The Valhalla Prophecy

by Andy McDermott

  Engines roaring, the convoy headed back down the frozen river.

  “Yes!” Eddie gasped as he squeezed free of the hole and rolled onto his back in the snow, panting from the exertion. “I’m through.”

  Berkeley peered up from below. “Well, come on, then! Help me out!”

  The Englishman’s grateful breaths were cut short as he heard a distant rumble through the trees. “Shit!” he said, sitting up. “You’ll have to get yourself out—Lock’s already moving.”

  “What are you going to do?” asked Kagan.

  “Go after ’em, what do you think? Chuck the gun up.” He holstered the dirty Wildey, then collected the P90 as Kagan raised it through the hole. “Once you’re out, go back to the snowmobiles and head for that village. I’ll meet you there.”

  “Good luck,” called the Russian as Eddie ran off, heading for the waterfall.

  He descended the rocks as quickly as he dared, jumping from fifteen feet up to a hard rolling landing at the base of the frozen falls. The tracks his group had left on their way to Valhalla led back along the streambed; he angled away from them on what he hoped would be a direct route to the great stone bridge of Bifröst.

  It was not long before the trees thinned out, marking the top of the ravine. The sound of engines grew steadily louder. He saw that the rock crossing was off to his right and headed for it. The rope was still in place between the trees on each side; he took hold of it and made his way over, the coating of ice and snow forcing him to go slower than he would have liked.

  A quarter of the way across—

  The low thunder of vehicles abruptly rose to a roar.

  He looked up the river—and swore as the convoy came into sight in the canyon below. One of the SUVs was in the lead by some distance, an icerunner following with the two other four-by-fours trading positions behind. The pair of snowmobiles flanked them, the second icerunner bringing up the rear.

  Lock was in a rush. The vehicles were heading downriver much faster than they had come up it. They would be long gone by the time Eddie reached the parked snowmobiles.

  He had to get down to the river. But how?

  The idea was crazy, he knew the instant it came into his head, but it was all he had.

  He gripped the rope with one hand, bringing up the P90 and putting the muzzle against the line. Bracing himself as best he could on the treacherous surface, he pulled the trigger.

  The rope jerked in his grip as the bullet tore through it, flames scorching the ragged strands, but the shot hadn’t quite severed it. “Fuck’s sake!” he muttered, repositioning the gun for a second attempt. One shot would be enough to alert the mercenaries to something unexpected; two would confirm it.

  No choice. He fired again.

  This time, the rope snapped—and he almost fell as the weight of the line, now unsupported, jerked him sideways. With a sharp gasp of fear, he dropped to a crouch to regain his balance.

  The convoy was still coming down the icy river. He didn’t know if he had been seen or not; he would find out when somebody started shooting at him. Keeping low, he scuttled across the quartz bridge, bringing the slack rope with him. Would it be long enough for his plan to work?

  It would have to be. He was running out of time. The lead SUV would pass below in twenty seconds, less, and the other vehicles strung out behind it would only take another twenty or so to go by.

  He reached the halfway point. If the drivers stayed on their present course, they would go directly beneath him. The Volvo drew closer, kicking out a spray of ice from its four whirling sets of caterpillar tracks. The surface of the frozen river was thirty feet below. Did he have enough line to reach it?

  Not nearly enough to loop it around the hefty rock bridge. And if he tried to descend on the severed rope, he would just swing toward the canyon’s side, away from the vehicles. He needed to go straight down …

  There was only one way to do it. But it meant losing one of his weapons.

  Again, no choice—

  Eddie turned the P90 vertically, muzzle upward, and forced its polymer stock as hard as he could into a crack in the rock until it jammed. He twisted the weapon to wedge it in place, then tugged at the barrel. The gun moved but did not come free.

  The first four-by-four roared under him. The other vehicles in the convoy were closing; nobody wanted to get left behind.

  He gathered up the rope—then looped it around the gun and tossed it over the edge.

