The Ghost Ships of Arizona

CHAPTER TWELVE

Steeped in overstated luxury, the blacked-out Maybach cruised the busy streets at a leisurely pace. Tyler Webb enjoyed getting out into the world, and into Washington DC in particular. This way, hidden from prying eyes and curious cameras, he could sit forward and feel the adrenalin start to rush through his body; a living, breathing, squirming snake of dark passion, as potential new victims caught the attention of his warped radar. Here, a businessman too involved to notice the enormous pitch black Maybach and waving irritably at the driver who had braked hard to avoid crushing the man’s legs. There, a family of four where the woman struggled with two kids as her husband chatted and gesticulated on his cellphone. Webb immediately snapped the man’s picture — he would make a good candidate for incense and provocation. Elsewhere, a man in an open-top sports car racing between lights whose registration was taken down, and a group of youths laughing at a homeless man.

Webb saw them all as serious applicants. Not because he was by any means a bleeding heart but because these people tried hard to exude confidence. Taking every last shred from them would literally make the hairs on his arms stand up. His mouth would dry out. His toes would most likely curl.

Being chauffeured around for hours didn’t put him in the best of moods. This entire Pythian thing wasn’t going as well as he’d hoped. Here they were, only months into their campaign, and already key personnel were dead or lost and they had been forced to hire a goon army. Not that he didn’t enjoy the expendability of his subjects — sending men to die helped dramatically boost his ego. Sometimes, he did it just for fun.

Earlier that day he had met all three new Pythian candidates — Zoe Sheers was a round-faced, wide-eyed stunner who instantly put him on his guard. The brunette appeared savvy, forward to the point of annoyance and hungry for action. Julian Marsh visibly struggled to contain his exuberance, the clothes he wore didn’t quite match, and his parting was in the wrong place. His watch was on the wrong wrist, his shoes the wrong color. His smile twisted the wrong way. Webb was a little unnerved by Julian Marsh, though he buried such idiocy beneath untold layers of sinful shadow, ignoring it and tasking the man with the very next Pythian event to keep him busy. Marsh’s resultant grin was entirely wrong.

Finally, Lucas Monroe, whom Webb at least knew a little of, was the blandest, quietest and least inspiring of them all. Seriously, Webb thought, if the man stood in a corner for too long people would stick a lampshade on his head.

Not a bad bunch though, and certainly no worse than the last lot. The problem was that now Webb was having serious doubts about how long the Pythians could continue. His greatest goal, the ability to seek out the great treasures of Saint Germain, was at hand.

A few more weeks…

And the Pythians might be no more. Maybe even now the group was actually redundant. No mind. Nicholas Bell was off seeking ghost ships and Bay-Dale was with him. Good. It gave Webb time to concentrate on the Saint Germain plan — but first he needed a vital component.

As luck would have it word had recently reached Webb’s ears that the final and greatest arms bazaar hosted by the royal prince of terrorism — Ramses himself — was being planned, and soon. Webb planned to attend with his uber-bodyguard and secure the component. The top-secret guest list was already a terrible who’s-who of international intrigue and terrorism, but once that was done…

The world will change.

The car continued to pick its way through the congested streets, courteously, carefully, with precision. Webb turned his mind back to people-watching for sixty seconds and noted one more person — a bouncer pushing a woman to the ground and grinning as he puffed up to his colleagues — before starting to ponder the Z-boxes and their current role. They were essential to the plan, a fortunate addition to Bell’s escapade. Showing America the might of the Pythians would distract its leaders from the true agenda at hand. It might even cow them for a while, although Webb would have liked a weaker president than Coburn. Still, you worked with what you had. The man’s underlings were more than malleable in every way.

Another thing and another godsend… he knew Matt Drake and Co. were wandering around the desert, seeking the ghost ships and trying to determine which electrical facility would be hit next. That gave Webb some wonderful freedoms, though it did limit his stalking capabilities — Hayden Jaye and Mano Kinimaka were off the list, at least for a while. But back to the freedoms — new prey, for example, new hunts.

Pleasure coursed through him.

Take Topless Sports Car Man, for example. If he returned to his car one day to find a sidemirror smashed, what would he do? Put it down to vandals. Then, a present left in the back seat. One of his own discarded belongings. Then the cogs would start to turn. A small snake in the footwell. A mound of ants perhaps. Later, attention would turn to the bank account, mortgage and other financial considerations. A slow leak, a few letters. Life would start heading downhill for Mr. Topless Sports Car. His girlfriend might desert him. Then, embarrassments at work and at the mall. Objects moved around back at the house. A stint in the man’s loft, spying and planning. The game would then grow serious…

Webb realized he was breathing too hard, growing too passionate, and let it go. For now, the hunt was enough. It would have to be.

The car’s inbuilt cellphone controls lay just below his right hand. He waited one more moment as his mind flicked over Mai Kitano — the Japanese woman had disappeared. Something about heading to Japan and trying to help her new protégé—Grace — whilst seeking out the young woman she had wronged when she killed her father. That young woman was named Emiko and even Webb had been unable to find her.

Mai Kitano though, he knew where she was right now. Which was a whole lot more than Matt Drake could say.

Webb allowed a self-satisfied, smug grin stretch out his face. Then he tapped a pre-programmed number.

“It’s me.”

“Yes, sir?”

“As soon as you can, kill Drake and send the US back to the dark ages.”

“Yes, sir. That’s the plan.”

“It’s the plan now, idiot. Now that I have given it to you. And not until then, do you understand?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Let’s beg to differ on that, shall we? Just get it done, man. And report. The sands of time are running out.”

“There’s a shitload of sand out here, sir. Not sure it’s ever gonna run out.”

Webb sighed, fighting off a moment’s despair. At least his uber-bodyguard, Beauregard Alain, could hold down a conversation. Not like this prehistoric freak.

“Kill Drake,” he repeated as though addressing a deaf old man. “And use the Z-boxes. Do you understand?”

“Yeah, I do.”

Webb signed off, ignoring the final effrontery since his radar had just honed in on a new victim — the best yet. A tall, thin woman in a black pencil skirt who actually had her assistant following her, clutching cellphones, handbags, sheaves of paper and a small, yappy dog.

Oh, that’s just perfect. This day ain’t so bad after all.

Webb snapped her picture, trusting his powerful facial recognition software would lead him in the right direction later. The woman’s assistant, looking harassed and sweaty almost tumbled, eliciting a grunt of disgust from the tall woman. Webb felt an entire flood of pleasure as the thought of stalking her swept through his body.

To hell with the Pythians, he thought. All I need is Saint Germain… and this.

And Matt Drake dead, of course.