by Tim Tigner
Pavel plotted a course that took them straight across the city, 1.05 miles south by southwest. Without fanfare or warning he pressed the stick, transitioning to forward flight as fast as a hovering hummingbird.
Although he appreciated the mechanical marvel at his command, Pavel was not thrilled to be taking Raven into combat. Helicopters were faster, tougher and had a greater range. Raven’s only advantages were a smaller size and greater maneuverability. Then there was firepower. He was pretty sure the police helicopter wasn’t armed beyond the gunman inside, and damn sure the news bird wasn’t, but he couldn’t beat even a single machine gun when his only weapon was a taser. “We’ve got sixteen minutes before our batteries fail and Raven falls from the sky.”
“Keep it low, no more than 100 feet,” Ivan said.
“Yes sir,” Pavel replied.
“Plaza tower rises for 45 stories, but I want you aiming for the tenth floor as if you’re going to ram it.”
“Roger that.”
Pavel spotted the abandoned building dead ahead, with red rooftop lights flashing. A dark monolith blocking out a big swath of city lights, creating an atmosphere of desolation and foreboding.
Pavel raced toward his target at full throttle, rocking Raven back and forth as if avoiding TIE fighters with an X-wing. He had no idea what Ivan would have him do next, but he was excited to find out.
The police chopper followed about three seconds behind and fifteen feet above. A bit closer than standard pursuit formation. Pavel figured the pilot was compensating for the fact that Raven was a black bird flying at night. The news helicopter remained five seconds behind it and another fifty feet above. Pavel didn’t know if they had a standard, but that felt about right.
What was Ivan up to? Had he hidden gunmen in the abandoned tower? Did he plan to fly inside? The whole planet was about to find out.
“At the last second, I want you to slip around the tower to the left, hugging it tight. Do it without slowing down.”
“Roger that.”
“Circle clockwise, keeping close to the tower so they lose sight of you.”
“Will do.”
“The moment you’re hidden from the police chopper’s view, stop all forward movement and take it straight up to an altitude just above their bird.”
“Vertical evasion. Roger that.”
“What about the news helicopter?” Michael interjected.
Ivan ignored the question and asked Pavel, “Can you pull it off?”
“I can temporarily lose them, no problem. But if they’ve got a veteran behind the stick he’ll reacquire us in about four seconds.”
“Then that’s how long you have.”
“To do what?”
“Drop The Claw into the enemy’s rotor, and hit Raven’s SELF-DESTRUCT button.”
79
Missing Picture
French Riviera
ACHILLES BURST onto the balcony his room shared with Jo’s. Having just pounded out thirteen contemplative miles running along the beach, he was dripping with sweat and brimming with excitement. After days of getting nowhere attempting to anticipate Ivan’s next moves, he finally had an idea he could work with.
He was eager to share it with Jo, but before he got the words out, she shared news of her own.
“While you were out running, Ivan wiped the floor with law enforcement. Again. This time in New Orleans.” Jo recounted the debacle that downed a police helicopter and killed four officers on live television.
Achilles shook his head. “Ivan’s never been one to issue hollow threats.”
“Or tolerate disobedience,” Jo said. “But the New Orleans police don’t know it’s Ivan.”
He flopped onto a lounge chair, twisted the top off a cold bottle of water, and shared his own revelation. “I was wrong earlier.”
“How so?” Jo asked.
He drained the bottle before responding. “I said Ivan couldn’t predict whether I’d kill Vazov or vice versa. But of course he could. I’ve been so stupid.”
“What are you talking about?”
Achilles tossed the empty bottle and went to work with a hand towel while he spoke. “No way he’d leave the outcome of my meeting with Vazov to chance. Ivan always lines up every domino before he topples the first.”
“You and Vazov aren’t inanimate blocks of wood. How could he expect to control your meeting?”
Actually, people are highly predictable. Marketers and propagandists proved that every day. But Achilles wasn’t about to chase that rabbit. “He didn’t need to manage our every action to manipulate the outcome. He just needed to control the flow of information.”
“I don’t follow.”
“He’s got an inside man, Jo. Or rather, he had an inside man.”
That perked her up. “One of the bodyguards?”
Achilles nodded. “The bald guy from the boat. Just before his thugs jumped me, Vazov gloated that Gleb had uncovered my true identity.”
“Inside guy or not, you still escaped.”
“Only thanks to you.”
Jo cocked her head. “But Ivan knew about me.”
“Yes, he did. And he accounted for you in his plan. You were supposed to have died back in Versailles. He pushed that domino at the same time he sent me on the path to Vazov. Ivan’s only shortcoming was failing to account for the miracle of your survival.”
“But that was weeks ago. He’s had time to adapt.”
“Calendar time, but not free time. Ivan’s in the midst of a wild and crazy operation in America. He’s bound to be completely consumed with its execution. He’s got no time to concentrate on anything else. Trust me, you can’t rewrite the field manual while in the field. That’s something you do during breaks between operations.”
“But this is Ivan the Ghost we’re talking about. He’s the best there ever was. Surely he has the ability to adapt on the ground. Every field agent does that.”
