by Tim Tigner
“No sign of them, boss,” Sergey said.
“The boat’s at the marina, but the car’s at the heliport,” Alex added.
Vlad wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. “At the heliport?”
“We called Mercedes and had them track the GPS,” Sergey said.
“No police involvement,” Alex added.
The Monaco Heliport was almost exclusively used to shuttle people between Nice International Airport and the Principality of Monaco. The scenic seven-minute flight gave visitors their first taste of the glamour most were seeking when visiting one of the world’s most exclusive pieces of property. But Vlad knew that flights could be arranged to anywhere in Southern France or Northern Italy, even Switzerland and Lichtenstein.
Questions pelted him like feces flung from angry monkeys. Had Achilles bought off Gleb and Gary? Did the CIA intervene? Were his henchmen being debriefed by his enemies at that very moment? Vlad grasped for affirming answers. “How did the boat look?”
Sergey shrugged. “Like usual.”
“No sign they took it out?”
“None.”
Last he’d seen them, Achilles was bound hand and foot, and buckled into the back seat with a Sig’s sights centered on his chest. Escape was impossible. So had Achilles been assisted, or had Vlad been betrayed? That was the killer question.
“What’s your next move?”
The bodyguards glanced at one another before Sergey spoke. “We figured it best to get your direction on that.”
So they had nothing. Vlad appraised his two remaining bodyguards. Sergey had retired from Moscow’s Dynamo hockey team. He never wanted to see ice again, but was as cold and hard as a Russian winter. Alex had become a bouncer in his teens and moved to bodyguarding in his early twenties. At three hundred pounds, he weighed nearly twice what Vlad did, and at six-foot-eight he approached Vlad’s horseback height. “Let’s have that discussion out on the field. Follow me.”
Vlad had not yet disciplined his men for being bested by Achilles. He resolved to rectify that while pondering his predicament—and verifying that Achilles hadn’t robbed either bodyguard of his balls.
He motioned for the men to follow him and headed for the stables. Without a word, he hopped on his horse and trotted toward the nearest goal posts, forcing them to follow at a run. Once he neared the posts, he turned around and gestured with his arms like a runway traffic controller. “I want you to stand directly between the goal posts.”
The men complied.
Vlad continued gesturing with his arms until his bodyguards were lined up equidistant between each other and the goal posts, effectively creating a set of human goal posts. “Perfect. Now don’t move.”
A dozen polo balls remained scattered about the near end of the field, remnants of his earlier practice session. Vlad trotted out and spun around to survey the scene from center field. His human goal posts were a yard shorter than the originals, and spaced only one-third as wide, but both were equally unmoving. So far.
With a quick kick and a staccato shout, Vlad took his mount to a full gallop, charging toward the furthest ball at a peak speed he knew was north of 50 mph. Standing in the stirrups he whipped the mallet through a full arc, connecting at the mid-point and creating the sweet crack all polo players crave. The ball flew straight and true, passing between his men at knee height.
Neither appeared to flinch, although their sunglasses blocked Vlad’s view of their eyes. He took it down to a trot and circled back around.
The second ball nearly clipped Alex’s elbow, but again neither man moved. He put the third and fourth through at head height. Both men were sweating visibly, but then the late afternoon sun was still hot and bright, and they’d been running.
As Vlad was about to hit the fifth ball, his watch alerted him to an incoming call. A rare call from Ivan. He’d been wondering when the inevitable extension request would come. Torn between taking the call and finishing his practice, Vlad decided to do both.
82
The Finger
Cleveland, Ohio
WHEREAS ONLY HOURS EARLIER Ivan had been euphoric, an unexpected development back in France had his mood morphing from irritated to concerned. It began when his spy, Vazov’s security chief, failed to confirm the execution of Kyle Achilles. Gleb had texted, “It will be done in an hour.” Then six hours passed without word. Now Gleb wasn’t answering his phone.
