Billy searches for the Renault in the darkness.
There. It’s close, about ten metres away —
The van’s headlights cut across the roadway.
‘Down.’ Both men drop flat to the ground. The white van rolls by—and doesn’t stop. They clearly didn’t see the Renault. Billy whispers to the Frenchman: ‘Good call on the parking.’
‘Merci.’
They wait until the van is out of earshot, find their feet, quickly move to the Renault and slide inside. In a flash Billy pulls out, drags the car into a sharp U-turn then drives after the van, again without headlights on.
The Frenchman peers out the windscreen at the road ahead. ‘Drifting, drifting to the right.’
‘Yep, got it.’ Billy corrects the Renault’s trajectory, keeps it in the middle of the road. ‘Man this is tricky.’ He leans forward, wills his eyes to adjust to the darkness. It takes a moment before he can see in the dark, then a couple more before he can see the van in the distance. He slows the hatchback, doesn’t want to get too close, then checks the rear-view mirror to make sure some poor sucker isn’t about to rear-end him. Fortunately the road is both dark and empty behind.
Billy turns to Claude. ‘You saw all three of them get into the van, right?’
The Frenchman isn’t sure. ‘I think so.’
‘You think so?’
‘They were on the other side when they got it —’
Smash. The Renault’s rear window explodes from a bullet hit.
‘Shit!’ Billy ducks his head and accelerates.
~ * ~
‘Faster!’ Senna holds a pistol out the open passenger-side window of the BMW and aims at the Renault.
Schumacher accelerates. The BMW catches the Renault quickly, its hood in line with the left rear panel.
Senna aims the pistol again and pulls the trigger.
~ * ~
Boom. The Renault’s rear left wheel explodes.
The car slides over the shoulder of the road and Billy knows there’s nothing he can do to stop the inevitable. ‘Hold on!’
Claude grabs the door handle as the right rear wheel rim digs into the soft earth and the hatchback is launched into a roll.
Oh baby this is bad.
One, two, three —
The car rolls across the road towards the BMW —
Four, five, six —
Crunch. The Renault clips its right rear panel and the Bimmer is knocked onto its two left wheels. The car balances there for a moment, like it’s part of a stunt-driving performance at a country fete, then slumps onto one side, grinds along the gravel and tips onto its roof.
Thwump. The Renault lands on its wheels in the middle of the road.
It is silent.
‘Haaa.’ Billy comes too with a start.
He shakes himself awake, then performs a quick inventory of limbs as he always does after a rollover. All seem to be in place and in working order. Thankfully the car’s right side up. Though the actual experience did not improve the second time around, at least he’s walking away from this one, so he can chalk that up as a success. He glances at the Frenchman. ‘How’re we doing over there?’
Claude’s eyes blink open. He’s groggy. ‘That was even less fun than the panther.’
‘You okay?’
He winces. ‘My right knee’s not feeling fantastic but apart from that I’m just wonderful.’
Billy peers through the shattered windscreen. A figure limps away from the BMW. The Australian grins, pushes on his door which creaks open two feet then he turns to the Frenchman. ‘This won’t take long. You okay to wait here?’
Claude nods. ‘I’m going to take a gentleman’s interlude.’
‘Try not to drool on anything while I’m gone.’
Claude grins through the pain. ‘I’ll do my best.’
Billy squeezes out of the car and looks at it. It has been destroyed. He turns and locks eyes on the limping figure in the middle of the road fifteen metres away.
It’s Schumacher.
Light glows from a phone in his hand as he works the screen. He must be trying to contact someone. Billy strides towards him, his dress shoes crunching on the gravel. He approaches the inverted BMW, draws his weapon and peers into the cabin. There’s no one inside.
The Australian continues towards Schumacher, stops two metres away and points the weapon at his back. ‘Right there, mate. Interpol. Phone on the ground, hands above your head, turn around slowly.’
Schumacher complies, places the phone on the ground and slowly turns to Billy with hands raised. The Australian nods at the helmet. ‘Take it off.’
This time Schumacher does not comply.
Billy steps forward and aims the pistol at the helmet visor. ‘Now.’
Schumacher takes a moment, then undoes the chinstrap, grabs the helmet by the sides and lifts it off.
~ * ~
24
The world spins.
Billy feels lightheaded. For a split second he thinks he may have suffered a concussion during the rollover and is now experiencing a delayed reaction. He closes his eyes, takes a breath, steadies himself, then opens his eyes and looks back at the now helmet-less Schumacher.
It is Franka.
Franka is Schumacher?
But how is that possible?
