by Rob Jones
“Is that you, Dirk?”
The South African turned to see Willem Van Zyl hiding in the trees just beyond the tents. “Yes.”
“Where’s my brother?” he asked. “Did he escape?”
Kruger planted a heavy, gnarled hand on the treasure hunter’s shoulder. “Sorry my friend, but they got him. He’s dead.”
“Dead?” Van Zyl’s eyes narrowed. “Who killed him?”
“That English bitch – I saw it with my own eyes.”
Van Zyl’s heart filled with rage and he vowed revenge on the Englishwoman. He and his brother were close. They’d grown up together on their father’s farm and life hadn’t been easy but they had always stuck together. No one was going to take him away and get away with it, least of all the same bunch of bastards who were now hunting him like a jackal.
“Come on, you stupid bastard!” Kruger yelled. “We have to get out of here.”
But Van Zyl was starting to look like he had bitten off more than he could chew. “Where?”
“Into the city – lose them in the backstreets. We get a car and then we get out of here – to Salzburg. I have a little turboprop parked up there that we can use to get to Serbia.”
Van Zyl watched the ECHO team through the trees, fanning out and making their way toward them. “What the hell’s in Serbia?”
“Never mind about that, Willem – all you need to know is we’re going there.”
“And where the hell are the Mexicans?” Van Zyl asked, desperately searching the chaos for them.
“Who gives a damn?” Kruger said. “We have the idol. Let’s go.”
Kruger and Van Zyl made their way north through the city, pursued for over a mile by the local police before they finally saw their way out at the north end of Albrechtstrasse. Turning their machine pistol on the enormous glass facia, they blasted a man-size hole in the front of Lamborghini München and made their way inside.
“The Aventador,” Kruger said with a smirk. “Just like my baby back in Cape Town.” He stroked the hood adoringly. “I’ll get the keys.”
Kruger searched the office for the keys while Van Zyl blasted the wheels of the other cars to shreds. Seconds later they were inside the luxury Italian sports car and driving at full speed through the remains of the facia window. He skidded the car out into the street in a dazzling shower of smashed safety glass and burned some serious rubber as he took off out of the city.
Several minutes later Lea Donovan and the rest of the ECHO team plus several shattered police officers lumbered up to the garage. Camacho darted inside the garage and paused for a moment to give a gunmetal-gray Lamborghini Veneno an admiring glance before booting open the internal door and searching the office. He returned and shrugged his shoulders. “Nothing.”
Holtz barked commands into his palm mic and a chopper thundered over their heads but the young Irishwoman knew immediately the chase was over. The Lambo was long gone and would be out of the city in seconds. “They’ve gone.”
She holstered her gun and closed her eyes for a few seconds, praying Hawke and Reaper were having more luck in their pursuit of Silvio Mendoza and Aurora Soto.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Silvio Mendoza had seen The Terminator, and for a second he thought he was reliving the movie in real life when the door at the far end of the carriage slammed opened and a man in black appeared. They were at the front of the U-Bahn train, and sharing the carriage with only two other people, a young couple in business suits. But now someone else was in the carriage, and walking toward them with determination.
Mendoza peered over Soto’s head to get a better view of the man. It couldn’t be the Englishman, could it? They had left him behind at the U-Bahn station, and maybe even shot his friend. There was no way he could be on board this train, so maybe it was an official of the company, he thought. No, not dressed like that – black jacket, old scruffy jeans… Mendoza narrowed his eyes and reached inside his pocket for his gun.
Maybe it was an off-duty policeman… no – not the way he was looking at him. He didn’t know and wasn’t taking any chances. It was bad enough that in the chaos of the attack back at the hotel Kruger had kept hold of the idol, and now this.
“We’ve got company – don’t turn around.”
“Who is it?” she whispered.
He shook his head. “I’m not sure, but whoever he is, he’s seen me before.”
“How do you know?”
