Black Wolf (2010) (33 page)

Desperate, Breanna began kicking and clawing, trying to hit the man’s groin. He pushed his right arm up next to his chest and pried her off his body, flipping her down. As he did, General Josef hit him over the head with the heavy desk chair, which he’d managed to lift in front of him.

The man staggered to one side but didn’t go down. He grabbed Breanna, still flailing at him, and pulled his arm back to pistol-whip her.

“Stop!” said Dr. Gustov. “If you’re looking for me, I am here. Leave the others alone.”

D
anny heard shouts as he reached the landing on the fourth floor. He grabbed at the door, then turned back as the first Czech security man reached him.

“Give me your pistol,” he told the man.

“But—”

“Don’t you have a backup weapon?”

The man hesitated, then reached down to his ankle where a small Glock was strapped. Danny took the gun and began to run toward the commotion.

Z
en watched the Black Wolf’s face. There was obviously something going on, though it was impossible to tell exactly what.

Most likely the men he was going to kill were on their way here. What would happen when they arrived? Would Stoner kill him, too?

“Stoner, what’s going on?” Zen demanded. “Why are you doing all this?”

The man glared at him but said nothing, his hand pressed over his ear to listen to the radio.

“The Mark Stoner I knew was a patriot,” said Zen. “A CIA officer as dedicated as any person I’ve ever met.”

“Shut the hell up,” barked Stoner, pointing the gun at him. “Shut the hell up or I’ll shoot your tongue out.”

B
reanna fell to the floor as the intruder released her. She saw Dr. Gustov, the minister, standing erect across the room, head high, jaw jutting forward, as if daring the man to shoot him.

The man grinned, and raised his gun.

“Don’t shoot him!” shouted Breanna. “Stop! Don’t shoot him!”

Three loud pops followed.

Breanna looked back toward Gustov.

He was still standing.

The intruder was lying on the ground, the back of his head shattered by bullets. Blood was spurting everywhere.

“Bree! Bree!”

Danny Freah loomed in the doorway.

T
he Black Wolf frowned. Green had gone off mission and entered the room without orders.

The Black Wolf pressed his hand to his ear, trying to hear what was going on.

“Green?” he demanded. “Report. What’s the situation? Green?”

“There’s gunfire upstairs,” said White.

“Investigate.”

“On my way.”

Green had obviously decided to take matters into his own hands. There was no excuse for that. He’d deal with him later, in the helicopter.

It should be only minutes away.

“What happened to you?” repeated Zen.

The Black Wolf looked over at him. He’d almost forgotten he was there.

“Who are you?” said the Black Wolf.

“Your friend,” said Zen.

“I don’t have any friends.”

“You did, fifteen years ago.”

“I didn’t exist then,” he answered.

The Black Wolf stared at the man in the wheelchair who called himself Zen.

It was so familiar, yet so far away.

D
anny put his knee in the back of the man on the floor, dropping down to make sure he was dead. Blood was spurting from his head, flowing like water from a small fountain.

“Is everyone OK?” Danny asked. He looked across the room. The only one standing was an older gentleman, whose face was white. “You all right?”

“I am OK,” said Minister Gustov.

“It’s OK, it’s OK,” said Breanna, rising from the side of the room nearby. She leaped over the body and ran to the door on the left, yelling to her daughter and niece in the bathroom that it was all right.

The two Ukrainians on the floor groaned. Danny turned his gun toward the one against the wall on the far left, but it was obvious he wasn’t one of the Wolves—he was normal-sized, and a little pudgy.

One of the Czech officers yelled at someone in the hall.

“Stay here!” Danny told the others, bolting out of the room.

G
unfire erupted in the hallway as Caroline opened the door to the bathroom.

“Stay down. Get behind something—get in the bathtub,” Breanna yelled.

“Mama!” cried Teri.

“Stay down, Teri. I’m here.”

Breanna pulled the door closed, stayed outside—she could do more out here, she thought, racing to see what had happened to the dead man’s gun.

“T
he head! They’re only vulnerable in the head!” shouted Danny as the security officers began firing at the man near the elevator.

It was a mad, crazy scramble. Danny pressed against the side of the hallway, ducking down as bullets whizzed down the corridor.

“Danny, what’s going on?” hissed Breanna, crouching behind him.

“Get back in the room.”

“No. Who’s shooting?”

“He’s near the elevator. One of the guards who came with me tried to stop him.”

“He’s with the Wolves?”

“I don’t know—I haven’t seen them.”

