Destiny

by David Wood

  “He’s Russian,” Tam said.

  He risked a quick glance over at her, found her staring intently through the windshield at the array of lights then brought his attention back to the chase. “Sanctioned or free-lancer?”

  “Not sure of his current status, but he’s seen some action. Spetsnaz. Maybe FSB. There’s a revolving door between the Russian government and the mob, so there’s no telling who he’s working for. But he’s definitely a true believer. Spouted all the usual talking points. ‘The sun is setting on the American empire,’ that sort of stuff. He even mentioned Destiny.”

  A hundred yards away, the target vehicle became visible as the driver changed lanes. “Got him.” Greg accelerated forward, closing the gap by half before nudging his way into the same lane. “The Dominion working with the Russians. That’s new.”

  New, but not surprising. With the fall of the Communist Old Guard and the resurgence of the Orthodox Church, Russia had seen its own brand of the kind of religious zealotry that had fueled the rise of the Dominion in America and Western Europe. If anything, under the authoritarian rule of its current president, Russia was already well on its way to becoming the kind of intolerant theocratic dictatorship that the Dominion craved.

  Tam just nodded, evidently lost in thought. Ahead the highway split, with through traffic in the leftmost lanes passing under a bridge span while the right-hand lanes rose onto an elevated ramp. Their quarry took the exit, threading between two congested lanes without slowing. Greg saw sparks of friction as the car literally scraped through the narrow gap.

  Mindful of Tam’s aversion to profanity, he bit back a curse and steered into the slot. There was a sickening crunch as the passenger side mirror was torn out by the roots and pulverized. Greg grimaced but resisted the urge to steer away since there was nowhere to go. Tam, thankfully, offered no reproof.

  Noise erupted all around them—horns honking and brakes screeching—as the escaping car cut through the cross-traffic and turned left onto the bridge. Greg, taking advantage of the disruption, punched the gas pedal and slipped through, the intersection closing the gap a little bit more. The other car was less than fifty yards away, with no other vehicles between them, but before Greg could seize the opportunity, they were across the bridge. The other car shot across one intersection and then immediately veered right, down a street that was lined with parked cars and tall brick buildings that looked like apartments. Unlike the main roads on which they had traveled thus far, the pavement here was covered in a partially frozen white slush, broken only by a few tire tracks. A block away, the road passed under an elevated railroad. Greg could see little of what lay beyond, but his sense was that their prey was leaving the more heavily trafficked areas behind.

  “Where’s this joker going?” he muttered.

  “Careful,” Tam warned, raising her Makarov. “He might be trying to lead us into an ambush.”

  They passed beneath the old stone arch that supported the train tracks. There were a few more buildings and parked cars. Beyond that the road vanished into the dark woods of an urban park, but above the treetops, Greg could see brightly colored lights, flashing like the world’s biggest Christmas display.

  Two hundred feet ahead of them, the single working taillight flared brightly as the driver stepped on the brake, bringing the car to a complete stop. Greg also applied his brakes, pressing the pedal firmly. The anti-lock braking system applied just enough pressure to the brake pads to slow the wheels without locking them up and causing him to lose control. The car came to a halt about fifty feet from the other car, where two men—one on either side—were already getting out, aiming pistols at them.

  Tam’s door was open before they stopped. She slid out of her seat and went prone on the slushy ground. As the car used up the last of its momentum to coast past her, she came up in a crouch directly behind it and started firing.

  Greg hunched low in his seat even as the first rounds started cracking into the windshield. Tam’s Makarov barked several times and then there was silence. He raised his head quickly, just for a moment, but long enough to see one motionless figure sprawled out on the ground beside the open driver’s door of the other car, and another figure running into the woods.

  Tam was up, moving cautiously with her pistol still trained on the fallen man. She was also limping.

  “I’m going after him,” Greg shouted. He burst from the car and gave chase. The fleeing man had already vanished into the trees, but a series of dark spots in the snow—footprints—marked the route he had taken.

