Matt Drake 8 - Last Man Standing (7 page)

“You don’t
have
any kids.”

“Sure I do. Just because they call themselves the Slayers and are aged twenty
five to forty doesn’t mean they’re not family.”

“Last on the list
,” Dahl said. “Is Michael Crouch. Wonder where he is?”

“He’ll make contact
,” Drake said. “I’m not worried about that.”

“So what’s first?” Alicia stared across the dark town. “What’s the plan?”

“Track them. Draw them out. End this.” Drake said and then turned to the companions he was closest to. “And get on with our bloody lives.”

Mai’s emotionless stare did nothing to ease his fears.

After
Kinimaka fired his Glock he ducked reflexively as the window exploded outward. The evasive action was for when the wind, strong at this height, whipped some of the flying shards back in. Hayden covered her top half with a pillow. Smyth just stood and watched.

“What the
—ow!”

Kinimaka crossed over to the shattered window. “We’re not running, we’re standing
,” he said, pressing a panic button. “Backup’s on the way. We just have to hold for a few minutes. Smyth—” he pointed to the window. “Out.”

“What?”

“You know what to do.”

“Shit, yeah. Doesn’t make me happy though.”

Kinimaka held his tongue. The ex-Delta man wasn’t exactly a ray of sunshine most days and had been spectacularly irritable since Romero died. Something they were all trying to help him through. The Hawaiian heard noises and rushed to the door.

Smyth headed for the window and
a two-hundred-foot freefall.

**
*

Kinimaka
saw four men running in single-file formation along a corridor that led to Hayden’s room. Only one of the men startled him, a mountain of a man with a mongoose’s face—all furry and twitching—several inches taller and wider than even Kinimaka himself. The Hawaiian suddenly knew what it was for someone to come up against him in battle.

Hope the bastard’s as light on his feet as I am
. . .

Kinimaka hit the door just before the team leader got there. A bullet flew
through the gap, slamming past his nose. The door crashed into place, and he turned the lock. A figure collided against it from the other side. Now his attackers couldn’t get to them through the bulletproof door.

A terrible memor
y swept through his mind just as Hayden said, “Mano. They might have the code.”

He remembered with horror the first time he’d come up against Dmitry Kovalenko. An overwhelming force had crashed a safe
house in Miami, and they had known the entry code.

“Override it!” Hayden cried. “Override it and shut it down!”

Kinimaka punched in the code just as the door clicked open. Without a moment’s pause, the frame burst inward, men with severe crew cuts following close after. Kinimaka wrenched at the first one’s shoulders, spinning him in place—much to his surprise—and forcing him back against the shattered frame. Splinters tore into the man’s face, making him scream. The second stumbled over him. Kinimaka stomped on the man’s spine as he landed on all fours, and fired into the first man’s ribs, putting him down for good. The Hawaiian leapt aside as the second man, prone, twisted and fired at him. Bullets whickered through the thin air he had previously occupied. Kinimaka collided full-on with the third man, not on purpose but with characteristic clumsiness. The man flew away as if he’d been shot from a bungee rope, disappearing back down the corridor. Now it was mongoose-man’s turn, and the enormous warrior was still trying to fit through the broken doorway.

Kinimaka stared, almost transfixed.

And heard the whisper as a trigger was pulled behind him . . .

No! The second man! He
. . .

A gunshot erupted. Kinimaka had no chance to get out of the way. The bullet ripped into flesh, bursting the hear
t, but it was not his own. He dropped to his knees, landing hard and turned to see the second man holding a gun on him, unfired, and Hayden holding a gun
on the second man.

Even from her hospital bed Hayden Jaye had saved his life. The second man collapsed, instantly dead.

Then, all was rushing, heaving manflesh as the outsize monster rammed him.

**
*

Smyth
felt half-a-second’s debilitating fear at the sheer, dizzy height then made himself suck it up. The window ledge ended where nothingness began. Far below, the distant street nestled, terrifyingly small. Smyth thought about how fear could only control you if you let it. Romero would have felt no fear out here. Romero would have eaten his misgivings alive. But Romero was dead, and all that was left of him out here were Smyth’s best memories.

