Pegasus Down: A Donovan Nash Thriller (Donovan Nash Thrillers)

by Philip Donlay

  “Does everyone have their weapons?” Montero asked. They both nodded. “We might as well go find out if we have a problem in Budapest. I saw what looks like a park between here and the river. Let’s check it out, maybe find a bar with a view?”

  Michael produced a cigar. “Perfect, I don’t know about fresh air, but since my wife won’t let me smoke these anywhere in North America, my goal at some point this evening is to have a quiet smoke.”

  “Let’s go. I hope you brought two of those.” Donovan held out his hand.

  Michael reached inside his jacket and produced two more cigars. “I brought three. I wouldn’t dream of leaving anyone out.”

  “Thank you, but no thanks,” Montero said.

  They left the hotel and walked out into the early evening sunlight. It was rush hour and traffic was heavy. Cars honked while motorcycles weaved in and out of the gridlock. Donovan led the way, cutting in and out among frustrated drivers until the three of them were across the avenue. They strolled down a quieter, tree-lined street, toward a large park.

  “This is Liberty Park,” Montero said. “The American Embassy is just down there on the right. See the barricades? Somewhere around here there’s a statue of Ronald Reagan.” Montero turned to the left, then to the right, as if searching for the monument.

  “You’re a regular tour guide,” Donovan said.

  “Not really, I wanted to double check that we’re being followed. Don’t anyone turn around and look, but we’ve picked up a tail. He’s wearing jeans, a black windbreaker, dark glasses, and he has long blond hair, tied in a frizzy ponytail. He’s probably not alone. Let’s see if we can force their hand.”

  “What’s the play?” Donovan asked.

  “Let’s turn right. See that bench that backs up to the steel fence? I’m going to act like I have a phone call and step away, out into the grassy area. You two act normal, continue to talk, light your cigars, but stay beside the fence so no one can come up from that direction. I can talk on the phone and move around, maybe pick out the others.”

  Michael handed Donovan a cigar, and they casually leaned against the wrought iron while Montero put her phone to her ear and wandered away from them. Donovan removed the cellophane and inhaled the fragrant leaf. He waited as Michael did the same, produced clippers and snipped off the end. Donovan huddled around Michael’s lighter, eyes scanning the immediate area for any sign of a threat and finding several candidates.

  Michael drew heavily and then let the smoke drift away slowly, savoring the taste and aroma. “She doesn’t seem even slightly concerned.”

  “I’ve seen her in action. She has no reason to be concerned.” Donovan checked the lit end of the cigar and studied the burn. Montero was twenty yards further into the park, wandering as if lost in conversation. “I watched her take out two bouncers in a strip club. They were big guys, spoiling for a fight, and they never stood a chance.”

  “You’ll have to expand on that story one of these days.”

  Over Michael’s shoulder Donovan saw Montero abruptly change course and explode into a man who tried too late to fend off the attack. With two jabs to his midsection, and then a game-ending knee to his chin, she dropped him. She spun as another man began to run away. Montero let him go and knelt over her victim, patted him down, and took his picture. Donovan was still watching when her head snapped up, and she yelled something in their direction, but the sound of her voice was lost by the high-rpm whine of a speeding motorcycle.

  Donovan turned—a motorcycle was bearing down on them, the driver held a baseball bat in perfect position to swing it at Michael. Donovan reached for his Sig as two puffs of blood erupted from the center of the driver’s chest. Montero’s slugs slammed him backwards, the bat slipped from his hand, and he started to lose control. The motorcycle wavered and began to fall, catching Michael flatfooted. He put out his hands in a reflexive motion to ward off the collision as the driver began to tip sideways from the motorcycle.

  Donovan took two steps, driving with his legs, and dove. With outstretched arms, he tackled Michael, both of them careening to the side as the motorcycle’s handlebars dug into the dirt. In an explosion of sod and wrecked parts, the motorcycle cartwheeled up and over both men, hit hard, and then crashed as it impacted the ground. Donovan and Michael rolled away on the grass as the motorcycle’s engine revved and then mercifully fell silent. Donovan felt Montero at his side and she helped him off of Michael who grimaced with pain, holding his right hand protectively.