‘No. I saw you before the robbery in Malaysia. You were on pit road, nowhere near the Petronas Towers. And before the heist in Abu Dhabi you were sitting right in front of me. You can’t be part of it —’
‘Billy, stop.’ It’s clear she’s equally shocked to see him.
He realises something. ‘There are more than three of you, aren’t there?’
She doesn’t answer because the beam from a set of headlights splashes across the roadway. She glances behind her. The white van is two hundred metres away and approaching quickly. She turns back to Billy. ‘You need to go.’
‘What? I’m not going anywhere. You’re under arrest.’ He can’t believe he’s saying the words.
‘No. You can’t be here when that van arrives.’ She steps towards him, her expression grim, her voice shaking. ‘You will die on this road. I won’t be able to stop it.’
He recoils. ‘Who the fuck are you people?’
‘It’s a long story. I just—I don’t want anything to happen to you.’
‘Why is there a bomb in that van?’
She’s surprised and relieved he knows. ‘They’re planning something at the race tomorrow.’
‘Planning what?’
‘I don’t know details. They’ve cut me out of the loop because I don’t agree with what they’re doing. You need to stop the race, or warn people to stay away because I think it will be terrible —’
‘Get away from her!’
Billy pivots, sees Senna stagger unsteadily towards him from the shoulder of the road, pistol raised.
Zeeert. Senna convulses and slumps to the ground—to reveal Claude. He holds up his Taser X26c and grins. ‘Cool beans.’
The Australian is stunned. ‘Thank you.’
The Frenchman grins. ‘What are partners for?’ A moment passes. ‘Did I use “cool beans” correctly?’
Billy shakes his head. ‘Not even close.’
The road illuminates. The Australian pivots, sees the white van speed towards them, headlights blazing. It’s just fifty metres away.
Frantic, Franka turns to Billy. ‘You need to go now —’
Bam bam bam. Muzzle flashes from the van’s driver-side window light up the night.
Thud, thud thud. Bullets ricochet off the gravel beside the Australian’s feet as he scrambles towards the upturned BMW.
Bam bam bam. Billy returns fire.
Thud thud thud. Bullets thump into the van as it skids to a stop on the gravel beside the BMW.
The Australian finds Claude behind it. ‘How’s the knee?’
‘Throbbing.’
‘Well you b
etter grit your teeth because we need to run.’ Billy points towards the tree line five metres away. ‘Ready?’
‘Not really but let’s do it anyway.’
‘Stay low and be silent.’ They turn and plunge into the brush, run hard.
Bam bam bam zip zip zip. Bullets shred foliage. Billy pushes Claude down then dives to the ground beside him, takes cover behind a fallen tree trunk that isn’t as large as he’d like it to be.
Silence.
They lie still, the only sound their breathing and the gentle rustle of wind in the leaves above. Billy raises his head, peers through the foliage. On the roadway Franka helps a groggy Senna to his feet as the guy wearing the Hunt helmet scans the forest with his visor raised. He has an Uzi in his hand.
That is a serious piece of kit, an Israeli made sub-machine gun that can fire ten nine-millimetre rounds a second. Billy could take a shot at him, should take a shot at him, but doesn’t. Not only would the muzzle flash give away their position but Franka is just behind the guy. If the bullet missed or ricocheted she could be hit.
And, in spite of everything, I don’t want that.
Christ, Franka. Will she double-cross him and tell her partners who he is? And who the hell are her partners anyway? And are Juan and Kurt involved?
Franka finishes loading Senna into the vehicle, then calls to Hunt: ‘Come on, he needs a doctor.’
Billy takes that as a good sign. If she was going to double-cross him she wouldn’t be saying they need to leave, would she?
Who the hell knows?
From the euphoria of their first date at the La Dolce Vita Ball to this epic clusterfuck all in the space of an hour. It’s extremely disappointing.
What’s even more disappointing is that Hunt doesn’t want to leave. He just stares into the forest, Uzi in hand. Billy waits for him to spray the trees with another burst of gunfire—which is exactly what he does.
Bam bam bam zip zip zip. Bullets shred the foliage.
~ * ~
The Uzi’s magazine runs dry.
Hunt turns back to the van, pulls open the driver-side door, swings inside, and glances at Franka in the back. She stares out the windscreen at the dark forest, a stricken expression on her face. ‘Why are you crying?’
‘Oh.’ Franka wipes at her eyes, only now aware of the tears, and lies: ‘I’m just worried about. . .’ She nods at Senna who lays on the floor behind her.
‘Don’t worry, we’ll get him to a doc asap.’ Hunt cranks the van’s engine to life, pulls it into a tight turn and drives off. ‘I’m sure he’ll be all right.’
She nods again, lost in thought. ‘Yes, I hope so.’