  The rope fell, rippling as it uncoiled to hang with its end about ten feet above the ice. It swayed in the propeller blast as the first icerunner charged past. He grabbed the line with both hands and pulled at it. The stock creaked under the strain, but the gun stayed in place.

  For now. In a moment it would have to take his full weight …

  The second tracked SUV roared below him, the snowmobiles on each side. The third Volvo was just seconds behind—then, after that, only the other icerunner—

  Eddie jumped.

  Friction burned his hands as he slid down the rope. He forced back the pain, ready to drop onto the roof of the last SUV—only to realize to his horror that he had left it too late.

  The Volvo whipped past, having increased its speed to catch up with its companions. He tightened his grip to slow himself, twisting to locate the icerunner.

  Its occupants saw him. The driver gawped in surprise at the dangling figure—then jerked the steering wheel to swerve away from the Englishman.

  Eddie let go—just as the P90’s stock sheared apart under the strain and the rope cracked away from him like a whip. He dropped, the propeller at the icerunner’s rear carving through the air at him—

  He landed with a crash on the icerunner’s port outrigger. The impact drove the steel skate-like runner at its end deeply into the ice, making the vehicle swing sharply around and throwing both mercenaries against the cockpit’s side.

  The turn slammed the stowaway against the icerunner’s fuselage. Eddie clawed for grip, but the sleek bodywork had no handholds. He slithered backward toward the screaming propeller—

  An air intake gaped like a dumbfounded mouth from the humped engine compartment behind the cockpit. His hand clamped around its edge.

  The propeller’s suction tore at Eddie’s face, trying to drag him into its blades. He flailed his free arm, for a heart-stopping moment finding nothing but air, before catching the outrigger’s trailing edge. He pulled himself away from one danger …

  To find himself looking straight at another.

  Both the icerunner’s occupants had recovered from their shock at receiving an unexpected passenger. The driver straightened out, bringing the vehicle back in line with the rest of the convoy, while his companion in the backseat retrieved his P90 and unfastened his seat belt, rising and twisting to bring the gun to bear on the intruder—

  Eddie lashed out with one leg, kicking the gun upward as it fired. A three-round burst seared uselessly into the sky. The mercenary jerked back, then shifted position to take another shot—only for the Yorkshireman to use his grip on the intake to lunge forward over the lip of the cockpit. Before the startled merc could respond, he punched him hard in the face, then grabbed his gun hand.

  The two men struggled for possession of the weapon. Eddie, on top of the scrimmage, made full use of his advantage. He forced the gunman’s arm outward and slammed an elbow into his opponent’s face. The merc’s grip on the P90 weakened as he spat blood. Eddie tried to wrench it from him, but was unable to get a solid hold. The gun slipped from both their hands, bouncing off the starboard outrigger. The racing icerunner’s slipstream whipped it away to fall to the frozen surface below, left behind in a moment.

  “Cocksucker!” snarled the mercenary. He grappled with Eddie, trying to pitch him overboard after the gun. The Englishman’s legs were still outside the cramped cockpit; he stamped down hard on the outrigger to brace himself, then straightened and dragged the other man up from his seat. The merc threw a punch, but didn’t have enough leverage t
o do more than jar his adversary.

  Eddie’s response had far more force behind it. He delivered a savage headbutt, crushing the other man’s nose, then hauled him bodily from the cockpit and threw him over the icerunner’s side.

  There was a brief scream as the merc hit the ice—which was immediately cut off as the outrigger’s heavy runner sliced over his neck like a guillotine blade. The man’s body tumbled to a stop on the frozen river, his severed head bowling onward for some considerable distance.

  Eddie had no time to come up with an appropriately tasteless one-liner. The driver had drawn a pistol and was bringing it around to shoot over his shoulder. The Englishman yelped and dropped into the newly vacated seat as the other man fired. The bullet tore through his coat just above his right shoulder, shredding the material and scorching his skin.

  The driver turned his head to see if he had hit his target, but his view was obscured by his raised hood. He tugged it down with his free hand, then looked again—

  His new passenger was no longer sitting in the rear seat, but standing in it.