Mendoza ran his fingertips over the scar on his face. “I know when someone sees me for the first time, believe me.”
The man in black introduced himself by pulling a sleek pistol from inside his jacket.
“Get your hands where I can see them, Mendoza!”
Up close now, and with the accent, neither Mendoza nor Soto had any doubts about the identity of their assailant.
Hawke.
But how?
Mendoza reached for his gun and Hawke began firing at them. The shots rang out loudly in the small compartment. “Stay where you are.”
Mendoza thought not, and he fired back forcing the Englishman to dive for cover behind some seats at the back of the carriage. A second later he was returning fire, and the bullets ripped through Aurora’s seat and shattered the safety glass window. Hot, diesel-air rushed into the carriage and the roar of the train in the tunnel was almost deafening. At the far end of the compartment, the business couple leaped to their feet and tried to run, but Mendoza spun around and killed them both with two well-aimed rounds before turning back to Hawke at the other end of the carriage.
“Hawke!” Mendoza hissed. “You will die for killing my brother!”
“Your brother was killed by Juana Diaz, Silvio.”
“Lies!”
“Just hand over the idol and all you will face is custody.”
Hawke looked into their panicked eyes and wondered if they would ever give themselves up, but the two fresh corpses on the compartment floor told him all he needed to know.
“You want the idol?” Mendoza said. He started to laugh nervously and then began firing indiscriminately at Hawke’s end of the carriage. Overhead the ghostly white light began to flicker as the train swung around another corner.
Hawke returned fire. He fired over their heads, still hoping to take them alive, but then a bullet from Soto nearly hit him and he knew he had to take them out. He fired again and struck Aurora’s shoulder. It ripped through her jacket and she screamed as the round grazed her flesh and buried itself in the wall behind her head.
“You bastard!” Mendoza screamed. “First my brother and now my woman.” He felt the rage rise in him as the smoke drifted out of Hawke’s muzzle. Who was this man to hound him and try and kill everyone he loved? Who was this man to threaten him and take pot shots at his woman? The smell of burnt gunpowder mingled with the scent of Aurora’s perfume.
“All right, fine…” Mendoza said. “I’ll get the idol for you.”
“Drop the guns.” Hawke kept his cover and they all swayed with the turns in the tracks. “And make it slow.”
The Mexican cartel boss nodded as he and Soto lowered their guns and then he reached into his pocket. Aurora’s eyes flicked over to him. She knew what was about to happen and a second later her hopes were proved right when Mendoza pulled the switchblade out of his pocket and threw it at Hawke. Its aim would have been deadly in its accuracy, with the high-velocity blade burying itself in the Englishman’s neck were it not for a violent jerk in the train as it ran over some points and turned just as the blade left his hand.
The knife missed Hawke’s throat by an inch and struck the wall behind him, clattering to the floor beside his boots.
“Playtime over, Mendoza,” Hawke said, bringing his gun into the aim.
“Run!” Mendoza screamed in Spanish, and kicked open the door behind them.
Aurora obeyed, darting through the compartment door a step ahead of the cartel boss. Mendoza turned to follow her but Hawke rugby tackled him to the ground and they landed with a cras
h on the hard floor. The Englishman raised his gun, but the Mexican grabbed his wrist and smacked it down on the floor in an attempt to knock the weapon out of his hand. In the struggle they rolled over and now Mendoza was on top and didn’t intend on losing the advantage again.
Hawke retained his grip on the gun, squeezing the weapon so hard he pushed the blood out of his knuckles, but Mendoza didn’t give up, smacking his hand down a second and third time. The former SBS man released the gun but brought his other hand up and punched the Mexican in the jaw at the same time. Before he could recover, Hawke brought his knee up and wedged his boot in Mendoza’s stomach, forcing him back and kicking him away.
Hawke scrambled to his knees and reached for the gun but Mendoza caught his drift early and sprinted forward again, powering a ruthless kick into his face, blasting him back and almost knocking him out.
