“It’s your mission, Morgan,” said Bloch. “The call is yours.”
It didn’t matter what he said. Alex wasn’t about to stop.
“If we don’t get him now, we’ll never catch him,” her father said. “We’re moving forward.”
“I just spotted a secondary security team coming in from the southeast,” said Spartan. “I can keep them busy, but I need some help.”
“On my way,” Lily said. Alex heard gunshots behind her as she ran out of the Old Town Square alongside the historic town hall. Its bell was ringing ten a.m. as she passed. Alex spared a glance at the figurine of death coming out, animated by the mechanism.
Up ahead, she caught sight of Lukacs getting into the backseat of a Mercedes C-Class. She noted the license plate and ran toward him, elbowing past people as the car pulled out, but it was too far away. She’d never make it.
Spotting a man starting his motorcycle, she pulled her Taurus nine-millimeter compact and tugged on his leather jacket.
“I’m going to need the bike,” she said. “Sorry.”
The man raised his hands and backed away, leaving the Honda 250 to topple over the cobblestones. Alex pulled it upright, hopped on, and kick-started it. The bike rumbled between her legs and she took off, beeping the horn to get the frenzied crowd to part.
The little Honda was light and maneuverable, and with Alex’s slim body in the seat, it moved fast.
“Spartan, cover me!” Alex heard gunfire over the comm. She maneuvered around the people until she cleared the crowd enough to gain some momentum, bike jolting on the uneven ground. Lukacs’s car was widening the distance between them.
And now she saw there wasn’t just one, but two cars, same make, model, and color—black. “He’s got a decoy!” she said, straining to see the numbers and letters on the second vehicle’s license plate as she weaved through traffic. “Lukacs is in the front car!”
The right back window of the second car rolled down and a man lifted himself out so that his upper torso was free in the air. His right hand held on to the hood of the car. In his hand was a Glock semiautomatic.
She banked left hard as he fired, shattering a store window behind her, and had to make a tight right to avoid a post on the edge of the sidewalk.
She zigzagged as he tried to aim. He fired off another shot, which ricocheted off a metal lamppost.
The Zeta tactical van merged with the street they were on and hit the second car, which spun out to the left and crashed into the storefront of a butcher shop.
Alex drifted right, just missing the van. She lost speed with the maneuver, but she picked up again once she was clear of the crash.
“Everyone all right back there?” she asked.
“In one piece,” said Diesel. “Keep moving after Lukacs!”
Alex heard the insistent blare of a car horn coming from behind her, getting louder. A maroon Toyota Camry came speeding down the road, weaving through people and traffic to catch up to her.
That would be her father.
“Alex, fall back!”
“You fall back!”
“I outrank you. Do as I say!”
Yeah, right. She pushed harder, and pedestrians leapt out of the way. Traffic was light, and Lukacs managed to move fast even in the narrow streets of Prague. Alex followed suit, the old pastel-colored buildings that lined the street blurring with the speed. Her father kept up behind her.
Police cars turned into the street three hundred yards down. The Mercedes hung a squealing right into a pedestrian-only boardwalk, sending passersby scrambling. Alex made the turn, nearly toppling over as the Honda’s front tire collided with the curb. Recovering, she picked up speed, went through a stone archway under a tower, and then out into the Charles Bridge, which had crossed the Vltava River since the late Middle Ages. Her father was still tailing her. Pedestrians parted like the Red Sea to hug the stone guard walls that protected its edge.
“Out of the way!” he yelled over the communicator.
Her father had his hand out of the car window, his Walther in his hand. Alex banked right, and he fired four times at Lukacs’s car.
One of his bullets hit home. The back left tire burst, left in rags. The car swerved left and right, then plowed straight into the side of the bridge. The heavy stone held firm, crumpling the frame of the Mercedes like it was wrapping paper. Her father brought his Toyota to a screeching halt. Alex drove past Lukacs’s car and stopped on the far side. Her father took cover behind the door of his sedan, Walther in hand. They had their quarry boxed in.
The two front doors opened and a security guard emerged from each one, wearing black suits and ties, Glocks in hand. They opened fire against her father.
Alex was about to move to help him when Lukacs stumbled out of the car on the other side—her side.
She let him come a short distance away from the Mercedes, just so he couldn’t disappear back inside. Then she stood up and drew her Taurus revolver.
“Freeze!”
He looked at her, first in shock, then with amusement.
They kept underestimating her. That’s why she won.
“Hands up!”
The bastard smirked and set off walking in her direction. “I do not think you have what it takes to shoot me.”
“Don’t test me,” she said. But her hands were trembling. He kept walking toward her.
“Stop, or I swear I’ll shoot.”
“Will you now? Your people could have sniped me from a window, but you went through all this trouble to catch me alive. So no, I don’t think you will.”
“Do not shoot him, Alex.” It was Bloch. “He’s no use to us dead.”
Alex glanced at her father. He had taken down one of Lukacs’s men, but was pinned by the other. Alex had a clear shot to the remaining bodyguard, but she didn’t think she could hit home at this distance, and she was even less protected than he was.
“So? What’s it going to be?” said Lukacs. “Are you going to shoot me now?”
Movement in her peripheral vision attracted her attention. The Zeta tactical van was barreling down the bridge, its front bumper in splinters from the crash.
Lukacs was close now, within grabbing distance of her Taurus. “Now give me the gun,” he said, reaching out and grasping it by the barrel.
But Alex was ready. With her left hand, she drew the stun gun out of her jacket pocket and pushed it against his chest, pumping more than fifty thousand volts into his body. Lukacs convulsed and dropped to the cobblestones of the bridge just as the Zeta tactical van came to a skidding halt alongside her and Lukacs. The door slid open before it were fully stopped. Spartan took care of Lukacs’s final security guard with a salvo of bullets from her MP5 while Alex and Bishop hauled Lukacs into the cargo area.
Spartan hopped back inside and they pulled the door shut as Diesel peeled off toward the far end of the bridge.
“Team, report in,” said Bloch. “What’s going on?”
“Bishop here, with Diesel, Spartan, and Morgan, Jr., safe and in possession of package. We’re on our way to switch out this car.”
“Morgan safe.”
“Conley safe.
Silence over the radio ensued as Diesel turned into a cross street, cutting off a surprised driver who leaned into his horn. Lily hadn’t reported.
“Lily, come in,” said Bloch.
But there was no answer. Only silence.
Photo by Kippy Goldfarb, Carolle Photography
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
L EO J. MALONEY is the author of the acclaimed thrillers Termination Orders, Silent Assassin, Black Skies, Twelve Hours, and Arch Enemy. He was born in Massachusetts, where he spent his childhood, and graduated from Northeastern University. He spent over thirty years in black ops, accepting highly secretive missions that would put him in the most dangerous hot spots in the world. Since leaving that career, he has had the opportunity to try his hand at acting in independent films and television commercials. He has ten movies to his credit, both as an actor and behi
nd the camera as a producer, technical advisor, and assistant director. He lives in the Boston area and in Florida.
Visit him at www.leojmaloney.com or on Facebook or Twitter.
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