Quick (39 page)

Seven seconds, six seconds until detonation.

He strokes and kicks harder.

The surface seems so far away.

Five seconds, four seconds until detonation.

He finally passes the rear of the truck.

Three seconds, two seconds until detonation.

The surface doesn’t seem to be any closer.

One second.

Out of time.

He waits for it —

Nothing happens.

Has the salt water short-circuited the weapon’s electronics
—?

Kaboom.
The explosion sounds like it’s a mile away.

That’s not so bad.

Then the shockwave hits —

Actually it’s really bad.

It’s like he’s been bitch-slapped by the hand of God.

Billy is thrust towards the surface in a roiling ball of water. He’s flung around, doesn’t know which way is up—then explodes out of the ocean, rockets skywards on a giant geyser, arms windmilling as he tries, unsuccessfully, to influence his trajectory. In a split second he’s level with the racetrack, then two, three, four metres above it. A split second later his ascent stalls and he hangs in the air above a gleaming sheet of water.

Then he doesn’t. He falls towards the track. Fast. Face first. Instinctively he turns his head and closes his eyes, throws out his hands and waits for the pain. He’s about to experience a nasty case of bitumen poisoning.

And it’s going to hurt.

Crunch.
He hits hard—and bounces.

Why in hell did I bounce?

His body aches but the pain, well, it isn’t that bad. His eyes blink open. He’s landed on the cracked bonnet of the Lamborghini. The stunned Frenchman stares at him from the driver’s seat. ‘Are you dead?’

‘Not yet.’ Billy pulls himself up and stiffly slides off the vehicle. His palms and knees feel numb from the impact but apart from that he’s all right. He looks back to the spot where the truck passed through the catch fence to the undulating ocean beyond. ‘I can’t believe it worked.’

‘Cool beans.’ Claude takes a moment then turns to the Australian. ‘Did I use it correctly?’

Billy grins. ‘Not even close.’ He looks at Claude. ‘Thanks mate, I couldn’t have done it without you.’

‘My pleasure.’ The Frenchman nods, then realises something: ‘That’s the first time you’ve called me “mate” without it being sarcastic.’

~ * ~

Vandelay’s voice squawks over Kurt’s walkie-talkie: ‘The first package has failed.’

The Austrian is not happy to hear it. He speaks into his walkie: ‘Roger that. Are you okay?’

Vandelay’s voice squawks again: ‘I’m okay, but Juan didn’t make it.’

Kurt’s face flushes red with anger.

‘Proceed as planned.’

‘Copy that. Over.’ Stunned, Kurt takes a moment to gather his thoughts.

Grief stricken, Franka closes her eyes and bows her head. ‘This is
exactly
why I didn’t want us to do this.’

‘He knew the risks. He did it willingly.’

‘And now he’s
dead.
Was it worth it?’

‘It was to him, and the rest of us. Just not you.’

She regards Kurt for a moment, her expression a combination of pain and sadness. She opens her mouth to say something, but doesn’t. She knows from bitter experience that no argument will change Kurt’s mind, or any of their minds.

The Austrian nods at her. ‘Put your helmet on. We need to make this count.’ He pulls on the Senna helmet and waits for her. After a moment she reluctantly slides on the Hunt helmet. He fires up the turbo diesel and works the controls. The semi-trailer pulls out and rolls along the narrow street. He has one hand on the steering wheel and one on the handgrip of the Uzi that lies on the seat between them.

The semi-trailer picks up speed and Franka’s eyes move to the roadblock a hundred metres ahead. The Monaco police have deployed three large water-filled road barriers to stop entry to the track area. Those two officers still stand guard in front of it.

The truck accelerates. The roadblock is fifty metres away when the officers realise it is heading towards them. Franka watches them unhappily. Juan is already dead and now God knows how many innocent people, including these poor bastards, will be put in harm’s way because of what they are about to do.

I must stop it. There is no one else.

She glances at the Uzi. If she can control that weapon she can control the Austrian driving this truck. Trouble is his hand has been resting on it since they entered the cabin.

The truck is twenty metres from the roadblock when the two Monaco officers look at each other, realise what they think is happening is
actually
happening and reach for their holstered pistols.

‘Get down!’ Kurt barks at her then ducks behind the truck’s dashboard to take cover. Franka does the same but keeps her eyes on the Uzi.

She hears the engine accelerate, then the sharp clap of gunshots as Monaco’s finest fire at the cabin, then the dull thud of bullets as they slam into the bodywork, then the loud thump as the bumper bar hits the road barriers, then the low gush of water as they are crushed under the wheels. The truck bounces over them and Kurt’s hand instinctively rises off the weapon to steady the juddering steering wheel.

That’s all it takes.

Franka’s right hand shoots towards the Uzi as Kurt’s left hand drops back down from the steering wheel. They both touch its handgrip at the same moment.

He glances at her with a surprised expression. ‘What are you doing?’

She doesn’t answer, just wraps her fingers around the weapon and yanks it towards her. His surprise morphs to anger as he grabs the muzzle and pulls back. She almost loses her grip but her index finger loops around the trigger guard and she yanks it towards her. He yanks it back towards him and for a moment they resemble a pair of siblings squabbling over the last ice cream.

She grabs the now upright muzzle with her left hand, raises her index finger to the trigger and squeezes it.

Nothing happens.

The safety is on.

‘Shit.’ She raises her left hand, flicks off the safety and pulls the trigger.

Bam bam bam thud, thud thud.
The Uzi unleashes a volley of bullets into the roof. It so takes Kurt by surprise that he momentarily relaxes his grip on the weapon. Franka capitalises, twists it out of his hands and points it at the Austrian. ‘Stop the truck.’

He shakes his head. ‘You’ll have to kill me.’