Mendoza kicked the gun away but snatched up his knife. This one was for gutting, he thought, and leaped over to the Englishman, blade raised above his head. And it wouldn’t the first time he had gutted someone, either.
But Hawke was fast, rolling over and jumping to his feet. He snatched up his gun and Mendoza knew better than anyone that you never brought a knife to a gunfight so he darted out of the compartment, and found himself in the gangway connection dividing two of the carriages. He opened the door and clambered outside.
Hawke saw him go, and he followed knowing he had the upper hand. The Mexican was on the run. He watched him sliding along the outside of the train with the deft agility of an acrobat, and then climb up onto the roof.
He knew it meant more of the damned tunnel, but Hawke stuffed the gun in his belt and followed the man up to the roof. Outside the high-pitch roar of the diesel engine mixed with the ka-chang-ka-chang sound of the wheels flying over the rails’ fishplates and created a confusing chaos. Hawke’s hair whipped around madly as he climbed up to the roof, but his journey nearly ended when Mendoza kicked him hard in the face. He was lying on his back because of the height restriction caused by the roof of the tunnel, but he was able to bring his boot forward with enough force to deliver a solid strike to Hawke’s face.
Hawke fell backwards, gripping a ridge of steel running along the top of the train with his right hand as the force of the wind rushing past him pulled his left side back and clawed at his grip. He fought the velocity of the rushing air and brought his left hand back to the ridge, but now Mendoza brought the heel of his boot down on his fingers. Hawke released his hand with the pain still throbbing in his fingers and immediately swung backwards with the force of the air blasting into him.
With no warning the tunnel opened up and they were racing into a large station. Mendoza clambered to his feet ready to deliver the final blow to Hawke but the Englishman was ready for him. He fired at the Mexican one-handed while hanging on to the train with his other hand, and struck him in the shoulder.
Mendoza stepped back, reaching up to check his wound. He grinned like a devil as the cold air of the station whistled around him, flicking up his black hair and rippling his shirt. He heard Aurora yelling, and turned to see her at the other end of the carriage, climbing onto the roof.
Hawke was dimly aware of the barking tannoys and then travellers running from the platforms to the exits, but his attention was on the two targets in front of him.
Mendoza rushed him but then the game changed in a second as a bullet tore past him and right through Aurora’s neck, spraying an arc of blood and flesh into the freezing air. She had pulled another knife and tried to throw it at Hawke, and he had ended the threat the way his training told him.
Her eyes widened with terror as she reached up to the wound, but then she started to sway as the blood pressure dropped and she tumbled off the roof of the train and crashed down over the side of the carriage. Her body fell into the dark space between the train and the edge of the platform and she was gone.
“That’s for Alex,” Hawke said.
An enraged Mendoza looked up to see the English SBS man still holding the gun that had killed his girlfriend. Before his next heartbeat the gun fired again and he felt the bullet bury itself in his shoulder. He howled in pain as the hot lead clawed at him from deep inside. Seconds later he was on his knees, swaying back and forth on the carriage roof as the train was slowly gliding to a stop.
Hawke looked up and saw the sign on the platform: München Hauptbahnhof.
“Looks like your final destination, Mendoza,” he said.
Mendoza saw a second bright muzzle flash as the Englishman fired again, striking him in the throat. The Mexican released his grip on the carriage and flew back off the roof, tumbling over in the air like a rag doll. The last second of his life was spent watching the train tracks race toward his face at a terrifying velocity.
CHAPTER TWELVE
After filing various reports with Holtz, the ECHO team gathered in a hotel to drink coffee and brief each other on their missions. The team reacted well when Hawke explained about the deaths of Silvio Mendoza and Aurora Soto, but less well when he told them that a search of what was left of their bodies and the surrounding area revealed they were not carrying the idol when they died.
