Falling Stars: (Kyle Achilles, Book 3)

by Tim Tigner

  “Instead of planning to follow him, we’ll get ahead of him instead.”

  The countdown clock clicked down to seven minutes.

  “The drone’s descending,” Ott said. “The ransom payments must have posted.”

  All eyes turned to the central monitor.

  “Impossible,” Garwood said, his tone mocking. “They haven’t asked us to ground our bird.”

  He was right, which meant Rip was wrong. He had no idea what Ivan would do next, but he sensed a disaster.

  69

  The Bottom

  French Riviera

  LOOKING UP AT VAZOV’S GUN and the stern face behind it, Achilles got the feeling that his gambit was about to backfire. He’d put the four bodyguards down without serious damage to promote the illusion that he wanted to lead them, but now that he was under the gun, their first impulse would be revenge.

  “Shall we move on to the marksmanship contest?” Achilles asked.

  Vazov harrumphed. “After that last display, do you really expect me to give you a gun?”

  “I expect you to want an upgrade.”

  “You obviously know how to knock heads. And I’m willing to concede that you know how to shoot. But brawling and blasting aren’t the primary requisites for my bodyguards.”

  Gleb and the third bodyguard rose slowly to their feet while Vazov spoke. Gleb looked like a vampire clown, with his swollen nose and blood-covered chin. Number three just looked dazed. Dazed and angry.

  Achilles ignored them. “What is your primary concern?”

  Vazov gestured toward Achilles with both index fingers. The bodyguards responded by grabbing Achilles’ arms and employing a wrist lock favored by cops and bouncers. It put his torso under their control while leaving his legs free to respond to their guidance.

  Achilles didn’t resist. No point. Not with the Sig squared on his chest from a distance of ten feet.

  Vazov grew a satisfied smile. “My primary concern is loyalty. There will always be somebody tougher out there, tougher even than you, Achilles. No sense fretting over that, not if what you’ve got is solid.”

  Achilles glanced down at the two on the ground. “What you’ve got doesn’t look very solid to me.”

  “Ah, but it is. These men will do as I say, without question, without waiver. They are loyal.” The two downed bodyguards began to stir while Vazov spoke, as if buoyed by his words.

  “What makes you think I wouldn’t be loyal?” Achilles said with what sounded like sincere concern.

  “Experience has taught me that there are two kinds of people in this world. Those whose core driver is logic, and those whose core driver is emotion. The split has nothing to do with intelligence or education or demographic detail. The assignment is purely Darwinian. A genetic coin toss. Random chance. And neither is necessarily advantageous over the other. But only one type will remain loyal no matter what. You, Mr. Achilles, are not that type. If you were, you’d still be at the CIA. You’d have gone along, and gotten along. You’d have been loyal to your director.”

  That wasn’t an explanation Achilles had been expecting nor one he was prepared to counter. At that moment, literally under the gun, he wasn’t sure if Vazov’s words were exceptionally insightful or complete crap. Analysis would have to wait. “That was a very different time, in a very different place. Circumstances have changed. I’ve changed.”

  “Not a risk I’m willing to take. But I do want to thank you for exposing several weak spots in my security. I won’t forget your contribution.”

  Vazov turned his attention to Gleb. “You look terrible. I want you and Gary to go to the hospital. Get that nose taken care of. In fact, I want you both to get head scans. Make sure there’s no hidden damage.”

  “Will do, boss.”

  “On the way, I want you to stop by the marina. You’ll find padlocks and spare anchor chain in the aft storage compartment of the VaVaVoom.”

  Gleb and Gary looked confused.

  Achilles wasn’t.

  He didn’t jump in with bargains or pleas. Both would be pointless and neither was his style. Intuitively, he felt that his best move was to hurry things along, to get himself alone with the two dazed bodyguards before the others regained their feet.

  “The chain is for our guest here,” Vazov said, gesturing toward Achilles. “Take him out far enough that you can’t see the shore—then show him the bottom.”

