by Mark Parragh
But nothing was as it would have been if he were still with Hurricane, Crane thought. If he was still with Hurricane, he wouldn’t even be here. Once he’d returned from Puerto Rico with clues pointing to the Czech Republic, they’d have assigned this part of the mission to someone else, someone who at least spoke the language.
Again, Crane felt himself hanging from that burning rope. If he was going to do this, it would mean disregarding his training—the one thing he was counting on to keep him alive here.
But then he considered the alternative. Suppose he abandoned Novak to his fate, took Skala out, and made it out safely. Suppose he went back to Josh Sulenski, reported his success, and enjoyed a well-earned break on a beach somewhere, knowing he’d left an innocent man to die.
No, that wouldn’t do at all. There was no decision to be made when he looked at it that way.
A radio crackled in Czech. Crane peered around the corner again. A handset sat propped on top of a barrel near the table. One of the men picked it up, thumbed the switch, and made a report. Then he put the radio back down and turned back to Novak.
Crane considered how to take the three men out quietly, without getting trapped in the winery and without harming Novak. He couldn’t simply open fire with the rifle or he’d draw outside attention. And he had to keep them away from the radio.
Crane edged back toward the door. He checked the gap between the casks and the rear wall. It looked as if he could wedge himself there and climb the rack. The shadows there would help conceal him, and the rafters and the framing that held the casks would let him move around the building.
He set the HK 417 down beside the casks. Then he shrugged off his pack, retrieved the silenced CZ 70 pistol, and left the pack beside the rifle. Between the silencer and the thick stone walls, he hoped he could get away with firing the pistol without alerting the men outside. But if he was wrong, he’d be swarmed and killed. Last ditch option, then.
Crane wedged his fists into the gap between the casks and the wall and hauled himself up. The wood was rough enough to give his boots some traction, and he was able to scramble up to reach a heavy oak beam and use that to pull himself the rest of the way. Finally, he stood on top of the casks, some ten or twelve feet above the floor. It was gloomy here, and the wood smelled of old pitch and dust. Crane tested one of the beams in the frame and decided it would hold his weight. He started edging forward, toward the table where Novak lay. None of the men were looking up. Crane kept moving, slowly, half-step by half-step, until he was almost directly above the table.
One of the men said something, and the others laughed. The speaker had a shaved head and a nasty scar running up his forehead. He drew a knife with a thin, curving blade. A fillet knife for boning fish. He made a point of showing Novak the blade, how it flexed under pressure. He pressed the back of Novak’s hand down onto the table to flatten out his fingers.
Crane couldn’t see a way to take all three out without firing the pistol, and he was running out of time. The man with the knife pressed its point against the tip of Novak’s index finger, and Novak wailed in terror. It was a primal, animal sound, and Crane couldn’t listen to it any longer.
He cocked the pistol and put a round through the scar in the bald man’s forehead. The soft crack echoed off the vaulted ceilings. Between that and the silencer, the others couldn’t easily locate the sound. They were still looking for an enemy at ground level when Crane killed the second man.
The third was behind Novak’s table. He dove for the radio, but Crane shot the handset and it exploded into a rain of plastic fragments. The third man dove back, using Novak for cover. He drew a knife and shouted something Crane didn’t understand. He assumed it was a threat to kill Novak.
So far no one had come in response to his shots, but he needed to end this now. Crane jumped off the beam and hit the stone floor with a jarring impact. He dropped the pistol and rolled, coming up on the other side of the table from the last man. Crane let his momentum carry him as he roared and charged the table. He went low and hit the table hard with his leading shoulder. The man sprang backward in surprise, but too late. Novak shouted in fear and pain as the table tipped and then toppled over. The other man stumbled away but then went down hard as the table landed across his legs.
Novak’s restraints kept him hanging off the side of the table. Crane scrambled over him to reach the other man. Crane was coming from behind him, and the man waved the knife blindly over his shoulder as he fought to free himself. But Crane caught his wrist and wrenched the knife free. The man was screaming something in Czech when Crane thrust the knife into the back of his neck.
They lay there in a tangled heap. Crane, the man he’d just killed, and the tortured Novak hanging by his wrists and ankles from the side of the table. Crane breathed in great gasps. The jump to the floor had hurt.
But that was nothing compared to what Novak had gone through.
Crane found the fillet knife and slashed through the leather cords tying Novak to the table. He caught him and gently lowered him to the floor.
“It’s okay,” he said. “I’ve got you.”
“You came,” Novak gasped. “They kept asking where you were. I couldn’t tell them.”
“I know,” said Crane. “We’ve got to get out of here before someone else comes. Can you walk?”
“I… I don’t know. They were going to…” He closed his eyes and shuddered.
“I know. It’s over now.”
Crane helped roll Novak flat on his back and quickly checked him. There were no broken bones at least, but plenty of contusions around his face. One eye was swollen nearly shut, and he suspected Novak’s nose might be broken. But there was nothing permanent.
Crane retrieved his pack and rifle. Then he bent down enough to get Novak’s arm around his shoulders.
