The Gates of Hell

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Matt Drake stood strong and met the Blood King head on.

First, his men arrived, cries resounding as rifles clashed and knives flicked and flashed like swords, catching the amber light and glinting their fire in myriad directions. A few shots were fired, but at this range and in this maelstrom of testosterone and fear, none were properly aimed. Yet still there was a sharp cry from behind Drake, another Delta solider fallen.

Drake’s muscles ached like he’d fought a three-hundred pound gorilla. Blood and dirt coated his face. Nine men came at him, at them, but he took them all on because the Blood King stood behind them, and nothing would stop him from claiming his revenge.

The old soldier was back, the civilian now diminished, and he was back up there in the top ranks with the baddest motherfucking soldiers alive.

Point-blank, he shot three men, straight through the heart. The fourth, he stepped into with his gun reversed, completely pulverizing the man’s nose and breaking part of the cheekbone at the same time. Three seconds had passed. He sensed the Delta crew almost back away from him in awe, giving him space to work. He left them to contend with three mercenaries whilst he advanced on one man and Kovalenko himself.

Komodo head-butted a man and stabbed a second in one movement. Karin was beside him and didn’t back down. Not for a second. She used a face-palm to send the stabbed man stumbling back and followed with a jab combination. When the mercenary growled and attempted to rally, she stepped in and used a tae-kwon-do technique to throw him over her shoulder.

Toward the sheer edge.

The man slipped off, screaming, claimed by the abyss. Karin stared at Komodo, suddenly aware of what she had done. The big team leader thought quickly and gave her a thank you sign, instantly saluting her actions and giving them relevance.

Karin took a deep breath.

Drake faced the Blood King.

At last.

The last man had put up a short fight and now lay squirming at his feet, wind-pipe crushed, both wrists broken. Kovalenko gave the man a disdainful stare.

“A fool. And weak.”

“All weak men hide behind their wealth and the semblance of power it brings them.”

“Semblance?” Kovalenko drew a pistol and shot the writhing man in the face. “Is that not power? Did you think it a semblance? I kill a man in cold blood every single day because I can. Is that a semblance of power?”

“Like you ordered the killing of Kennedy Moore? And my friends’ families? Some part of the world may have spawned you, Kovalenko, but it was not the sane part.”

They moved quickly and simultaneously. Two weapons, a pistol and a rifle, clicking at the same time.

Both empty. Double clicks.

“No!” Kovalenko’s shriek was ripe with infantile rage. He had been denied.

Drake thrust with his knife. The Blood King showed his street smarts by dodging to one side. Drake threw the rifle at him. Kovalenko took the blow on the forehead without flinching and, at the same time, drew a knife of his own.

“If I have to kill you myself, Drake…”

“Oh aye, you will,” the Englishman said. “I don’t see anyone else around. You’re not a full fucking shilling, mate.”

Kovalenko lunged. Drake saw it coming in slow motion. Kovalenko might think he’d grown up hard, might even think he’d trained hard, but his training was nothing compared to the severe demands and trials endured by the British SAS.

Drake stepped in from the side, striking with a swift knee that temporarily paralyzed Kovalenko and broke some ribs. The gasp from the Russian’s mouth was instantly stifled. He backed away.

Drake feigned a rush attack, waited for the Blood King to react and instantly caught the man’s right hand between his own. A quick downward twist and Kovalenko’s wrist snapped. Again the Russian only hissed.

Around them, Komodo and Karin and Ben and the remaining Delta soldier watched.

The Blood King glared at them. “You can’t kill me. All of you. You can’t kill me. I am a god!”

Komodo snarled. “We can’t kill you, asshole. You got a fuck load of squealin’ to do. But I sure am looking forward to helping choose which hellhole you spend the rest of your life in.”

“Prison.” The Blood King spat. “No prison will hold me. I will own it within a week.”

Komodo’s mouth broadened into a smile. “Some prisons,” he said quietly. “Don’t even exist.”

Kovalenko looked momentarily surprised, but then the arrogant veil cloaked his face again and he turned back to Drake. “And you?” he said. “You might as well be dead without me to chase half way around the world.”

“Dead?” Drake echoed. “There are different kinds of dead. You should know that.”

Drake kicked him over his cold, dead heart. Kovalenko staggered. Blood leaked from his mouth. With a pathetic cry he fell to his knees. A shameful end for the Blood King.

Drake laughed at him. “He’s done. Tie his hands and let’s go.”

