil, sometimes associated with the Devil himself. It was interesting that Cayman chose her. And was he now being sheltered by what remained of the Shadow Elite? Didn’t really seem their style, but Drake assumed even they would have to restructure after losing their figureheads.

Now he jounced up and down in the covered-over bed of an old truck. Occasionally, either he or Romero lifted a flap of canvas and peered out, but the bleak, hilly brown and green landscape rarely altered. Sometimes they heard the sounds of workers toiling in the fields. Once when they looked out, a fine, drizzly mist had settled over everything. The man they had paid from the wedge of dollars in their packs had taken little persuading. This despite the harsh sentences handed out by the North Korean authorities to anyone helping Westerners, or indeed any of their own people who were caught trying to cross the border to China or repatriated as refugees. Most of these people faced harsh punishment, possibly torture and imprisonment in labor camps.

Still, many North Koreans escaped the impoverished country every day. The border might be well guarded, but desperate men always found a way.

Drake and Romero kept an eye on their driver, but every time they checked, all they received was a world-weary sigh from a face that was deeply creased by years of hardship and eyes that had long since forgotten what joy felt like. These were people born into toil, used and forgotten except by their own families. Six hours into the journey and they were still only about half way through. Drake found his thoughts drifting again — this time toward his old roommate and friend — Ben. The lad hadn’t matured as Drake had hoped. Despite facing death and captivity and somehow landing a girlfriend as hot and capable as Hayden Jaye, the young man had barely developed beyond the introspective super-geek he’d always been. It worried Drake, but he just hadn’t been in a position to help Ben. Nor had he known how to go about it.

One thing was clear; Ben was badly affected by the death of the soldier in the third tomb. Getting blood on your hands always made it seem more real, even if whizzing bullets still passed you by. Hayden had tried to help, Drake knew. She was a good person and wouldn’t intentionally harm anyone who didn’t deserve it.

But help only worked if it was accepted, taken on board. The recipient had to participate. Ben clearly wasn’t.

Carry your load. An old Dinorock tune. But it wasn’t necessarily true. To trust and to share was to half the burden, wasn’t it?

Drake took into account his own burdens. In addition to his women, there was the death of Daniel Belmonte and his protégé—Emma. Drake hadn’t yet found the time to visit her father, and even that fact wore him down.

He needed a bloody vacation.

Well, he thought, been on a deserted island, a sea voyage and to North Korea in the last week or so. What more could he ask for?

Before the truck jostled and rebounded its way to the border, the truck stopped and the driver shouted. Drake and Romero popped their heads into the front cab.

“We here?”

The driver pointed. Drake understood. The border was across the dank hills to their left. They managed to get from the man that this was a relatively easy, but still manned, crossing point, which was perfect. They needed to get across sure, but they still needed transport on the other side.

Outside it was soggy and damp and hot. The two soldiers put their heads down and began the hike to the top of the nearest hill. The truck drove noisily away behind them. Within an hour, they had carefully crested the rise. Helpfully, the mist receded a bit as they shuffled across the top.

Below them, patchy grassland led to the Koreans concrete wall, wide enough to accommodate several men walking alongside each other. Beyond that lay about thirty feet of overgrown and untended no-man’s-land, perfect cover, ending where China’s crisscross patterned wire fence reared a little farther on.

A straggling line of ten or twelve troops marched in time along the Korean wall, heading for a distant checkpoint.

“Seems pretty low key,” Drake said. “We’ll cross and double back to the checkpoint. Borrow a vehicle tonight.”

Romero began to crawl down the wet hillside. “Sounds good to me.”

Another three hours and they were nearing Harbin. The Chinese city was a surprising mix of ostentatious historical architecture and modern commercial office buildings, reflecting the changing face of not only the city, but the country as a whole. Harbin overlaps culturally with European designs amidst a distinct Russian cityscape and a new scenic waterfront combined with modern road systems. But instead of appearing haphazard and pretentious, the mix of old and new celebrates the past whilst fully embracing the future. Drake drove their battered old vehicle down a wide, increasingly busy road, feeling more conspicuous by the minute.

“Ah, shit,” Romero voiced his concern. “Why the hell did we think Harbin would be a backwater village? Ya know, at a glance, this place could be any big European city.”

“Outdated western perceptions.” Drake nodded. “Still hold strong. We should ditch this junker and find us a map.”

Romero pointed at a universal sign. “Train station,” he said. “Best place we could go.”

Drake made the turn and they parked the vehicle in as unassuming a position as they could find. It was a moment before Drake and Romero shared a look.

“Balls. You think we might stand out from the crowd?”

They studied each other. “Lose the vest,” Romero said. “Loosen the shirt. Buy a backpack. You’ll pass.”

“Me?”

“There are Europeans all over.” The American gazed out the grimy windows. “But not a soul from the good old U.S. I can see.”