“Come on, we’re getting out. Stay quiet and let me know if you think you’re going to fall.”
He helped Novak stagger between the long rows of casks. So far, so good, he thought. But Novak would never make it back to the car. He needed another way to get him out.
At the far end of the building, a smaller door was set into one of the large double doors. Novak was walking on his own by the time they got there, but not quickly or steadily. Crane cracked the door open and peered out. He saw nothing moving. Off to his right, flashlights swept through the vineyards in ragged lines. That was a break, he thought. When he’d disappeared, they must have assumed they’d driven him back, and now they were trying to flush him out of cover out in the vineyards. But there would still be men back here guarding the house.
He surveyed the nearby buildings. One stood out. It looked less rough and utilitarian than the others, made of the same white stone as the main house. It was oriented along the paved road leading past the house, and four arched sets of double doors faced out onto the road. It had to be the garage for the main house. Perfect.
Crane checked the area again but saw nobody. “Let’s go,” he said quietly. Then he half trotted out into the open, Novak struggling to keep up. Crane kept the HK 417 in his right hand as they moved, and checked for anyone approaching. But he hoped he didn’t have to engage an enemy under these conditions.
They had nearly reached the shadow of the garage when Novak cried out and stumbled. Crane caught him and fell into a crouch.
“I can’t…” Novak’s breaths were hoarse and ragged.
They were exposed here. They needed to move.
“I’ve got you,” said Crane. “You’re getting out of here alive. I promise.” He slung the rifle over his shoulder and half-carried, half-dragged Novak the rest of the way to the pool of shadow.
Crane found a side door and forced the latch with his knife. He helped Novak inside. In the darkness, he could just make out the bulky forms of cars. The nearest was a large, black Mercedes sedan. That would do. Crane opened the back door and helped Novak lie down on the back seat. He rolled onto his back and seemed to breathe easier.
Crane
knew he could open the garage doors here, hotwire the Mercedes, and take his chances on making it out to the road. But his mission was still in play. And there was little point in running if Skala was still alive to chase him. Skala held all the cards here. They wouldn’t make it far.
“I want you to wait here,” he told Novak. “I’ve got something to do. Then I’m coming back, and we’ll get out of here.”
“You’re leaving me?” Novak sounded confused, almost childlike.
“No,” he said. “I’m going to go kill Skala. You’ll be safe here until I get back. Stay here and stay quiet. When it’s done, we’ll drive out.”
Novak was quiet for a long moment. “Good,” he said at last. “Kill him. That’s good.”
Crane took a small bottle of water from his pack. “Here, take this. I’ll be back as quick as I can.”
Novak nodded, and Crane made his way to the far end of the garage. Novak apparently wasn’t coherent enough to consider what would happen to him if Crane didn’t make it back.
Standing on the hood of the car in the next bay, Crane could see out the windows set high in the garage doors. It was a straight shot across the road to the wall surrounding the house. And there was a gate not far away. But he knew that gate would be locked, guarded, or both. And there would be more men in the house. He needed a diversion.
Well, he thought, that was why he’d set one up.
He took the transmitter off his belt and switched the channel. Then he took a deep breath and hit the button.
Outside in the vineyards, the incendiaries Crane had set went off in a great arc of flame that slashed across the hillside. The explosions spread thermate burning at four thousand degrees Fahrenheit. Some of the men searching the vineyards were killed instantly. Others fled in panic. The dry vines flashed and ignited, and fire spread up the hillsides in fast-moving parallel lines.
Crane jumped down from the hood of the car, opened the garage door, and sprinted toward the house.
Chapter 40
The staff offices off the manor’s old kitchen had become the house’s de facto command post because there were radios there to coordinate workers across the large estate. Branislav Skala was there with two bodyguards and a small knot of frightened members of the manor staff when the vineyards went up in flame.
Suddenly there was panic and shouting everywhere. Skala heard someone screaming over the radio. The pale orange glow of firelight lit up the night outside. The staffers ran out to the main dining hall where the tall windows gave a sweeping view of the vineyards to the east of the house. Skala followed. Someone ran past him in the hallways, screaming, “Fire! The vines are on fire!”
It was true, he saw, as he swept into the dining hall. In the dark, lines of fire raced up the hillside. The members of his civilian staff were wailing as if it was the end of the world. He didn’t think the fire would be able to reach the house itself. There would be some major rebuilding to be done once this was over, but Skala had rebuilt from disaster before.
“Anton!” he bellowed. “Anton, where are you?”
Kucera was hurrying through the doorway from the kitchen. “I’m right here, damn it!”
Skala took in the fiery panorama with a sweep of his arm. “Where are the men we sent out there?”
“Team two and team five are cut off from the house. They’ll get back here when they can get around the fire. They’ve got men down. I ordered teams one and four back here.” After a moment, he added, “I can’t raise team three.”
Skala thought for a moment, adding up the numbers in his head. First the sniper rifle. Then the bomb in the fields, followed by the grenade and the brief firefight outside the storage sheds. Now this. More than half his men were dead or missing. It was time to cut his losses.