Ben spoke up. “I recorded his speech patterns.” He said softly, raising his phone. “We can use special software to reproduce his voice. Matt, we don’t actually need him alive.”

The moment was as loaded as the last second before an explosion. Drake’s face changed from resignation to pure hate. Komodo hesitated to intervene, not through fear but through hard-earned respect — the only respect a soldier will acknowledge. Karin went wide-eyed with horror.

Drake raised his rifle and tapped the hard steel against Kovalenko’s forehead.

“You’re sure?”

“Positive. I saw her die. I was there. He ordered terrorist attacks against Hawaii.” Ben looked around the chamber. “Even Hell will spit him out.”

“This is where you belong.” Drake’s smile was cold and dark, like the Blood King’s soul. “Beyond the Gates of Hell. This is where you should stay and this is where you should die.”

Kovalenko’s jaw set hard with forty years of death and hardship and bloody decadence behind it. “You will never scare me.”

Drake studied the fallen man. He was right. Death wouldn’t hurt him. There wasn’t a thing on earth that would scare this man.

But there was one thing that would break him.

“So we tie you up down here.” He lowered the rifle, much to Komodo’s relief. “And we go on to claim the treasure. It was your life’s quest and you’ll never know what it was. But remember my words, Kovalenko, I will.”

“No!” The Russian’s yelp was instantaneous. “Your claim? No! Never. It is mine. It always has been mine.”

With a desperate roar, the Blood King made a last despairing lunge. Pain racked his face. Blood flew from his face and hands. He rose and threw every ounce of will and a life of hate and murder into his leap.

Drake’s eyes glowered, his face set hard as granite. He allowed the Blood King to strike him, stood firm as the frantic Russian expended every last ounce of energy in a dozen blows, at first hard, but weakening rapidly.

Then Drake laughed, a sound beyond bleak, a sound both loveless and lost and caught halfway between purgatory and hell. When the last of the Blood King’s energy was spent, Drake pushed him over with a palm and stood on his chest.

“It was all for nothing, Kovalenko. You lost.”

Komodo rushed over and trussed the Russian up before Drake could change his mind. Karin helped divert him by pointing up at the near-vertical staircase and the mind-boggling sight of the black throne jutting out. From here it was even more staggering. The thing was enormous and perfectly sculpted, poised a hundred feet above their heads.

“After you.”

Drake appraised the next hurdle. The staircase ran upwards at a slight angle for about a hundred feet. The underside of the throne was lost in deepest black, despite the numerous amber flares scattered around.

“I should go first,” Komodo said. “I have a little rock climbing experience. We should climb a few lengths at a time, inserting carabiners as we go, and then thread a safety line to our team.”

Drake let him lead. The fury was still strong in his brain, almost overwhelming. His finger still felt good around the M16’s trigger. But to kill Kovalenko now would blight his soul forever, implant a darkness that would never lift.

As Ben Blake might say — it would turn him to the dark side.

He started up the wall after Komodo, needing the distraction as the incessant cravings for vengeance rose and tried to take control of him. The sharp climb instantly focused his mind. The Blood King’s wails and moans faded away as the throne grew closer and the staircase trickier.

Up they went, Komodo leading the way, carefully placing each carabiner before testing its weight and then threading the safety rope and dropping it to his team below. The higher they went, the darker it became. Each tread of the staircase had been hewn and shaped out of the living rock. Drake began to get a sense of awe as he climbed. Some incredible treasure awaited them; he could feel it in his bones.

But a throne?

With a sheer void at his back he stopped, braced himself, and looked down. Ben was struggling, eyes wide and scared. Drake felt a rush of sympathy and love for his young friend, something absent ever since Kennedy had died. He saw the remaining Delta soldier trying to help Karin and smiled when she waved him away. He extended a helping hand toward Ben.

“Stop tossing it off, Blakey. Come on.”

Ben looked up at him and it was as if a firework went off in his brain. Something in Drake’s eyes or in his tone of voice stirred him and a hopeful look fastened onto his face.

“Thank God you’re back.”

With Drake’s help, Ben climbed faster. The deadly void at their back was forgotten and each step became a step toward discovery rather than peril. The underside of the throne grew closer and closer until it was within touching distance.

Komodo climbed cautiously off the staircase and onto the throne itself.

After a minute, his American drawl caught their attention. “Oh my God, guys, you aren’t gonna believe this.”