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

by Philip Donlay

  The roar from the engines and the wake beating against the hull made it impossible to know if he was alone. She pressed herself even closer to the hull, hoping he wouldn’t glance down. Her eyes were locked on his arms when without warning, the ship rocked heavily, bow to stern. Lauren nearly lost her balance as the cable she was holding tightened against the load. She could see the symmetrical waves fanning out toward the shore. They’d crossed the wake of another barge. When she pivoted and looked up, she found that the arms were gone. Despite pitching against the waves, Lauren was able to scurry over the railing of the cargo barge and climb aboard.

  She crouched between two cars and watched the tug. Had anyone seen her? She couldn’t do anything about the water pooling at her feet except brush it toward the edge to disguise the footprints. The lower deck of the car carrier was about ten feet tall and looked like an underground parking lot. Facing the tug were ten neat rows of brand-new automobiles parked bumper to bumper, no more than eighteen inches apart.

  Lauren made her way toward the bow, putting as much distance as possible between her and the crew of the tug. She counted as she moved. Ten cars in a row, ten across, two levels: two hundred cars. Crouched near the bow, between two black sedans, Lauren let the breeze pour over her. She put out her arms against the door handles to steady herself. She checked to see whether the car was locked. It was.

  She slumped against the car door, physically and emotionally spent. She was isolated and exhausted. She’d shot a man today, yet she felt so removed from reality, as if it had happened to someone else. In that moment the first tear formed, trickled down her cheek, and was followed by more. Lauren tried to fight them, to keep her focus, not give in to her emotions, but the images of Abigail and Donovan, and what they would go through if she didn’t survive, pushed her over the edge. She gave in, slid down the side of the car until she was curled up on the deck where she covered her face with her hands and sobbed.

  * * *

  Lauren awoke abruptly as she was yanked to her feet. Unsure where she was, confused by the darkness, she had no time to react as strong hands gripped her by her wrists. With her hands pinned behind her, she was propelled aft. On one side of the river, there were signs of civilization. Towns cast their glow into the night sky, but she had no idea where she was and she was furious at herself for falling asleep.

  She’d yet to see the face of the man who had her, but he was solid and strong. His grip cut off the circulation in her hands. He forced her through a door, up a flight of steps, yanked her to the side, and pushed her toward another set of steps. She was being taken to the bridge.

  As he propelled her through the door, she could see a panel of instruments. She was in a place that reeked of cigarettes and ancient coffee. A gray-haired man in a padded chair turned to face her as her captor brought her to a halt. The two men spoke rapidly, their voices raised, but the older man was clearly in charge. If she were to guess, the language was Hungarian, which she had no hope of understanding.

  “Who are you?” The gray-haired man finally said in halting English as her captor cupped her chin and held her face up to the light.

  Lauren remained silent despite the rough, calloused hands on her skin.

  “What are you doing on my ship? How did you get aboard?”

  Lauren stared at him blankly, refusing to answer.

  “You have committed a crime,” he said. “You’ll be turned over to authorities when we reach Budapest.”

  With that, her captor pulled Lauren sideways through the door and marched down the stairs back into the tug’s galley. Lauren planted a foot, dug in, and tried to twist away. She was able to wrest one hand away and turned to face the sailor who held her. He was young, in his mid-twenties, husky build, and clean shaven with a crew cut, but with a cruel look in his eyes. Lauren used her hand to simulate that she needed a drink.

  He grunted and turned on the spigot to the faucet above a dirty sink. She leaned over, cupped her hands and began to drink the tepid water. Using her body to block her actions, she reached down and grabbed a paring knife she’d seen lying amongst the dishes and slipped it up her one remaining sleeve. When she nodded that she was finished, he turned off the water then grabbed both of her hands and held them out in front of her, as he deftly wrapped her wrists together with duct tape. He ripped the section from the roll, spun her around, and pushed her aft toward a narrow door. With her wrists taped together she was powerless, and she couldn’t use the knife. She started to panic when she could smell the sweat on him as he threw open the door, set her down heavily on a closed toilet, and slammed the door shut. The stench in the head was overwhelming as Lauren sat, trembling in the dark.