“Take command of the men, Anton,” he said. “You know what to do. I’ll be in my suite. There are things I need to take care of.”
He stalked off without waiting for an answer. One of Kucera’s soldiers stood near the doorway with a submachine gun in his hands. “Give me that!” Skala snarled, and ripped the gun out of his hands. Then he stormed down the back hallways toward his private suite. This place was lost, he thought. One man had done this. One man by himself. He had been right to fear Team Kilo.
In his suite, Skala closed the heavy, oak main doors and locked them. He went to the bedroom where French doors opened out onto the back lawn. He drew the curtains and turned off the lamp he’d left on beside his bed. The room was dark, the windows covered. It was the best he could do. He just hoped the man from Team Kilo didn’t know the layout of the house.
He went back to the front room and closed the bedroom door so no light would make it through. Then he opened up his laptop and powered it on. He slid his fingertip across the reader and brought up his list of contacts. The men he’d done all this for would understand. He’d done what they needed done, and he’d drawn Team Kilo’s wrath down on himself in the process, redirecting it away from them. He’d done it all to help them. One of them would send a helicopter to get him out of here. When it was settled, then he could rebuild. He’d come back before. From worse.
Skala took his cell from the charging cradle on the desk beside him and started to dial.
###
Crane crouched behind a lacquered wood cabinet in a second-floor hallway. He leaned out and fired a long burst down the corridor. Two gunshots came in reply. Both bullets slammed into the cabinet, sending splinters of wood flying. Louis XV, Crane thought, though furniture styles were hardly his specialty. It didn’t really matter now. The thing had been shot to hell. But the cabinet had been a hideous mess of curlicues and gold leaf. If anything, Crane thought, he was doing Skala a favor.
Then he heard running footsteps moving away. Whomever he’d been shooting at must be out. But he’d been located, and that meant he should move before more enemies appeared.
They knew he was in the house, but the place was huge, and he gathered most of the thugs with guns didn’t spend a lot of time here. They probably didn’t know the place any better than he did. And the sound of gunshots echoed off the marble floors and stone walls until nobody could tell where shots were coming from.
Since fighting his way through a library and a music room out of a period drama, Crane had been stalking the hallways, learning his way around, looking for Skala. But so far there’d been no sign of him. He couldn’t keep this up all night. He needed to find the man.
Crane ran down the hallway, past several closed doors. He’d checked a couple when he first entered the corridor. They were empty, unused bedrooms. He didn’t feel like checking the rest of them. The hallway ended at a stairwell, narrow and plain compared to most of the house he’d seen. He realized he’d wandered into the old servants’ routes through the house. He took the stairs down, moving quietly, hearing the occasional creak.
There was a small alcove at the foot of the stairs with a plain wooden door leading out. He was turning around the last landing when the door was smashed open and two figures in black sprang through, guns raised. Crane cut them down as a burst tore into the wall beside him and sprayed him with plaster dust.
He ran down the last few steps and through the doorway, leading with the rifle.
“Don’t shoot!”
In the hallway, a man in a white shirt and black vest and pants threw up his hands and cringed at the sight of Crane’s gun. He was unarmed. A civilian. Part of the household staff, Crane assumed. He’d spoken English.
Crane leveled the gun at him and closed the distance between them in a few quick strides. “You speak English?”
“Yes! Yes! Don’t shoot!”
“Then tell me where I can find Branislav Skala!”
###
“I’m sorry,” the recording said once more, “the number you are calling is not accepting incoming calls at this time. Please try your call again later. Thank you.”
Skala roared like an angry bull and hurled the phone across the room. It smashed the glass coveri
ng a Manes painting of naked women frolicking in the woods, and then clattered to the floor among the fragments.
“Fuckers!” Skala screamed. “Fucking bastard fuckers! I did this for you!”
None of them were taking his calls. Not one would help him. After he’d gone out of his way to protect their interests. After he’d taken such terrible risks and paid such a price.
He looked at the laptop sitting open on the baroque desk across the room. The screen glowed pale blue in the dim light. That laptop contained secrets. Not just about their enemies but about them too. The fucking coward turncoats. They’d learn what it meant to betray Branislav Skala. He crossed the room to an antique cabinet beneath a crossed pair of heavy broadswords on the wall. Inside the cabinet was a safe. He quickly opened it and took out a money belt with emergency funds in both Euros and gold coins along with credit cards and the key to a safety deposit box in a bank in Prague. Just in case.
Skala took off his shirt and strapped the belt on against his skin. He was buckling the last strap when there was a burst of gunfire outside in the hall, a beat of silence, and then another. Skala’s breath caught in his throat, and he froze for a moment. Outside, someone screamed.
He was here.
More gunfire, bullets thudding into the heavy oak doors. Skala’s eyes swept across the room. What did he need? What could he carry? He slammed down the laptop’s screen and gathered it up, clutched it against his side.
Then the doors exploded inward in a cloud of smoke and a shattering noise. Skala screamed. On pure instinct, he grabbed the machine pistol and sprayed bullets through the doorway. He screamed in rage against the gun’s deafening roar and kept squeezing the trigger until the gun ran dry.