Smyth clung with one hand inside the outer wall as he stepped onto the narrow
, slightly-curved ledge. That hand gripped with a Hulk’s strength whilst the other quested along the outside wall for a firm handhold. Strong, erratic blasts of wind tugged at his hair, his clothes. All the world was silence except for the brief terrifying gusts, any one of which might suddenly hit gale force and pluck him off the ledge.

Smyth looked down. Stupid move. He did it again, irritably, angry at himself for being a fool and then angry that he was angry. He punished himself for being annoyed by doing it a third time, then remembered that Kinimaka was already fighting four men inside and Smyth was their only hope against the rest that were assuredly coming. Taking a breath he inched along the ledge, gripping the outer wall with steel-taloned fingertips where the mortar had crumbled away between blocks of stone.
The grip was nothing more than a way of helping him balance; it could never hold him if one of his feet slipped. His right hand now held the edge of the window; still a firm, safe grip but one he would have to relinquish in order to move on.

Damn, the ledge looked wider when
we came up with this plan.

With the balls of his feet balanced on the rolled top
of the ledge, Smyth inched outside the tall building with nothing but fresh air and a long drop at his back. Little gusts of wind tugged at his body like playful imps. A shard of glass snagged in the sleeve of his jacket, tearing through and destabilizing him for a second. He had to concentrate hard in order to carefully unhook it. Sweat dripped from his brow. Someone fired a bullet inside. Smyth prayed to God his people were all right. Mai Kitano popped into his mind and he hurriedly put her aside. This was no time to lose focus.

Smyth shuffled sideways, painful inch by painful inch. A series of firm handholds didn’t speed him up, but gave him more confidence. In a matter of minutes he
realized that the tips of his fingers were chilling rapidly, and being scraped bloody. He compartmentalized the pain and chose not to see them.

Finally he reached the next room’s window and reached out for the frame. Smyth never knew where he made the mistake
; possible over-eagerness, a momentary lack of judgment and spatial-awareness, or the weakening grip in his hands—but his fingers missed the edge of the frame by millimeters and closed over nothing.

Unbalanced, committed, Smyth wavered.

And fell.

**
*

Kinimaka
pushed hard against the man-mountain, the two men like dueling rhinos trying to throw each other to the ground. A meaty paw lay across his shoulders, pushing down on them with all the force of an industrial crusher, forcing the breath out of Kinimaka’s lungs and making his eyes pop. The Hawaiian pushed back with all his might, but the monster had the advantage and was bringing his extra weight to bear. Grunting filled the air between them. Hayden couldn’t fire because Mano was between the giant and her.

Kinimaka saw the man’s other hand coming around. In it was clasped a
big Magnum, reduced to the size of a toy pea-shooter in the veiny flesh and stubby fingers. Seconds passed that felt like minutes. The gun moved slowly, but inexorably, the barrel turning. As it lined up with Kinimaka’s knees he half expected a fast bullet, but the giant was going for the kill shot. More seconds passed. Then, as Kinimaka saw the stubby fingers contract around the trigger, he allowed the giant’s weight to topple him, unbalancing the man and making his ear-splitting shot pass harmlessly overhead.

Both leviathans crashed to the floor. Kinimaka
recovered first, grabbed the legs of one of the dead attackers and swung the body around at the giant’s head. The body actually lifted off the floor, shifting at speed, the shoulders crashing into an enormous chest and producing a satisfying grunt of pain.

But Kinimaka didn’t stop there. He was in the fight of his life and knew it. He rose fast, swinging the
inert body again, this time letting go at the last second and hoping the extra momentum would topple his opponent.

He stared in amazement as the monster
stared and then simply swatted the dead merc’s body from the air, just slapping it down like an annoying insect. It crashed to the floor, bones breaking.

“Mac never beaten.” The growl was the sound of an approaching subway train. “Not start with you, little man.”

Kinimaka blinked. In all his life nobody had ever called him “little man”. Now he cringed as Mac stamped on the other merc’s body for good effect, snapping whatever intact bones the man had left.

