The Secret of Excalibur (29 page)

The MD 500 swayed drunkenly, buffeted by its own backwash from the building as well as whatever damage Dominika had inflicted. It drifted away from the balcony despite its pilot’s attempts to hold it.

Running out of time . . .

Chase vaulted on to the stone balustrade - and jumped.

Excalibur clutched in his left hand, he slammed against the helicopter’s port landing skid, hooking his right arm over it. The Desert Eagle dropped away, spinning down to smash like a hammer through the windscreen of a Lamborghini parked below. The whole chopper was shaking from the impact, Mitchell battling to compensate for the extra weight swinging from one side.

Dominika sprang out of the library and emptied her clip into the helicopter’s cabin.

A bullet slashed across the top of Mitchell’s thigh. He yelled, reflexively jerking his leg against the anti-torque pedal. The MD 500 spun round anticlockwise, the cockpit for a moment head-on to the balcony, presenting him as a perfect target—

But the gun’s slide had locked back. Dominika was out of ammo. The little helicopter kept turning before Mitchell fought past the pain and regained control of the tail rotor, countering the spin with the other pedal. The chopper had made almost a half-turn, its starboard side facing the balcony, hovering less than ten feet from the edge.

Chase hung from the port skid. He saw Dominika looking back at him. She dropped the useless gun, tensed . . . and leapt from the balcony.

She caught the starboard skid with both hands, swinging from it like a gymnast - and kicked Chase in the chest.

Air whooshed from his lungs as he was knocked back, the crook of his elbow slipping off the skid. He dropped, just managing to clamp his hand round the metal tube. His headset jolted loose, following his gun down to earth. Gasping, he swung helplessly, the sword a dead weight in his other hand.

Dominika pulled herself up, wrapping her legs around the skid as the MD 500 finally steadied and began to climb.

Gunfire crackled from below. Not pistols, but automatic weapons. A couple of shots hit the chopper’s belly before the firing stopped - someone had spotted Dominika. Chase risked a look down. Guards were running round the corner of the mansion; he saw Kruglov amongst them, pointing up at him.

The helicopter kept rising, wheeling about to fly back over the building. Chase saw the lights of Moscow in the distance as it straightened out. He fought against the blasting rotor downwash as he tried to pull himself up, glancing across at Dominika - who reached between her legs, under the hem of her dress, and pulled out a glinting knife from a sheath strapped to her thigh.

Nina stood in the lobby, a couple of dozen people crowding around her. A few seconds earlier, the noise of the helicopter coming through the earpiece had abruptly stopped, followed by gunfire from outside.

Had Chase been hit? She had no way of knowing. Vaskovich, Kruglov and Maximov had pushed through the nervous crowd shortly before, the host apparently telling everyone to remain in the building and stay calm. The guests had obeyed at first, but now some of them wanted to get the hell out of the place as quickly as possible. Several men near the exit came to a rapid agreement and threw open the doors.

It was as if a plug had been pulled from a bathtub: everyone surged for the exit, crushing together in the entrance before spilling outside. Nina fought to stay on her feet as she was jostled from all sides. Cold air hit her face, blowing away the fug of smoke. She was through the door—

A hand locked round her arm and pulled her fiercely aside. Maximov glared at her, a frown creasing the bandage covering his forehead. He dragged her across the steps as the fleeing guests hurried down them.

Vaskovich was waiting for her, flanked by a pair of armed guards. ‘Hello again, Nina,’ he said coldly. ‘Nina
Wilde
. I thought there was something familiar about you - but you look very different tonight from your
Time
magazine cover.’

Kruglov ran up the steps. He glanced at Nina, eyebrows flicking up as he finally recognised her, then spoke to Vaskovich. ‘Chase has the sword - he jumped on to the helicopter. I’m sure it was Mitchell flying it. And Leonid - Dominika went after him! She’s hanging on the skid.’

Vaskovich looked across the lawn, seeing the military helicopter waiting on the grass. ‘Where the hell is that idiot Mishkin? Get him here, now!’

Kruglov shouted orders, and barely fifteen seconds later Mishkin was escorted to the group by more guards. Nina saw that his once-slick hair was now dishevelled, and that he had a large damp patch running from his crotch down both legs. He stared wide-eyed and sweating at Vaskovich.

‘That English bastard has just been picked up by a helicopter!’ Vaskovich told him. ‘I
must
have the sword back. Whatever it takes.’

‘What am
I
supposed to do?’ Mishkin asked, flustered. Vaskovich rolled his eyes, then pointed at his helicopter. ‘Are you serious?’

