Crouch thought it through quickly; his sharp, strategic mind snapping it all together. Most likely the SAS would lead, negating the advantage the mercs currently possessed since it was clear the British Special Forces would sniff them out before a shot was fired. The only advantages for Coyote were SaBo’s surveillance system, a defensive position, and foresight that this might happen, and…
… and the civilians.
Coyote was sacrificing these mercs and no mistake. No way would she want to be captured. Crouch knelt in the cold earth, the soft mound giving way like castles in the sand. In his left hand was a gun filled with a dozen bullets. The mercs weren’t expecting an attack from the direction of the town.
Time to use it and hope to God the SAS didn’t kill him. Wouldn’t that be ironic?
Crouch stood. Instantly, the color of flames washed across his face as a nearby electrical point blew up. The SAS had already prepped the place. Mercs opened fire, seeing shadows. Crouch fired twice, dropping the easily identifiable mercs in their Kevlar and face masks. Once out of the shadow of rides, slides and sideshows, the random stands and mini-arcades, the generators and food stalls; the army of mercs shocked Crouch. There were more than he’d thought.
A lot more.
And they carried missile launchers. Grenades. They moved in formation. Before him, a mass of men capable of holding off the British forces moved out.
Crouch saw the British coming in the distance. He didn’t see the SAS, but hoped they were reporting back. More incendiary devices went off. Bullets flew. The bigger rides started to shudder and shake as lead smacked into them.
Crouch realized he was superfluous. This battle was going down hard, right now. The British came from all angles except the town, firing at targets. Crouch, from his low vantage point, saw choppers rising over the heads of the running men.
C’mon Karin. C’mon Drake, he thought. One single needless loss of British life was one too many. Give us an edge.
CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE
Matt Drake emerged from the ruined hotel, staggering from side to side. The battle had not been kind to him. Ribs were bruised. Red marks covered his neck, testaments to how hard Alicia had squeezed. Dust covered his body from head to toe.
Coyote chuckled. “Now that’s what I call a final fight, Matt.”
The skies were bright, shining down on the town square. Coyote’s mercs had thinned out. Drake heard the sounds of battle in the distance. He swallowed hard, not an easy feat with a mouthful of plaster, and licked his lips.
“They’re coming for you.”
Coyote indicated her dozen suited-up captives. “Let them come.”
Drake stopped on the top step that led to the hotel doors. Billows of dust and smoke mushroomed through the shattered opening and windows at his back. He tried not to cough.
“How does it feel to be the last man standing? Your friends are dead. How does that feel, Matt? I’m sure Kovalenko — wherever he is — will be watching. Blood Vendetta fulfilled.”
“We had a deal,” Drake rasped, nodding at the captives. “Will you keep your word now, Shelly?”
The use of her name brought an open expression to her eyes. “I always do,” she said, a touch regretfully. “I always have done. That’s why we’re in this fucked-up position, you and I.”
She turned and, with a flick of her head, indicated that her lackeys should remove the nano-vests. Drake waited until they slithered to the floor.
“What now?”
“Well. You’re not actually the last man standing, are you, Drake? There’s also Beauregard.” She gave him a sly smile. “And me. That’s France versus England. An interesting matchup.”
Drake flexed his already battered muscles.
“And let’s not forget Japan,” a lilting voice spoke out.
Coyote’s eyes glimmered with confusion, her face slackening. “What? How?”
Mai Kitano emerged from the billowing dust; a white ghost.
Drake grinned. “C’mon Coyote. In what reality did you ever believe you could best me?”
Coyote shouted her fury. Her mercs raised their weapon and took aim. The townsfolk screamed and scattered or dived to the floor. Drake ran hard toward their nemesis, Mai at his back.
Coyote didn’t wait. She didn’t allow her lackeys to fire their weapons. She took off like a sprinter out of the blocks, running headlong toward Drake.
And in the middle of it all, from his position above the action on the roof of the town square, Beauregard Alain suddenly appeared, dropping down like a deadly snake.
Torsten Dahl’s half-choked, disembodied voice came out of the fog. “Don’t forget Sweden in that matchup.”
And Alicia’s too: “Is that Beauregard?”
CHAPTER THIRTY SIX
Drake met Coyote in battle, sending his first strikes against her vital areas. Unlike the previous struggle there would be no holding back in this one. They had all known the score from the moment they stepped into the hotel. Dahl had bruised a rib when he might have splintered it. Alicia had marked his neck when she could have broken it. Now, Drake had the chance to make Coyote pay for her mistake.
Drake ducked as Coyote came back at him; the two foes face to face. Shelly Cohen’s face was unrecognizable, transformed into the wild animal she truly was at her core. The killer shone through for all to see, and Drake was still disturbed by it.
Coyote kneed him, pushed him away. A little distance opened up. Beyond her frame, her mercs fell to Beauregard, the French assassin a living scythe in their midst. The hotel continue to billow out smoke and emit sounds of destruction. Chopper blades whirred and clattered through the air. Explosions and gunfire made powerful rents in the dawn chorus.
Drake sensed an errant bullet whiz between them as he closed in on Coyote. It didn’t matter. This was all about vengeance. Coyote knew what she’d done to Alyson; thus she knew it was always going to come down to this.
A blow landed on his temple, his bicep. He ignored the pain, stepping in and pummeling Coyote’s midriff. He reached out to grab her throat, but she was wily and twisted away. She threw a succession of punches that Drake caught on his arms, deflecting the worst of the blows. She drove a knee into his stomach, taking the wind right out of him.
Drake fell to one knee, still deadly, by no means at a disadvantage with all the moves in his arsenal. His eyes never left those of his assailant and then he saw the shadow looming behind her.
Drake rolled away. Coyote, at the last instant, must have seen the shock or the figure reflected in his eyes, for she too threw herself aside. Beauregard, black-clad, reared up behind her but missed his deadly strike.
Drake scrambled away, creating space. Beauregard slipped between them. Coyote whirled and crouched in a ready position.
Three lethal adversaries, all poised to kill.
Explosions boomed out from the edge of town. Men screamed in earnest. Gunfire rattled. Drake saw the big wheel shudder.
Coyote didn’t hesitate. “Damn, it’s time!”
A moment later she was running, sprinting hard, not away from the battle at the edge of town, but right toward the heart of it.
CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN
Dahl stumbled from the wrecked hotel, Alicia at his side. Like Drake, the two of them bore the wounds and bruises of battle and were covered in dust and debris. Smoke had blackened their faces.
Dahl had been afraid the civilian they freed earlier might have decided to loiter in the kitchens rather than chancing the outside world, and had insisted they check. Luckily, he’d fled.
Now Alicia surveyed the scene around the town square.