“The man in the room, was he one of them?”

“I’m pretty sure. They’re all huge.”

There was fresh gunfire. Someone began screaming in pain.

“Stay down,” said Danny. He slid to one knee, steadied the Glock in both hands. It was a small pistol, .22 caliber—nothing against these guys.

Two more quick shots and the screaming stopped.

A bad sign.

“Aim for the head,” he said, raising his pistol.

The man turned the corner. Danny fired instantly, emptying the magazine.

His first shot grazed the man’s face; the second and third hit lower. The man swung his gun in Danny’s direction.

Something exploded in Danny’s ear. Again and again.

The Wolf assassin got off a single, errant shot before falling to the ground, dead.

T
he Black Wolf heard White go down. He’d been ambushed on the fourth floor.

It was time to abort.

“Blue, Red, we leave by the back,” he told the others over the radio.

“What’s going on?” asked Blue.

“We leave by the back.”

“What about the people in the locker?”

“Leave them. I have a hostage,” the Black Wolf said.

Z
en braced himself as the Black Wolf approached, not exactly sure what he was going to do.

“You’re not going to shoot your way out of this, Stoner,” he said. “But I can help.”

“Shut up.”

“Listen, Mark—”

The Black Wolf grabbed the back of his wheelchair and spun him around. He pushed him toward the kitchen. Zen started to reach for the wheels, but they were moving so fast he realized he wouldn’t be able to stop.

“We’re taking a cripple as hostage?” said the gunman in the kitchen when they entered. “We should take someone who won’t slow us down. There’s a girl—”

“I’m a U.S. senator,” said Zen. “I’m worth more.”

Zen felt himself being lifted from his chair from behind.

“Shut your mouth,” growled the Black Wolf, flipping him over his shoulder as if he were a sack of potatoes.

B
reanna clasped her hands together to keep them from shaking as she lowered the pistol. Her shots had hit the would-be assassin squarely in the forehead.

Danny Freah turned around and looked at her. Neither one of them spoke.

Breanna’s legs trembled as she rose.

“I can’t hear,” said Danny. “My ears.”

“Teri!” said Breanna, turning back to the room.

No one inside had moved. She ran to the bathroom.

“Teri! Caroline!”

“We’re OK!” yelled Caroline.

“It’s all right—you can open the door,” said Breanna.

They cracked the door cautiously, then pushed it open. Breanna pulled both of them close.

“The Czech security forces are surrounding the building,” said Danny, coming behind her.

“Zen—the elevator attendant said he went to the basement.”

Danny pointed to his ears. He still couldn’t hear well.

“Zen is downstairs. In the basement,” said Breanna, pointing downward.

“Zen? They’ll get him. The Czechs are surrounding the building.”

“Here’s a helicopter with troops now,” said General Josef, going to the window. “It’s landing right across the street.”

Z
en tried to turn his eyes and brain into a human video camera, recording everything that he saw happening around him, in case it would be important later. Stoner carried him through a narrow, twisting hallway that zigged out from below the building, ending in a set of steps. They were up them in a flash. Light poured over him—they were out in a small open area, moving across gravel.

He’s going to have to put me down at some point,
Zen told himself.
That’s when I fight.

He’d hit him as hard as he could in any vulnerable area. Then he’d try to get him in a stranglehold.

Zen felt himself thrown against a fence, being pushed upward.

Escape!

He snagged a fence link with his left hand, then another with his right. He tugged—then felt his fingers being torn away. Someone punched or kicked his head. Zen flailed, but was hoisted up from the ground and carried over the fence.

Then he was falling.

He curled, and just barely managed to cover his face as he landed with a thud. The fall took his breath away, but he knew this was his chance—still free, he clawed at the ground, pushing himself like a crab.

Go, go, go!

Suddenly, he started to rise.

“Into the helicopter,” shouted the Black Wolf.

B
reanna went to the window as the helicopter landed. It was a Mil Mi–17, an older troop-carrying helicopter used by many air forces in Eastern Europe. Painted in a light brown and green camo, the large helicopter spun its tail around as it set down.

The door at the side was open. Breanna watched, expecting troops or policemen to pour out, but none came.

Three men ran from the road that paralleled the castle grounds, racing toward the helicopter. One of them was carrying something over his shoulder—a person.

It looked like Zen in his old gray sweatshirt.

The man threw him into the helicopter head first. He rolled to his left, trying to push his way out, struggling. He grappled with his arms. One of the other men pushed him back into the helicopter. It started to climb. He rolled in her direction.

