The Treasures of Saint Germain

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Drake saw Webb steal the motorbike and Beau’s last lunge to try to stop him. The Frenchman fell short and hit the road; Webb roared away.

Drake cursed. “Shit, Webb has more lives than Mario on freeplay.”

Yorgi nodded. “Beau is not on his game today.”

“Webb’s clever,” Kinimaka admitted. “We know that.”

“Stop blabbing,” Hayden said. “And help chase him down.”

They chased their prey down, reckless through the traffic, skirting cars and avoiding pushbikes and pizza delivery cycles. Drake found the delivery guys and the locals the worst, all darting in and out of spaces to gain half a car’s length and making everybody else’s lives that much harder. He bounced off a Prius, came back off a 4x4’s tall tire and darted past a dangerously weaving motorcycle. Pedestrians slowed him down; Alicia and Mai finding a quicker route along the sidewalk. Dahl picked the weaving motorcycle up, complete with rider, and placed it out of the way, facing the wrong direction. Kinimaka stumbled against a white Range Rover, pulling an apologetic face at the shocked driver. They caught up to Beau as the Frenchman slowed for them.

“Bit slow there, mate,” Drake observed breezily. “Unlike you.”

“He was lucky.”

Ahead, Webb drove recklessly, arrogantly. It was Hayden who noticed the new team coming in from the left, weapons as visible as their helmets, bikes all a uniform pitch black, intentions as clear as their intended quarry.

“Heads up!”

But Drake and Dahl had already seen them and were angling their runs accordingly. Drake wrenched a pizza storage box off the back of a bike and threw it at the first rider. It smashed into the man’s arm, exploding, sending plastic and pizza everywhere. The bike wobbled, crashed against a car before righting itself and shooting off again.

Drake targeted the next before he could bring his gun to bear. The bike zoomed past just a few inches away and the Yorkshireman yanked on an arm. Both bike and man went skidding through the traffic, ending up piled against the wheel of a Nissan pickup. Dahl collided with his man like a charging rhino, both of them crashing to the floor and scraping along for several feet. The difference was that Dahl took the man’s gun and rendered him unconscious before then stealing his bike and gunning the throttle.

“Hop on,” he said to Drake.

“I’ll catch the next one,” Drake replied.

The third to pass their position received a flying kick to the ribs that sent his gun zipping away, and even his helmet clattering down the street. Drake hefted the bike, its wheels spinning, and righted it before motoring hard after the Swede. Kinimaka and Smyth were mopping up behind, giving the front runners freedom to close the gap.

Drake and Dahl chased the six remaining bikers as they pursued Webb through the crowded streets of Barcelona. Alicia and Mai hammered along the sidewalk, keeping pace several meters to the right. Webb bounced his own machine up onto the opposite sidewalk, his own intentions unclear. Drake saw a crowd ahead of him and no easy way through. He angled the bike over, slipped through several quickly disappearing gaps, and came up behind one of the cult’s rear-guard.

“Oy!”

The helmet turned, the gun swiveling too. Drake accelerated up the other side, clipping the curb but hanging on, and then kicked out at his adversary. The bike wobbled, the man shaking wildly but holding on, and then leaned back, decelerating.

The gun now poked toward Drake.

Quickly, he yanked on the steering and smashed his own bike against his adversary’s. This time the man took flight, crumpling as he landed, and yelling out in pain. Another gun skittered away.

Drake tracked Webb as best he could, confident the man would have to return to the road any second. Then he could…

Just then the ex-Pythian hauled so hard on the brakes that the back tire lifted and came around ninety degrees. Webb leapt into space, leaving the bike to crash into the floor. Drake slowed and left his bike at the curb, then saw Dahl up ahead battling with a rider so close they were practically sat on each other’s seats. The Swede managed to lug the cultist over and left the bike to tumble, then dropped a shoulder and threw the other man hard onto the hood of a nearby car whilst still seated. Metal crumpled, bones broke. Dahl carried his bike out of the way and then deposited it against a lamppost.

“Marking your territory?” Drake had kept half an eye to make sure Dahl was okay and the other on Webb as the man headed for a building almost covered in flashing lights, advertisements and flickering billboards.

“Don’t men still piss on lampposts up in Yorkshire?”

“Oh aye, lad, they do. The women too.”

“Lovely.”

Drake saw a rider up ahead, black clad, trying to steer his way through a crush of bodies. He stood little chance and fell to the floor, but a wave of his gun sent dozens of people running. Drake saw Webb enter a rotating door ahead and finally saw where the man was headed.

And why.

The Barcelona International Motor Show.