Ivan was holed up in a Cleveland hotel room with a laptop to his left and a cell to his right. The laptop displayed a live feed of the Kentucky operation that ought to be kicking into action at any moment. The phone displayed another French number—a number he was reluctant to call.
After a few seconds of hesitation, Ivan hit the green button.
“If you’re calling to ask for an extension, you can forget it. I’ve waited long enough.” Vazov had a habit of getting right to the point. Rich brats could afford to do away with pleasantries.
Knowing this, Ivan had his reply locked and loaded. “Well, then I’m glad I don’t need one.”
This clearly caught Vazov by surprise, but he recovered quickly. “My bank account begs to differ. You’re $150 million behind on your payments, with just ten days to produce the remaining $350 million.”
Ivan wanted to point out that he was actually $250 million ahead according to their written agreement. He wasn’t contractually obliged to pay anything in advance. But he bit back that retort and leveraged the convenient opening. “You sound frustrated, Vlad. What’s going on?”
“Frustrated? No, I’m beyond frustrated. Hold on a sec.”
Ivan heard the thunder of hooves and the crack of a polo mallet. Some background commotion followed, then Vazov yelled, “Be glad it wasn’t six inches lower.”
“You still there?” Vazov asked.
“Yep. You feeling better?”
“Not really. Tell me, how do you find good men?”
Now we’re talking. “Why, what happened?”
“I caught an American infiltrating my club. An allegedly-former CIA agent. I asked two of my guys to show him the ocean floor. They drove off with him bound hand and foot—and haven’t come back. Their car turned up at the Monaco heliport.”
Exactly what Ivan had feared. “Whoa!”
“Tell me about it.”
“So the American is alive?”
“I can only assume.”
Damn! “You think your guys took a bribe or made a deal?”
“An hour ago, I would have said ‘never.’ But there are only a few scenarios that explain the facts in evidence and those are two of them.”
While Vazov was speaking, Ivan watched Pavel miss his mark in Kentucky. The motorcycle swerved and accelerated and disappeared from the screen. Vazov asked him something, but the words didn’t register. “Vlad, I’m sorry. Something’s come up requiring my immediate attention. Good luck with your runaways. We’ll talk soon.” He hung up without waiting for a reply.
Pavel had missed. Pavel had missed and Achilles was alive.
Achilles was alive!
He was alive, and now he knew that Vazov wasn’t Ivan the Ghost.
He was alive, and still on the hunt.
Did he know anything? Did he know enough? Ivan couldn’t calculate all the ramifications on the spot. In any case, Achilles would have to be eliminated. Quickly. That planning and execution would have to wait, however. He had to handle Kentucky first.
As he hit the speed dial that would connect him with Michael, Ivan felt something he hadn’t experienced in living memory. A cold finger of fear ran up his stomach and around his heart.
83
A Terrible Truth
Northern Kentucky
MICHAEL PRESSED THE PHONE to his ear as Pavel shouted “Here. Stop here!” and Boris screeched to a stop with a twist of the wheel that left the Suburban blocking both lanes of the road. Billy Burns could still squeak by, but he’d be risking ditches on both sides. “Can I call you back in five minutes? We’re pretty busy
at the moment.”
“I can see that,” Ivan said. “Put me on speaker.”
Michael did.
Ivan immediately took command. “Boris, back up so he can’t pass behind you! Pavel, hover Raven behind the Suburban so he won’t see it when he comes around the corner!”
“Roger that.”
“How far is it to the corner? How much time will he have to react once he sees you?”
“About a hundred yards,” Boris said. “That will give him less than two seconds at a speed north of 100 mph.”
“Okay. Okay. When he sees you, he’ll aim for the hole. That will be impulse. Motorcyclists are conditioned to automatically avoid hazards. Meanwhile, the back of his brain will be warning him to watch out for Raven. So the instant you spot him, pull Raven into view above the gap. At that point, he’ll have no choice but to—”
“There he is!” Michael shouted.
Pavel swung into action.