  Greg plunged into the woods, his left hand extended ahead of him at eye level to protect his face from an unexpected run-in with a low hanging tree branch, the other gripping his Beretta nine-millimeter pistol. Under the dark boughs, the snow glowed with a faint surreal blue light that offered nothing in the way of illumination but nevertheless showed him the way forward. Over the crunch of his steps and the pounding of his heart, he heard strange sounds, machines and music, screams and laughter. The noise grew louder, even as the woods thinned out, and then, without warning, the trail of footprints ended at a slushy footpath trod by hundreds of other feet.

  Greg looked up and discovered the source of both the noise and the crazy lights. He was standing at the edge of a carnival midway, lined with roller coasters, bumper cars, parachute rides and crowded with hundreds, maybe thousands of people.

  He quickly stuffed his pistol back into its hidden holster then spoke into the concealed microphone. “Lost him. There’s some kind of amusement park here.”

  Avery’s voice came over the line. “Not just any amusement park. You’re in the Prater. It’s practically the original amusement park. It’s been in operation since the mid-eighteenth century.”

  Greg wondered if that was supposed to mean something, but then he glimpsed an enormous Ferris wheel off to this left, and something clicked. “I’ve seen this place before. It was in a James Bond movie.” He contemplated this for a moment, then added. “I don’t think he wound up here by accident. This was part of the plan.”

  “It’s a rendezvous,” Tam said in his ear. She was panting, breathless. “He’s going to hand off the Spear. I’m headed your way.”

  Greg scanned the crowd, looking for some indication of a disturbance, someone pushing through the crowd, or anyone who seemed less than thrilled by the energy and excitement of the midway. His gaze came back to the brightly lit Ferris wheel which towered above the park, at least two hundred feet high with red gondolas that looked like train cars.

  I could see the whole park from up there, he thought.

  He started in the direction of the wheel, walking fast, but not so fast that it might draw the attention of the Russian or any of his accomplices. Several of the rides and exhibits were shuttered—evidently, water rides were less popular in the dead of winter—but there was still plenty of fun to be had by those willing to bundle up and brave the cold. Greg pushed through the milling masses, mostly young people and children in brightly colored winter clothes, and a few minutes later reached the gigantic steel A-frame that supported the wheel ride, which according to the sign, was called the “Wiener Riesenrad.” A metal staircase led up to a surprisingly almost-deserted loading platform. Evidently, aside from the view, the ponderously turning big wheel had little to offer thrill-seekers who were primed for the park’s more exciting attractions.

  He froze as he spied a stocky man with a shaved head, dressed entirely in black, heading into one of the wheel’s trailer-sized viewing cabins. Half a dozen other people filed into the cabin with him though none of them seemed the least bit interested in their lone black-clad fellow rider. Greg knew better. There was only one reason why the thief would have boarded that cabin, and it wasn’t to take in the view of the city skyline. At least one of the other passengers was there for the same reason.

  He keyed his mic. “He’s getting on the Ferris wheel. I’m going to follow him on.”

  “Too risky.”

  “He doesn’t k
now me. This might be our only chance to identify his accomplices.”

  “Greg. Wait for me.”

  Greg ignored the order. He shoved a ten euro note through the ticket window but as he started up the stairs, the attendant closed the door and signaled the operator. Greg struggled to hide his ire. The Russian was almost certainly going to pass the stolen Spear to a Dominion agent in the next few minutes, and the only chance of identifying the co-conspirator was to witness the hand-off.

  The wheel rotated slowly, lifting the occupied cabin high above his head. Greg knew what he had to do. The next cabin descended to the level of the platform, and the attendant opened the door for him. Greg took one last look up at the car occupied by the Russian, some forty feet away, and then went in. He had the car entirely to himself, and with no one else waiting to board the ride, once the wheel began moving, it did not stop. The Riesenrad was not built with speed and thrills in mind. Greg had been on escalators that moved faster, but he doubted the Russian would waste any time in handing off his prize.