“Oh my God,” blurted Breanna. “They took Zen in the helicopter!”

77

Kbely Airfield, near Prague

“I
t’s just like a real plane,” said the Czech. “With real fuel and everything.”

“It
is
a real plane!” said Turk, indignant. He turned to Chief Master Sergeant Crawford, who headed the Tigershark maintenance team. Crawford was nearly red, trying not to laugh.

“You put him up to this, Chief?” Turk asked.

“Hey, not me, Cap.”

The Czech, who’d just finished loading the Tigershark with jet fuel, looked puzzled.

“It’s a real plane,” Turk told him.

“Captain Kirk,” said the Czech.
“Star Wars.”

“Kirk is
Star Trek,
” said Turk.

“Very fast?” asked the Czech.

That was too much for Crawford, who practically exploded in laughter. He had to grab the airplane’s landing strut to keep from falling over.

“Uh, when you’re finished laughing, Chief Master Sergeant,” said Turk, “tell me when my plane will be ready.”

“You can fly it now,” said Crawford. Tears were flowing from his eyes. “Oh, God. Oh, jeez. Real plane. Real plane.”

Another maintainer, Tech Sergeant Paul Cervantes, came over to see what the fuss was about.

“The Czechs,” managed Crawford. “They’re too much.”

“What happened?” Cervantes asked.

“I can’t explain. It’s too much. And Turk—” Crawford started curling with laughter. “Captain Mako. He’s too much, too.”

“Hey, I’m glad I’m part of the entertainment,” said the pilot. He was more baffled now than angry.

“Hey, Cap, Shelly told me your gear’s like A-one ready to go,” said Cervantes.

“Thanks, Sarge. At least someone here is serious.”

Turk checked his watch. The Ukrainian minister wouldn’t be back for another two hours or so, but he had a lot to do—including figuring out who he needed to talk to in order to make sure his flight didn’t interfere with the rest of the air show. He was just about to go look for the show boss when his cell phone rang. He pulled it from his pocket, saw the caller ID, and flipped it open.

“Hey, boss,” he told Breanna, hoping she was going to tell him that Zen would join her for the fly-by.

“Turk! There’s a helicopter that just took off. It’s a Mil—it’s flying southeast. Southeast! Zen’s in it. We have to follow it.”

A
minute or two later Turk pulled himself into the Tigershark’s cockpit.

“Engines,” he told the flight computer after plugging his oxygen and com gear in.

The top of the cockpit snugged down with a hard
snap
and the consoles powered up. The aircraft computer blew through the diagnostics, data flying across the screens.

The aircraft claimed it was in the green. That was good enough for him.

“Tower, this is U.S. Air Force Tigershark Oh-one, requesting immediate emergency takeoff,” he said over the control frequency.

“Tigershark Oh-one, repeat?”

“I have an emergency,” he said. “I need immediate takeoff.”

“I’m sorry, Tigershark. We have language difficulty. Thought you said flight emergency. We have you at base, at hangar. Please restate.”

“I need immediate clearance for takeoff,” he said, pulling off the brakes. He rolled forward about forty meters to the end of a taxiway, jammed the brakes and pushed up his engine power. Then he checked the control surfaces.

Working.

All systems green.

Get the hell into the air!

“Tigershark. We have a line of aircraft waiting on runway twenty-four,” said the controller. “You can join line.”

“How many planes in line?” he asked, starting forward. The runway was off to his left. He zoomed the Tigershark’s camera in that direction.

“You should be six when you get there,” said the controller. “Or maybe seven.”

The hell with that, thought Turk.

He had an open taxiway ahead—a good fifteen hundred feet—three hundred more than he needed balls out.

“Tower, I’m taking off from here,” he said, jamming the engine into full thrust.

Whatever curse words the controller replied with were lost in the roar of the engine. The Tigershark bolted forward. Within seconds it was near takeoff speed.

Turk tried to relax, keeping his pressure on the yoke light, waiting for the plane to tell him when it wanted to take off.

On his left he saw a blur moving in his direction.

A 757, turning onto the taxiway ahead of him.

In the way.

“Up!” he yelled, grabbing the stick.

The Tigershark jerked her nose upward. For a long, long second her rear end stayed on the ground.

The Boeing pilot was oblivious—if he’d even seen the small jet, he never would have believed it was moving so fast.

“Now!” yelled Turk, his hand firm against the electronically controlled stick. “Up, up, up!”

They cleared the tail of the airliner by a good two inches.