The Gates of Hell (Matt Drake 3) by David Leadbeater

inebriation. His thought processes were fuzzy, his reactions more so. He needed to sharpen up fast.
    Beyond the tunnel, a wide balcony gave a birds-eye view of the dance floor. Bodies moved in unison to the deep-bass beats. The wall to their right held thousands of bottles of liquor and reflected light in sparkling prisms. A dozen bar staff worked the punters, reading lips, giving short-change and serving the wrong drinks to the club’s uncaring patrons.
    Same as any bar anywhere. Drake laughed with some irony. “At the back.” He pointed, not needing to be covert in the crowd. “The roped-off area. And beyond that, curtains.”
    “Private parties,” Alicia said. “I know what goes on back there.”
    “Of course you do.” Mai was busy scanning as much of the place as she could. “Is there a back room you’ve never been in, Myles?”
    “Don’t even go there, bitch. I know about your exploits in Thailand. Even I wouldn’t try some of that stuff out.”
    “What you heard was hugely understated.” Mai started down the wide staircase without looking back. “Believe me.”
    Drake frowned at Alicia and nodded toward the dance-floor. Alicia looked surprised but then realized he meant to cut right across and head for the private area. The Englishwoman shrugged. “You lead, Drake. I’ll follow.”
    Drake experienced a sudden, irrational rush of blood. Here was a chance to get closer to the man who might know the whereabouts of Dmitry Kovalenko. The blood he had shed so far was but a drop in the ocean compared to what he was prepared to spill.
    As they threaded through the laughing, sweaty bodies out on the dance-floor, one of the guys managed to spin Alicia around. “Hey,” he shouted to his friend, voice barely audible above the pumping beat. “I just got lucky.”
    Alicia struck stiffened fingers into his solar plexus. “You were never lucky, son. Just look at your face.”
    They moved on swiftly, focusing beyond the pounding music, the swaying bodies, the bar-staff threading in and out of the crowd with trays balanced precariously above their heads. A couple was arguing loudly, the man pressed against a pillar with the woman screaming into his ear. A group of middle-aged women were sweating and puffing in a circle with a round of vodka-Jell-O’s and little blue spoons held in their hands. Low tables dotted the floor everywhere, most loaded with gaudy umbrella-drinks. No one was alone. Many of the men did double takes when Mai and Alicia passed, to the great annoyance of their girlfriends. Mai sensibly ignored the attention. Alicia provoked it.
    They approached the roped-off area, which consisted of a thick, gold braid stretched between two heavy-duty, brass rope stands. It seemed the establishment assumed no one would actually challenge the two bruisers situated at either end.
    One of them came forward now, palm out, and politely asked Mai to retreat.
    The Japanese girl smiled quickly. “Claude sent us to see. . .” She paused as if pondering.
    “Pilipo?” The other bruiser quickly filled in. “I can see why, but who’s the guy?”
    “Bodyguard.”
    The two big men eyed Drake like cats that had cornered the mouse. Drake gave them a big smile. He didn’t speak, just in case his English accent aroused suspicion. Alicia held no such misgivings.
    “So, this Pilipo. What’s he like? We in for a good time, or what?”
    “Oh, he’s the best,” the first bouncer said with a wry smile. “The perfect gentleman.”
    The second bouncer was eyeing their clothing. “You’re not exactly—dressed—for the occasion. You sure Claude sent you?”
    Mai’s voice carried no trace of derision when she said, “Quite sure.”
    Drake was using the exchange to assess the hidden alcoves. A short flight of stairs led to a raised dais where a large table took precedence. Around the table sat about a dozen people, most of whom looked rapturous enough to have recently snorted some serious powder. The others just looked