“Then maybe he likes her enough to reach out so we can help Fabian come in from the cold,” Dima said. “The rest, we’ll have to sort out later. Get on the feeds. Figure out where the man is going. If he wants to bring her in, we’re going to have to help him. And do it while you’re walking, people. We’re going mobile.”
Fabian clung to the seatbelt, as her body swayed and was pulled from side to side by massive g-forces. Mischa wrenched the car around corners, slamming the gear stick around and playing the foot pedals like a conductor, making the car cling to the road and hug turns and always, always, go faster.
His face was rigid as he juggled the car, judged the mass of pursuit vehicles behind them and took into account pedestrians and civilian vehicles—and even stray pets.
Overhead, even over the snarl of the engine, Fabian could hear at least two helicopters following them.
Mischa wrenched at the handbrake, while still keeping the engine revved, to pull them around another tight ninety-degree corner. He released the brake and roared forward.
Fabian was jerked forward in her seat, her chest compressing under the belt and her breath squeezing out. Then she slammed back into the seat, her head jerked back against the headrest, as inertia pressed her into the buttery soft leather.
She gasped, barely able to draw a full breath. “This is such a mess…” she breathed.
She didn’t think Mischa had heard her. Then he said, just loud enough to be heard, “Nietzsche said, ‘You must have chaos within you to give birth to a dancing star.” He glanced at her quickly. His mouth turned up at one corner. “You are about to be a star among your people.”
“I am?”
The car swayed and shook as he jerked the steering wheel to avoid a bunch of battered dumpsters. “If we survive this,” he muttered.
They had three rental cars. Scott assigned their two best drivers—Noah and Ren—to the other two cars and shoved earwigs in their hands. Scott took the wheel of Dima’s car himself.
Lochan sat beside Dima in the back seat, the souped-up laptop on his knees, trying to anticipate where Sokolov was going.
Through the burner phone attached to the car’s phone speaker, Dima could speak to Noah and Ren as needed.
“Use your navigator,” Scott told the other two drivers. “Parallel Sokolov and stay abreast with him, a block or two over, so you don’t get tangled up with the pursuit vehicles.”
“Easier said than done,” Noah said, sounding breathless. “The man is a lunatic. Nothing he does right now makes any sense.”
“Only one thing does,” Ren said from the other car. “It’s the old rally driver creed. Stay ahead, no matter what. He’s staying ahead. And damn, there’s another turn, I think. Wish we could trace the car electronically. That would make this a lot easier.”
“Jesus, to the left, into the center of the city,” Scott muttered, sounding as pissed as the other two drivers.
“Just stay with him,” Dima said.
“The entire fucking city of Kiev is trying to stay with him,” Agata pointed out from the front seat, as she clutched the dash with one hand and the back of her seat with the other. “They’re sucking at it, by the way.”
Dima glanced at Lochan, who frowned down at his computer as if he was sitting at a library carrel, completely undisturbed by the swearing and the frayed nerves.
“What’s his plan?” she muttered, more to herself than to Lochan. “He must have a plan. He wouldn’t have got into this without a plan for getting out. He wouldn’t have the balls to depend upon me to come up with one. He doesn’t know me.”
“But Fabian does,” Scott said over his shoulder. It was soft, meant only for her.
Lochan sat back, staring at the computer as if it would bite him if he moved.
“What is it?” Dima asked.
Lochan ran his palm very carefully over the top edge of the screen. “He’s going in circles.”
“What?” Scott cried, as he wheeled the steering wheel and hauled the sedan around in a sharp turn.
“Are you sure?” Dima said.
“It’s not obvious. It doesn’t show on the map at first glance,” Lochan said, “but he’s crossed the river an even number of times.”
Circles.
“The first time he crossed,” Dima said. “What bank was he on?”
“He was on the right bank, not far from the downtown core, when the police spotted him.”
“Something on that side…” She frowned. She didn’t know Kiev well at all. “What’s on this side? What is he moving around? What’s the center?”
“He’s turning again,” Ren’s voice called through the speaker.
“Which way?” Dima shouted.
“Left!”
Scott swore and stood on the brake and turned the car into the major intersection he’d almost crossed, taking the left hand road.
Lochan turned the laptop, showing her a map of the city, with an orange glowing line wriggling all over the city, in loops and spikes. Lochan moved his finger in a circle around the city, passing over the river at the top and bottom of the circle. “It trends into a circle…and the circle is growing smaller.”
“Bridges,” Dima said. “What bridge hasn’t he used, yet?”
Lochan pointed. “He’s on the north side of the city now, and he’s always moving in a smaller circle, so this bridge will be next.” He craned his neck to read the map. “The Metro bridge.”
Scott swore.
“Is that a problem?”
“It’s only the major bridge into the city,” he said. “Shit ton of traffic, trains, a complete bottle neck.”
“Can you get there before he does?” Dima asked. “Wait there for him?”
“You wanna bet on Lochan’s guess?”
“I have two other cars to spare. Get to the bridge, Scott. Fast as you can. If Lochan can spot a pattern, so will others, and soon.”