  70

  Ka-BOOM

  Venice Beach, California

  MICHAEL WAS BATTLING mixed emotions as the drone descended, its mission complete. He was thrilled that they’d secured $40 million, pissed that Ivan hadn’t informed him of the plan, and anxious that the walls were about to come crashing down around them.

  He was, however, better off than Boris.

  Boris was the designated driver for their new transport vehicle. He’d be behind the wheel when Pavel landed Raven in the back, presumably with police in hot pursuit. Or so Michael assumed. Ivan hadn’t yet ordered him back to the extermination truck.

  The other guys hadn’t said anything either, but Michael knew they were no less nervous.

  “We’re fifteen seconds from release,” Pavel said. “I trust I don’t need to point out that the instant Jenks is on the ground, we become vulnerable to all types of attack. Overt and covert. We have three choppers to contend with, and I’ve seen dozens of cruisers on the ground. Meanwhile, our battery life is down to twenty minutes, and it will take Boris five of those just to get back to the truck and retract two rotors.”

  “I’m well aware of all of that,” Ivan replied.

  “So what’s the plan?”

  “Up and out.”

  “Up and out?”

  “Up as high as you can take it, out over the ocean as far as it will fly. Ten miles or more would be optimal.”

  “Roger that,” Pavel said as they all wondered optimal for what?

  The four sat in silence until Pavel chimed in with the countdown. “Three, two, one, releasing. Jenks is clear.”

  Uproarious applause broke out all around the Tesla and across Venice Beach as the movie star landed in the sand. While he trotted back toward the barricade, raising one arm and then the other to wave at fans, Pavel complied with Ivan’s instructions.

  The helicopters responded in kind, moving to match Raven’s altitude while maintaining a defensive distance. No doubt they found the move baffling and were left wondering what to expect.

  They weren’t alone.

  At least for a few seconds.

  Then the clouds parted and Michael saw the light. “You’re planning to self-destruct.”

  “Of course.”

  “Way out over the ocean. So the components will get a saltwater scrubbing and the pieces will be hard to find.”

  “The pieces,” Boris repeated, his tone wrought with wonder. “That’s why you had me remove the hinging mechanisms. You didn’t want to leave any evidence that Raven could fold.”

  “And the truck,” Pavel said. “It’s nothing but a decoy. A misdirect. A red herring. It’s bloody brilliant!”

  “Did you expect anything less? Seriously. I do this every time. What’s a guy got to do to get you gals to stop worrying?”

  “I appreciate the misdirect, but I’d still rather we didn’t have the police involvement,” Michael said.

  “Or the public awareness,” Pavel added. “They make our job considerably more difficult.”

  “Really?” Ivan challenged.

  “Undoubtedly.”

  “And what is our job?”

  Pavel tilted his head quizzically. “Kidnap and ransom.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  Ivan shook his head. “You’re operating on the wrong level.”

  “On the wrong level?” Pavel repeated, slowly.

  “Think bigger.”

  “Think bigger?”

  Ivan looked from person to person. Nobody offered a guess. “Our job is making money. Transferring it from other peo
ple’s bank accounts into our bank accounts. The Sangster sacrifice and the Jenks job just made that a whole lot easier.”

  “They did?” Pavel asked.

  “How?” Boris asked.

  “We’ll come to that, but first things first.” Ivan motioned toward the Drone Command Module. All eyes went to the first screen, the one with the controls, the one with the red button. “Ka-BOOM!”

  71

  One Pop

  French Riviera

  FIRST, they snugged zip ties around his wrists. Right there in the polo club’s private dining room under the gaze of Vazov’s gun. Then they added ankle ties. Not like before, not a tight truss. Gleb used multiple ties to create a chain just long enough for Achilles to hobble.

  Vazov taunted him. “I must say, that looks pretty solid.”

  It was. Serious gymnastics would be required to overpower two captors with zip-tied hands and feet. Achilles was always up for those. Free-solo climbing was often the very definition of serious gymnastics. But elaborate acrobatics required room to move and time to act. He didn’t expect either to be forthcoming, much less both at the same time.

