by K. J. Howe
To the right, a flash of red caught his eye. He darted forward through the trees, bending low. It had to be Ayan’s jacket—that shade of crimson didn’t exist in nature. He quickened his pace. Almost there. He lunged forward, hip screaming.
Then stopped dead in his tracks.
The escapees had ripped off a piece of the jacket and secured it to a branch, the wind causing it to flutter. He studied the tracks surrounding the tree. Footprints led in every direction, making it impossible to know which way they’d headed. They’d likely walked out, then stepped backward in the tracks to return to the tree, then repeated the process. Smart little fuckers. He’d have to follow one track, then another and another, to narrow down which way they’d actually gone.
He called Luciano’s satphone.
“You have them, boss?”
“Not yet. Any tracks on that side of the forest?”
A moment’s hesitation. “Hard to tell. The wind’s really come up, and it’s blowing snow all over the place.”
“Drive around the wooded area, and look for any sign of them. Meanwhile, I’ll search in here.”
He ended the call and studied the footprints, deciding which set to try first.
Chapter 61
Rif sat inside a Czech Aero L-39 Albatros, wheeling down the runway, almost ready for takeoff. Because he would need speed and agility, and because he didn’t know how long he’d have to be in the air, a helicopter and its small fuel supply wouldn’t cut it. After they’d left the hotel, everyone dispersed to their assigned locations via motorcycle, car, panel vans, and garbage truck while he prepared to search for the target from above.
He’d been lucky to find such a fast and agile plane on short notice. The former fighter jet was painted in the Soviet air force colors—a camouflage scheme with bright yellow bands on the tip tanks and the back of the fin. The training jet had probably been purchased after the collapse of the Soviet Union, as the financially struggling country’s stockpile of L-39’s was offered at a fraction of their original multimillion-dollar price tags. Still cost a pretty penny to lease one for the day. Wait until Hakan sees the expense report.
The Albatros had a castering nosewheel. To steer the L-39 on the ground, all he had to do was squeeze a motorcycle-style brake grip on the control stick and position the rudder pedals to direct differential brake pressure to the main wheels. Reliable and sturdy, the L-39 could reach airspeeds of five hundred miles an hour. Best of all, his large frame wasn’t cramped inside the roomy front cockpit of the dual-control, tandem plane. He sat in the front seat, the rear seat empty.
The metric hardware and nitrogen took a little getting used to, but he’d flown an L-39 three years ago in the Ukraine, so it didn’t take long to reorient himself. He planned on maintaining a low altitude during the search for the truck—the L-39 offered nine thousand feet of cabin pressurization differential, so he wouldn’t need to use the oxygen mask below eighteen thousand feet. He’d have a couple of hours of fuel as long as he kept his speed under control.
He pressed the CommRadio, contacting air traffic control to secure permission for takeoff. Selecting flaps takeoff, he slipped the speed brakes into forward, trims neutral.
Full throttle. The jet accelerated down the runway and glided into the air. He banked hard to compensate for the high speed.
The cool air allowed him to climb 4,500 feet per minute, so he reached 11,000 feet in no time at all. Re-familiarizing himself with the aerobatic plane, he did a few barrel rolls, loops, and a Cuban Eight before settling into surveillance mode. The g-forces made him feel alive, adrenalized. Nothing compared to this feeling. He smiled, remembering the scene featuring the L-39 in Tomorrow Never Dies. Sadly, the weapons systems on his plane were inoperable, so he wasn’t quite in 007 mode.
He contacted Thea via satphone. She picked up on the first ring, earbuds already in. “Nice moves up there.” Her tone was clipped, focused.
“Thought you might enjoy a little show. Once the boys and the other hostages are safely home, I’ll take you for a ride.”
“As if,” she deadpanned. “Be careful up there.”
“As long as I keep my hands off the red handles in the center, it should be fine.”
“Red handles?”