Hayden’s voice snapped him out of it. “Get out of the damn way!”

Kinimaka just wasn’t that quick. He was trained, he was fleet of foot, but he wasn’t exactly Jet Li, for God’s sake. Mac lumbered toward him, closing the distance fast. Kinimaka, out of time, met the giant head on. Their chests crunched. Mac’s huge arms tried to wrap around but Kinimaka delivered four fast kidney punches that actually slowed his opponent. Kinimaka finished with an uppercut, his big fist connecting solidly with the other’s jaw.

Mac’s eyes closed
and his body slithered to the floor.

“Thank God
,” Hayden said.

Kinimaka frowned. “I don’t think he’s
—”

Mac rolled backward and tried to stand. When his knees wobbled he decided to stay kneeling, then grabbed hold of the side of the room’s double
sofa and hurled it. Kinimaka had nowhere to go. The sofa caught his lower body, sending him over the top and tumbling past the cushions onto the floor beyond. Mac was already there, looming above the Hawaiian.

“Nice try.”

A shot rang out. Instant surprise creased Mac’s eyes. The bullet flew above his head, but the frozen moment gave Kinimaka a chance. The Hawaiian scrambled away, hands and feet scrabbling amidst the debris, looking for anything that could give him an edge in this uneven battle of Goliaths.

A chair. Kinimaka picked it up, spun, and swung downward all in one easy move. Mac rose into it, forehead upraised, and the wood simply splintered and disintegrated all around him. Three long shards stuck out of the bridge of his nose, monstrous spines acquired in combat.

“Is that it?” Mac grunted.

“Stop!” Hayden screamed. “Stop, or I
will
kill you!”

Mac guffawed.
Kinimaka was up against a wall. Mac charged and Hayden fired, the bullet punching into the enormous merc’s side and lodging there. To the bullet’s credit it did make Mac grimace, it made his body kink, but it didn’t slow him. He hit Kinimaka head on, foreheads colliding with a heavy crunch. The wall exploded around them, plaster and timber and a single block wall smashed to pieces. Debris rained down and cascaded away. Mac fell on top of the Hawaiian.

Kinimaka blacked out.

***

Smyth windmilled his arms as he fell, searching for any kind of purchase. The one thing that could have saved him, the ledge,
slipped smoothly across his flying fingertips, offering no salvation. Almost in slow-motion, he felt his feet falling through fresh air, felt the tipping of his body as his top half started to over-balance. Sheer panic ignited every nerve ending. The sudden pounding of his heart was so loud it felt like a heavy-metal drummer had climbed inside his head.

Not the best way to die, goddamn it.

Smyth flailed again, sensing another floor flashing by and that his increasing momentum meant this was his last chance. The ledge hit his hand, his fingers closed.

And slipped off!

Smyth screamed. Adrenalin smashed through him. Somehow, he bought a second chance; his fingers again closing around the ledge. By luck and good fortune his feet caught on one of the building’s aesthetic outcroppings, a protruding figure-eight design of bespoke blocks. Even then his momentum was enough to make his feet slip and his fingers almost break.

But he held on. Panting, shaking, face pressed into the rough brick, he held on. And
looked up at the window, just above the ledge. Panic wanted to take control, but Smyth wouldn’t let it. He was a soldier, trained, honed. His friends were fighting for their lives. Mai hadn’t texted him back.

With so much to live for and debts to dead friends that still remained unpaid, Smyth reached out and hauled his body up through the turbulent air. He gained the ledge, used his weapon to smash the window
, and hurled himself inside.

A second was all he allowed himself. Then, body purged of excess adrenalin, he calculated his floor and ran headlong for the lifts. As a reward for his bravery the car stopped at almost every floor on its way up, but soon Smyth was inside and heading back up to the top floor
; praying he wasn’t too late; resisting the urge to check his messages. When the buzzer dinged, Smyth leveled his weapon and eased out into the corridor. The door to Hayden’s room lay on the floor, the frame busted open. Bodies lay all around.

Mercs were filing
toward the open door; new groups that had infiltrated the hospital using different means. At least eight . . . nine . . . ten.