‘Is it armed?’

‘I - I suppose—’

‘Then tell your pilot to get the damn thing into the air! Now!’ Mishkin turned and started for the chopper; he looked back as Vaskovich shouted after him. ‘Don’t shoot it down unless you have to - I don’t want to risk losing the sword, and one of my people is aboard. But if anything happens to her . . .’ He left the command unspoken. ‘Just tell your man that recovering the sword is more important than anything else. Go!’

Mishkin nodded and ran across the lawn. The pilot was already in his seat, having sprinted for the helicopter at the first sound of gunfire, ready to respond. He listened to Mishkin’s shouted orders, gave him a thumbs-up and closed the cockpit canopy, running through the emergency start-up sequence. The aircraft came to life, the stacked rotor blades starting to move.

They turned in opposite directions, their counter-rotation eliminating the need for a tail rotor and making the helicopter faster, more manoeuvrable. More deadly. It was no mere transport, but a gunship, a high-tech Kamov Ka-52 ‘Alligator’ designed to hunt down and destroy whatever targets were offered it.

Including other helicopters.

Nina watched in horror as the war machine left the ground, hanging malevolently like a glittering black locust before turning and powering away after the other helicopter.

After Chase.

26

T
he MD 500 roared over the outskirts of Moscow. Glowing night-time streets swept past below, apartment blocks glinting like jewellery boxes in the dark. Chase would have found the view impressive - if it hadn’t been unrolling beneath his dangling feet.

The helicopter wasn’t holding a steady course, jinking as it flew. He didn’t know if it was because of damage to the machine or its pilot. Without the headset he had no way to communicate with Mitchell short of climbing up and banging on a window.

And Dominika wasn’t going to allow that.

She was wrapped almost cat-like round the starboard skid, the knife in one hand. The skids were about six feet apart, putting him just out of reach of her blade.

For now.

He hung by his weakening right hand, the sword in his left, pounded by the rotor blast from above and the slipstream as the chopper raced across the city. To get back up he would need to swing and hook a leg over the skid - and when he did, he would be within range of Dominika at full stretch. All she had to do was stab an artery, slash a tendon, and he would fall.

But he had no choice. Much longer, and he would fall anyway . . .

He kicked, swinging Excalibur at the same time for extra momentum. His foot swiped out, well short of the skid, then fell back. He tried again, this time swinging higher, but still not high enough.

Dominika watched him, shifting position. Ready to attack.

Chase kicked again. His hand slipped slightly on the skid. This time the side of his foot banged against it - only to drop away again. He fell back down, palm slick with sweat against the cold metal. Another slip, further. He tried to tighten his grip, but he had nothing to push against.

And he saw a new danger, closing fast from behind. Another helicopter. Even against the dark sky he could see it had twin rotors, the ghostly circles of the blades pulsing with each flash of the navigation lights.

The only people who flew co-axial helicopters, he knew, were the Russian military. They’d sent a fucking gunship after him!

After the
sword.
The Kamov wasn’t trying to stop them - it was tracking them. Wherever the sword went, it would pursue.

And the wounded MD 500 couldn’t fly for ever.

His hand slipped again. If he didn’t get a better hold on the skid in the next few seconds, he never would.

Swinging again, metal slithering through his fingers—

His right heel hooked over the skid. With the last of his strength, Chase yelled and pulled up his other leg. He just managed to sweep it over the landing gear as his grip finally gave way.

Moscow rolled inverted beneath him as he hung by his legs, leather jacket flapping violently around his shoulders. The empty holster and heavy spare magazine batted against his chest. Straining, he swung both arms and bent at the waist to pull his body up.

The sword clanged against the skid. He twisted his left wrist to hook the cross-guard round the landing gear. With a firmer hold, he was able to haul himself up, right hand clamping once more round the metal. He let out a breath of relief—

The tip of Dominika’s knife stabbed into his forearm.

Chase lost his grip, injured right arm flailing in the wind. He looked across at Dominika. She was gripping the support connecting her skid to the fuselage with one hand, stretching out across the gap to jab at him again.

He pulled his bloodied arm away across his chest, the knife tearing another slash in the leather just below his shoulder. Another stab, falling mere millimetres short.

She switched her attention to the sword. With the cross-guard taking Chase’s weight, he didn’t dare move it until he could regain his grip with his right hand. Which he couldn’t do as long as she had the knife.