  She stood and tried to compose herself. Using her hands, she probed in the pitch-black space for a light. Finally, she found a switch, and above her a low-wattage recessed light snapped to life, illuminating the tiny space. She tried the door, but it was secured. There was a toilet, a saucer-sized steel sink, a plunger, and a mirror. She caught sight of herself and even in the dim light she was appalled. Her face was drawn and dirty, marred by small cuts from running through the bushes.

  Lauren brushed her hair from her face as best she could, then pulled at the mirror and discovered it was polished metal and fastened firmly to the wall, not glass, and therefore of no use in cutting the tape. Disheartened, Lauren sat and forced herself to focus, to find a solution. She studied the tape, located the edge, but couldn’t reach it with her teeth. As she struggled to unearth a way to free herself, Lauren tried not to think what would happen when the captain turned her over to the police—but most of all, she tried not to think of what the crew might do to her before they reached Budapest.

  Lauren had been trying to free the knife taped under the sleeve of her shirt without success when she heard the diesel engines slow. The vibration under her feet diminished and she felt her adrenaline surge at the thought she might have only one more chance. Her eyes darted around the tiny lavatory as she tried to find something she could use to rip at her tape. In a flash, she had an idea. She flew to her feet, turned and knelt in front of the toilet. She raised the lid and carefully positioned the hilt of the knife between the lid and the bowl and pressed, holding the knife in place. She worked her arms back and forth until the blade severed the material of her shirt and fell into the bowl.

  Lauren was able to pick up the knife with her right hand, cup it toward her, and began to saw against the thick tape. Moments later her wrists were free. She quickly removed a slice of tape from what used to be her handcuffs, pulled the jump drive from her pocket, and secured the rubberized unit snugly in a recess far underneath the sink. If the police found the drive, she’d be instantly guilty of whatever they wanted to believe, a spy, a co-conspirator to a possible terrorist nuclear attack, even a murderer. Without it, she held a small window of deniability.

  She slid the knife into her boot, adjusting the blade to where it felt most comfortable and readily available. Then, she positioned a section of the tape over her wrists so she’d still appear bound, the sliced section out of sight underneath. She blew out a tension-filled breath, sat down, and waited.

  The engines made so much noise that she never heard the footsteps. All she saw was the door abruptly swing open. Startled, she shot to her feet. Instead of the stocky sailor, she was face to face with a man she’d seen before—from the helicopter, the severe-looking bald man she’d pegged as the leader of the group searching for her.

  Saying nothing, he grabbed her by the front of her shirt and yanked her from the lavatory, pushing her into the arms of his accomplice. The second man pressed his hands into her upper arms holding her completely still.

  “You’re resourceful, I’ll give you that, Dr. McKenna.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Lauren replied, her voice sounding more defiant than she felt.

  “You assaulted my pilot, damaged my helicopter. I’m also assuming it was either you or Daniel Pope who broke the collarbone of on
e of my men.” His eyes narrowed and with his right hand, he slapped Lauren hard across the cheek.

  She recoiled from the stinging blow, leaving her eyes watering and her hair hanging in a tangle over her face.

  “Where’s Daniel Pope?” The man pushed the hair from her eyes, letting the skin on the back of his hand linger on her cheek.

  Lauren glowered at him, unblinking.

  “I don’t have time for your tactics,” he said as he removed a folded piece of paper from his shirt pocket. He unfolded it and held it up for her to see.

  Lauren saw the familiar pictures from her and Daniel’s passports. She remained resolute in her desire to say as little as possible.

  “You’re with the CIA. You were on the plane. You and he escaped. Where is he?”

  “We were separated,” Lauren said, realizing how much they wanted Daniel. The moment they realized he was dead, she was of no use to them. “We’re going to meet in Budapest.”

  “Doubtful. Now where’s Daniel?” he said, then waited several seconds before he punched Lauren in the stomach.

