Quick (41 page)

Slam.
The Mosquito flies into the bitumen. The rotor blades shatter and fill the air with a cloud of razor-sharp carbon fibre shards —

Boom.
The chopper explodes. Its fuel tank can’t be that big but the fireball looks like the Eye of Sauron as it fills the tunnel. The flaming wreckage tumbles straight towards the Iron Rhino, the ruptured tank spraying geysers of burning fuel as it goes.

Time slows.

Billy has two options. One: hit the brakes and hope the burning wreckage doesn’t roll over him. He doesn’t like that option because he has limited control, so he immediately moves on to option two: steer around it. Still not great but, he is sure, better than option one. He decides on option two. He just has to pick which way to go.

Right or left?

Time speeds up.

Billy yanks the steering wheel left, stamps on the gas and the Iron Rhino darts across the road.

The burning wreck breaks towards him.

Damn, I chose poorly.

He yanks the wheel hard right, keeps his foot in and the wreck sweeps past the front wing with an inch to spare.

Whoosh.
He plunges into the fireball. He ducks his head and closes his eyes, can feel the car’s right wheel find the soft gutter at the edge of the road, then the curve of the wall. He blasts through the wall of fire, feels his face cook, smells his hair burn, then opens his eyes and realises he’s almost vertical, driving along the curved wall, the car’s astonishing aerodynamics kicking gravity’s arse by creating more than the car’s weight in downforce and pressing it into the tiles.

A maintenance doorway looms before him, cut into the side of the tunnel. If he hits it the car will flip sideways, at a speed of almost two hundred kilometres an hour.

He doesn’t think, just reacts, turns the wheel right again and the car moves further up the wall, now a good three metres off the ground and
vertical.

Bloody hell!

He looks along the tunnel, sees the white dot at the far end, knows that’s where it ends, then looks across at the Mercedes.

He gets an idea.

~ * ~

The giant flameball dissipates and Thorne stares out of the Mercedes’ rear window at the tumbling wreckage of the burning chopper.

Kurt glances back as well. ‘Did we get him?’

‘I can’t see—I think so.’

Vandelay’s not convinced. ‘Are you sure? I can still hear the engine.’

~ * ~

Franka stares at the burning wreckage as it shrinks into the distance.

Billy.

Stricken, she takes a breath then looks up as she wipes the moisture from her eyes—and sees the Iron Rhino through the sunroof, directly above. It’s
upside down
and drives parallel to the line of lights on the tunnel’s ceiling, balanced on nothing but a blast of air.

Stunned, her mouth falls open as she watches the Australian’s arm extend from the cockpit with a pistol in hand. He grins and, she’s certain, winks at her, then aims the weapon at the hood of the Mercedes.

~ * ~

Yee ha!

Oh baby. Two hundred kilometres an hour in an F1 car
upside down.

This just might be the greatest adrenaline rush ever.

Billy squeezes the trigger.

Bam.
The bullet slams into the bonnet of the silver SUV.

Kuushh.
Steam billows from the radiator.

Excellent.

He can see Thorne and Vandelay freak out at the Merc’s sudden engine failure as Franka’s
jolie laide
face calmly looks up at him and smiles. She doesn’t give him away because, he’s sure, she feels the same way about him as he does about her.

The end of the tunnel approaches quickly. Billy slows the car and turns the wheel, drives down the side, makes sure there’s no maintenance doorway to give him a nasty surprise, then slips back onto the roadway.

~ * ~

The Mercedes blasts into the sunlight, steam blowing from its radiator.

Thorne glances back at the mouth of the tunnel and is stunned to see the Iron Rhino loom out of the darkness thirty metres behind them. ‘Where the hell did it come from?’

Kurt unhappily clocks the F1 car in the rear-view mirror. ‘What do we do about him?’

Thorne drives a hand into his jacket, draws out an item and shows it to the driver.

Kurt sees it and nods. ‘That’ll work.’

Franka sees it too. ‘Don’t. Please.’

Thorne turns to her, his voice hard: ‘Would you snap out of it for chrissake. This guy is trying to arrest us.’

~ * ~

Sunlight glints off a small circular object as it is ejected through the SUV’s sunroof.

What is that?

Billy focuses on it.

Bounce. It’s thirty metres away.

He can’t quite make out what it is.

Bounce. It’s twenty metres away.

Christ, it’s another bloody grenade.

Billy has a split second to make a decision. Hit the brakes and hope it doesn’t reach his car as it explodes or hit the gas and hope it doesn’t reach his car as it explodes.

Bounce. Ten metres away.

He stamps on the loud pedal and the car pounces forward. He steers left.

Bounce. The grenade clips a roadway reflector and alters course, follows the Iron Rhino across the road.

Dammit.

He swerves right.

Too slow.

Thunk.
It slams into the sidepod and ricochets away —

Boom.
Billy ducks his head but the car is travelling so fast that the explosion is left behind him. He glances in his wing mirror, sees chunks of asphalt rain down on a newly created pothole the size of a jacuzzi—

Bam.
Claude’s police bike hits it and goes down, slides along the roadway, orange sparks spraying from a foot peg as it grinds along the tarmac.

‘Shit!’ Billy returns his gaze to the Merc in front of him. It brakes hard and takes an abrupt right-hand turn up a narrow dirt road.

What do I do?

Follow the car or help Claude?

~ * ~

Claude lies prone on the roadway, the bike nearby, dinged and scratched but still running. The Iron Rhino skids to a halt beside him and Billy looks at him horrified. ‘Mate, are you okay?’

There’s no response—then Claude slowly raises his head. ‘Now I remember why I gave these things up.’

Billy grins, clearly relieved. ‘Now, did you give them up for the
first
Bridgette or the
second
Bridgette?’