  “He’s hurt,” Montero said to Donovan. “Help him up.”

  Donovan eased Michael to his feet and saw that his friend’s shirtsleeve was ripped, his forearm scraped and bleeding. When Michael finally opened his right hand, Donovan could see that the index and middle fingers were bent sideways.

  “Wow, that’s not good,” Michael said between clenched teeth and then looked at Donovan and tried to smile. “Thanks, though, I’m sure getting hit by a motorcycle hurts even worse.”

  Montero pulled out her phone and took a picture of the lifeless motorcycle driver and then stood. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Donovan led the way as they left the park, taking a different side road back to the hotel.

  “We’ll get you back to the hotel,” Montero said as she inspected Michael’s injuries. “They have a resident physician.”

  They escorted Michael through the lobby. As they headed for the elevator, Montero asked the woman behind the desk to send Ben and the house doctor up to Mr. Ross’ suite. The clerk nodded and immediately picked up the phone.

  Michael produced his key and they opened the door to his room, closing the door behind them. He grimaced as Montero removed his pistol and holster and stashed the weapon in the top drawer of the nightstand. Donovan helped him ease out of his shirt and carried the ripped and bloody garment into the bathroom where he wadded it up and stuffed it into the plastic-lined trashcan. He ran water on a washcloth and grabbed two hand towels.

  “The cuts are a little deeper than I thought,” Michael said as Donovan used the wet washcloth to dab away the blood on Michael’s arm.

  “A few stitches probably wouldn’t hurt,” Montero said.

  “And a drink,” Michael said, “a drink would be good as well.”

  A light knock from someone in the hallway produced a Glock in Montero’s hand. She went to the door, confirmed it was Ben and another man, then swung it open.

  “This is Vladimir,” Ben announced. “What happened?”

  “An unfortunate accident,” Montero replied. “Michael tripped and fell.”

  The doctor was in his mid-fifties with thinning gray hair and round facial features. He sat Michael on a chair and positioned him so that the desk light would illuminate the wound.

  Donovan watched intently as the Russian worked. First he selected a syringe, checked the contents and made several strategic injections. When he finished he sat back. “We’ll let the painkiller go to work, and then I’ll fix you up. All very routine, I assure you.”

  Montero glanced at the screen on her phone then turned toward Donovan. “I need to go make some calls. Can you watch over Michael? When you’re done, knock on my door.”

  “No problem,” Donovan said as the doctor began stitching Michael’s wound.

  A few minutes later, Vladimir had set both of Michael’s fingers, then selected a curved aluminum brace and began to position the fingers together. With the splint in place, he wrapped Michael’s hand with an elastic bandage.

  “Is that it?” Michael asked as he carefully tested his arm.

  “Do you have any drug allergies?”

  “No.”

  Vladimir reached in and removed two bottles of pills from his case, opened a bottle of water that was sitting on the table, and tumbled two pills into Michael’s good hand. “Take two of these now, they’re for the pain, but watch your alcohol intake, no more than two drinks tonight. The other medication is an antibiotic— the instructions are on the bottle. Take two more pain pill
s before bedtime, and then tomorrow every four hours as needed. Keep the dressing dry and take it easy. Your hand and arm are going to be swollen and sore for a day or two. I’ll check on you late morning, and we’ll see if the dressing needs to be changed.”

  Ben gathered up all of the bloody towels and stuffed them into several plastic bags. “These are all going to the incinerator. I’ll send housekeeping up with fresh towels. Is there anything else?”

  “I think that’ll be it for now. Thank you, Ben.” Donovan shook his hand and led him to the door. Once the locks were thrown, Donovan went straight to the minibar, pulled four miniatures of whiskey from the rack, collected two glasses, poured two bottles into Michael’s glass and two into his own.

  “Does this count as one or two?” Michael asked as he took the glass from Donovan.