“The ejection seat controls.” He regretted mentioning it immediately. Given that Thea wasn’t keen on flying at the best of times, she wouldn’t want to even contemplate bailing from the jet in mid-flight. “I’m scanning for the truck on the westbound roads into town; then I’ll search clockwise.”
“The team’s in place. Hakan’s monitoring the cameras.”
There hadn’t been time to go through normal diplomatic channels, so three tech specialists from Quantum had hacked into the CCTV system monitoring the highways and were searching for GMC trucks on any and all routes into the city.
“City looks gorgeous from up here.” Every time he flew, he marveled at the beauty of the earth from above. And this time was no exception, as his gaze swept over the Danube, the historical buildings, and the grassy plains below.
“It’ll be plenty interesting down here. Life comes at you fast on a bike.”
She was riding his favorite BMW motorcycle, the R1200GS. He’d much rather be on the ground, where he could provide more help if something went wrong, but he was the only member of the team with a pilot’s license, so his job was in the air.
Johansson spent much of his free time on the track, so he sat behind the wheel of a beastly but innocuous-looking Audi S8. Once they pinpointed the truck’s location, they would all converge on it—while trying to stay off law enforcement’s radar.
“I’m connecting you with the team now. Stay in touch.”
A buzzing, then voices, sounded in his ear.
“Try to keep out of trouble, boys. No speeding,” Rif said with a smile.
Jean-Luc’s heavily accented voice came through the radio. “Not much chance of that in my garbage truck.”
The former Legionnaire was behind the wheel of a hulking vehicle they had “borrowed” from the city’s sanitation department. If needed, it could be used to block a two-lane roadway.
“I’d like to see the rendőrség try to stop me,” Brown said, referring to the local gendarmes. He rode a high-performance Ducati 959 Panigale, with a top speed of 134 mph.
“Stewart and I are all set.” The two brothers had rented two white panel vans, and their job was to transport the refugees to a local care center where they could find food and shelter.
Rif adjusted his sunglasses and settled into his seat. The mechanical flight controls of the L-39 operated smoothly, allowing him to study the ground below, his mind focused on one goal: finding that target. How many large trucks could be entering Budapest at this time on a Saturday morning?
Apparently quite a few, judging by the massive gridlock he saw as he passed over the M0 on his eastern sweep.
Chapter 62
Thea clung to the saddle of the BMW as she accelerated past an elderly driver trundling along below the speed limit. She ignored the ache from her left hand, which still throbbed from the fight in the labyrinth, and focused on the road. Headed eastbound on the M4 motorway, she cruised back into the city, hoping Hakan or Rif would spot the truck soon. The other members of the team were making similar loops through their quadrants, waiting for a positive ID on the truck.
Each vehicle had a GPS tracker, so Hakan could see them on an electronic map in the situation room in London. He would guide them toward the target once it was found.
She dropped lower on the bike, using the windscreen to shelter her body from the wind. The full leathers she wore weren’t quite thick enough to warm her bones on this chilly day, but she’d still rather be racing along the highway than be up in the air with Rif. Those aerobatic maneuvers he loved so much would have her reaching for the white bag within seconds. She was much happier on solid ground or even water. The air was his domain.
Hakan’s voice rumbled in her earpiece. “Might have something. Truck with a
cargo back traveling westbound on the M3, approaching the M0 cloverleaf at Sikátorpuszta. Just spotted it on the toll cameras.”
“I’m on it,” Rif responded.
“Johansson, take the next exit and head west on the M3. You’re approaching the cloverleaf now,” Hakan said.
“Got it.” Johansson was on the M0, heading north toward the M3 interchange.
Meanwhile, Rif dropped down for a closer look at the truck. “Found it. Driver is aggressive, weaving in and out of traffic.”
“Johansson should be there soon. Hang tight, everyone,” Hakan said.
She traveled along the motorway, awaiting further instruction from her boss. All team members would remain on their routes until they confirmed it was definitely the target. They had to be sure before abandoning their positions.