“Ivan doesn’t work like everyone else. He doesn’t improvise, he plans—with incredible detail. That’s what makes him so special. He spends years designing operations as complex as Swiss chronographs—the big ones that factor in leap years and phases of the moon. Then he executes, trusting the machine he built to run with clocklike precision. He has faith in his ability to account for everything during the planning stage, and history has justified that faith.”
“Until now.”
“Until now. This time he didn’t account for your miraculous escape screwing up his plan to have Vazov kill me.”
“Which was supposed to happen when his man Gleb unmasked you at a vulnerable moment.”
“Exactly.”
Jo stood silently, intermittently twirling a lock of hair around her index finger and tugging on it.
Achilles waited quietly while she puzzled it out.
“If everything you say is true, about the dominoes and faith and the informant, then Ivan’s plan for you started with framing you for Rider’s murder, and ended with having you killed by Vazov’s men.”
“Correct.”
“What was the point?”
“That is the billion-dollar question.”
Jo gave him a knowing look. “If I know you, you have a hypothesis.”
Achilles wished he could justify her confidence. “I haven’t come up with anything that accounts for everything, not when you factor the drone kidnappings into the picture.”
“So what do we do?”
Achilles tossed the towel through the balcony doorway and onto his bed. “I don’t know, but I think we need to back up to figure it out.”
Jo’s eyes grew wide. “Back up? As in retreat?”
“Back up as in change our perspective. We thought we were looking at the big picture, but we haven’t been. We couldn’t have been. What we see doesn’t make sense, and Ivan’s plans always make sense—in hindsight. We need to picture his plan with foresight.”
“But Ivan’s genius is devising endgames that nobody can predict. That’s why he never gets
caught.”
“I know.”
“So how do we predict his plan this time?”
“We put our heads together, take what we know, and apply it to the broader picture.”
Jo’s face contorted into an expression one might describe as less than optimistic—which was exactly how Achilles felt.
80
High Net Worth
Northern Kentucky
MICHAEL DIDN’T UNDERSTAND the man racing through the back woods of Kentucky on a $140,000 motorcycle. Why would anyone with a net worth of nine figures risk his life against a random encounter with a stray deer or loose gravel? And Billy Burns wasn’t just zipping around corners at breakneck speeds. He was doing it without the protection of full leathers or a brain bucket. Just boots and a black jacket—emblazoned with a rebel flag.
To Billy’s credit, the roads were remote and the weather was dry. He’d found the equivalent of a private racing track, a six-mile loop full of twists and turns, with only a single stop sign.
Michael had his eye on that sign because Raven was waiting in the woods behind it.
The Confederate P51’s top speed was a full 100 mph above Raven’s, so the stop sign was important. Billy habitually ignored it—as did others if the bullet holes were a clue—but nonetheless the 90-degree turn took his speed down to the mid double-digits.
Michael, Pavel and Boris were parked atop a neighboring hill, waiting for Billy to come back around, while Ivan dealt with other business.
After New Orleans, they embarked on what the three now dubbed their America Tour. To help them better blend into the heartland, they traded in the Tesla for a Chevy Suburban. White with blackout-tint on the windows. Its 0 to 60 acceleration was three times slower than the Tesla’s, and its handling wasn’t nearly as tight, but they’d never been forced to test their car’s capabilities. Hopefully that lucky streak would hold.
Team Raven switched their focus as well—from CEOs and celebrities to high-net-worth individuals. People whose only notable characteristic was a very big bank account.
Pavel made conversation while they waited for Billy to come ‘round. “I gotta say, I like these nobodies a lot better. Why deal with lawyers and corporations and helicopter attacks if you don’t have to?”
Michael knew he should keep his mouth shut, but he couldn’t resist venting. “Because these guys don’t have enough cash on hand. Their money is all tied up in real estate or family businesses or long-term investments.”
“What are you talking about? Every one of them has shelled out $10 million.”
“$10 million a pop is only half of what we need. As of today we’re $150 million behind with Vazov, and the trend isn’t in our favor. Plus we’re down to our last drone.”
“Man, you gotta have faith in Ivan. You told me yourself he’s never let you down.”
Boris shocked them both by wading in. He was usually the silent stoic, only speaking when the mission required. “I have to admit, I’m a bit baffled by the way things are evolving.”
“How so?” Michael asked.
“The downside of involving the media and antagonizing the police is abundantly clear. The upside isn’t. This change of tactic is contrary to the thing I appreciate most about Ivan. The quality that drew me to him.”
“Namely?”
“His ability to operate as a ghost.”
While they reflected on Boris’s observation, the deep bass of the P51 began rumbling through the Suburban’s open front windows, signaling Billy’s impending arrival.
Pavel pulled the joystick’s collective, raising Raven into the air and positioning it in a predetermined striking posture, with Claw dropped and lance raised. Once Billy passed a rock they’d positioned beside the road as a visual aid, Pavel would take Raven to full speed and set it on an intercept course. The idea was to rocket up at an angle while the target slowed for the turn.
Michael cocked an ear, but couldn’t hear the drone over the raucous rumble of the mighty motorcycle. Billy, of course, wouldn’t hear a thing. He wouldn’t be studying his surroundings either, just the next few seconds of road.