  Eddie kicked the mercenary in the head, slamming him face-first against the steering wheel, then grabbed the dazed man’s gun hand and forced it back around to push the muzzle against its owner’s temple. Before the unfortunate merc realized what was happening, the Englishman had squeezed his own finger around the trigger. A gruesome red-and-gray spray showered the clean white ice.

  The dead man convulsed, right foot jerking on the throttle pedal. The icerunner lurched. Eddie had to drop back into his seat to save himself from being pitched out of the cockpit—and in doing so was forced to let go of the mercenary’s gun. It followed the P90 over the side. “Bollocks!” he snarled. He still had his Wildey, but the sheer size of its Magnum rounds meant it could only fit seven bullets in the magazine.

  And there were more than seven people trying to stop him from rescuing Nina and Tova.

  Still cursing, he tugged at the driver’s corpse. Its foot came off the pedal. The icerunner’s engine slowed, the shrieking rasp of the propeller falling to a mere snarl as the vehicle lost speed. Eddie stood again, releasing the clasp of the dead man’s seat belt and looking ahead as he strained to throw the body out of the cockpit. The other vehicles in the convoy were pulling away—then the rearmost of the three SUVs weaved sharply, silhouettes inside looking back up the river at him.

  They knew he was there.

  Nina realized something unexpected had happened behind her when the narrow-eyed, bearded mercenary Wake, driving the SUV, did a double-take after glancing in the rearview mirror—and his sudden swerve to get a better look confirmed it. “The fuck are you doing?” demanded Treynor.

  “Wilson just fell out of the fucking icerunner!” Wake replied, staring through the side window. Both guards and their prisoner followed his gaze.

  Even at a distance, Nina instantly recognized the man clambering into the icerunner’s front seat. “Oh, I hope you guys made wills,” she said, heart leaping in elation. Eddie was alive!

  “It’s that limey!” said Tarnowski. “How the fuck did he get out of there?”

  Treynor fumbled a walkie-talkie from a coat pocket. “Hoyt, come in! Boss!”

  A pause, then: “What is it?” came Hoyt’s distorted voice.

  “We’ve got a problem! That British guy—he’s alive, he just killed Wilson and took his buggy!”

  There was a brief silence; then Lock spoke. “Everyone listen. I don’t care what it takes, but I want that bastard dead!”

  It didn’t take Eddie long to figure out the basics of controlling the icerunner. A pedal controlled the pusher propeller’s throttle, and the steering wheel turned the single runner at the vehicle’s nose.

  Actually driving it was considerably harder. There were no brakes; the only apparent way to slow down was to lift his foot completely off the pedal to drop the engine to idle, and hope the icerunner glided to a standstill before it hit anything. Steering was also tricky—even with the outriggers providing extra stability, it still felt as if he were balancing on a knife-edge. Anything more than a gentle turn made the vehicle threaten to tip over. “Great, I’m driving a fucking Reliant Robin,” he muttered as he gingerly increased power.

  He looked ahead. What would Hoyt’s men do now they knew he was on their tail?

  The answer immediately became clear. The last Volvo had returned to its original course, following its companions—but the pair of snowmobiles flanking the SUVs broke away, kicking up sparkling rooster tails of ice as they made tight, skidding turns to come around at him. Their riders readied their P90s as they accelerated.

  It was a joust—with automatic weapons instead of lances.

  Eddie drew the Wildey, all too aware that he had just seven bullets against a hundred. His only advantage, however slight, was that he could hold the oversized pistol in his right hand while driving, whereas the riders would have to switch their guns to their off-hands in order to control the throttles on their handlebars.

  He increased speed and took aim at the lead snowmobile. They were closing fast—the window to take an accurate shot would be brief. The mercenaries would set their weapons to full auto so they could spray-and-pray, relying on sheer firepower to hit their target. But with only limited ammo, he would have to be accurate.

