The Blood King Conspiracy

CHAPTER FOUR

As soon as the plane landed at Miami International, Drake, Ben and Kennedy were up and out of their seats with the masses, waiting to disembark. The journey had been long and strained, not helped by the fact that they had been unable to glean any more useful information. Drake was hopeful that as soon as he hit U.S. soil his previous phone calls might bear fruit. He had a nasty suspicion that Justin Harrison might not provide them with as much help as he was promising.

Through customs and past the carousels they went, on edge every step of the way. Into the bustle of the airport and scanning the crowds. Ben saw the man first.

‘Drake party!’ his card yelled in big, black letters.

The three of them hurried over, Drake worrying about how to keep his best friend’s spirits up. Banter was pretty much out of the question. Support was always good, but the lack of news and contact was making them all fretful.

Their chauffeur drove in silence, taking them through Miami and across one of its sweeping bridges that led to the beach, and pulled up outside a big white hotel called the Fontainbleu. Drake pinched his nose as they drove, partly to alleviate the tension and the tiredness, but also to pause and come to terms with the utter vastness of this city compared to the one they had left behind.

He took the quiet time to run a few things over in his head. The past six weeks, since the end of the ‘Odin thing’, had been quite a ride. Kennedy and he had developed feelings for each other, but both knew they were skirting around the more profound problems in their lives — his wife, Alyson’s terrible car crash and the memories of his days in the SRT, and Kennedy’s dreadful memories of Thomas Kaleb, both before and during the arena battle.

And again he had been trying to get the soldier out of his head, stubborn in the belief that he would never need that part of him again.

It never ends, Matt Drake. It never ends for people like you and me.

He still had feelings for her. Mai. And right now he was closer to her than he’d been for many years. He wondered if their paths would cross.

Within minutes they were being shown to their rooms. Drake stayed True Brit and forgot to tip. Ben walked over to the room’s oak-stained desk and plonked himself down.

The kid looked around. “Laptop?”

Drake felt a bit of deja vu left over from the Odin adventure, but gave him the big Sony without comment. He walked over to the rectangular windows and stared at the hotel opposite before turning his glance down the long straight road known as Collins Avenue.

The sudden silence was oppressive. Energy gnawed at him, a caged lion desperate for release. To hell with the mirror-clear, blue-and-green patchwork ocean; to hell with the bikini babes and Miami Beach. What they needed now was information about Hayden and her team.

Kennedy stared at him from across the room. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Hope not. Cos that’d make you a lesbian.”

“Quit it for a second, soldier boy. You know what I mean.”

“We’re being compartmentalised. Kept out of the loop. They don’t want us here, and they don’t want us interfering.”

“Like we interfered with Abel Frey.” Ben mumbled.

“Governments don’t think that far back,” said Drake walking over to his friend. “Or forward for that matter.”

Ben had typed ‘Bermuda Triangle’ into his laptop and was studying the returns. “Plenty here. Flight 19 was the first loss in the ‘50s. Woah! Listen to this, the flight leader was heard to say- ‘We are entering white water, nothing seems right. We don't know where we are, the water is green, no white.’ His last words. It’s claimed that, ever since, there has been an unknown pattern of random, supernatural events in the region.”

“And who knows, maybe before,” said Kennedy shrugging.

Drake grunted. “There’s nothing supernatural about it. I bet, if you check, random events happen all over the ocean. The Bermuda Triangle’s just got a better PR team.”

At that moment there was a knock at the door. Drake scooted over and Kennedy pulled Ben over to the curtains, partially hiding him. Drake didn’t peer through the keyhole, instead he shouted in broad Yorkshire. “Who’s there?”

“Justin Harrison,” an impatient voice answered. “Open up!”

Drake did as requested. Jonathan Gates’ secretary minced in through at the speed of sound, huge briefcase slamming around his legs. The guy must end up bruised all over by the end of that day and probably wondered where the hell he got half of them.

Ben met him head on. “Where is she?”

“We’ve found them. Well, we’ve found the general area using trackers. Then they stopped working. But we know within a few miles’ radius.” Like bullets, Harrison’s words ripped through the air at the speed of light. “Teams are being prepped. They’re going in.”

Ben thought about all that. Drake tapped the aid on the shoulder. “You’re sending in teams to rescue her. Just like that?”

“Yes. Very important we get her back. Huge case. Just huge. Might be the CIA’s biggest case ever. She — Hayden — has information. Also, we think two other agents might be alive. Massive Mano and Godwin.”

“What case?” Ben was asking as Drake evaluated his next move. Time was key here.

“The Blood King. Some huge underworld figure everyone thought was a goddamn myth. Turns out, he’s real. He’s tied to Blackbeard’s ship and the salvage operation through the object we found.”

“The one that explains the Bermuda-”

Drake shouted. “Let’s go hitch a ride!”

Before even Justin Harrison could utter another word they were racing down the corridor.

Drake hit speed-dial in mid-flight and got hold of Wells. “There’s at least one Delta Force or SEAL team mobilising right now for an operation in the Florida Everglades. We need to be on that flight.”

He snapped shut before Wells could speak. The lift plummeted at high speed. “Hope they’re inbound from Miami,” he said and shrugged. Time would tell.

Outside they flagged a cab and told it to head for the nearest Helipad.

“Ocean Beach or the Dade county airport?” the lazy drawl came back.

“Dade county,” Drake urged and the cab shot off.

Busy roads and busy shops surrounded them. Palm trees swayed this way and that as if leaning into a lovers’ embrace. The hot glare and shimmer of the sun made him wish he’d remembered to pack a pair of sunglasses. Just one pair. Sherlock, he wasn’t.

Within ten minutes his mobile belted out an old Dinorock tune. “Wells?”

“A private helipad on the Rickenbacker Causeway. Signs say it’s an animal sanctuary or something. It is, but it’s owned by the government. Get me?”

“Got you. Speak soon.”

Drake relayed their new destination to the taxi driver who grunted and shook his head. The word tourists probably crossed his lips. Drake’s mobile rang again.

“Yes?” He answered shortly without thinking.

“Be nice, my friend, you might like what I have to offer.”

The cultured tones again made him boomerang back in time. “Oh, it’s you.”

“Well, you actually sound disappointed.”

“Listen, I can’t speak right now.” Drake was uncomfortably aware of the cab’s close confines. “Call you back later.” He jabbed at the disconnect button, inwardly disgusted with himself.

Kennedy was giving him the eye. “What gives, Matt?”

“Nothing. We’re here.” Drake hardened his thoughts and flexed his muscles. When the causeway came into view and the cab stopped Drake only had to give their names.

One of the SEAL team commanders came over to him personally. “Good to have you with us, Drake. Everyone knows what you did in Iceland. You’re welcome, but… ” his dubious gaze swivelled to include Ben and Kennedy.

“Same crew who fucked Abel Frey,” Drake told him.

The SEAL-team commander nodded in respect. “Then we’re ready.”

It was almost time for war.