Last Man Standing

CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT

Drake raced headlong, recklessly, determined not to lose the Coyote. In his haste he did lose Mai. The Japanese woman, ever attentive, came across two mercs on their way out of town — deserters — and taught them that fleeing wasn’t necessarily the best idea. When Mai looked around, Drake was gone.

Still, all roads led to the battle.

Drake crossed the muddy path that led through the carnival’s gates and found himself inside the fence. Rides and stalls stood to his left and right, looking shabby, unpainted and tired in the light of day. A firefight raged ahead, stray bullets whickering everywhere. Mercs, Kevlar-suited special cops, and elite military units fought for ground.

But Drake knew the mercs were fighting blind. SaBo’s surveillance blanket had been taken down. Karin had won the battle of the hackers.

Now it was his turn.

But where was—?

Coyote hit him from a blind spot, an elbow to the neck, sending him face-first to the floor. Drake rolled, eyes never leaving her feet. Did she have a gun? He glanced up, thankful to see empty, flexing hands. Coyote jumped at him, stomping hard, but Drake rolled again. His movement brought him up against another pair of legs — those belonging to a merc.

The man stared down in surprise. “What da fu—?”

Drake rose fast, delivering a gut punch. The merc folded, grunting hard. When the man’s weapon came down, Drake grabbed it, reversed it, and smashed it across the man’s head. Lights out.

Before he could bring the gun back around, Coyote was on him. They tumbled to the cold, muddy earth — face to face, body to body — arms tight around each other.

“You always wanted me this way,” she breathed.

“The entire unit wanted you this way. But that wasn’t it. You were much more than that. Didn’t you know? Didn’t you know that just your voice and your way, the ideal that was you¸ brought more men back alive than their bloody grenade launchers?”

“I knew!” Coyote screamed point blank into his face. “Of course I bloody knew!” She threw a punch that he turned away from and heard it squelch into the mud next to his face. “But I couldn’t help it! Don’t you get that? I couldn’t… fucking… help it!”

She punched down again and again. The second one missed too, but the third caught him full on the nose, sending an arrow of agony into his brain. The fourth smashed into his temple, as did the fifth, and suddenly Drake was seeing stars.

“Shelly,” he said. “Shelly!”

“Not Shelly!” Her fists continued to rage down upon him. “Not Shelly! Just a psycho who couldn’t control it. A freak who learned to live with it.”

Drake twisted and brought his hands up, but was fighting a losing battle. Coyote, on top, possessed all the power, all the leverage, and a lifetime of fury.

“I didn’t want to be this monster!” she screamed. “I wanted to be Shelly! Not fucking Coyote!” And now tears fell from her eyes, dropping like beads of rain onto his bloody face.

Matt Drake gave it up. Not the battle, but the vengeance. He saw now the way it had all played out.

“Stop,” he said, letting his hands fall to the sides and leaving himself wide open. “Stop then, Shelly. I don’t want revenge on you. I want to help you.”

Coyote’s next blow fell hard, stopping a hair’s breadth from the tip of his nose. The shock on her face transformed the animal within, restoring the woman he knew.

“I will help you,” he said to the woman that had killed his wife and unborn child. “Let me.”

For one second Shelly Cohen stared down at him. “Matt? I’m sorry. I—”

And then something hit her like a rocket; a black-clad figure that came out of nowhere and still fought for victory. Or was it something else?

Drake struggled upright. Beauregard and Coyote scrambled and rose, the Frenchman a millisecond quicker and thus gaining the advantage. Drake tried to shake off a foggy brain and blurred vision, and stepped up.

“Wait. Who the hell are you working for, Beauregard? Have they switched your orders? Told you to take Coyote out?”

The French assassin’s face was hidden behind the feature-hugging mask. “The Pythians want you both,” he said in his thickly accented voice. “All of you. They will remove anything that stands between them and the world. They will remove it with extreme and total prejudice.” The man laughed. “Just wait and see.”

With that he side-kicked Coyote’s knee, forcing her to fall, and came around, tumbling across the ground toward Drake. At the last minute he swerved and threw out a lightning punch that Drake didn’t even see.

But he felt it. The sudden agony in his throat made him reflexively send both his hands there, leaving the rest of his body open to violent, nerve-shattering attack. Beauregard was like Mai — one vital strike and you were dead.

Beauregard pounced.

And Michael Crouch took him down.

Drake flinched as Beauregard struck out, both fists flying, then let out a pent-up breath as Crouch landed on the man’s exposed back. The Frenchman slammed into the dirt as if he’d been poleaxed, mud exploding out from under him.

Drake breathed hard. “Nice move.” His throat was on fire.

Crouch shrugged. “I saw—” and suddenly disappeared. Drake blinked and saw Crouch hit the same mud as Beauregard, only the Frenchman was now standing upright, Crouch’s neck in his hand, fingers pressed deeply into his victim’s pressure points.

“You will die for that,” Beauregard mouthed at Crouch.

“No!” Drake shouted, knowing he wouldn’t make it in time.

The Frenchman flexed his fingers. Crouch screamed as if he’d been stabbed by a thousand daggers. His face turned instantly white, eyes glazing over.

And Drake could only watch as, unbelievably, Coyote leapt to the aid of her former boss. Her shriek of, “Michael!” was lost under the crunch of her body hitting Beauregard’s. Crouch fell away, gasping. Drake ran to his aid.

“Your word,” Drake heard Beauregard say to Coyote. “If your word can no longer be trusted, then you are no longer the Coyote.”

Drake heard another cry as he patted Crouch’s face. This one of twisted anguish.

Shit.