Scott hauled on the wheel once more, sending everyone sideways. “Well, on the bright side, I won’t get a speeding ticket. The cops are all too busy chasing Sokolov.” He tromped on the gas.
Even though his expression didn’t change, Fabian could tell that Mischa was worried. He glanced at the dashboard several times. As taking his eyes off the road for even a fraction of a second at the speed they were going was dangerous, it had to be something vital drawing his attention.
She didn’t want to trip him up with questions, so she watched for the next glance and tracked it.
He was looking at the clock.
“What is it about the time?”
“Too long,” he muttered. “Hang on.” He revolved the steering wheel with the heel of one hand, while he changed gears, braked and then accelerated. They had turned into a woody area, with trees on either side of the main road they were on. A railway line paralleled the road.
There were a lot of cars on the road.
“Too long?”
“We’ve been running too long,” Mischa said, weaving in and out of cars, with sharp swerves, hard surges forward. He used the horn a lot, too. “No chase can last forever. We’re running out of luck here. How soon before they throw caltrops on the road, or spiked chains or…” He shook his head. “By now they’ll have figured out a strategy.”
The trees ended abruptly, and the land fell away, as the car shot onto a low bridge. On the other side of the bridge was a low, flat island, then the road and the railway track rose up in a high curve, to an even bigger bridge that spanned the full width of the main tributary of the river.
Most of the cars ahead of them were swerving out of the way. Word had passed. They knew fugitives were running amok.
The Bentley climbed the slope of the bridge as if it were a perfectly flat runway, with no sign of effort. It shot over the crest and onto the downslope. On the other side of the river, Fabian could see the downtown core of the city, and the industrial areas to the south.
“They’ve cleared the bridge off,” Mischa said, his tone tight. “There’s nothing a
head. Look.”
“That’s where they’ll try to stop us?”
“They can try,” he said calmly.
They reached the land on the other side of the river, where a complicated interchange merged the traffic from the bridge with the main freeway running parallel with the river, to run past the downtown core.
A great many cars were pulled over to the hard verges of the freeway, some of them the white Kiev police cars, their lights revolving.
Some of the passengers had got out of their cars to watch the chase rush past them.
Fabian slapped her hand against the window glass as a green Ford flashed by. “That was Dima!”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, yes. She looked straight at me! It was her.” Fabian twisted to look back over her shoulder along the side of the car and the verge behind them. “And now she’s getting into the car. And that’s Scott at the wheel, I’m sure of it.”
“Scott Belo?” Mischa asked.
“It’s scary that you know his name.”
“I also know he’s a good driver. Okay,” Mischa said grimly, with a tone that said he’d made a decision. He veered the car toward the next exit. There were civilian cars in a long line, blocking the exit. Fabian drew in a sharp breath.
Mischa calmly steered around them, flashing through a space between one car and the sharp concrete divider that separated the exit ramp from the main freeway, and onto the ramp itself. To her, it had looked as though there was not enough room.
The ramp ran downward and curved to the right. The Bentley took the curve, hugged it, swaying on its suspension.
The road ahead was busy. This one had not been prepared by the police. For the first time, Mischa slowed—just a little. He weaved and dodged, braked and geared down to shoot forward.
Then he began taking turns.
Ahead of them, Fabian could see the city towers. The towers and buildings were falling away to their right. Mischa was heading southwest and would skim past the congested city center.
As they flashed through an intersection, Fabian caught a glimpse of moving green from the corner of her eyes and peered down the road. “I can’t be positive, but I think Scott’s car is paralleling us, a block over.”
Mischa nodded. He seemed pleased. “Standard flanking deployment. Good.” He glanced in the mirror.
Fabian didn’t need to look behind to know that the vehicles chasing them were only a few hundred yards behind.
Yet as they turned and turned and wound ever deeper into the area south of the city core, the vehicles fell behind.
Fabian stared at the view through the side mirror, suspicion building. “Have you been…I don’t know…going slow, up until now?”
“Yes.”
Her mouth opened.
“I didn’t want to lose them, until I needed to lose them.” He glanced in the mirror. “That should do it,” he decided. The car surged forward, rocketing along the street so that trees and buildings and side streets were almost a blur. “It’s time,” he said. “Undo your seat belt.”
“What?”
“Yes, and I’ll need your leg brace.”
[17]
South of Pechers'kyi District, Kiev.
“He’s switched again!” Noah’s voice warned through the speaker.
Scott had stopped swearing a while ago. Now he just grimly drove. Agata navigated, watching for the black Bentley and directing when it changed direction.
“And again!” Ren cried. “Other way!”
Dima hung on to the back of Scott’s seat. Lochan had folded up his laptop and now sat like Agata, with a hand braced at the front and back. Seat belts didn’t help against the wild movements of the car.
“He’s shaking everyone off,” Scott said. “They’re way behind us now.”
“Stay with him as long as you can,” Dima said.
“He’s going too fast, even for a good driver. One mistake and it’s all over…”
“I think he might even be trying to shake us,” Ren said. “Slippery bastard.”
“Fabian only saw the one car,” Dima pointed out.
“He’d guess we have more,” Lochan said. “I would.”