‘If you insist.’ She squeezes the trigger—but can’t do it. ‘Fuck!’ She glances out the windscreen. The truck careers across the square towards the Grand Casino a hundred metres away. Even in this moment its beauty is overwhelming. It has been her favourite building since she first saw it as a seven-year-old.

She slides across the seat and pulls on the door handle. It swings open and, one hand holding the door frame, she hangs out the side of the truck and aims the Uzi at the closest rear tyre.

Bam bam bam thud thud thud.
The tyre explodes—but the truck keeps on trucking.

‘Christ.’ She swings around one hundred and eighty degrees and fires at the front right tyre.

Bam bam bam thud thud thud.
The tyre detonates and the truck lurches—but doesn’t slow.

‘Shit.’ She raises the weapon and unloads a stream of bullets into the engine compartment.

Bam bam bam thud thud thud.
The engine hisses as it spits steam and oil—but doesn’t stop.

‘Come on!’ She turns back to the cabin —

Oooff.
Kurt’s boot shoots out and hits her square in the solar plexus. She is launched off the side of the truck.

Thwump.
She hits the ground hard, rolls with it, stops abruptly. Knees and elbows bloodied, body aching, she looks up at the truck as it grinds to a halt with its nose pressed against the left side of the building.

It may have stopped but that doesn’t make her feel any better. She watches Kurt climb down from the cabin and stride towards her. He glances at his watch then triggers his walkie-talkie and speaks into it. She can’t hear him but knows exactly what he’s saying.

He approaches her. She points the weapon at him but he doesn’t flinch, just snatches it from her hand, pushes it under his jacket and drags her to her feet. ‘You’re being incredibly annoying.’ He holds her forearm like she’s a recalcitrant child and briskly pulls her away from the truck. The square is empty because spectators aren’t allowed in during the race, but Franka looks around, hopes someone in the casino or maybe one of those cops from the roadblock might make an appearance—oh, and there’s one now. The cop is a good fifty metres away but limps towards them with pistol drawn.

Kurt instantly eyes him and raises the Uzi, sprays a volley of bullets in his direction. The policeman dives, takes cover behind a tree.

A silver AMG Mercedes SUV slides to a halt in front of them, blocks the cop’s view of them. The door swings open and Kurt pushes Franka into the backseat.

‘She just tried to abort the mission. Lock her down.’

The driver is Vandelay. Clearly not surprised, he leans back, casually snaps a handcuff on her right wrist then attaches the other cuff to the door handle.

She pulls against it. ‘No!’

‘You brought it on yourself.’ Kurt slides into the backseat and addresses the front passenger. ‘You ready to do this?’

You bet.’ It’s Thorne, who wears a Hunt helmet with the visor up.

An alarm chirps.

Kurt glances at his Casio digital watch then grins and looks at the truck one hundred metres away. ‘Hold on to something . . .’

~ * ~

27

Kaboom.

The ground shifts beneath Billy’s feet as a thunderclap echoes across the principality. ‘That can’t be good.’ He turns and searches for the source of the sound.

The Frenchman does the same. ‘What was that?’

Billy sees exactly what. He recoils in shock then points to the right as a giant orange fireball rolls into the sky. ‘There were two bombs. Where is that?’

Claude takes in its position. ‘The Grand Casino?’

‘We have to go there now.’ Billy moves to the Lamborghini’s passenger-side door as Claude twists the engine to life.

It doesn’t turn over. ‘Come on!’ The Frenchman’s eyes find the instrument panel. ‘No fuel.’

Billy takes it in with a nod. ‘I know where there’s another car.’

~ * ~

‘I’m not enjoying this!’

Claude hugs the air intake as he sits on the edge of the vehicle, one leg hooked into the cockpit, the other dangling free, his eyes squinted against the blasting current of air.

Billy drives hard. ‘Just man up and hold on. It won’t take long.’

‘The engine is burning my
derrière.’’

It’s not a surprise considering the Frenchman is sitting on top of an engine producing six hundred and fifty horsepower with nothing but a flimsy sheet of carbon fibre between them. ‘We’ll be there in a sec.’

The car thunders along the tunnel in the wrong direction. They reach the end, turn left and head back up to the Loews hairpin where Billy blocked the traffic earlier. Thankfully, the cars have been parked to the side of the track and they have a clear run up the hill. None of the drivers are with their cars and he has a pretty good idea why.

He mounts the crest at the top of the hill, turns the Iron Rhino hard left, guns it, careful not to turf off Claude, turns left again, then left once more. The Grand Casino looms before them.

Or what remains of it.

‘Jesus.’ They say it together. To the left of the building there is a crater three metres deep and ten metres wide. Inside it is the charred chassis of a truck that he can only guess is similar to the one Billy deposited in Monaco Harbour earlier. It has clearly detonated and caused the left section of the casino to collapse. Flames engulf the structure and pump thick black smoke skyward.

Billy’s first thought is just how much the Three Champions must want to shut down Monaco. They just tried to take out the largest hotel and have destroyed the most famous of the three casinos, which are the principality’s main sources of income.

Billy hits the brakes and the car slides to a stop fifty metres away from the casino. Claude jumps off and pats at his overheated posterior as Billy scrambles out of the cockpit, leaves the vehicle running, watches as patrons pour out of the building’s front doors, many overcome by the black smoke, most dazed and confused. They all look like they need help.

‘Come on.’ Billy sprints towards the front doors. Unlike at the big accident during the Abu Dhabi race the Frenchman is right beside him this time. They cut through the smoke haze and approach the building. It is bedlam. Billy can see Sebastian Vettel and Fernando Alonso carry out a young woman while a motorcycle cop barks into a walkie-talkie. The Monaco Fire Department has yet to make an appearance.

Billy heads straight through the front door.