  Lauren folded over and retched.

  “Get her up on deck!” the bald man said.

  Lauren was pushed roughly through the door out into the early morning twilight. Having spent hours in the tug’s head, she drank in the fresh air. The leader stood to her right. His accomplice was directly behind her but had loosened his grip. Still bent over as if in pain, she pulled the knife from her boot, yanked her wrists apart and in one continuous sweeping arc slashed the blade across the face of the man who’d hit her. He cried out in pain and spun backward, his hands instinctively covering his face. Lauren kept turning until she faced him, and buried the knife to the hilt in the side of his neck. The stunned expression on his face went slack as he crumpled to the deck.

  Lauren released the knife, turned, and bolted for the stern. Running as fast as she could, she reached the end of the deck and leaped headfirst over the railing, diving into the dark water and swimming deep to avoid any bullets. She swam as long as her air allowed. When she surfaced, she was alone. The tug was far away, still churning downriver. Beyond, sat a dome of lights threatening to wash out the remaining stars—Budapest.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “I NEED TO call Trevor,” Montero said as the Austrian Customs officer handed them their passports and signaled they could deplane.

  Donovan got up from his seat in the Gulfstream. As he stood in the open doorway, he took in the beauty of the Innsbruck Airport nestled between two steep mountains. He’d flown in here many times, and each approach had been an adventure, winding down the valley, perilously close to granite towering on both sides. Now, at seven in the morning, there was a chill in the air even though it was summer. He told the pilots they’d be gone at least an hour, maybe more. He’d call when he had a firm departure time. Behind him Donovan heard Montero talking to Trevor and he ducked back into the cabin to listen.

  “He’s fine,” Montero explained. “The doctor fixed him up and then knocked him out with some meds. We checked on him last night. He’s probably still sleeping. Mr. Nash and I are chasing down some leads and won’t be back until later. Can you keep an eye on him?”

  Donovan was relieved when Montero shot him a thumbs-up.

  “I can’t thank you enough. The floor of the hotel is secure, but I instructed Ben, the hotel security director, to give you access to Michael’s room. I’m also sending you some pictures of the guys who attacked us. Take a look and be on alert for anything out of the ordinary.”

  “Michael’s going to wonder where we are,” Donovan said as Montero pocketed her phone and he led the way forward.

  “We’ve got time to figure out our story.”

  Donovan slid behind the wheel of their rented sedan and waited until Montero fastened her seat belt. “Are you ready?”

  “The question is, are you ready?” Montero said. “I understand the direct approach, but are you certain that driving up and knocking on the front door is the best idea?”

  “I don’t know if he’s here, or if he’s even alive, and if I do find him, what to expect,” Donovan turned the key to start the engine. “But Lauren’s out there, and he’s the one man I know can help us get to her. So yeah, I’m ready, and I’ll deal with the damage control later.”

  “You remember how to get to this place?” Montero asked as she found a map folded between the seats.

  “We’re going to the village of Seefeld. I could drive there in my sleep.” Donovan maneuvered out of the airport and merged onto a highway to travel west along the Inn River. The mist hung just above the valley floor and thickened as they climbed up into the mountains.

  “This place is beautiful,” Montero said as they exited the highway and began the climb up the mountain. “You came here as a boy?”

  “Every winter, for years,” Donovan said, the memories of that simpler time flooding his thoughts, thankful that he was with Montero, so he could freely relish his past. “Kristof and I used to ski every day. We were maniacs. When I look back, it’s a miracle we didn’t kill ourselves.”

  “Tell me more about the two of you.”

  “We met when I was probably eight, he was twelve. Our families would get together here in the winter. In the summer, his family would travel to see us in the States. Sometimes Kristof would come a few weeks before his parents, and we’d stay at the farm in Virginia. We fished, swam, and sometimes slept in a tent out back. Dad would put us to work helping him with different projects. Mom would take us to the Smithsonian or the zoo. We’d go to baseball games in Baltimore. God, we had such a great time. We drifted apart after my parents died, but William, bless his heart, tried to maintain some of those ties. It was in college when Kristof and I reconnected. Those were some wild times.”

