As Lauren continued to close the distance to the edge, a dark shape began to rise above the side of the building. The silhouette of Trevor’s helicopter blocked the lights behind it and hovered as close as he dared to the drop-off. Lauren kept running and realized that the door wasn’t open. As she neared, Trevor inched the Dauphin toward her. Lauren grabbed the handle as she reached the side of the chopper. She threw the lever and slid the door open just as Marta arrived with the others. Tatiana went first, followed by Dmitri, and then Marta. Lauren was about to lift herself aboard when the spotlight from the police helicopter lit up the night. Lauren dropped to the ground, blinded, as Trevor peeled away and descended below the edge of the building for cover.
Lauren crawled to the precipice and looked down, fighting through the spots dancing before her eyes. Through the spinning disk of the rotor she could see Trevor, hands on the controls. He’d stripped off his night-vision goggles. Lauren glanced behind her—the police helicopter was hovering low enough that the men inside were jumping to the roof. She looked down and saw Marta in the open doorway of the helicopter; she had her arm outstretched, and was using her fingers to count down from five.
Lauren crouched like a sprinter, and as Marta lowered her last finger and made a fist, Lauren heard the rotor blades change pitch and they bit harder into the damp air, pulling the helicopter upward. Lauren timed her launch, and the second the spinning rotor blades were above her, she took two steps and pushed off into space just as the doorway appeared. She misjudged the distance and hit hard against the ledge of the door, frantically trying to grab hold of anything to stop her as she began to slide out. Marta grasped her by the arm and pulled as Trevor continued to climb. Without warning, he banked, and Lauren was able to kick her way inside. The moment Marta slammed the door shut, she turned and pointed her gun at Dmitri, who had started to move toward her. He backed down as Trevor sped away, diving below the tops of the buildings.
Gasping for a full breath, Lauren wrapped her arms around her torso and rolled onto her back, fighting for air. As the first shriek of precious oxygen inflated her lungs, she felt tears fill her eyes. The second and third breaths came easier, and she finally opened her eyes. Marta was leaning over her, and Lauren realized that her friend was holding her hand, squeezing. With Marta’s help, Lauren was able to sit up. In the dim light, Lauren spotted Dmitri cross-legged on the floor. He looked disheveled, an expression of resignation etched on his lined face. Tatiana leaned against him. Though her eyes were closed, she was clearly in pain. Lauren saw blood on the floor next to her just as she noticed the wound in her upper arm.
“They shot her?” Lauren asked, still breathing fast.
“No, I did,” Marta said. “She slowed down.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
“WE’LL NEED TO dump all of our equipment,” Donovan called out as Michael maneuvered the snowmobile to the edge of the lake near the cabin and shut it down. “Montero, go get the team ready to travel.”
Michael began to lift the duffel bags out of the sled and stack them in the snow.
Donovan looked across the lake. The sun was low in the sky and partially obscured by incoming clouds. The weather was changing, and he felt a new urgency. It was going to be risky enough to fly the helicopter to Churchill in the dark, but he’d counted on the Northern Lights to help light the way. If clouds rolled in, it would create an additional set of problems.
“We’ll be airborne before that weather gets here,” Michael said as if sensing Donovan’s concerns. “It’ll be easy—you’ve already soloed, and I’ve got like, an hour flying the Eco-Watch helicopters, plus I sat and watched Janie and Eric in the simulator when they were upgrading to the new 412.”
“Is this entire hour you have flying helicopters in a simulator, by chance?”
“Pretty much,” Michael said.
“What did you learn?”
“I learned firsthand that helicopters are unnatural, satanic machines, and they should be left to the truly touched to fly.”
“Good to know,” Donovan said as a small smile came to his face. If Michael could joke around, all wasn’t lost. Donovan leaned down and discarded the dry suits, tanks, and accessories such as the masks, weights, and flippers. He rearranged the survival equipment and made sure that the AK-47 and the ammunition were within easy reach. As he finished, Sofya and Rick, fully bundled up against the cold, came through the door, followed by Jesse, who had a section of cardboard and duct tape in his hand. Montero brought up the rear, a backpack slung over her shoulder.