  He left the cabin light turned off to conceal his activities from anyone who might happen to be looking up at the wheel, and opened one of the windows that faced toward the hub. A blast of icy air, much colder than what he had felt at ground level, rushed through the cabin, but the exertion of chasing after the Russian, coupled with the nervous excitement of what he was about to do, quickly counteracted the chilling effect. He squeezed through the opening and hoisted himself up and over the sill, then reached up to the top of the cabin and pulled himself onto the gently curving roof just as the car reached the quarter-turn mark.

  The cabin with the Russian in it had already moved above him and was now on the opposite side, so there was little chance of being noticed by them, but that would change in a matter of seconds. Greg low-crawled across the roof to the swivel arm, which extended off the wheel and allowed the car to swing free as it moved through its rotation. The wheel itself was made of steel beams with zigzagging struts and a spider’s web of guy wires for additional structural support.

  His original plan had been to use the struts like a ladder, but before he could do so, the turning of the wheel gave him an oblique view of the interior of the other cabin. It was lit from inside, and in that brief glimpse, he saw that all the car’s occupants were facing away from the view, their attention fixed on the Russian burglar.

  They were all working with him.

  Greg thought about trying to take a photo of them using his phone but knew the opportunity had already slipped away. His own car was nearly at the top of the rotation, and the other car was already descending. If he wanted a clear picture, he would have to get a lot closer.

  He edged out onto the wheel frame, careful to keep his feet pointing down. The frigid metal was leeching the heat from his skin, the cold working its way into his bones, but he ignored the discomfort and kept moving. In just a few seconds, as the rotation progressed, he would go from being almost horizontal to completely vertical, and it wouldn’t do at all to be oriented head-down when that happened. The struts and wires were like the monkey bars on a playground, enabling him to scoot along, adjusting his position easily to compensate for the constant shift in his center of gravity, and in just a few seconds, he reached the support arm for the car with the other riders. Slowly, so as not to betray his presence, he crawled out onto the roof of the car, lying flat to distribute his weight and maintain a good purchase.

  A tremor rippled through the cabin as the wheel came to an abrupt stop. The cabin rocked back and forth gently beneath him. The unexpected halt did what contact with the cold metal could not; Greg felt the blood in his veins turn to ice water. Had someone spotted him? He lay motionless, pressed flat atop the curved roof, listening for the shouts that would confirm his worst suspicions, but after about thirty seconds in which nothing remarkable happened, he risked a look down.

  A hundred feet below, a young couple was leaving the car at the bottom of the wheel.

  Greg let out a sigh of relief and brought his thoughts back to the task at hand. He dared not risk trying to lower himself over the side to look through the windows and thankfully, he did not have to. He fished his mobile phone from a pocket and activated its video camera mode. Gripping the phone tightly between fingers that were already too numb to feel much of anything, he eased his arm out over the edge and lowered it until the camera was pointing into the interior of the car.

  From his precarious perch, he could barely see what was displayed on the screen, just a bright image with a few dark shadows visible. If the occupants of the cabin were looking the wrong way, his efforts would be for naught, but if he captured just one or two faces, it might give them a loose thread to tug on and follow back to the Dominion cell behind Destiny. He tilted the camera from side to side, panning the interior for what seemed like several minutes.

  The car shuddered again as the wheel started moving. Greg snatched the phone back, fearful of losing his grip on it, and clutched it to his chest for a few seconds. After a couple calming breaths, he tapped the display screen to stop recording and then hit the playback button.

  The results were better than he could have hoped for, showing several of the faces arrayed around the stocky Russian. Greg did not recognize any of them but felt certain that facial recognition software would be able to supply at least a few names. There was no audio, but the resolution was probably good enough that a talented lip reader might be able to shed light on what was being said.

