The Valhalla Prophecy (50 page)

The trek through the forest to the waiting vehicles took about fifteen minutes. “Come on, hurry up,” Lock called impatiently to his men, some of whom had been slowed by carrying their injured comrades. “Ragnarök’s waiting for us.”

“You know Ragnarök’s an event and not a place, right?” Nina said.

“Pedantry will get you nowhere, Dr. Wilde,” he replied as he went to one of the trio of four-by-fours. The large Volvo XC90 SUV had been converted to an all-terrain vehicle; its wheels were mounted on a roof rack, replaced by compact Mattracks caterpillar track units fitted to each of the hubs. “Hoyt, you come with me—make sure Dr. Skilfinger stays out of trouble.”

Hoyt pulled Tova with him to the off-roader. “What about her?” he said, nodding at Nina.

“Better that we keep them apart. I’m sure she’d spend every minute of the journey trying to convince Dr. Skilfinger not to translate the runes.”

“We could just gag and hog-tie her, then throw her in the trunk.”

“Try it, and I’ll bite your damn fingers off,” Nina growled.

“Just put her in one of the other SUVs,” Lock said impatiently. “I want to get out of here. The sooner we leave Sweden, the sooner we can find the eitr.” He opened the Volvo’s door and climbed into the driver’s seat.

“Treynor, Tarnowski, keep an eye on Red,” Hoyt ordered two of his men, gesturing for them to put Nina in the back of the second four-by-four. “Wake, you drive ’em. Wounded go in the other SUV, everyone else packs up and grabs a vehicle. We’re moving out.”

The mercenaries divided among the various transports. The still of the forest was soon shattered by first the rasp of the snowmobiles, then the piercing buzz of the two icerunners as their propellers wound up to full speed. Lock was first to move; Nina gave Tova a last despairing glance through the window as his XC90 set off, then her own SUV pulled away behind it.

Engines roaring, the convoy headed back down the frozen river.

“Yes!” Eddie gasped as he squeezed free of the hole and rolled onto his back in the snow, panting from the exertion. “I’m through.”

Berkeley peered up from below. “Well, come on, then! Help me out!”

The Englishman’s grateful breaths were cut short as he heard a distant rumble through the trees. “Shit!” he said, sitting up. “You’ll have to get yourself out—Lock’s already moving.”

“What are you going to do?” asked Kagan.

“Go after ’em, what do you think? Chuck the gun up.” He holstered the dirty Wildey, then collected the P90 as Kagan raised it through the hole. “Once you’re out, go back to the snowmobiles and head for that village. I’ll meet you there.”

“Good luck,” called the Russian as Eddie ran off, heading for the waterfall.

He descended the rocks as quickly as he dared, jumping from fifteen feet up to a hard rolling landing at the base of the frozen falls. The tracks his group had left on their way to Valhalla led back along the streambed; he angled away from them on what he hoped would be a direct route to the great stone bridge of Bifröst.

It was not long before the trees thinned out, marking the top of the ravine. The sound of engines grew steadily louder. He saw that the rock crossing was off to his right and headed for it. The rope was still in place between the trees on each side; he took hold of it and made his way over, the coating of ice and snow forcing him to go slower than he would have liked.

A quarter of the way across—

The low thunder of vehicles abruptly rose to a roar.

He looked up the river—and swore as the convoy came into sight in the canyon below. One of the SUVs was in the lead by some distance, an icerunner following with the two other four-by-fours trading positions behind. The pair of snowmobiles flanked them, the second icerunner bringing up the rear.

Lock was in a rush. The vehicles were heading downriver much faster than they had come up it. They would be long gone by the time Eddie reached the parked snowmobiles.

He had to get down to the river. But how?

The idea was crazy, he knew the instant it came into his head, but it was all he had.

He gripped the rope with one hand, bringing up the P90 and putting the muzzle against the line. Bracing himself as best he could on the treacherous surface, he pulled the trigger.

The rope jerked in his grip as the bullet tore through it, flames scorching the ragged strands, but the shot hadn’t quite severed it. “Fuck’s sake!” he muttered, repositioning the gun for a second attempt. One shot would be enough to alert the mercenaries to something unexpected; two would confirm it.

No choice. He fired again.

This time, the rope snapped—and he almost fell as the weight of the line, now unsupported, jerked him sideways. With a sharp gasp of fear, he dropped to a crouch to regain his balance.

The convoy was still coming down the icy river. He didn’t know if he had been seen or not; he would find out when somebody started shooting at him. Keeping low, he scuttled across the quartz bridge, bringing the slack rope with him. Would it be long enough for his plan to work?

It would have to be. He was running out of time. The lead SUV would pass below in twenty seconds, less, and the other vehicles strung out behind it would only take another twenty or so to go by.

He reached the halfway point. If the drivers stayed on their present course, they would go directly beneath him. The Volvo drew closer, kicking out a spray of ice from its four whirling sets of caterpillar tracks. The surface of the frozen river was thirty feet below. Did he have enough line to reach it?

Not nearly enough to loop it around the hefty rock bridge. And if he tried to descend on the severed rope, he would just swing toward the canyon’s side, away from the vehicles. He needed to go straight down …

There was only one way to do it. But it meant losing one of his weapons.

Again, no choice—

Eddie turned the P90 vertically, muzzle upward, and forced its polymer stock as hard as he could into a crack in the rock until it jammed. He twisted the weapon to wedge it in place, then tugged at the barrel. The gun moved but did not come free.