It’s gonna be so crowded in there you couldn’t find a giant wearing an octopus hat. Webb’s next backup. Another chance to slip away. But wait… maybe not. Could Webb finally have made a mistake?

The football match would divert thousands for its duration. Drake ran flat out to try to keep eyes on Webb. The flashing lights, rather than grab his attention, annoyed the hell out of him and made him look away. Droves roved outside the entrance, discussing the cars or the city or the match, or a multitude of alternate entertainments. Drake pushed through the doors and flashed a temporary ID badge at the guard.

Don’t stop me… don’t stop me… I don’t want to cause any incidents—

Then Dahl was behind him. “Are we in? Or do I have to plant him with the hydrangeas over there?”

Drake winced, eyes still locked on Webb but only seconds away from losing the madman. The guard stared at Drake and then Dahl, catching sight of their cuts and bruises.

“Come on, man,” Dahl said. “We’re in pursuit of an international terrorist who just entered your friggin’ showroom.”

The guard took another look at their badges and then ushered them through, calling on security. Drake hurried along the same route he’d seen Webb take. “You know it’s a motor show, right? Not a car showroom.”

The pair didn’t wait, but rushed through the acceptably slender throng, grateful now for the gargantuan event not too far away. Kenzie and Smyth caught them up and then Hayden, who reported the rest were just behind.

“Any sign of the gunmen?” Dahl asked her.

Hayden shook her head. “No, and that’s not a good sign. They will be seeking a different entry point, that’s all. And then…” She exhaled with a worried look. “It could be bad in here. I’ve already alerted the locals.”

“There!” Drake cried.

“What? Webb? The cultists?” Dahl stared over in anticipation.

“No. It’s the new Ferrari F12 TDF. See the new side vents and enhanced wheel arches? The—”

“Fucksake, Drake.” Alicia sauntered up on his left. “I know cars are the greatest love of your life, but…”

Hayden paused as the crowds again became overwhelming. The vast hall was filled with splendor and gold and glitter at every turn; manufacturers showing off their latest offerings and draping them with striking colors, banks of lighting and half-dressed models. People gathered at the best vantage points, taking their photos and discussing the finer points of what was on offer. From German to Italian, English to Japanese, the whole gamut parked their wares on rotating turntables and invited special guests to cross the red-rope barriers and sip champagne whilst trying to look cool and extremely wealthy. The walkways between such brands as Lamborghini and Porsche were full to capacity, whilst the paths between less extravagant brands were much more navigable. Hayden switched the group past the Toyota offering and Drake quickly followed.

Webb was ahead, two stands away, the man and his backpack standing out from the milling crowd as he pushed through. The first gunshots echoed terribly inside the motor show, blasts resounding around the high ceiling. Immediately, Drake saw the running gunmen coming down an aisle that crisscrossed Webb’s, their guns aimed straight at him. He jumped over a rope barrier and ran among a display of Mitsubishis, bullets marring the metal all around him. Lights shattered and exhibition stands blew apart. More shots ripped the excited ambiance to shreds.

Drake drew his gun now, having no qualms about taking the shooters out for good. He ran fast and stooped, Glock held low. Webb’s head popped up briefly amongst the Mitsubishis, followed by a volley of lead and several smashed windscreens. A tower of paper cups flew through the air. A bottle of champagne exploded along with a pile of brochures, the whole collective shooting up and showering the area.

Drake saw people ducking and diving, and fired at the first running gunman. He flew sideways, colliding with a temporary display and smashing it to pieces, streaks of red blood marring the exclusive designs. The team spread all around him. Dahl leapt up two revolving platforms to gain the dizzy heights of a Peugeot stand and crouched behind a silver car. Alarm bells resounded, clearing the public out. The crowds that once stared at and admired the shining vehicles now streamed for the red exit signs.

Dahl fired his weapon from atop the stand and another cultist went down. More followed though, swiveling and firing up at the Swede. Drake saw him duck behind a wheel, and lay down some cover fire.

Hayden was crouched low, keying her comms system. “Webb’s heading for the rear exits. Anyone there?”

Only the local cops answered, not sounding entirely sure.

Drake crept closer to the running men. The team all opened fire now, causing their enemy to scatter, duck and hide behind vehicles and metal stanchions. Dahl crept down the other side of the Peugeot stand, moving on all fours. Alicia popped up and fired at Drake’s side, keeping the enemy hemmed in.

“Move closer,” Hayden said. “I count eight remaining. Speed wins the day here, guys.”

Drake wondered if that was an intentional double entendre.