And Dominika knew it. Her sour face for the first time displayed what was almost a smile beneath her wind-whipped yellow hair. She swung her blade at the sword, metal clashing against metal, jarring Chase’s left hand.

Clang
. Another hit. And another. The hilt began to slide through his grasp, a little more with each blow.

If the sword dropped, the gunship would go after it. If she caught it, Vaskovich had his prize. Either way, Chase would fall.

Clang. Clang.
The sword jolted in his hand. His little finger reached the end of the hilt and clutched around nothing. Dominika stretched out further, loosening the grip of her legs to extend her reach.
Clang.
He felt his ring finger slip over the rounded end of the handle.

The Russian drew back her arm for a final swing—

And Chase tore the spare magazine from his holster strap and hurled it into her face.

Even though it only contained seven bullets, the .50-calibre magazine was still over half a pound of hard-edged steel and copper and lead cracking against the bridge of her nose.

Blood gushing from her nostrils, Dominika convulsed in pain, and her legs slipped off the landing skid. She screamed, her left hand wrenched from the support as she dropped - to catch the skid by her fingertips. Lighter than Chase, she was hit harder by the wind as she dangled precariously from the helicopter. The knife fell away as she tried to reach up with her right hand, but safety was just beyond her reach.

Chase stretched out his right arm, scrabbling for grip, finding it. He pulled himself back up and finally managed to hook an arm round the skid. Painfully dragging himself over the top, he looked across at Dominika.

She hung by one hand, desperately clawing with the other . . .
Clang.

Excalibur’s gleaming edge was just an inch from her fingers.

Dominika turned her head towards Chase. He was now leaning across the gap just as she had done . . . but his blade was much longer than hers. Her eyes filled with terror as she realised what he was about to do. ‘
Nyet! NYET!
’

He stared coldly back, no mercy in his gaze as he slowly swung Excalibur away from her, the flat of the sword grating along the skid. He leaned closer so she could hear him.

‘This is for Mitzi.’

The sword sliced back.

Dominika’s severed fingers flashed through the beam of the helicopter’s navigation light, then were gone, falling with the screaming assassin as she plunged hundreds of feet to burst on the unforgiving streets below.

But Chase’s problems weren’t over.

A laser-like streak of fire burned past, a harsh chainsaw rasp coming from behind. The Kamov was letting rip with its 30mm cannon. With Dominika gone, there was nothing to restrain the pilot.

But he wasn’t trying to shoot down the MD 500. If he had, it would have been destroyed already. He was aiming specifically at Chase.

‘Shit!’ Chase gasped. Only his helicopter’s twitchy flightpath had saved him, the cannon shells passing less than a foot below as the MD 500 bobbed. But if even a single shell struck him, whatever body part it hit would instantly be reduced to a red mist - and Excalibur would fall.

The helicopter banked hard, almost throwing Chase from the skid. Mitchell had seen the tracer fire and was taking evasive action, rolling into a rapid descent.

The Kamov pursued. The MD 500 was nimble - but the much larger Alligator could match it move for move.

Chase knew what Mitchell was doing: if he dropped down close to street level, he could fly between the apartment buildings and use them for cover. Unless the Kamov’s pilot was a psychopath, it would keep his finger off the trigger.

But they had to reach them first . . .

Another brief burst of fire lashed past, the shells arcing away into the distance. The helicopter continued its twisting descent. Chase struggled to keep hold, wrapping his arms round the connecting strut. He realised he was just below the cockpit door, the handle tantalisingly close.

The MD 500 levelled out, G-forces squashing Chase against the skid. An apartment block whipped past, its roof above him. Mitchell was flying down a street, barely clearing the streetlights and telephone cables as he weaved from side to side to make himself a harder target. The Kamov was still behind them, but flying higher, waiting to pounce.

Chase pulled himself up, peering over the bottom of the large window in the oval door. Mitchell was on the opposite side of the cockpit, a smear of blood on his thigh, eyes fixed on the view ahead.

The Alligator’s pilot had been deterred from firing, but he would still follow them wherever they went. And if they tried to land so Chase could flee on foot, he would have them.

Mitchell turned sharply, sweeping the helicopter round into another street. The movement banged Chase’s head against the door. Mitchell glanced round at the unexpected noise, eyes widening in surprise as he saw him. The Kamov pursued, not fooled by its target’s sudden change of course.

Although Mitchell could have reached the internal door release, he needed both hands to fly. Chase switched Excalibur to his right hand. Wind battering him, he stretched up for the handle with his left, fingers straining . . .

