The Treasures of Saint Germain

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Drake ran again, ignoring the aches and pains and bruises of battle. Experience helped him scan the plethora of hiding places from nearby to far ahead, and he noted only three remaining adversaries.

And Webb, the figure vague and approaching the auto show’s back doors, where metal overhangs, wide stanchions and high ceiling walkways cast everything into indistinct shadow.

“Bloody ’ell!”

Drake saw Hayden and Kinimaka, and sprinted along the aisles. The pair had halted alongside half a dozen motor show models, trying to instil some kind of calm among the women. It didn’t help when one of the cultists turned to take a pot shot. Alicia fired back amid the screams, scaring her enemy into flight.

They ran on, the bright lights glimmering and making them sweat, the shiny vehicles and vivid colors a pure assault on the senses, the remaining pockets of hidden civilians a heavy deterrent to engaging the cultists. They kept low, less threatening. Hayden climbed a podium belonging to Aston Martin to keep an eye on Webb.

Drake then saw the answer. Some of the cars at these shows were so unique, so secret, their success reliant on hype and expectation, that they were exhibited just a few short hours before being whisked away to private showings. Especially in the early evening prior to the show’s closing, cars were rolled and then driven out the back. Drake saw one such car at the side of the hall now, having been abandoned by the manufacturer’s representatives when the gunfight broke out.

Chiron, he thought.

Screaming for attention it drew him to the left as the others carried on. Drake keyed the comms.

“Two minutes.”

Now praying the firefight would have made even the most dedicated technician abscond without a second thought, Drake approached the outlandish car and reached down for the door handle. Glad to see it was at least open, he let the door swing wide and took a look inside. Unable to help himself, he took that extra second to revel in the utter luxuriousness of it all, the flawless interior art.

No keys dangled from any ignition, sending his heart sinking until he spied the butt end of a curved object protruding from under the steering wheel. Jumping in, Drake knew the starting procedure for this car’s predecessor and tried the same technique.

Demons roared from the back end, the tailpipes spewing forth hellfire and madness. Drake felt his face crack into a crazy grin, engaged drive, and set the hypercar into motion. Feeling more nerves than he ever did in battle, he guided the car around the back end of the auto show, passing between metal stanchions that loomed threateningly close. As he cleared the two pillars he got a look ahead.

Webb stood before a red-marked exit door, looking over at him as if drawn by the incredible thunder spitting from the car. Three enemies loomed close behind, their guns not pointed at Webb but being forced to protect their own backs. Alicia, Mai, Dahl and Smyth bore down upon them like avenging demons, straight at the readied barrels of three weapons.

Drake floored the accelerator, letting out a yelp and a cheer at the instant turn of speed. The beast pounced, burning rubber, slewing slightly as it ate up the distance between it and the cultists. Unable to ignore the impending threat, they turned.

The car plowed into them. One flew over the low hood, taking flight as his arms and legs pinwheeled faster than a skier falling down the seventy-meter slope. Another rebounded, the thump bone-jarring, the sudden stop and reverse momentum mind-blowing. The third somehow landed hard on the hood, denting it enough to make Drake wince as the two shared a look through the sparkling windscreen.

“Get. Off. My. Car,” Drake mouthed.

The man’s eyes bulged as Dahl grabbed his ankles, pulled him clear and swung him across the floor. He skidded further than expected, the high gloss complementing the slide, ending up far enough away to shake his head and then start reaching for his gun. Mai finished him off with a single shot, then rolled her eyes at Dahl.

Drake flung open the door, now opposite the exit Tyler Webb had used only a minute ago. The chatter through his comms tripled, excited voices exuding information at a rapid rate. He joined Alicia and Smyth at the door.

“Thought you’d fucked off ’ome,” Alicia greeted him.

Drake wrenched the door open. “And choose between you and the car?”

Smyth shouldered through the gap, ignoring them both, game face on. Drake followed, knowing the soldier expected instantaneous backup. Surprisingly, they emerged into another hall, this one much smaller though nonetheless high and spacious, and filled with trailers, vans and every mode of car transportation, either en-masse and cheap, or private and overpriced. Offices bordered the building, with gantries and metal bridges spanning the gap. Drake stopped in the face of uncountable obstacles.

“We’re gonna need a bigger—”

Hayden joined them. “How many exits?” She spoke into the throat mic.

Drake heard the reply. “Eight, plus three double doors.”

“You have people on them?”

“We’re… trying.”

Drake shook his head. “Split up,” he said, without much hope. “We may get lucky.”

Alicia hadn’t the spirit left to summon up a double entendre.

“So that’s it?” Smyth growled. “Webb gets away. Damn it!”

“Not yet,” Dahl said, ever the optimist. “Not bloody yet.”

But outside the skies were blacker than a killer’s heart, the streets as helpful as a call center. Webb could have gone a dozen different ways, and then a dozen more. Drake took a breath and waved at his colleagues.

“We’re not done yet. Webb’s here for a reason, and it wasn’t to watch football or ogle high-end brands. He’s not finished here yet, and we still have a good lead.”

“What?” Smyth rasped.

“The woman.”