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

forward to the point of annoyance and hungry for action. Julian Marsh visibly struggled to contain his exuberance, the clothes he wore didn’t quite match, and his parting was in the wrong place. His watch was on the wrong wrist, his shoes the wrong color. His smile twisted the wrong way. Webb was a little unnerved by Julian Marsh, though he buried such idiocy beneath untold layers of sinful shadow, ignoring it and tasking the man with the very next Pythian event to keep him busy. Marsh’s resultant grin was entirely wrong.
    Finally, Lucas Monroe, whom Webb at least knew a little of, was the blandest, quietest and least inspiring of them all. Seriously , Webb thought, if the man stood in a corner for too long people would stick a lampshade on his head.
    Not a bad bunch though, and certainly no worse than the last lot. The problem was that now Webb was having serious doubts about how long the Pythians could continue. His greatest goal, the ability to seek out the great treasures of Saint Germain, was at hand.
    A few more weeks . . .
    And the Pythians might be no more. Maybe even now the group was actually redundant. No mind. Nicholas Bell was off seeking ghost ships and Bay-Dale was with him. Good. It gave Webb time to concentrate on the Saint Germain plan—but first he needed a vital component.
    As luck would have it word had recently reached Webb’s ears that the final and greatest arms bazaar hosted by the royal prince of terrorism—Ramses himself—was being planned, and soon. Webb planned to attend with his uber-bodyguard and secure the component. The top-secret guest list was already a terrible who’s-who of international intrigue and terrorism, but once that was done . . .
    The world will change.
    The car continued to pick its way through the congested streets, courteously, carefully, with precision. Webb turned his mind back to people-watching for sixty seconds and noted one more person—a bouncer pushing a woman to the ground and grinning as he puffed up to his colleagues—before starting to ponder the Z-boxes and their current role. They were essential to the plan, a fortunate addition to Bell’s escapade. Showing America the might of the Pythians would distract its leaders from the true agenda at hand. It might even cow them for a while, although Webb would have liked a weaker president than Coburn. Still, you worked with what you had. The man’s underlings were more than malleable in every way.
    Another thing and another godsend . . . he knew Matt Drake and Co. were wandering around the desert, seeking the ghost ships and trying to determine which electrical facility would be hit next. That gave Webb some wonderful freedoms, though it did limit his stalking capabilities—Hayden Jaye and Mano Kinimaka were off the list, at least for a while. But back to the freedoms—new prey, for example, new hunts.
    Pleasure coursed through him.
    Take Topless Sports Car Man, for example. If he returned to his car one day to find a sidemirror smashed, what would he do? Put it down to vandals. Then, a present left in the back seat. One of his own discarded belongings. Then the cogs would start to turn. A small snake in the footwell. A mound of ants perhaps. Later, attention would turn to the bank account, mortgage and other financial considerations. A slow leak, a few letters. Life would start heading downhill for Mr. Topless Sports Car. His girlfriend might desert him. Then, embarrassments at work and at the mall. Objects moved around back at the house. A stint in the man’s loft, spying and planning. The game would then grow serious . . .
    Webb realized he was breathing too hard, growing too passionate, and let it go. For now, the hunt was enough. It would have to be.
    The car’s inbuilt cellphone controls lay just below his right hand. He waited one more moment as his mind flicked over Mai Kitano—the Japanese woman had disappeared. Something about heading to Japan and trying to help her new