Minutes passed in tense succession. She focused on the road and the vehicles around her. In a city of three million people, the search for one truck was daunting. They had a far better chance of finding it than Prospero’s team did, but dumb luck could always play a role. She prayed they got to it first.
As she waited for more information, she thought of Ayan and Jabari, wondering how they were coping. She planned on calling the Wavertons with a progress report tonight. With any luck, the boys would be safely back soon. The original plan had been for Ayan and Jabari to spend a night with Thea and Christos before heading to their new home in London. A flush of shame washed over her. She’d made the plan partially so the boys would be there as a buffer between her and her father. She had to find a more honest way of dealing with Christos, or they’d never be comfortable together again. But what was he hiding from her?
“Coming up behind the truck now.” Johansson’s voice jolted her back to the present.
“Driver’s still acting like an asshole, but he’s not the only one,” Rif said.
“Rear axles are low. Looks to be heavily loaded.” Johansson’s breath sounded in her ear.
“Remain close and monitor it,” Hakan said. “License plate?”
“YRE-9912.”
“Not the one we’re looking for, but they could have changed plates,” Thea said.
“Checking it out now,” Hakan said.
“The right rear bumper has a large dent, the paint scraped off. Mud splatters on the sides of the gutters.” Johansson was an excellent observer, good with details. “Passing the truck now—will check out the driver.”
“Just don’t spook them, Jo,” Thea said.
“With my gorgeous face? Not possible.”
“Sorry, but you’re lucky your kid looks like your wife,” Rif said.
A sharp laugh from Jo.
Seconds ticked by. No update from Hakan, nothing from Johansson. Silence.
She waited.
“Piss off!” Johansson shouted.
“What’s going on?” Thea was primed to accelerate and head for her teammate’s position.
“The driver threw his coffee out the window right onto the S8 as I was passing him. Looks like a local, with no respect for the environment or his fellow drivers.”
“Exit for 2A approaching in five hundred meters,” Rif said. The truck they were after should stay on the M3, heading for the city center. If this was the target, they’d better move on it soon.
“Blinker is on. Should I follow?” Johansson asked.
Hakan’s voice buzzed through. “Just ran the plate. A leather goods’ company, reputable.”
“He’s turning off, headed northbound on 2A,” Johansson said.
Away from the city center.
“Not our target.” Hakan sounded frustrated. Ten minutes focused on the wrong truck. She just hoped they hadn’t missed the real one. Gearing down, she slowed the motorbike to avoid some road construction, moving into the right lane. Up ahead, a flash of black fabric caught her eye.
Chapter 63
The flash of canvas Thea had spotted wasn’t the truck, but a tarp covering a Boston Whaler being towed by an SUV. Another thirty minutes ticked by as they combed the roads, Rif scanning from the air, Hakan monitoring the toll cameras. Prospero seemed certain about the time frame and type of truck. They had to keep looking, but Rif couldn’t stay up in the air forever without refueling.
Her earpiece buzzed. Rif. “Spotted something.”
“What is it?”
“A large military truck with canvas backing close to the city center, heading up 51.” All the drivers had memorized the main arteries into the city, so Thea knew more or less what he was talking about. “It must have come up the back roads from the south while I was flying over the north. Going down for a closer look.”
“Coordinates?” Thea asked.
“Sending them now. Looks like it’s heading in the direction of the Chain Bridge. Could be the one.”
Hakan’s calm voice sounded in her ear. “Jean-Luc and Thea are closest; they’ll arrive first. Everyone else, converge on the coordinates at your earliest. If it’s our truck, we need to seize it immediately, before it reaches the Parliament Building. If not, we’ll scatter again.”
She guided the BMW onto the shoulder of the road, rebalancing the bike as the tires spun on loose gravel, and sailed past the stop-start traffic clogging the M3. Revving the throttle, she barreled down the highway, her gaze scanning for police, who might not appreciate her solution to surviving the congestion.
“I’m not far either,” Johansson said.
“Coming.” The howl of Brown’s Italian racing bike confirmed it.