  The wheel brought the cabin back to the loading platform but did not stop to debark its passengers. Evidently, ten euro bought more than just one rotation. Greg covered the screen to minimize his chances of being spotted by anyone on the ground, but did not stop watching. As the car started climbing again, he saw the objective view shift to one side then the other, capturing more of the faces of the men directly below him. The image then went dark, signaling the moment where he had pulled the phone back up.

  Perfect, he thought. Yet, as he was about to forward the recording to Avery, something about the final few seconds began nagging at his consciousness.

  The car began swinging again, almost violently, yet the wheel was still turning, and in that instant, Greg realized what was bothering him. The last thing he had seen before the screen went black was a tableau of faces, all of them, even those who had initially been turned away. They were all visible. They were all looking right at the camera.

  They saw me.

  He looked up just in time to see a dark shape heave itself onto the roof of the cabin. Although it was much too dark to distinguish any recognizable features, the uniformly black clothing confirmed Greg’s suspicions. It was the Russian, and he had a pistol.

  Greg scrambled back, a reflexive action that almost caused him to tumble off the cabin roof, but also saved his life. The Russian’s gun was equipped with a suppressor—no visible flash and the noise of the discharge was barely audible over the mechanical creaking of the wheel ride—but Greg felt the disturbance of the bullets zipping through the air right above him.

  There was nowhere to flee to, nowhere to take cover, so Greg did the only other thing he could think to do. He went on the offensive, springing forward in a low dive that would, he hoped, knock the man off balance, and maybe even sweep him off the car.

  As if anticipating the move, the Russian shifted away, and then gave Greg a hard shove. Greg scrabbled for a handhold but his numb fingers found no purchase, and then, suddenly there was nothing at all beneath him.

  CHAPTER 11

  Stone let out a low groan as Sievers’ shoulder drove up into his abdomen. The jolts from the Taser had not rendered him unconscious. The electrical shock weapon was designed to overload the body’s own neuro-electrical system, causing all the large skeletal muscles to violently seize, exhausting the supply of chemical fuel in the muscle fibers and leaving a victim in a state of quivering exhaustion, but still wide awake. Stone had heard every word of the exchange between Kasey and Sievers, though he had been
unable to offer as much as a whimper of protest.

  The effect, thankfully, was short-lived.

  “Sievers!” He tried to shout, but it sounded more like a croak.

  “Don’t worry, boss,” Sievers replied. “We’ll have you back in your comfy little cell in a jiffy.”

  “Sievers, listen to me. I’ll give you what you want.”

  “Yep. You surely will.”

  There was an urgency in Sievers’ stride. As confident as the mercenary was, he was obviously in a hurry to get off the street, lest a curious onlooker should take note of the abduction and call the police. Stone could not see where the man was taking him, but knew that there was probably a vehicle waiting nearby. Once Sievers reached that goal, all hope would be lost.

  Stone swallowed, willing more life into his nearly paralyzed limbs. There was no way he could take Sievers in a fight, but he did have other weapons in his arsenal.

  “Put me down,” Stone said, trying to sound calm despite the pressure in his gut. “Let me walk. I won’t resist.”

  Sievers halted. “Why should I believe you?” The man’s tone was doubtful, but Stone took the pause as a hopeful sign.

  “Come on, Sievers. You hold all the cards. I’m tied up. Even if I tried to run, you’d find me right away. You tagged me, didn’t you? An RFID implant?”

  Sievers chuckled, and then Stone found himself standing on wobbly legs in front of the big mercenary. “I suppose it’s kind of obvious, isn’t it?”

  “It wouldn’t have been that hard for you to figure out that Tam brought me to Vienna, but no way could you have known we’d be coming out of that crypt. A radio tracker chip is the obvious explanation.”

  “Ain’t technology great? Come on, let’s get moving.” He gestured to a van waiting further up the street, and then Stone felt Sievers’ powerful hands close on his biceps and something hard burrowing into his back.