Time seemed to slow as Michael watched Billy’s emotional roller-coaster ride. The awareness of an unexpected obstacle. The hope of an untended gap. The horror of an impending attack. As Raven rose to fill the void, Michael heard the frantic screech of clamping brakes and the frenetic squeal of burning rubber. He saw Billy’s realization that he had to reverse course, his fear that he wouldn’t have time, and his bracing for the inevitable collision.
The P51 slid sideways, eating concrete with the broad side of both tires, while Billy struggled to remain upright.
Pavel pounced on the opportunity. Determined to limit his losing streak to a single miss, he kept his eyes locked on the proverbial ball. But rather than chasing his quarry, he positioned the snake on an intercept course and let Billy come to him. “Gotcha!”
He spoke too soon.
Billy didn’t release his bike.
The rebel kept his hands rapped around the handlebars, effectively anchoring himself with 500 pounds of metal. Moving metal. The P51 and its rebellious rider slid into the Suburban, dragging Raven behind like a big black balloon.
Suddenly, Billy was right there on the other side of the tinted glass, leering in at them with defiance in his eyes. Michael had never been up close and personal with one of their victims. When Billy raised a fist, Michael found himself feeling an affinity for the rich hillbilly.
It didn’t last.
Billy remembered Raven and resumed his two-fisted grip on the handlebar.
“Zap him with the stun gun,” Ivan shouted.
“I am,” Pavel replied. “The leather jacket is shielding him. It’s a thick son of a bitch, designed to prevent road rash.”
“So shoot him with the taser!”
“Working on it. I gotta hit his legs, but the angle’s not right.”
Michael turned his attention to Raven, which was attempting to tug its prey away from the Suburban by lining up the force vector with the bike’s wheels. Billy was foiling that effort by clamping on the brakes.
“He can outlast Raven’s battery,” Ivan said. “You’ve got to hit him over the head. Stun him into losing his grip.”
Boris said, “I don’t know what the new Taser will do if it hits his head. Remember, we switched to an experimental military-grade system, one that typically renders victims unconscious for three minutes.”
“I’m not talking about the Taser. Michael, get your ass out of the car and punch him in the face. Or the kidneys. Or wherever it takes to make him let go of the damn handlebars.”
Everybody looked at Michael.
Without a word, Michael opened the passenger door and walked toward the back, intent on approaching the raging rebel from behind. The P51 had no mirrors so Billy wouldn’t see him coming. Michael would end this embarrassing incident with a single sucker punch.
He marched around the rear of the SUV, fists flexed and shoulders forward—and caught Billy’s eye in the Suburban’s rearview mirror. Crap!
Michael moved fast, closing the gap while rolling back his right shoulder, readying to release a mighty blow to the base of the biker’s unprotected skull.
Billy moved faster. Or at least further. With a twist of the wrist, his motorcycle lunged forward like a cheetah at the start of a strike. He arced around until he was pointing parallel to the road and out of punching range. It was only a few yards, but it was enough to illuminate a terrible truth. Terrible for Michael and Ivan and Boris and Pavel. The P51 could drag Raven—and this was their last drone.
84
Emergency
Northern Kentucky
IVAN FELT HIS OWN FISTS CLENCHING as Billy Burns outmaneuvered them again. It was one thing after another today. “Get Michael back in the car and chase the bastard!”
“On it,” Boris said.
“What are we looking at? How’s Raven stack up against the bike?” Ivan knew his engineer would have checked the P51’s specs. He was like that.
“Their torque and horsepower ratings are surprisingly similar, but Raven is in the air while the motorcycle is braced by the ground. Bottom line, we can slow him, but we can’t stop him. Oh, and by the way, the bike’s full name is the P51 Combat Fighter. How’s that for ironic?”
Nobody chuckled.
Pavel said, “We’re down to 36 minutes of battery life.”
Ivan wasn’t particularly worried about battery, yet. Billy used his cell phone for electronic banking, so they wouldn’t burn clock getting a third party on the line or convincing him that the threat was real. Billy would personally make the transfer—as fast as humanly possible—once they had him hanging at altitude.
