The Plagues of Pandora

CHAPTER FORTY FOUR

Drake walked out of the house, rubbing his aching muscles and kneading the knots out of his back. Tiredness threatened to envelop him like a voluminous shroud. But all around strode his friends, old and new, and their heroism and willingness to lay it all on the line for the people they protected gave him a fresh surge of adrenalin and pride.

Outside, the cold fresh air cooled his flesh and, for now, eased his worries.

Aaron Trent held out a hand. “Good to work with you, Drake. I look forward to the next time.”

“Any time,” Drake said. “And do let me know if you’re ever in the market for a Torsten Dahl.”

“Ah. We have a code we try to follow in the Razor’s Edge, epitomized by a single word. It’s called finesse.”

“Hmm. Never mind then.”

Drake shook hands with Silk and Radford and gave Collins a hug. As he stood there a light rain began to fall and his eyes fell upon Mai Kitano.

Staring up at the clouds, up at the rain, the Japanese woman had more water on her face than the light drizzle suggested.

Drake saw the look in her eyes. “It’s over isn’t it?”

“It has to be. At least for now.”

“For now? There’ll be no more chances, Mai. I couldn’t bloody take all this again.”

“Until I can come to terms with what I did,” Mai said. “There is nothing else for me. I hope you understand. I don’t expect you to. But I do hope. There is something I must do.”

“What?”

“I do not know. And I don’t know how long it will take. That is why… I have to let you go.”

Drake felt something break loose inside as tears welled in Mai’s eyes. “I don’t understand any of this.”

“And neither do I. The world shapes us and rewards us and recognizes us. It makes us believe that it knows our name. Only then, when we have accepted our place and our importance, does it destroy us. That is life.”

“I can’t believe in such hopelessness.”

“I hope that you never have to.”

Mai turned away from him, her black hair glistening with raindrops, her slim shoulders trembling with what looked like grief. He knew she would make her own way now.

Lost, alone, his first thought was of his friends. Where the hell was Alicia?

Alicia waited amid the rubble, a solitary figure covered in dust and fragments of debris. Her hands were bloody, her face bruised, the side of her mouth bleeding. Her long blond hair was scraped back, tied and hidden away beneath a chunky bullet-proof jacket. A half-empty, battered H&K dangled from her right arm.

Her bright blue eyes watched with extreme vigilance. Every tell-tale sound was analyzed and taken into account. Sounds drifting through the many smashed windows attested to quite a gathering on the lawn below; Drake’s voice and Mai’s, Crouch’s and Russo’s and that of Claire Collins — none of them individually discernible.

And still he surprised her.

“Alicia?”

She turned, half expecting he would sneak up. “That’s the last time you take me from behind, Beauregard. Be normal from now on.”

The mask was gone so she could see the smile. “The last time? I was hoping it might be the first.”

Alicia raised both eyebrows. “You sure got a nerve. Come here.”

Beauregard stepped up close so that only inches separated them. Alicia quickly took out her knife and held the tip at his throat.

“I want to know the name of your boss.”

“Is that really what you came here for?”

“What the hell else would I come here for? I read your message loud and clear—I will not go far from you—I understand you want to get something off your chest. For helping us out, I’ll give you the chance. But only one.”

“Ah, well then.” The French accent grew stronger, distracting her senses. “I work for King Pythian, as you know. Tyler Webb himself. The pay — it is very good.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Then, mon amie, we are at an impasse.”

“Not exactly.” Alicia brought the knife down, its sharp edge cutting through the top of Beauregard’s tight black suit.

“What are you doing?”

“What most girls like me do. I’m taking a look.”

The knife travelled further down Beauregard’s chest and toward his stomach, parting the thin material as it went.

“This is all I have, if you cut it off me what shall I wear?”

“I don’t see where that’s my problem.” She paused with the knife hovering over Beauregard’s navel. “And if this thing turns out to be rolled up socks your leotard’s not the only thing that’s gonna get spliced. Ya hear me?”

“It’s not a leo— ah!”

Alicia finished her work and stood back. “Oh, my. You’re happier than you sound then, eh?”

Beauregard grabbed her shoulder and drew her close, his mouth mashing down on hers. Alicia allowed herself to be entangled, opening her mouth and using her tongue. Her hands crept around Beau’s back, grabbed his behind and forced him toward her.

“That’s better.”

Alicia’s jacket hit the floor. Then her boots flew off. More clothes. Lastly, her rifle. Naked, she finally pulled away from the Frenchman. “Not here,” she said. “It’s not right. Good men died here today.”

Beauregard nodded and led her, carefully, through a concealed entrance into a hidden room. “Webb built several of these. It has many TV screens, feeds from all over. He can interface—”

Alicia pushed him down onto his back and straddled his top half. “Yeah?” she interrupted. “Interface with this.”

Beauregard’s reply was unintelligible.

A while later Alicia moved her ass to the south. “Don’t move a muscle, Beauregard. Any muscle.”

Much later, after the majority of the authorities were tucked up in bed, the man called Beauregard Alain left the now defunct Pythian HQ. His body ached, and barely any of that came from fighting. Alicia Myles was as demanding a woman as he’d ever imagined. He’d been disappointed to see her go. But it wasn’t a goodbye…

Farewell.

Until next time.

Even now, the memory sent thrilling shivers down his spine. Damn, this is the life! Then that thought sobered him more than a little. Speaking of his life, he must move along. One of the surviving Pythians, General Stone, sat in a high security prison cell somewhere in Washington DC.

Beauregard had been told to neutralize him. Not by his true boss but by Tyler Webb. It would be hard to refuse the request but his true boss had excellent connections and might be able to fabricate something. A disappearance could be organized.

And then there was the major discussion they should have — the topic being Tyler Webb, the Pythians and what Beauregard had so far found out.

He opened his cellphone and dialed a number. The call was answered immediately.

“Line’s secure. What do you know?”

“Sit down, Michael. This may take a while.”