“Alright.” Drake quickly made ready and then climbed out of the car. The streets were clean and bright. Even the old architecture appeared newly washed. The Chinese filled the pavements and the wide-open plaza that fronted Harbin Station. Cars whizzed by. Streams of workers flooded up and down the nearby subway steps. Drake put his head down and headed for the station.

Protocol dictated they contact Washington, but Drake concluded it was too risky at this point. Better they flush out the Chinese part of the operation and continue on to Russia before making the call. At least in Russia they might find allies.

He walked right through the entrance underneath a big black-and-white clock and cast about. Wide, vaulted ceiling, train times, and entrances were dead ahead. Shops to the right and a terrace of windows to the left. Drake headed for the nearest shop, seeking out civilian backpacks, jackets and a map. He also bought food and water after exchanging his American dollars at a nearby Bureau de Change.

Once equipped, he made haste to vanish, heading back to Romero and then walking away from the tiny minivan they’d appropriated from the border.

They walked into the city, purposely losing themselves whilst studying the new map.

“Once it gets dark,” Drake grated, “the Chinese part of this human trafficking op won’t know what hit them.”

The bright lights of Harbin lit up the night. Drake and Romero paid a taxi driver to take them within three blocks of the address they wanted and stepped out into a neighborhood of relative dark. Dogs barked. Hushed conversations pinpointed those hidden in the evening gloom. Speed was the westerners’ ally as they followed a predetermined route directly to the address the North Korean soldier had given them.

Assuming he remembered correctly, and had been telling the truth.

Drake trusted the information, but even so, it still needed confirming. The house in question blended in with the rest of the row, perfect camouflage for any kind of den of iniquity. The locals would be warned and brutalized, the authorities paid off. No city in the world was free from this kind of poison so, conceal it as they might, the criminal fungi still spread its malicious tendrils through all of society wherever it could find root.

With little time to waste, the two westerners chomped at the bit as they realized the only way into this building was through the front door. The covert option was negated by endless rows of darkened windows overlooking the street and rear. The hours ticked by and the night had grown colder, silent, and more fearful as the men became ever more conscious of their overstuffed backpacks, hidden weapons and conspicuous presence even crouched in the pitch black.

“Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea,” Romero whispered.

Drake nudged him. “You think?”

A shadow moved in the doorway of the house. A half-dressed man moved into view, taking some air, leaving the door ajar behind him. Drake moved fast, rushing out of the night like a white devil, locking the man into a chokehold before he could utter a word.

Romero checked him over. “I’m likin’ this.” The American held up his pistol. “You belong to a Triad? A Tong?”

Drake’s captive twisted. Well-formed muscles and experience enabled him to free his head before the Englishman recaptured it in an even stronger hold. “Okay. Guy’s a fighter. Let’s do this.”

Earlier, they had decided that if any of these guys came up as smelling like anything other than roses, they were going to chance a raid. There was simply too much riding on the outcome for them not to risk it. The senator in Washington, Dai Hibiki, Mai and Smyth, not to mention the island captives and the Europeans and Americans being kidnapped every year. The odds screamed for a chance to be taken — and Drake never shied away from a battle.

Quickly he snapped the guy’s neck, and then followed Romero to the door. The marine wasted no time squeezing through the small opening and then padding down a short, unlit entryway. Its far end was shut off by a big, four-panel, carved Chinese screen, antique in appearance but of modern design. A white light illuminated the upper panels. Shadows moved to and fro.

Romero took firm hold of the screen and swung it back hard along its runners. Drake slipped into the revealed room, almost struck immobile by the scene of abhorrence and chaos beyond.

The room had been cleared out so that it resembled nothing like the interior of a house. The brick wall was bare, the rear-facing windows painted black. Thick chains had been fixed to the wall, to which at one time human beings had clearly been attached. Open handcuffs lay on the floor. Scraps of clothing were scattered everywhere — shirts, blouses, pants. An open toilet lay in the middle of the room, dug down into the house’s foundations and emanating a foul stench. Luckily, there were no captives today, just Chinese men clearing up.

Drake slammed the butt of his gun into the nearest man’s face, rendering him unconscious. The second he threw into the latrine. By that time, Romero had rounded him and was firing on the few who drew weapons of their own. A third man came at Drake wielding a wicked dagger like they did in the movies, rolling the deadly weapon around his thick wrists and letting it slice through the air. Drake let him strike, moving in close so the arc of the weapon caused the blade to pass over his shoulder, and head-butted him into submission.

Again, surprise became the third member of their team. These men had never thought to be raided, not here in their own province, in the carved-out niche of what they considered their own city. Whilst Romero cleared the upstairs rooms, Drake roused and interrogated the three men he’d knocked out.

Only one spoke English. He confirmed the next address in Moscow, and that the main HQ was in Frankfurt, Germany, but nothing more. By the time Romero returned, Drake had already made sure every man there would never support human trafficking again.

“Quick,” he said, gathering up the cellphones, wads of money, pistols and ammo he’d taken from the bad guys. “Clock’s ticking, mate.”

Mai was relying on him. No way would he let her down.