  The snowmobiles rushed toward him. Both riders had indeed switched their guns to their left hands, angling so they could shoot at him from that side. Eddie altered course—and felt the runner on the inside of his turn briefly rise off the ice. If he cut across the mercenaries’ paths hard enough to force them to pass on the other side, making their shots harder, he risked losing control, or even flipping the icerunner over entirely.

  Instead he straightened out—aiming directly at them.

  The leading merc’s gun blazed—

  Eddie hunched down as bullets whipped past. Most went wide, but one hit the raised engine cover with a crack of fiberglass, and another punched through the icerunner’s nose cone, searing between his legs to clang against the aluminum frame beneath his seat.

  He flinched, then recovered, aimed …

  The Wildey boomed like a cannon.

  Firing one-handed from a moving vehicle on a rough surface, he didn’t hit the mercenary—but still scored an impact on his ride. The Magnum round shattered the snowmobile’s headlight and flicked broken shards up into the rider’s face. The man jerked in shock, instinctively pulling back from the debris, and swerving into the icerunner’s path.

  Collision course—

  Eddie yanked hard on the steering wheel in a desperate attempt to avert a crash. One of the outriggers came fully off the surface, the icerunner teetering on just two skids as it slithered across the frozen river. He gripped the wheel and raised himself higher, leaning over the cockpit’s side to act as a counterweight.

  The mercenary panicked and yanked at his handlebars. The snowmobile slewed around, caught in an uncontrollable skid—

  He opened his mouth to scream—but the sound never emerged, as the sharply pointed runner on the raised outrigger punched straight through his chest, snatching him backward off the snowmobile. The extra weight brought the icerunner crashing back down. The body ground over the rough ice like an anchor, hurling the vehicle into a spin.

  The world around Eddie became a blur of white snow and dark trees—and a shape racing right at him, the second snowmobile—

  He fired on pure instinct, the Wildey kicking again in his hand. There was a Doppler-shifted rasp as the vehicle flashed past him—then a crunch of impact, followed a fraction of a second later by an explosion.

  The dead mercenary was wrenched loose from the runner. Eddie released the throttle pedal and held on to the wheel as the tail end shimmied violently, still leaning out of the cockpit to balance the whirling icerunner. The outrigger skipped over the ice, kicking back into the air once, twice … then finally landing and staying down. Now pointing backward, the vehicle ground to a stop.

  Dizzied, Eddi
e slumped back into the seat. The impaled mercenary was crumpled on the ice about fifty yards away, corkscrewing tracks marking the icerunner’s path. Farther away was a mangled heap of burning wreckage. The two snowmobiles had collided and blown up. The second rider had been thrown clear—but not to safety. He too was on fire, smoke billowing from his motionless body.

  Eddie waited for the spinning sensation to subside, then looked downriver. The convoy was retreating into the distance.

  Taking Nina with it.

  Jaw set in determination, he put his foot back on the throttle and brought the icerunner around in pursuit.

  29

  Nina looked through the Volvo’s rear window. Even with three armed and hostile men holding her prisoner, she couldn’t help but crow as the icerunner swung back on course after them, leaving the pillar of black smoke from the smashed snowmobiles in its wake. “Ooh, that looked painful. Do you guys get medical? Is there some sort of Blue Cross scheme for goons? I always wanted to know.”

  “Shut the fuck up!” Treynor snarled. “He’s catching up! Can’t this thing go any faster?”

  “Not unless you want to risk shedding a track,” Wake shot back. The icerunner was quickly gaining on the four-by-four; swapping wheels for tracks had traded speed for off-road ability.

  “Goddammit!” The mercenary thought for a moment, then shoved his handgun into a pocket. “Watch her,” he told Tarnowski, reaching into the back of the cabin to collect a P90. He released the safety, then lowered his window. A freezing wind rushed in.

  “What’re you gonna do?” Wake asked.

  “What do you think? Take that motherfucker out! Head over to the right so I can get a clean shot.” Treynor turned around awkwardly in the tight confines, kneeling on the seat to lean out of the open window. “Don’t even fucking think of trying anything,” he warned Nina. “You try to nudge me when I shoot, you’ll get the next bullet.”