The three stared down from their hilltop as the target approached, 200 pounds of rebel atop 500 pounds of steel. Or rather aluminum, Michael corrected himself. The P51 looked like a monster, a triangular wedge of mechanical might that Boris claimed was very high-tech. He raved about its carbon fiber wheels, quadruple front discs and 6061 aluminum construction. Impressive as that apparently was to those who understood such things, Michael suspected that Billy would soon be happy to swap the Confederate for four standard wheels and a driver’s airbag.
Pavel pressed Raven into action as Billy roared past the rock.
Two heavy heartbeats later, Billy swung around the corner as if the stop sign wasn’t there and began accelerating up the winding road that would take him higher into the hills.
Raven swooped down like a falcon attacking a flying duck—and missed.
Michael couldn’t tell if Billy swerved to avoid something in the road or if he somehow sensed the predator behind. Whatever the reason, Pavel’s first miss took everyone by surprise.
While the trio held their breaths, The Claw closed on thin air and Billy hit the brakes. As Raven flew by, Michael saw recognition dawn. The infamous drone. The serpentine snare. The ransom demand. Once the tumblers had clicked in their victim’s mind, Michael saw something that shocked him to his core. Billy smiled.
He yelled something they couldn’t hear and hit the gas with enthusiasm as Pavel brought Raven back around. The P51 exploded forward like a bullet from a gun—and the chase was on.
Except, of course, it wasn’t.
Raven couldn’t hope to keep up with the Confederate, even cutting corners by flying straight above the winding road.
Within seconds, the motorcycle vanished along with their payday.
“What do we do?” Michael asked.
“Drive!” Pavel commanded. “We’ll intercept him on the other side of the hill.”
Boris hit the gas without further hesitation, putting all 355 horses of the 5.3 liter engine to work.
It felt pitifully slow.
Now that they finally needed the Tesla’s ludicrous speed, they didn’t have it.
“He’ll be heading for home, taking the road he knows,” Pavel continued. “He’ll stick to the next five miles of his course before branching off toward Lexington. We’ll go the other way around. Clockwise, that branch is just one mile from here.”
“Won’t he take a random route in the name of evasion?”
“You saw his face. He’s excited. He’s riding lightning, so he’s thinking speed. That’s his tactic and he’ll maximize it using the road he knows.”
“You can’t snare him at 160 mph.”
“No, I can’t. That’s why we have to intercept him in the Suburban.”
“Roadblock?” Boris asked, driving like he was attempting to qualify for the Indy 500, and doing a fine job despite the limitations of his ride.
“Yeah. Preferably just after a curve.”
“If we create a roadblock, he’ll see us. And he’ll see the car. He’s bound to give the police our description.”
“Three white guys in a Chevy? That might be a problem in Kyoto, but not here in Kentucky.”
Boris shook his head. “I hope you’re right, because about twenty seconds from now we’re going to find out.”
81
Bad Returns
French Riviera
VLAD VAZOV liked to live on the edge. In fact, he insisted on it. And when you’re the only son of one of Russia’s richest men, you tend to get what you want.
Whether his aversion to average or normal or ordinary experiences was a genetic predisposition or the result of a spoiled youth, Vlad didn’t know or care. He just knew that he craved extremes the way other people craved coffee—or chocolate or poker or porn. His brain didn’t sit right in the absence of risk and stimulation. That was why he loved polo.
No other
team sport offered both extreme danger and intense competition without also subjecting you to an unpleasant environment, be it inclement weather or common people. He had tried to get his fix from solo activities—skiing and sky diving and rock climbing—but they didn’t satisfy his social nature or need to command other men. In that latter regard, and perhaps only that latter regard, Vlad resembled his famous father.
So polo it was. Polo and the appearance of enough ancillary activity to keep his father both distant and content. The figurehead position at Silicon Hill checked that box nicely—with prestige as a welcome bonus.
His father had given him the $300 million to get Silicon Hill started, not knowing the details of his arrangement with Ivan. When Ivan paid out, Vlad would tell his father he’d sold the business. Then he’d pocket the proceeds and “retire.” He’d gain financial independence and his father would get bragging rights. The whole plan was nothing short of brilliant.
Not so brilliant was the performance of his bodyguards. Achilles had chewed through them like a Rottweiler on a new pair of shoes. He would be upgrading, just not with ex-CIA agents.
Vlad checked his watch. Gleb and Gary had gone incommunicado. It was probably nothing, but he wasn’t taking chances. He eventually sent Sergey and Alex after them, and locked himself in his house—a house that was essentially a 10,000-square-foot panic room. They’d been gone for three hours. It was getting late and he was anxious to finish the practice session their departure had cut short.
Motion on one of the security monitors caught his eye as he reached for the phone. Turning toward the bank of screens covering one of his study walls, Vlad saw an SUV driving through the guard gate. Sergey and Alex were back.
He met them at the door and immediately knew the news wouldn’t be good. Their body language wasn’t telegraphing happy.
“No sign of them, boss,” Sergey said.