  They shoved him into the back of a black SUV and buckled him in the middle. Gleb took the wheel, while Gary kept a Sig trained on Achilles from the passenger seat. The setup reminded Achilles of a similar scene in Quentin Tarantino’s Pulp Fiction. The story didn’t turn out well for the man in back. Marvin lost his head to a bump in the road.

  Achilles tried to think of some angle to gain advantage. Some distraction or offer or countervailing concern. He came up blank. He’d just beaten the crap out of these guys. They wouldn’t be charitably inclined. And their boss was a sadistic billionaire. Hard to trump that.

  Achilles was familiar with Port Hercule, the famous Monte Carlo Marina. It was right in the middle of some the world’s most expensive real estate. Much too expensive for a large parking lot. It was also a beehive of tourist activity. A walk through that beehive was bound to offer opportunity to a bold man ready to grab it.

  Unfortunately, Gleb didn’t drive toward downtown Monte Carlo. He took an earlier exit toward Cap-d'Ail instead. Achilles watched with a sinking heart as they drove right into a smaller marina and parked within spitting distance of a glistening white 50-foot yacht with VaVaVoom painted on its hull.

  The two bodyguards surveyed the scene before opening their doors. While there was plenty of activity out on the road, the marina itself appeared tranquil.

  Gary kept a Sig poised to bark, while Gleb pulled Achilles out of the car. Then Gleb kept Achilles pressed against the hot black metal until Gary joined them. Without a word, the pair of wounded warriors grabbed an arm each and frog-marched Achilles up the gangplank onto the VaVaVoom.

  They wasted no time in manhandling Achilles below deck. Once out of sight, the bodyguards lifted his arms as high as they could go while bound behind his back, then higher. They kept pressing upwards until Achilles was forced to bend over. When they had his torso parallel with the ground, each swept a foot out from under him.

  Achilles went down hard, landing on his chest and chin. Gary kept Achilles’ arms held perpendicular to the ground but also stepped on his neck. Then Gary used his free hand to point his Sig at Achilles’ head. “This look solid to you?”

  “Looks solid to me. Keep him like that while I grab the chain.”

  It was solid. Too solid. Were it not for the gun, Achilles would have tried kicking for Gleb’s leg. But as it was, that would have been suicide.

  They kept him in that ultimate submissive position while Gleb bound his ankles with anchor chain. The bodyguard wrapped it around eight times, before fastening the ends with a heavy padlock. The click was as ominous as anything Achilles had ever heard.

  “That should do it,” Gleb said. “Go free the moorings. I’ll take the wheel.”

  They left him alone during cast-off. Achilles didn’t know if Gary would come right back or if he’d stay topside while they sailed out of sight of the land. Regardless, Achilles had to work fast. He needed a knife to free his hands and a sliver of metal to pick the lock. Neither was readily apparent.

  He was in the main room, a combination of kitchen and living room. It appeared to have two staterooms forward, and a third plus a toilet aft. By the time Achilles finished his survey, the engine was rumbling.

  Under normal conditions, a person can’t pull himself up onto his knees from a face down position with his arms tied behind his back. The leverage isn’t there. But the sixty pounds of steel wrapping his ankles changed the equation. It all came down to hamstring strength, and Achilles had plenty. From that kneeling position, he squatted backward until his thighs had the angle to power him to his feet.

  The yacht started moving.

  While face down on the floor, Achilles had held hope that he could shed the chains by shucking his polo boots, but once he assumed a standing position, it immediately became apparent that they were wrapped much too tight. Without wasting time on laments or curses, he hopped to the kitchen and began rummaging.

  The second drawer revealed a paring knife with a stained wooden handle and a blade that had endured a hundred sharpenings. He reverse palmed the knife and wriggled the blade beneath a zip tie, forcing it all the way to the hilt. Then he torqued. The tie resisted for a few strained seconds before popping all at once.

  Achilles didn’t pause to celebrate or rub his wrists. He didn’t remove the tie circling his other wrist. He moved directly to the padlock. It was a brass contraption with a hardened steel shackle. Prying it apart would take tremendous leverage. That left sawing and picking. Neither posed a problem for Achilles’ adept fingers, given the right tools.