“I can drive,” Rick said.
“Shotgun,” Montero called out and straddled the seat, leaving room for Rick in front of her. “You know what, Sofya, I think there’s room up here for three of us.”
Donovan watched as Rick joined the group scrunched together on the seat of the snowmobile, then he and Michael and Jesse found places in the sled. In preparation for the icy blasts of cold air once they were under way, Donovan pulled his stocking hat down as far as he could and adjusted his goggles. Michael and Jesse did the same thing.
“Can all of you ride up there?” Michael called out.
Rick and Sofya had claimed the helmets and Montero adjusted her equipment. “We’ll be fine,” she said, turning to them. “This takes me back to being a teenager growing up in northern Illinois.”
“Am I the only one who can’t picture Montero as a teenager?” Michael said, his gloved hands trying in vain to pull the zipper of his snowsuit snug against his neck.
“I’ll have you know, I was prom queen, once, for about five minutes,” Montero said over her shoulder.
“I’m getting a clearer picture,” Michael said. “Why only five minutes?”
“The prom king whispered something in my ear that I felt was extraordinarily crude and inappropriate, so I decked him. As I was waiting for my dad to come pick me up, they crowned some other girl as queen.”
“Your dad had to come get you?” Donovan asked. “Where was your date?”
“The prom king was my date.”
“There it is,” Michael said. “That’s the image I was looking for, thanks.”
Rick brought the snowmobile to life, and moments later they swung out on the lake and began to build speed. The trip went by in silence, and Donovan, Michael, and Jesse all continuously scanned the horizon. There was a respite from the arctic blast as Rick slowed to funnel them through the channel. As they reached the end of the river and broke out onto the other side, Donovan could see their destination. In the waning light, the helicopter looked frozen and abandoned on the desolate lake.
When Rick stopped, he left the snowmobile far enough away so as not to be a problem when they took off. Montero was the first to climb out. She was looking up at the sky when Michael said, “I hear something.”
“I hear it, too,” she said. “Which way?”
Donovan heard the distinct sound of an airplane, one with a radial engine. The ebb and flow of the sounds told him it was maneuvering. A crisp staccato drumming reached them, and then paused before continuing.
“That’s automatic weapons fire,” Montero said. “The cabin. They’ve got to be firing at the cabin.”
“Everyone, get in the helicopter!” Donovan called out.
“You guys get airborne,” Montero said as she grabbed one of the helmets.
“Where are you going?” Donovan asked.
“If they catch us on the ground, we’re done,” she said. “I’m going to use the snowmobile to create a diversion and lead them away from here. I’m going to need to go fast. Can you get rid of that sled?”
“At least take the AK-47.” Michael threw off the attachments that connected the sled to the snowmobile as Montero restarted the engine.
“The AK-47 is yours. I’m going to be busy driving,” she said. “But I will take the radio. Call me when you’re airborne, and I’ll bring them back this way for an ambush.”
“How are you going to hear the radio?” Donovan asked as he dialed in
a common frequency, and showed it to Michael before placing it in Montero’s gloved hand.
“The LCD lights up when there’s an incoming call, right?” Montero asked.
“Yes, but how are you going to notice?” Michael asked.
Montero sat down and wedged the body of the radio under her thigh until only the LCD display was visible. She lowered her visor and hit the throttle. With very little weight aboard, the powerful machine kicked up a plume of snow as Montero gunned it, heading for the opening to the river.
Donovan ran to the helicopter. Sofya was already aboard and she helped Rick climb in as Jesse hastily used the duct tape and cardboard to try to cover the shattered side window in the cockpit. Donovan went straight for the pilot’s seat, while Michael ran around to climb in the other side. Jesse finished his field repair and joined Sofya and Rick in the cabin.
Michael found the checklist and flipped through the laminated pages. In the calmness of the interior, Donovan’s breath froze and almost obscured his goggles with each exhale. He pulled off his cumbersome gloves, and from memory, pushed in the two fire handles he’d pulled earlier, flipped on both battery switches, and let his thumb hover over the switch that would start the first engine.