Ivan heard the car door slam and knew Michael was back. He couldn’t see the Suburban, just the live feeds from Raven’s cameras. Those cameras showed that Billy was getting the hang of driving with a tether. He couldn’t open the throttle wide because that put too big a strain on his hands. They were at their limit anchoring him to the bike. And on top of that, he needed his hands to control the brakes, clutch and throttle. Ivan figured Billy’s grip would give well before Raven’s battery.
But he wasn’t without worry.
Kentucky was full of trucks sporting shotgun racks and NRA stickers. The last thing the current clusterfuck needed was a showdown with a couple of good ol’ boys eager for glory.
Ivan got an idea. “Stop fighting him. Put Raven in neutral and let him pull you without resistance.”
“Roger that,” Pavel replied.
Ivan loved military men. No backtalk. No fuss. Just rapid execution on tap.
Billy responded as predicted. As the tension eased off, he rolled his shoulders, subconsciously at first and then deliberately. After a few seconds, he gave the bike more gas.
Ivan waited for Michael’s usual challenge, but it didn’t come. Perhaps the failure had humbled him, temporarily of course. “Now fly with him. Don’t give him any resistance.”
Again, Pavel complied.
Again, Michael remained silent.
Again, Billy went faster. That was good. Faster was Ivan’s goal.
“40–50–60–70 mph,” Pavel announced.
Ivan smiled. It was almost too easy. “Next tight turn, I want you to go full throttle against it. He turns right, you pull left.”
“Roger that.”
Six seconds later, Pavel executed as ordered. While Billy took the bike into a half hairpin at 70 mph, Raven suddenly shot sideways, pulling hard against the turn and wreaking havoc on the centripetal forces that kept riders glued to the ground. Billy fought it, but momentum was against him—as was the edge of the road. He held on for about a second and a half before losing control of the curve. With the P51 destined to go over the edge, Billy had to choose between riding it into the wooded ravine or releasing. The former would be suicide, but Ivan knew better than to second-guess pride.
Billy released.
Ivan saw no explosion and heard no crash as the $140,000 toy disappeared into the wooded ravine, but celebratory whoops erupted from the Suburban. They’d won.
“Back to business as usual, boy
s,” Ivan announced, although he wasn’t so sure. He couldn’t be sure of anything with Achilles on the loose.
When Ivan planned his operations, he used a sophisticated software program that allowed him to connect people, places, ideas and actions according to their relationships and interdependencies—all against the dimension of time. He reckoned the resultant map resembled a NASA playbook, although he suspected that it was even more sophisticated. People were less predictable than particles, and Ivan didn’t get to operate in a vacuum.
He’d begin a full-blown impact analysis of the Achilles factor as soon as he hung up the phone. Even without examining that spaghetti bowl, however, Ivan knew that minimizing Achilles’ ability to interfere would be the smart move. He’d done that from the beginning by setting the CIA and FBI after him. But this unpleasant new twist called for increased heat. Even with the distraction of an ongoing op, Ivan only needed seconds to figure out how to apply it.
As part of the prep for every K&R, Ivan fed MiMiC every available recording of the victim’s voice. That way if the victim freaked out or blacked out in the midst of the operation, Ivan could continue the banking conversation in his place. To date, it had never been necessary but, Ivan being Ivan, he remained prepared. For contingencies. Like this one.
He tuned back in to the Billy Burns operation. Ivan expected to hear a barrage of cussing and bluster, but Billy sounded more like a businessman than a biker. Of course, he was a businessman. An oil businessman. He bought land and drilled holes. He’d made a fortune tapping Mother Earth, and now Ivan was going to make a fortune tapping him.
“Why don’t we make it $7 million, and part as friends?”
By Ivan’s accounting, Billy was the first with the balls to negotiate. He admired the machismo, foolhardy though it was. Shame that the southern gent was about to become the victim of bad timing.
He texted Michael while Michael was explaining the facts of life to Billy. A few seconds later, Michael texted back. “Billy doesn’t have $20 million cash. Intel says fourteen.”