Lauren was the only one to remain behind as the rest of the team stole ever closer to their enemies’ positions. Two cultists tried to bolt after Webb, but Smyth and Kinimaka made short work of their mad dash. Webb himself appeared to remain cautious, keeping his progress steady and watchful, not risking anything but aiming inexorably for the rear of the enormous hall.

Drake changed the clip in his Glock. Gleaming lights shone down from floating ceilings above their heads, designed for the cars but picking out the firefight in every detail. The cultists had chosen to take cover among a shining spectacle of highly polished Jaguars, an SUV and a blue sports car now fully peppered with holes. Drake groaned as bullets flew overhead, hitting displays behind them with the flags of Italian marques.

“This is not good,” he said.

Alicia knew him. “You mean for the event or the bloody cars?”

Drake gave her a ‘duh’ glare.

“Such beautiful bodywork and machinery being destroyed,” Drake said.

“Shall we concentrate on the terrorists?” Mai asked.

Argento’s voice filled the comms, strikingly high-pitched and different. “It is important that you protect the Alfa Romeo brand. Do you hear? Highly important. It is our great heritage, our undying passion, our—”

A flurry of gunfire shut him up. The cultists were well dug in now, the Jaguars listing badly, a bullet-strewn pair of vertical light-stands rising above them. A small fire had started to the right of the stage. Another man rose to take a pot shot at Webb, and Drake missed his forehead by an eighth of an inch.

Hayden cursed. “They’re helping him escape.”

The team evaluated, gauged distances, gaps and lines of cover. Then Torsten Dahl made a positive sound. “Just give me a minute,” he said. “And I’ll save the day.”

Drake started to say: “Oh, yeah, very droll—” but then the Swede was moving and the team scrambled to give him shelter. Their bullets tore apart front wings and all remaining panes of glass, burst tires and shattered rear lights. Drake managed to sever the cords of a hanging light which smashed down among their enemies.

Dahl bounded down a few steps and onto the floor, an eager guard dog, switched over to the right, and approached an adjacent podium. It took Drake only a moment to figure out what was about to happen.

“Oh, shit. Get ready—”

Dahl broke apart a two-meter-wide stand dedicated to the unveiling of a new style of alloy rim. The heavy, eight-spoked rims crashed to the ground hard, but Dahl reached down and took one under each arm. As the cultists looked over to assess the threat, Drake, Mai and Alicia rose firing, racing up the steps of the Peugeot stand to get a clearer line of fire. Cultists collapsed, groaning. Three aimed at Dahl and another charged the Swede.

Dahl spun fast then let go. An enormous, incredibly heavy rim arced through the air and hit the running man chest-on, its force crushing everything it touched. The second rim then went flying, smashing into the cultists’ main position, glancing off a head and a shoulder, causing total mayhem. Guns went flying. Heads smashed metal or each other. Dahl picked up a final rim and hurled it before anyone thought to move.

Drake, Mai and Alicia ran down the steps, still firing hard. Blood began to seep under the chassis of the ragged looking Jaguars.

The third rim came down like a descending meteor, denting a bright red wing and then deflecting onto a skulking, black-clad chest. The lurker let out a screech, but was afforded no mercy as a running Smyth finished him off. Dahl flexed his muscles to give them a little relief and then drew his own gun, flanking Drake.

“I think we now have your new online ID,” Drake mouthed. “Rim Tosser.”

“I was The Beach Runner last week.”

“Oh aye, but I think this one suits you better.”

The two men crept to the front of the Jaguars.

“Better than Office Bike, I suppose.”

“Hey, that’s Alicia’s.”

“Fuck off, you two.”

They sobered as the scene unfolded. The cultists were lying dead or dying, some with guns still clasped in their hands and still attempting to point them at the SPEAR team.

“Really?” Alicia said. “Even now? You people must be off your heads.”

“They belong to a cult,” Mai said. “Which is everything to them. They would rather die than betray its secrets.”

Drake remembered Mai had been sold into her own hell, not exactly a cult, but something close. He felt a pang of sorrow at moving on from their relationship so quickly. Had he done the right thing?

That’s me alright, he thought. Having to choose between two of the most dangerous women in the world. What could possibly go wrong?

Hayden shouted over the airwaves: “I’m not so sure these men are actual cultists, guys. More like hired mercs.”

Kenzie put a hand on Dahl’s shoulder. “You okay, Torst? I think you owe Jaguar a new car.”

Mai and Beau passed among the downed men, disarming and restraining for the cops. Another shot rang out then and Drake looked to the rear of the hall.

“Still some out there chasing Webb.”

Hayden panted over the comms. “We’re in pursuit. Webb’s close to freedom.”

“Not today.” Dahl clenched his fists and mock-glared at Drake. “Maybe this time you could even help.”