“Hit it,” Michael said as he scanned the checklist.
The turbine engine began to spool up, followed by a familiar thump that told Donovan the ignitors had started combustion. Overhead, the rotor began to spin and the cabin rocked as it gained speed. Donovan watched the engine instruments climb into the green and then stabilize. Without waiting for Michael, Donovan hit the switch to start the second engine. He listened as the same series of events took place while he fastened his seat harness and cinched it tight. He threw the switch to take the computers from ground idle to flight mode, and the engines and rotor accelerated. He slipped his gloves back on and gripped the rubber grips of the cyclic and collective. After a hurried scan of the engine panel, he checked the rotor speed and engine rpm, glanced at Michael who nodded that he was ready. Then he smoothly pulled on the collective, and the 212 lifted away from the ice.
As before, Donovan over-controlled, and the helicopter descended and banked both left and right as he fought the oscillations he’d created. As if he needed help, Michael casually pointed in the direction they had to fly. Donovan made the corrections and the 212 began to bank and move forward to parallel the shoreline. Donovan flew slightly below the tree line and in the general direction that Montero had headed.
“You’re doing great!” Michael said above the rotor noise. “I know you’re probably not taking requests, but the lower we fly, the harder we’ll be to spot.”
“Good to know.” Donovan gripped the collective, trying to get a better feel of the controls. He eased forward on the cyclic and the 212 picked up speed. Donovan spotted the gap in the trees that marked the river. He banked right and then left before aiming straight for the mouth of the river. Light touches on the pedals kept the 212 pointed where he wanted to go, and he found a flicker of confidence as he eased the helicopter lower.
The relative ease of flying over the open lake disappeared the instant Donovan nestled the 212 against the treetops that lined each side of the river. He clenched his teeth as he made each exacting turn to keep them dead center above the frozen channel.
“If I know Montero, she’ll lead them straight toward us,” Michael said. “I need to be ready.”
“Go!” Donovan said, afraid to take his eyes off his flying for even a second. Michael threw off his harness and climbed over the seat into the passenger compartment. Donovan eased up the collective and the helicopter climbed slightly, and then the channel forced him to make a hard turn to the right. Donovan heard the blades make a distinct thumping sound as they bit into the dense air and pulled the helicopter through the abrupt change in direction.
From memory, Donovan knew that up ahead there was a hard left, followed by an easy right, and then they’d be at the end of the channel. Michael had already set Montero’s frequency in the 212’s primary radio. All Donovan needed to do was press the push to talk button on the cyclic, and her radio would light up. He made the first turn, pressed the transmit button multiple times, and then focused on the next bend in the channel.
As he made the final turn, a small sliver of the frozen lake came into view. Out on the open ice, Montero was hunched low on the snowmobile and zigzagging in their general direction. Above her, and off to the right, was a de Havilland Beaver, flying low and slow. Orange muzzle flashes erupted from an open window, followed by miniature geysers in the snow marking the impacts threatening to intersect with Montero.
Donovan pulled to slow the helicopter, and then kicked hard on the pedal that swung them broadside to the oncoming airplane. A rush of cold air enveloped Donovan as behind him, Michael slid open the door. Coming fast, Montero peeled off to her left to avoid the gunfire from the Beaver at the same moment Michael opened up with the AK-47. Donovan winced at the loudness of the machine gun as Michael’s aim sent heavy 7.62 rounds straight into the Beaver’s engine. The surprised pilot, intent on watching Montero, made a panicked turn and tried to climb. Michael adjusted, and the bullets continued to stream into the Beaver, shattering the windscreen and pouring into the cockpit and cabin. Trailing smoke, the bush plane flashed over the top of them and was gone. Donovan pivoted the 212 to try to keep the damaged Beaver in sight. The airplane, engine pouring oily smoke, climbed nose high, slowed dramatically, and while still in a tight turn fell off on one wing and plummeted into the trees and exploded.