  “You’re an adult,” Donovan said as he held up his glass. “Do your own math.”

  “To still being aboveground,” Michael said, his words slurring slightly, as the two friends clinked glasses. “We’ll find Lauren. I’ll be better tomorrow and we’ll go help her.”

  “I believe you,” Donovan was touched that his friend’s thoughts were about Lauren. “Get some rest, I’ll check on you later.”

  “You don’t think Montero screwed up, do you?” Michael said right before he closed his eyes.

  Donovan found Michael’s room key and then let himself out and went to his own room. The door connecting his room with Montero’s was still wide open. She stepped into view, her Glock in one hand, a laptop in the other.

  “How is he?” Montero holstered her weapon.

  “Out.” Donovan went to the bar and discovered a bucket filled with ice. He glanced at Montero who nodded and he set out a second glass. “You like a little water and ice in yours, right?”

  “Not tonight, make it neat.”

  He handed her a whiskey and took a pull on his own. “Whatever those pills were, they really did a number on him. He had two sips of whiskey and could hardly talk.”

  “I’m sorry he was hurt,” Montero said.

  “He asked if I thought you blew the call,” Donovan said evenly, curious how Montero would handle the prospect of having misjudged the situation.

  “Is that what you think?”

  “What’s important is what you think,” Donovan said.

  “I stand by my actions. Given the same set of circumstances, I’d do it again.”

  “I agree,” Donovan raised his glass, putting the moment behind them. “Back to business. Do we know yet who the guys were?”

  “No, I sent the pictures to my person at Interpol, as well as KX in Florida. It might take some time. They could be working for anyone.”

  “As you said on the plane, we can’t trust anyone.” Donovan tossed back the last of his drink and set down his glass. “Regardless of what happened today, we still have to try and get to Archangel.”

  “The Gulfstream has arrived from Vienna. It’s an hour flight from here to Innsbruck. We take off at six o’clock in the morning.”

  Donovan’s phone rang. It was a Northern Virginia area code. “Calvin,” he said to Montero.

  “Answer it and put it on speaker,” Montero said, moving closer, “and tell him I’m here.”

  “Hello,” Donovan answered.

  “It’s me,” Calvin replied. “Can you talk?”

  “Yeah, I’m here with Montero. I’m going to put you on speaker.”

  “I can’t talk long, but I’m getting some troubling intelligence from your part of the world. A dead driver and two injured motorists in Vienna, and just a few minutes ago, near the U.S. Embassy in Budapest, a man on a motorcycle was shot and killed. I have no idea if they’re connected, but my sources at Langley seem to think these are related, and some people are unhappy.”

  “The two events could be related,” Montero said. “Have your source at Langley keep track of who’s upset. That information could prove useful.”

  “You’d tell me if this thing was getting messy already—wouldn’t you?” Calvin asked.

  “Of course,” Donovan said. “We’re sitting here having a nightcap, discussing our plans for tomorrow.”

  “There is one more thing. There’s some military chatter out of Slovakia. It seems that a motorboat was stolen and then subsequently crashed and sunk in the Danube while being pursued by a Slovakian Air Force helicopter.”

  “Where?” Montero asked.

  “The closest town is Ňárad, Slovakia. We can’t confirm anything beyond a column of smoke in the area spotted via satellite, but I wanted you to know. If it’s her, then she’s still on the move.”

  “Keep us posted.” As before, Donovan had no way to successfully process the information. An uneasy frustration crept into his chest and then spread out from there, a general self-defense mechanism against the unknown. The only thing he knew for sure was if Lauren were still alive—she was running out of time.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  LAUREN GASPED AS her face broke the surface of the water. She treaded water and pivoted to get her bearings. Far down the river, the helicopter was still orbiting the column of smoke coming from the burning runabout. She turned and spotted her next concern. What she had in mind was going to take some effort. She made a quick check that she still had the jump drive, then drew in a deep breath and once again submerged.