Claude gingerly holds up two fingers.

‘Right. Man, I thought it was curtains.’

‘Why are you here?’

‘Because
I thought it was curtains.’ A moment passes. ‘And you came back for me. I wanted to pay you back.’

~ * ~

Claude smiles. ‘I’m fine.’ In fact the Frenchman isn’t. He has a serious case of road rash on his right thigh and elbow. He pulls himself up and regards Billy with a steely expression. ‘If you want to pay me back then you’ll nail those pricks to the wall.’

Billy nods. ‘I’m on it.’ The Australian floors the gas pedal. The Renault V6 barks and the Iron Rhino spins into a screeching one-eighty then slingshots away.

Claude watches him go, concerned.

~ * ~

The Mercedes thumps along the unpaved road, steam still streaming from its radiator. Thorne glances out the rear window, sees the Formula One car is no longer following them. He grins, turns to Vandelay. ‘We going to make it?’

Eyes glued to the engine’s temperature gauge, Vandelay nods optimistically. ‘We should be okay.’

Thorne pulls out his mobile phone and dials. It’s answered immediately. ‘We’re on our way.’ He glances at his watch. ‘ETA is 16:17. We need immediate evac.’

~ * ~

Billy’s Iron Rhino turns up the narrow dirt track. It’s steep and the vehicle’s slick rear tyres spin up before they bite and launch it up the incline. He steers with the pistol in his hand as he scans the tree-lined road.

Where is this leading me?

He rounds a bend and has his answer. There is a large field of waist-high grass. A kilometre away is the plane he saw last night, the Fairchild C-123 Provider, from
Con Air
, with its rear hatch open. The Mercedes, steam billowing from its hood, is about halfway towards it.

He points the Iron Rhino towards the SUV and accelerates. Again the rear tyres spin up before they grip and shove him across the bumpy field.

~ * ~

The Mercedes slows, then surges, then shudders, then surges again, then slows.

‘Shit.’ Vandelay keeps the accelerator flat to the floor but it makes no difference, the car continues to lurch and shudder. Behind them Thorne hears the unmistakable howl of a Formula One engine. He turns to see the Iron Rhino bounce across the grass towards them. It approaches fast. He turns to the C-123, which is about a hundred metres away. It approaches slowly. He pushes the phone to his ear: ‘I need engines turning now. We are coming in hot.’

A voice bursts from the walkie-talkie: ‘Copy that.’

Thorne’s eyes lock on the plane’s turboprops. ‘Come on, come on—’

Black soot blasts from the engines’ exhausts and the propellers start to turn.

He grins—then the Mercedes coughs, shudders violently, before grinding to a stop.

Vandelay looks at Thorne, dismayed. ‘Sorry.’

‘We run. Everyone grab a bag.’ They all do it, except Franka. Thorne slides out of the car, moves to the rear drivers door, pulls it open and unlocks her handcuff from the door handle. ‘Are we doing this the hard way or the easy way?’

‘Fuck you.’

‘The hard way it is.’ He slaps the open cuff on his own wrist, pulls her out of the car, grabs two bags, turns to the aircraft and drags her towards it.

Franka resists. ‘No! Let me go —’

‘It’s for your own good.’ Thankfully the plane is just forty metres away. Thorne turns and takes in the Iron Rhino as it slices towards them, about fifty metres away now, its air intake protruding above the grass like the dorsal fin of a great white shark. He glances at Kurt. ‘Deal with your friend please.’

The Austrian nods.

~ * ~

Billy watches Thorne drag the handcuffed Franka towards the plane, Vandelay behind them and Kurt bringing up the rear —

The Austrian stops abruptly, throws the duffel bag he’s carrying to Vandelay, swings around and draws an Uzi from inside his jacket. Billy hits the brakes and the Iron Rhino slides to a halt.

Thirty metres apart, the two old friends stare at each other over the top of the grass.

It’s a standoff—except Billy’s sitting.

Do we really want to shoot each other?

Billy doesn’t want to shoot Kurt, and yet here they are, in the middle of a field pointing loaded weapons at each other. He wonders if it was his old friend firing that Uzi last night.

Kurt sprints towards the car, raises the weapon and fires.

Bam bam bam thud thud thud.
The bullets shatter the Iron Rhino’s nose-cone.

Well, that’s disappointing.

Clearly Kurt doesn’t feel as misty-eyed about the whole not-shooting-each-other thing as Billy. Still, the Australian can’t bring himself to shoot the guy.

I need to deal with him another way.

Billy steps on the gas pedal and the car leaps forward.

The once best friends career towards each other like they’re part of a medieval joust, except without the horses or lances.

Actually, without the horses or lances it’s really nothing like a joust.

They’re twenty metres apart.

Billy flicks the steering wheel right.

As Kurt fires.
Bam.

He misses.

Ten metres apart.

Billy flicks the steering wheel left.

As Kurt fires again.
Bam.

The bullet shatters the right sidepod and the Australian wonders if dealing with him this way is really the best approach after all.

Five metres apart.

Billy flicks the steering wheel left then right.

Kurt fires again.
Bam.

Thud.
The bullet slams into the cockpit beside Billy’s left arm as he yanks the car into a sharp skid-turn —

Thunk.
The side of the rear wing whacks Kurt across the torso and sends him cartwheeling skyward. He’s airborne for a long moment, then lands on the grass with a dreadful crunch.

Billy slides the car to a halt.

Kurt doesn’t get up.

That can’t be good.

Vandelay drops the bags he’s holding and sprints over to Kurt’s prone body, kneels beside him. It only takes a moment to get the prognosis. ‘You killed him.’

Billy is sick to the stomach, in spite of the fact Kurt just tried to shoot him. The whole reason he did what he did was so he wouldn’t kill the guy.