“Shit! Lost him!” Ren declared.
“Noah?” Scott called.
“Damn, damn, damn…” Noah muttered.
Scott slowed down. “Agata?”
“Looking!” She turned her head, peering down sideroads and elegant tree-lined boulevards. “Fuck! There! I just saw black, moving fast.” She pointed.
Scott sprayed gravel and pebbles, as he took the corner at a speed which threatened to lift the car onto two wheels. “Glad we have a full load,” he muttered and floored it. They shot down the quiet little street. The sun glinted on structures ahead, where the trees ended.
“Stop, stop, stop!” Agata cried, slapping at the dash for emphasis. “Stop now!”
Scott took his foot off the gas and stood upon the clutch and brake, controlling the skid with minute corrections on the steering wheel.
Then Dima saw what had freaked Agata out. A silvery new chain-link fence stretched across the road, barring the way forward. There was a neat sign off to one side. The road ended at the fence. Unadorned dirt laid ahead.
Scott swore as the car failed to slow fast enough. At the last second, he spun the wheel. The car skidded, turning in a slow curve until it came to a halt with barely an inch between the side of the car and the fence. The engine coughed and died.
“There!” Agata said, pointed through the windscreen and the fence, too.
The chain-link fence guarded a small industrial complex, with administrative buildings and plant-type complexes with smokestacks belching smoke.
The Bentley screamed toward the plant. Workers in hard hats sprinted for their lives away from the vehicle.
“Too fast, too fast,” Scott muttered.
“Oh shit, the liquid gas tanks…” Agata breathed.
The Bentley headed directly for a row of white oil tanks, all with the universal warning signs of flammable liquids—a red triangle with yellow flames licking up toward the apex.
Dima clutched at the seat, her fingers digging in. Nothing could be done. She couldn’t reach out and halt the car. She couldn’t shout a command and be obeyed. It was beyond her control.
With a chill in her middle, she watched the black nose of the Bentley slam into the first tank at full speed. The Bentley crumpled.
So did the tank.
Then, with a deep rumble and a roar, the tank exploded. Black smoke and flames climbed up three hundred feet into the sky. They enveloped the tank and the remains of the Bentley.
The helicopters hovered overhead, capturing every lick of the flames.
A siren wailed inside the plant. Red lights revolved. From inside the plant, a truck emerged, with a flashing yellow light. A man in a silver environmental suit standing on the back of the truck held a fire-fighting type hose, which sprayed white foam all over the other two tanks.
No one spoke. They just watched.
Dima pressed her hand to her heart. It was actually hurting.
The tap on the window right beside her shoulder nearly shot her through the roof. She slapped her hand over her mouth and spun to peer through the glass. None of them had thought to keep watching over their shoulders.
It was Fabian. She was in the arms of a blond-haired man with a hard mouth and a solid jaw.
Sokolov.
Scott swore and fumbled at the door handle, trying to open it.
Dima opened her window.
Fabian gave her a small smile. “Is there room for two more?”
Scott opened the door and nearly fell out. “The fuck…!” he breathed, almost shouting it. He’d been badly shocked.
Sokolov glanced at him. “Belo,” he said shortly.
“You r-rigged the fucking car!” Scott spluttered.
“With my leg brace on the gas pedal,” Fabian added. “Then we sort of rolled out of the car, as it picked up speed. Onl
y now I can’t do anything but shuffle with my leg dragging, so…” She looked up at Sokolov. “By the way, this is Mischa. Mischa…everyone.”
Dima pulled herself together. She leaned between the seats. “Ren, Noah, did you copy that?”
“Still absorbing it, but yeah,” Noah said.
“Unbelievable,” Ren added.
“Get the hell out of here. As soon as I have a destination, I’ll let you know on the blackboard. Go.” She sat back. “Scott, get in the car. Lochan, swap seats with Agata. She doesn’t take up as much room. You two,” she added, to Fabian and Sokolov. “Get in the car now.”
“Yes, sir,” Sokolov murmured. His expression didn’t change, although Dima got the impression he was smiling.
[18]
Stari Petrivtsi. Four hours later.
Stari Petrivtsi was a riverside resort an hour north of Kiev. It was busy, for the long weekend saw an influx of people looking to escape the city for a day or two. Three more cars full of people raised no eyebrows at all.
“There won’t be a single hotel with a room anywhere,” Scott warned, as they drove down the main street passed hotels and bars and cafes still open and still doing brisk business. He scowled at Mischa in the mirror.
Mischa didn’t react, as far as Fabian could tell. “Turn left at the next intersection,” he said. “I know a place.”
“That will take people at eleven at night?” Scott demanded.
“Turn left,” Mischa replied.
Scott turned left. “Left at Zhovtneva Street,” he said to Noah and Ren, driving the other two cars. They were farther behind, so the three cars did not look like a parade.
The bright lights and busy-ness of the main street retreated. Old homes with neat yards were on either side.
“The big house on the right,” Mischa said.
“A private house?” Scott protested. “This isn’t some friend of yours the police will naturally think to ask if they’ve seen you?”
Heart Strike Page 14