The smell of smoke filled the cabin as Donovan made a wide circle above the crash site before he banked to fly toward Montero, who stood on the ice next to the snowmobile. Donovan couldn’t help but relish another wave of relief as the helicopter’s skids touched down smoothly on the ice and Montero began running toward them.
Seconds later, with Montero aboard, Michael climbed back into the cockpit, and Donovan felt a heavy congratulatory slap on his shoulder.
“Nice job,” Michael said as he slid into the copilot’s seat and began to buckle his harness. “Though I was wrong and I owe you an apology.”
“Wrong? About what?”
“We’re not going to beat this weather. It’s starting to snow.”
Donovan looked out across the lake and was surprised at how fast the visibility had dropped. Snow swirled around the helicopter as he once again gripped the controls, held his breath, lifted the 212 into the sky, and set a rough heading toward Churchill.
CHAPTER THIRTY
“EVERYONE STAY SHARP,” Trevor called from the cockpit. “I can see two people waiting on the ground. One of them looks to be Henryk.”
Having had the wind knocked out of her, Lauren was finally breathing without difficulty. The flight from Berlin to Brody, Poland, hadn’t been long, only twenty minutes, but Trevor flew a circuitous route to confuse anyone who might be trying to track them on radar as they slipped across the border unseen. Marta spent part of the flight tending to Tatiana’s gunshot wound, though it wasn’t much more than a flesh wound. Judging from Tatiana’s facial expressions, Marta made little effort to minimize her discomfort.
“Henryk and who else?” Lauren asked, concerned.
“Probably one of Henryk’s men from Wroclaw.” Marta gripped her Makarov and double-checked it as Trevor lowered the wheels for landing. With a gentle bump, they were down.
“Marta, you’re not going to believe this,” Trevor called out over his shoulder. “The second man is Kristof.”
Lauren instantly looked at their prisoners. Dmitri remained neutral, as he had since they’d first met, but Tatiana looked absolutely terrified at the thought of Archangel waiting for her.
“What in the hell,” Marta muttered as she slid the door open and jumped out into the night.
Lauren eased herself to her feet and stepped down to the frozen grass. Trevor shut down the engines, and in the near silence of the remote woodlands safe house, the only sound was the still-spinning ro
tor blades knifing through the air. Moments later, Trevor climbed down out of the cockpit and joined Lauren. With the helicopter shut down, they could easily hear Marta.
“What are you doing here? We had a deal, and yet you find it necessary to check yourself out of the clinic to come spy on me.”
“The doctor diagnosed me with fatigue,” Kristof said. “I caught a commercial flight out of Gatwick to Wroclaw. Henryk picked me up.”
“Dad!” Marta pressed her palms together, as if praying. “If the doctors tell you you’re suffering from fatigue, you have to rest.”
“So what, I’m a little tired. I’ve been fleeing from assassins. That makes an old man tired. I did take a nap on the plane.”
“How did you even know where we—” Marta started, but with one knowing glance at Henryk, she slumped in exasperation. “Never mind.”
“Henryk is a good man.” Kristof’s voice softened. “When I managed to get a call through to him, he gave me the update on Tatiana Resnick. Where is she?”
“We have more than just Reznik,” Marta said. “She was with a Russian diplomat, Dmitri Sobolev.”
“Dmitri?” Kristof planted his cane and headed for the helicopter.
Lauren held out her arms and Kristof hugged her and kissed her on both cheeks. He gave Trevor a brief handshake. Trevor stepped aside as Kristof climbed aboard the helicopter.
“Hello, Kristof,” Dmitri said.
“Is there a light?” Kristof said to anyone. Moments later a small dome light illuminated the interior. “Dmitri, you look like hell.”
“Your little girl, she’s good.” Dmitri tried to smile. “You should be proud.”
“I am.” Kristof produced a pocket knife and sliced away the plastic strip holding Dmitri’s wrists.
“You two know each other?” Marta asked.
“We have for years.” Kristof reached out to help pull Dmitri up by the hand, and the men briefly hugged.
“You’ve lost weight,” Kristof said as he held Dmitri by the shoulders and looked his old friend up and down. “You’re not sick, are you?”
Seconds to Midnight Page 20