  “I can imagine. When did you last see him?” Montero asked.

  “It’s been a while.” Donovan’s thoughts raced back over twenty-five years, not long after Kristof had sold his family oil interests to Huntington Oil. His friend had taken his fortune and spent almost all of it. Nearly bankrupt, he’d gambled the last of his resources on an arms deal that went poorly. Kristof had been arrested, and Donovan had used his wealth and connections to bail him out, literally and figuratively. But after Donovan had propped up his friend, Kristof used his second chance to delve back into a life of crime. There had been a huge argument one night in Corfu, and the two came to blows. The next morning Kristof left Greece and never looked back, evading authorities, creating an empire and a legend.

  Donovan knew the man behind the Archangel myth, and as much as he was hurt by Kristof’s path, he never exposed Archangel. He and Kristof never really spoke again, though Kristof had tried shortly after Meredith had been murdered in Costa Rica, reaching out to offer whatever help he could. Donovan declined, he’d already decided to end one history and start another. He knew through William that Kristof had been devastated at the news of Robert Huntington’s death.

  “I didn’t mean to pry,” Montero said.

  “No, sorry, you weren’t.” Donovan shot her a brief smile. “I was a little lost in thought. So much has happened over the years.”

  “There’s still time to abort.” Montero’s concern was evident. “We can turn around and find another way to do this.”

  “I’m good. Besides, we’re here.” Donovan nodded as if to recon-firm his commitment when he turned into a driveway surrounded by landscaped foliage, the house nowhere to be seen amidst the manicured grounds. “Let’s just hope in the long run, friendship trumps anger.”

  Montero looked up and then snapped her head around to look behind them. Donovan knew the look on her face. They had a problem. Donovan hit the brakes as a van pulled out in front of them, another van coming to a stop inches from the rear bumper. Donovan and Montero were trapped. Moments later, the door of both vans slid open and armed men poured out, surrounding them. With automatic weapons shouldered and aimed, he and Montero were ordered out of the car. They saw a woman joggi
ng down the driveway towards them. She was in her mid-twenties, slender, attractive in a natural way, with startling turquoise green eyes and her black hair tied in a ponytail. She wore dark tights with a white sleeveless top. She looked fit and muscular.

  “They just want to talk,” Montero said. “Do as they say.”

  Donovan’s door was flung open and he was seized by the upper arm and physically pulled out of the sedan, slammed against the side of the car, and frisked. His wallet and passport were lifted and brought to the woman. On the opposite side Montero endured the same treatment, and he wondered how much self-restraint she had to summon not to drop the first guy who put his hands on her.

  Donovan got a closer look at the jogger-woman who had now stopped just out of earshot. She held a pistol and was talking with one of the armed men who presented Donovan’s and Montero’s identification. She leafed through Donovan’s credentials, then Montero’s. She motioned for her men to bring Donovan over to where she stood.

  “Okay, talk,” the woman said to Donovan as she handed him his wallet and passport. “I don’t know who you are, or why you’re at my house, but I recognize former FBI agent Ms. Montero. Just so you know—I’m not in the mood for anything but the truth.”

  “I’m impressed you recognized her,” Donovan tried to sound casual despite being surrounded by armed men. “Most don’t.”

  “Right this moment I want to know who you are, what you want, and why you’re here. Again, I would suggest you not lie to me.”

  “I’m here to make amends with an old friend.” Donovan locked eyes with the young woman. “I came to see Kristof.”

  “What makes you think this Kristof lives here?”

  “He used to. I was here every winter when we were kids,” Donovan said. “Look, I don’t even know if he’s still alive—I know I’m intruding, but I need his help.”

  “I know all of Kristof’s friends from the past, and Donovan Nash is not one of them.” She pulled the hammer back on her pistol. The distinct click transmitted that her patience was growing thin.