The Gates of Hell

CHAPTER FIVE

Matt Drake twisted off the top of a fresh bottle of Morgan’s Spiced and tapped a speed-dial number on his cell-phone.

Mai sounded flustered when she answered. “Drake? What do you want?”

Drake swigged from the bottle as he frowned. For Mai, betraying emotions was about as uncharacteristic as a politician honoring his election vows. “You okay?”

“Of course I’m okay. Why wouldn’t I be? What is it?”

He took another heavy swig and ploughed on. “The device I gave you. Is it safe?”

There was a moment’s hesitation. “I don’t have it. But it is safe, my friend.” Mai’s soothing tones were back. “It’s as safe as it could possibly be.” Drake took another mouthful. Mai said, “Is that it?”

“No. I believe I’ve almost exhausted my leads at this end. But I have another idea. One closer to… home.”

The silence clicked and crackled as she waited. This was not the normal Mai. Maybe she was with someone.

“I need you to use your Japanese contacts. And the Chinese. And especially the Russians. I want to know if Kovalenko has any family.”

There was a sharp intake of breath. “You’re serious?”

“Of course I’m fucking serious.” He said it more harshly than he had intended, but offered no apology. “And I want to know about Boudreau too. And his family.”

Mai took an entire minute to answer. “Alright, Drake. I’ll do what I can.”

Drake breathed deeply, as the connection went dead. After a minute, he stared at the bottle of spiced rum. Somehow it was half empty. He glanced up to the window and tried to see the city of Miami, but the glass was so dirty he could barely see the pane.

His heart ached.

He upended the bottle again. Without further thought he took action and hit another speed dial number. In action, he had found a way of putting the grief aside. In action, he had found a way of moving forward.

The cell phone rang and rang. Eventually a voice answered. “Fucksake, Drake! What?”

“Smooth talking, bitch,” he drawled, then paused. “How… how’s the team?”

“Team? Christ. Okay, you want the bloody football analogy? The only person you can reasonably use as your striker at this point is Kinimaka. Hayden, Blake and his sister wouldn’t even make the sub’s bench.” She paused. “No focus. Your fault.”

He paused. “Me? You’re saying if an attempt was made on them it would succeed?” His head, slightly fogged, began to pound. “Because an attempt will be made.”

“The hospital is well secured. The guards are reasonably competent. But it’s good you asked me to stay. And good I said yes.”

“And Boudreau? What about that bastard?”

“About as chirpy as a fried egg. He won’t break. But remember, Drake, the whole U.S. government’s working on this now. Not just us.”

“Don’t remind me.” Drake shuddered. “A government that’s badly compromised. Information travels up and down lines of contact within the government, Alicia. It only takes one bad blockage to cram it all up.”

Alicia remained silent.

Drake sat and thought about it. Until the Blood King was physically located, any intel they had should be considered undependable. That included the Gates of Hell information, the Hawaii connection and any titbits he had gleaned from the four dead henchmen.

Maybe one more would do the trick.

“I have one more lead. And Mai’s looking into Kovalenko’s and Boudreau’s family connections. Maybe you could ask Hayden to do the same?”

“I’m here as a favor, Drake. I’m not your bloody sheepdog.”

This time Drake remained silent.

Alicia sighed. “Look, I’ll mention it. And as for Mai, don’t trust that crazy sprite as far as you can throw her.”

Drake smiled at the video game reference. “I’ll agree to that when you tell me which one of you crazy bitches killed Wells. And why.”

He expected a long silence and got it. He took the opportunity to swig down a few more gulps of the amber medicine.

“I’ll talk to Hayden,” Alicia finally whispered. “If Boudreau or Kovalenko have family, we’ll find them.”

The connection went dead. Drake’s head throbbed like a jackhammer in the sudden silence. One day, they would tell him the truth. But for now, it was enough he had lost Kennedy.

It was enough he had once believed in something that was now as distant as the moon, a bright future turned to ashes. The hopelessness inside him twisted his heart. The bottle fell from nerveless fingers, not smashing, but spilling its fiery contents across the dirty floor.

For a moment Drake contemplated scooping it up into a glass. The spilled liquid reminded him of the promises he had made, vows and assurances that had evaporated in a split-second, leaving lives wasted and ruined like so much water scattered on the floor.

How could he ever do that again? Promise to keep his friends safe. All he could do now was kill as many enemies as he could.

Vanquish the world of evil, and let the good live on.

He sat on the edge of the bed. Broken. There was nothing left. Everything except death had died inside him, and the broken shell that remained wanted nothing more from this world.