Matt Drake 11 - The Ghost Ships of Arizona by David Leadbeater Page A

behind. Finding and gaining access to a lost desert ship wasn’t a small-scale operation—it was relatively huge and he’d want first-hand knowledge of any interlopers who might be heading his way.
    It was a theory anyway.
    The train of thought brought him back around to poor Kelly. Drake had wanted the old man to fulfill his dream of finding the lost galleon, and wondered briefly where his ‘abode’ might be. Somewhere close by. The Badlands out here were so unpredictable it might be an old dwelling or even a cave. He checked behind as they ran, and saw a bunch of darker night following them.
    “Yorgi. A couple more bullets please.”
    The Russian obliged, aiming into the pursuing throng. Drake saw the land dip ahead just in time as shots were returned. The group raced down toward the dry stream bed, their boots slipping in shale at the bottom. Smyth muttered for them to follow, choosing a direction and heading out. Drake heard scrabbling at his back and knew one of their pursuers had broken from the group. Quickly, he turned, bringing his knife up. The man ran straight into it, but, wearing a knife vest, merely grunted. A haymaker smashed into Drake’s jaw, staggering him. Without going down, he kicked out, hitting the exposed pistol and sending it flying through the air. Even this close the man’s features were nothing more than shifting forms of shadow. Precious seconds were slipping by. Drake kicked out the man’s knee and then punished the other place he had no obvious protection—his skull. A sharp cry demonstrated a direct hit. Drake instantly whirled and set off at a sprint, catching up to the others.
    “They’re too close,” he said. “We either stand and fight or find a place to hide before we start getting shot in the bloody back.”
    “Yeah, maybe this arrow-straight stream bed wasn’t such a good idea,” Karin said.
    “How many did we put down?” Lauren panted at her side. “Surely they’ll drop back when they start losing men.”
    “Not these guys,” Drake said. “Not if it’s the Pythians. It’s all about overwhelming force now.”
    “It feels—” Karin said. “It almost feels like they’ve hit the self-destruct button. Man, I hope so.”
    Drake grunted. “Something new will always come along.”
    “Man, I hope so.”
    Drake eyed Karin, learning nothing in the dark contours of her face. What did that mean exactly? Ahead, Smyth spotted a break in the river bank and aimed for it. Within seconds they were scrabbling and scrambling up a short slope and then headed back into the desert wilderness, the high empty vault of the cool night above.
    Drake and Smyth carefully cast around for another mercenary force, one that might be trailing them from above, but it seemed their leader hadn’t thought of such an obvious idea. Drake eyed Smyth with quiet surprise.
    “And again we overestimate our enemy.”
    “Ain’t the worst thing in the world, bud.”
    Drake urged the others past, setting out into the desert. Scraggly brush littered their path, threatening to upturn them and break an ankle at every step. Still, they could not slow down. The sounds of their pursuers were almost as close as ever. It occurred now to Drake that if the team had been at full strength they would already have ended the chase. Here, right now, was a strong argument for never splitting up the group. Not that he could actually do anything about the likes of Alicia or Mai. Both were off fighting their own battles.
    Something rose up out of the shadow-strewn darkness ahead. At first, Drake almost stumbled, heart pounding, convinced the sudden appearance was an insubstantial ship, a ghost of the desert. But then a haphazard structure revealed itself: a tumbledown cluster of walls and empty doorways.
    Smyth jumped behind the lowest wall and drew his weapon, taking a bead on their pursuers. Drake ran hard, opening the gap even more. A gnarled root caught his foot, sending him staggering headlong and shoulder first