Lea’s report about Kruger and Van Zyl getting away went down even worse, especially when they figured out that the South Africans must now be in possession of the idol and could be anywhere.
“Wolff won’t be pleased,” Lea said.
Hawke finished his coffee and set the cup down on top of the TV. “So we don’t tell him. The mission’s not over yet anyway, is it?”
“No, but…”
“Come on – where’s your spir…”
“Don’t say it.”
“Sorry.”
He wandered over to the window and sighed heavily. At least the view was good. The room offered a spectacular view of the Königsplatz, the city’s famous square which was modelled after the original Acropolis. He breathed out slowly and rubbed his shoulder. He had smashed it hard a couple of times back on the train and it was starting to give him problems, but he was distracted from the pain when Lea’s phone rang. She cupped her hand over it and whispered Rich to everyone and then she took the call out to the other room.
Hawke rubbed his eyes and wished he had more coffee. His eyes settled once more on the view outside the window of their room. He had never been to Munich before but considering his first trip here had involved the destruction of the Oktoberfest and thousands of euros’ damage on the U-Bahn he thought it would probably be his last trip. Still, it was pretty, and now his eyes were studying across the square where the National Collection of Antiquities was located.
He tried to make a joke about things but the rest of the team was all too concerned with Lea’s telephone call to Sir Richard Eden to pay any attention to him or the outside world. A few moments later, the former Irish Ranger returned. “Rich just had a briefing with the Munich police. Using facial recognition technology and the images we were able to provide them, they think they know where Kruger is.”
“Where?”
“He boarded a private Beechcraft King Air and flew out of Salzburg Airport less than an hour ago. A flight-plan was filed for Belgrade.”
“Belgrade?” Ryan asked.
“Serbia.”
“I know where it is,” he said sharply. “I’m saying – why the hell would he go to Serbia?”
“According to Rich’s MI6 contacts he’s been communicating with Dragan Korać.”
“Who?” Ryan asked.
But Reaper knew. “I know him. I’m not proud of it but I worked for him many years ago.”
The others looked at him, stunned. The Frenchman didn’t share their horror, and dismissed it with a Gallic shrug. “I was much younger then, and it was only one job.”
“Tell us about him,” Hawke said.
“Dragan Korać is a former Serbian commander who fought in the Balkans conflicts. He’s a brutal warlord who now uses his military skills and experience running one of the largest mercenary armies in E
urope.”
“I don’t like the sound of that,” Maria said. “I’ve had a lot of trouble in Serbia.”
Hawke heard the word again.
Serbia.
Of all the places in the world the former SBS man had served his country and now fought in for ECHO, nowhere had come as close to killing him as Serbia. It was on a mission in Serbia that Alex Reeve, known to him back then only as Agent Nightingale, had saved his life by talking him safely out of the worst nightmare of his life. He hadn’t been there since then but now he was going back.
“So what’s the plan?” Lea asked.
“I can make some calls,” Reaper said.
“To what end?”
“To get me on the inside.”
Everyone stared at him like he was insane. “Are you crazy?” said Maria. “Dragan Korać sounds like a total psycho, Vincent! You can’t go in alone.”
“It’s the only way,” Hawke said firmly. “And he’s not going in alone. I’m going in too.”
“Now I’ve heard it all,” Lea said. “As if one of us getting killed by this nutcase wasn’t enough you want to go and make it two!”
“Listen,” Hawke said. “We know Kruger’s going to Korać for mercenaries and at such short notice that means Korać will have to go on a recruitment drive. Neither Reaper or me ever got close enough to Dirk Kruger for him to recognize us, and Dragan Bloody Korać has never seen me before either, so it’s an opportunity we just can’t afford to turn away.”
“I don’t like it,” Lexi said. “It seems reckless, and that’s me saying it.”
“I hear all your concerns, but it’s the only way. If we can meet with Korać and convince him we’re mercenaries looking for work he’ll snap us up and we’ll be on the inside.”