The first four-by-four roared under him. The other vehicles in the convoy were closing; nobody wanted to get left behind.

He gathered up the rope—then looped it around the gun and tossed it over the edge.

The rope fell, rippling as it uncoiled to hang with its end about ten feet above the ice. It swayed in the propeller
blast as the first icerunner charged past. He grabbed the line with both hands and pulled at it. The stock creaked under the strain, but the gun stayed in place.

For now. In a moment it would have to take his full weight …

The second tracked SUV roared below him, the snowmobiles on each side. The third Volvo was just seconds behind—then, after that, only the other icerunner—

Eddie jumped.

Friction burned his hands as he slid down the rope. He forced back the pain, ready to drop onto the roof of the last SUV—only to realize to his horror that he had left it too late.

The Volvo whipped past, having increased its speed to catch up with its companions. He tightened his grip to slow himself, twisting to locate the icerunner.

Its occupants saw him. The driver gawped in surprise at the dangling figure—then jerked the steering wheel to swerve away from the Englishman.

Eddie let go—just as the P90’s stock sheared apart under the strain and the rope cracked away from him like a whip. He dropped, the propeller at the icerunner’s rear carving through the air at him—

He landed with a crash on the icerunner’s port outrigger. The impact drove the steel skate-like runner at its end deeply into the ice, making the vehicle swing sharply around and throwing both mercenaries against the cockpit’s side.

The turn slammed the stowaway against the icerunner’s fuselage. Eddie clawed for grip, but the sleek bodywork had no handholds. He slithered backward toward the screaming propeller—

An air intake gaped like a dumbfounded mouth from the humped engine compartment behind the cockpit. His hand clamped around its edge.

The propeller’s suction tore at Eddie’s face, trying to drag him into its blades. He flailed his free arm, for a heart-stopping moment finding nothing but air, before catching the outrigger’s trailing edge. He pulled himself away from one danger …

To find himself looking straight at another.

Both the icerunner’s occupants had recovered from their shock at receiving an unexpected passenger. The driver straightened out, bringing the vehicle back in line with the rest of the convoy, while his companion in the backseat retrieved his P90 and unfastened his seat belt, rising and twisting to bring the gun to bear on the intruder—

Eddie lashed out with one leg, kicking the gun upward as it fired. A three-round burst seared uselessly into the sky. The mercenary jerked back, then shifted position to take another shot—only for the Yorkshireman to use his grip on the intake to lunge forward over the lip of the cockpit. Before the startled merc could respond, he punched him hard in the face, then grabbed his gun hand.

The two men struggled for possession of the weapon. Eddie, on top of the scrimmage, made full use of his advantage. He forced the gunman’s arm outward and slammed an elbow into his opponent’s face. The merc’s grip on the P90 weakened as he spat blood. Eddie tried to wrench it from him, but was unable to get a solid hold. The gun slipped from both their hands, bouncing off the starboard outrigger. The racing icerunner’s slipstream whipped it away to fall to the frozen surface below, left behind in a moment.

“Cocksucker!” snarled the mercenary. He grappled with Eddie, trying to pitch him overboard after the gun. The Englishman’s legs were still outside the cramped cockpit; he stamped down hard on the outrigger to brace himself, then straightened and dragged the other man up from his seat. The merc threw a punch, but didn’t have enough leverage to do more than jar his adversary.

Eddie’s response had far more force behind it. He delivered a savage headbutt, crushing the other man’s nose, then hauled him bodily from the cockpit and threw him over the icerunner’s side.

There was a brief scream as the merc hit the ice—which was immediately cut off as the outrigger’s heavy
runner sliced over his neck like a guillotine blade. The man’s body tumbled to a stop on the frozen river, his severed head bowling onward for some considerable distance.

Eddie had no time to come up with an appropriately tasteless one-liner. The driver had drawn a pistol and was bringing it around to shoot over his shoulder. The Englishman yelped and dropped into the newly vacated seat as the other man fired. The bullet tore through his coat just above his right shoulder, shredding the material and scorching his skin.

The driver turned his head to see if he had hit his target, but his view was obscured by his raised hood. He tugged it down with his free hand, then looked again—

His new passenger was no longer sitting in the rear seat, but
standing
in it.

Eddie kicked the mercenary in the head, slamming him face-first against the steering wheel, then grabbed the dazed man’s gun hand and forced it back around to push the muzzle against its owner’s temple. Before the unfortunate merc realized what was happening, the Englishman had squeezed his own finger around the trigger. A gruesome red-and-gray spray showered the clean white ice.

The dead man convulsed, right foot jerking on the throttle pedal. The icerunner lurched. Eddie had to drop back into his seat to save himself from being pitched out of the cockpit—and in doing so was forced to let go of the mercenary’s gun. It followed the P90 over the side. “Bollocks!” he snarled. He still had his Wildey, but the sheer size of its Magnum rounds meant it could only fit seven bullets in the magazine.

And there were more than seven people trying to stop him from rescuing Nina and Tova.

Still cursing, he tugged at the driver’s corpse. Its foot came off the pedal. The icerunner’s engine slowed, the shrieking rasp of the propeller falling to a mere snarl as the vehicle lost speed. Eddie stood again, releasing the clasp of the dead man’s seat belt and looking ahead as he strained to throw the body out of the cockpit. The
other vehicles in the convoy were pulling away—then the rearmost of the three SUVs weaved sharply, silhouettes inside looking back up the river at him.