  He didn’t have them.

  There was no pocket for paperclips in the back of polo pants, and he hadn’t wanted them worming around inside his boots, so he’d broken his habit and gone without. The drawers didn’t offer up replacements. They didn’t hold a hacksaw either.

  By this point the powerboat was racing across the water, rocking the hull with the thump-thump of conquered waves. At that speed, Achilles wouldn’t have long. Where to look next? He could search for bobby pins in the bathroom or try to find tools.

  He went for the tools, having seen where Gleb had gone for the chain.

  The supply closet lacked the fine finish of the rest of the yacht, but it served its purpose. Achilles’ eyes went straight to a yellow plastic toolbox on the bottom shelf. It didn’t have a hacksaw, but it held screwdrivers, pliers and a hefty hammer.

  Achilles removed the smallest slotted screwdriver and wedged the tip into the keyhole. Then he started pounding. He pounded straight and true. Gently until the screwdriver was seated, then letting loose with all his might. Once he had a good half-inch of penetration, he went to work with the pliers, trying to force the cylinder into submission.

  The chain tightened. He ignored it. The screwdriver flexed. He gripped harder. The cylinder snapped. He began to exhale, but stopped mid-puff. The shackle hadn’t popped open—and there were footfalls on the stairs.

  72

  Cascade

  Albuquerque, New Mexico

  WHEN YOU DRINK a really fine wine, the fulfillment is multifold. It begins with buying a four-figure bottle. The promise of prestige. The suggestion of sin. The twinkle in the sommelier’s eye. It continues as the senses are invited in. The cork pops, piquing the ears. The wine swirls, caressing the eyes. The aroma wafts, arousing the nose. All before that first magnificent taste tickles the tongue.

  Ivan enjoyed a similar symphony of satisfaction when implementing his plans. Each element contributed to a cascade of emotions that grew ever faster as it progressed toward the ultimate conclusion, an apex of enjoyment that only he could foresee.

  He felt that magical tingle while reaching for the MiMiC phone. An anticipatory rush. As with a thousand-dollar bottle of wine, however, he wasn’t entirely certain what to expect.

  He programmed his caller ID to display the Hoover Building’s switc
hboard. He could have used the Director’s office number or even Brix’s personal cell, but he figured the switchboard was the least likely to raise questions. With that virtual mask in place, he proceeded to dial Rip Zonder’s mobile number.

  Agent Zonder answered on the second ring. “Ripley Zonder.”

  Since Ivan wasn’t certain how the FBI Director addressed his subordinates, or what kind of relationship Rip had with Brix, he skipped the greeting, confident that MiMiC would do its job and Zonder would recognize Brix’s voice. “What the hell just happened?”

  “The drone self-destructed.”

  “You certain it wasn’t shot down?”

  “One hundred percent.”

  “So we lost our only lead.”

  “That’s one way to put it.”

  Ivan liked this guy. He had spunk. Too bad Ivan had to crash his career. “Do you have an alternative interpretation? One less likely to result in my standing before the Resolute Desk in the Oval Office with my pants around my ankles?”

  Zonder remained cool and composed. “We could claim victory. Report that the drone is no longer a threat.”

  “That’s one way to spin it. Might work too, if they don’t have another.”

  “No reason to think they do.”

  “But every reason to assume it.”

  “If you want to play it conservative, report that we ‘reduced the threat.’ ”

  Ivan let Zonder stew for a moment. “That’s worth considering. What will you get from the drone wreckage?”

  “It’s too early to say, but I’m not expecting much. Examination of the video revealed that the explosives were arranged to obliterate the device.”

  “Aren’t all explosives arranged to obliterate?”

  “Excuse me, I should have been more precise. Rather than using a single central repository that might have left the distal components intact, the engineer placed explosive charges on all four rotors plus the central housing. Each of the five appeared powerful enough to do the job alone. We’re not expecting to find anything bigger than a nickel.”