“We’re on our way,” Stewart said.
“What cross street should I use?” Thea asked.
Hakan guided her through the city via her earbud, using live traffic maps for the most efficient route.
“The target is following the Danube, northbound,” Rif said.
“Jean-Luc, position yourself on the Buda side of the river near the Chain Bridge,” Hakan instructed.
“Already idling in the parking area for the funicular.” That put him beside the roundabout on the east side of the bridge, right where he needed to be if the truck tried to cross over.
“There soon,” Thea said.
The L-39 whizzed overhead as she closed the distance to the truck. Shifting gears, dodging between cars, Thea broke every traffic rule trying to catch up to the lumbering vehicle. A few drivers raised fists or gave her the finger. She sympathized—she was driving like a wild woman—but they had no idea how much was at stake.
“Eyes on target,” she said. “It’s a GMC CCKW, one of those two-and-a-half-ton trucks with a long wheelbase. Canvas back.”
Johansson’s voice sounded in her earpiece. “Made it to the Buda side of the Chain Bridge. Idling on the side road.”
She reduced her speed, not wanting to startle the driver. Fifty meters behind the truck, she was finally able to read the plate. “It’s our target.”
“Thea, you’re closing on the Chain Bridge. Stay with the truck,” Hakan said. “One noisy distraction, courtesy of Brown and Johansson, coming up.”
She opened the throttle a little, shrinking the distance to twenty meters, then ten. She needed to be directly next to the truck. She passed several boats moored on the Danube, shivering at the thought of how cold it would be on the river today.
“Jean-Luc, block the bridge from the Pest side.” Hakan was the grand master, moving pieces on the chessboard, planning a surprise capture of the enemy’s king. “Johansson, as soon as Thea reaches the bridge, close it off from the Buda side.”
“Got it.”
“Rif, keep an eye out for any police. We have a small window before company arrives, and we want to be moving out before they do.” Hakan’s voice was calm, measured. It felt as if he was right beside them rather than in London.
She downshifted the BMW, preparing to turn onto the bridge behind the truck. The target trundled along the road, traveling at the speed limit. As far as she could tell, the driver had no idea he was being tailed. It wasn’t easy to see a motorcycle in the rearview mirror, espe
cially given how close she was.
The rumble of an explosion echoed in her ears. In the distance, a smudge of dense black smoke rose above the Danube. She smiled. One of the caches of harmless explosives Brown and Johansson had set up at various points along the riverbank had just been detonated. Hopefully, it would keep the cops busy enough for the Quantum team to complete the mission and melt into Budapest traffic before the police arrived.
“Brown, park your bike and prepare to drive the truck to the gamma location,” Hakan said.
They had rented four different warehouses across the city in anticipation of this moment, each one coded to the first four letters of the Greek alphabet. The goal was to hide the truck as quickly as possible so they could search it and talk to the refugees somewhere private. Prospero’s men were undoubtedly searching for the target—they might even have eyes on it now—and the Quantum team wanted to get to it first.
Brown had been a mechanical engineer, and Johansson knew more about cars, trucks, and motorcycles than anyone else on the team. They would take it apart piece by piece if necessary to figure out what had driven Prospero to hijack a plane full of passengers for it.
The GMC activated its right blinker, waiting for traffic to move. Thea followed suit. “Now.”
“On it,” Jean-Luc said. The Chain Bridge wasn’t very wide, he’d blocked access to the Parliament Building from the Pest side by parking the garbage truck at an awkward angle across the lanes of the bridge. He had the hood up, making it look like a breakdown.
The GMC turned. Thea followed. A quick glance in her rearview mirror showed Johansson right behind her, stopping in his lane so no one could access the bridge from that end. Two cars honked at the S8 in their way. Johansson flicked on his emergency lights and raised his hands in mock frustration: What can I do?
The cars behind the S8 turned off, headed for the next bridge crossing. Meanwhile, the GMC’s brake lights came on, the driver realizing a garbage truck blocked the bridge.