  In the murky water she couldn’t determine a course. All she could do was swim and try to keep the force of the current along her left side and let it push her downstream. Her ears buzzed with the sounds of engines and propellers, though underwater she had no sense how close the ship was, only that something was getting closer. She swam until her lungs burned, the mechanical whine growing louder as she did. She carefully eased her head above the water and took in a much-needed breath, keeping her silhouette as small as possible.

  Bearing down on her was a different barge, one she’d spotted earlier. The huge craft churned downstream, a bow wave cascading up the low-hulled craft. Lauren could finally identify the cargo. In two narrow levels were cars, brand-new German automobiles being shipped east.

  Lauren took two more full breaths, exhaled fully, and then drew in as much air as possible, and slipped back underwater. Diving deeper this time, the water became cooler. Lauren kicked and dug hard with each shoulder pull. The noise of the approaching barge was nearly deafening, and she had the terrible image that she’d misjudged, hadn’t swum fast enough, or gone as deep as she needed. If not, then the huge spinning propeller blades were closing on her. She stroked faster and kicked harder, her oxygen depleting with every second. She opened her eyes and tried to see upward in the muddy water, hoping she could at least make out the shadow of the barge.

  She needed to breathe and finally had no choice but to kick toward the surface. She kept her eyes open, frantically trying to spot the barge. The engines were ringing in her ears and growing closer. The deeper dive had made the trip to the surface longer. She slowly exhaled, releasing the air in her lungs in preparation for reaching the surface and began to feel the panic of running out of air. As she struggled the last ten feet, a great dark shape filled the space above her. The turbulence from the bow wave pushed her aside and tumbled her sideways in a series of flailing summersaults.

  Lauren would have screamed but she had no air. She was disoriented when her face burst to the surface. She gasped a mixture of air and water and was then thrown downward in the corkscrew current created by the heavy ship. She felt rough steel scrape the back of her leg, and she found the strength to kick away. She shot to the surface, gagged on the water that came up from her lungs, took in a ragged breath, and began swimming, parallel to the aging black hull, looking for something to grab.

  The ship was traveling far faster than she could swim. Even with the current, she was going to be left behind in a matter of seconds. This close to the hull, she couldn’t see anything but the scarred metal racing past. Above the waves, she could see the stern of the barge coming fast. Directly behind would
be the far narrower tugboat, its bow attached to the stern of the barge. She’d formed a mental picture of the barge and tugboat. The hull of the tug was a faded green, and she’d paid particular attention to where she imagined the propellers would be. Once more Lauren plunged under the surface and fought to reach the bend in the hull that would put her beneath the giant. As she did, the pounding of the engines punished her ears and resonated through her entire body.

  Eyes open, she found that her outstretched hand was only inches from the keel. She spotted the stern of the barge and the smaller rectangle that marked the hull of the tugboat. Her window for success would be on her in seconds. Lauren timed her burst and began kicking upward. She grazed the stern of the barge with her heel and came to the surface only feet from the side of the tug.

  Three stories above her towered the massive glass-enclosed bridge. She could see the antenna that bristled up into the sky. The noise from the diesel engines was loud, but not as deafening as underwater. Two powerful strokes forward, and she reached out to grasp an old tire hanging from the deck. She clutched onto the rubber fender and was jerked forward out of the water. Using her last reserve of energy, she pulled herself above the waterline. Free from the drag of the water, she climbed onto the tire. Visible to anyone on shore, Lauren knew she couldn’t stay there for very long. From her new vantage point, crouched precariously on top of the tire, she evaluated her options.

  The wooden deck was completely dry. If she tried to run to safety, her wet footprints would give her away. She only had one option, to use the edge of the deck as a handhold and carefully inch her way from one tire to the next. Below her feet, the water boiled up from the wake. Lauren stepped over a heavy steel cable running from the tug and stretching to the stern of the barge, the first of two such obstacles. She made it to the second cable, this one shorter in length, but higher. She crouched beneath the cable when a shadow fell across her eyes. She looked up to see two thick forearms. Above her, someone was leaning on the deck railing.