~ * ~
Billy watches the van drive away, keeps his eyes on the road until the glow from the tail-lights is no longer visible. He then turns to Claude. ‘You okay?
Frenchman stares at him blankly ‘Define your terms.’
Billy grins.
‘Now, do you mind telling me what’s going on?’
~ * ~
Franka is frantic but can’t let it show.
Did Hunt shoot Billy? She tried to get him back into the van but instead he just opened fire.
What if Billy’s injured? What if he needs help?
She must text him, find out if he’s okay. She draws out her iPhone, swipes it open and taps out a four-letter text.
R U OK?
She sends it.
‘Is he okay?’
Startled, Franka looks up at Hunt. ‘What?’
Hunt pulls off his helmet. It’s Kurt. He nods at Senna. ‘Is he okay?’
‘Hold on.’ Franka eases off Senna’s helmet. It’s Juan. She quickly checks him. ‘He’s out cold, but he’s breathing fine and his pulse is strong. Must have hit his head when he fell.’
‘But he was wearing a helmet.’
‘So was Michael Schumacher the last time he went skiing.’
Kurt nods in understanding. ‘What happened back there?’
‘They were following your van. Juan shot out one of their tyres. The car flipped, clipped ours and we went over too.’
‘So who was that guy? I didn’t get a good look at him.’
She plays dumb and shakes her head. ‘Didn’t see him clearly.’ She has to hope that if and when Juan comes around he didn’t recognise Billy either.
‘Why did Juan fall?’
Again, she plays dumb. ‘Didn’t see.’
‘You didn’t see much, did you?’
‘It was dark. It happened quickly. He was twenty metres away.’ She realises she needs to change the subject. ‘Thanks for coming back.’
‘Of course.’
She now wishes she hadn’t texted Kurt and asked him to come back for her. Then the dumb bastard wouldn’t have sprayed the forest with bullets and she wouldn’t be so worried about Billy.
She can’t believe the night turned out like this. She cannot catch a break. She was hoping that after tomorrow she’d finally be able to escape the others and the life they had coerced her into. For one shining moment at the ball tonight she could see the life she’d wanted and thought it just might be possible with Billy.
Well, it’s not possible, Frankie, it’s not possible at all.
Not with the cop who’s been following them since, when? Melbourne? Surely it was Billy who chased them along Collins Street? And across the golf course in Kuala Lumpur? And down the slopes of Ski Dubai?
Christ, you sure know how to pick ‘em, sweetheart.
At least there’s one positive to come out of this. Franka made Billy aware of what’s happening tomorrow and, hopefully, that means he might be able to get the race cancelled, or at least minimise the number of innocent people in harm’s way. She had planned to make an anonymous call but to have an Interpol cop on the case will be a lot more effective.
If he’s still alive.
She checks her phone to see if he has replied to her text.
He has not.
~ * ~
Billy and Claude lie in the forest for half an hour before they stand, concerned Hunt and his Uzi could be parked just up the road waiting for them. Then, when they do find their feet, they don’t move back to the main road but walk through the forest, just to be sure nobody can see them. It takes twice as long but it’s a whole lot safer.
When they reach the edge of the forest they turn right and set off towards Monaco. Again they stay within the trees that line the roadside and keep out of sight. Along the way Billy tells Claude what Franka said on the road. He also fills him in about his theory that there are more than three members of the Three Champions.
The Frenchman takes it in with a nod. ‘It make sense. Explains you seeing Kurt at the mall after the Tiffany’s heist, and Franka before the Petronas Towers job. So who are the others?’
Billy shakes his head. ‘Didn’t get an answer but I’m thinking Kurt and Juan. If I had her phone number I’d call her. She has mine but I don’t have hers.’
‘Have you checked to see if she’s contacted you?’
‘No, but it hasn’t buzzed.’ Billy pulls his iPhone out of his back pocket. ‘Oh come the fuck on! I just got this thing.’ She hasn’t contacted him because his phone didn’t survive the rollover. It looks even worse than the one he shattered at Ski Dubai. ‘Christ. How’s yours?’
Claude draws out his phone. It’s pristine.
‘I wanna swap SIM cards, see if she called.’
Claude passes it over and Billy instantly realises it won’t work. ‘Yours is a 4S, mine’s a 5S. They have different-sized SIM cards. Fuck-a-doodle-do.’
‘Sorry, I don’t upgrade that often.’ Claude takes his phone back. ‘So what did she say about the bomb, exactly?’
‘She didn’t know details except to say it would happen during the race tomorrow and it would be terrible.’
‘It will be.’ Just thinking about the weapon gives the Frenchman pause. ‘So, what? We try to cancel the race?’
&n
bsp;
Quick Page 27