He reached it. The door popped open, banging against its frame in the slipstream. Chase jammed his arm into the gap, pushing his head and shoulder inside. ‘Eddie!’ Mitchell shouted. ‘Where’s the sword?’

‘I’ve got it!’

‘Then get in!’

‘No! We need to take out that chopper!’

‘Are you crazy?’ yelled Mitchell as he made another sharp turn. The door swung open, then flapped back to bash painfully against Chase’s shoulder. ‘It’s a goddamn gunship! This thing
isn’t
!’

‘You’ll have to improvise!’ Chase looked ahead, seeing taller, newer buildings rising above the old Soviet blocks. A long string of lights picked out the skeletal outline of a crane between them, another tower under construction. ‘That crane! Drop me on top of it!’

‘
What?
’

‘It’s the only way to get rid of him! Do it!’ Chase hunched back down and slammed the door, cutting off Mitchell’s objections mid-word.

The Kamov was still behind them, having moved to see what Chase was doing. He wondered what the pilot would make of the fact that he had deliberately shut himself out of the cockpit.

He had something else for him to think about. ‘Hey!’ Chase screamed, looking back and waving Excalibur out from the side of the helicopter as it ascended. ‘You want this? Then come and get it, dickhead!’

A spotlight flashed into dazzling life on the Kamov’s nose, locking on to Chase. The sword glinted in the harsh blue light.

The crane’s long, orange-painted jib swept past, the MD 500 pivoting to fly almost sideways along its length. Chase looked down. He was at least two hundred feet up, the ground around the crane’s base strewn with girders and concrete blocks and other things not remotely likely to provide a soft landing. ‘What the
fuck
am I doing?’ he asked himself as he leaned out from the skid—

And jumped.

The helicopter was only a few feet above the jib, but the impact as Chase slammed against the tubular metalwork was still like a baseball bat to his chest. One foot slipped. Clinging to a diagonal cross-member, he dropped, sliding down it like a fireman’s pole, and thumped painfully to a halt straddling the lower horizontal beam.

Grimacing, he dragged himself back up. Mitchell’s helicopter had peeled away, but the Alligator was still there, having overshot Chase when he jumped and now performing a rapid aerial pirouette to come back after him.

He stood upright, feet on the beam as he gripped the upper support. The top of the tall vertical tower was about thirty feet away. He started for it, Excalibur clanging against the orange metal as he moved crab-like along the jib.

A hot wind, reeking of burnt fuel, whirled around him. The Kamov drifted down on the other side of the jib, its blinding spotlight shining into his face. Chase lowered his head, using the upper beam to shield his eyes as he advanced. Through the glare he could make out the pilot in the cockpit - and the Alligator’s cannon, mounted on the gunship’s stubby starboard wing. It was slaved to the pilot’s head movements, turning to track Chase, making ever finer adjustments to its aim. One shot was all it would take.

Only ten feet to go, less, but the cannon was locked on to his chest, the pilot grinning with expectant triumph—

The wind suddenly rose as Mitchell brought the MD 500 down on top of the Kamov.

The smaller helicopter’s landing skids instantly disintegrated as they hit the gunship’s upper rotor disc, but the blades themselves were also smashed, one shooting outwards like a javelin over Chase’s head. Unbalanced, the Alligator began to spin, its tail swinging round . . .

Towards the crane.

Chase desperately leapt along the jib as the chopper veered towards him. He lost his grip on Excalibur, the sword falling away. But it was already forgotten as he threw himself at the tower—

The Kamov hit.

The whole crane shook as over nine tons of metal and composites slammed sidelong against it, swinging the jib round far faster than its screaming gears could take. Rapid-fire bangs erupted from the helicopter’s rotor shaft as explosive bolts blasted all the remaining blades free, followed a fraction of a second later by a much louder detonation as the canopy blew off and the pilot shot skywards in his ejector seat on a trail of rocket flame.

With nothing to hold it aloft, the Kamov plummeted to earth, its momentum spinning it away from the base of the crane before it smashed into a pile of girders and exploded. Even dangling from the top of the tower, Chase felt the heat from the expanding fireball.

The entire crane was shuddering from the impact. A ladder ran down the centre of the tower, smoke from the burning Kamov boiling across it. Chase scrambled for a foothold, then squeezed through the framework to the ladder. Breathing the smoke wouldn’t be healthy, but it was the only way down—

A sound like a shotgun blast above him. He snapped up his head - and saw one of the jib’s diagonal cross-members shear loose at one end, the weld splitting under the strain.