by K. J. Howe
Thea gunned her motorbike over to the curb, slammed on the brakes, and engaged the kickstand. Hopping off, she freed the Glock from inside her leather jacket and sprinted toward the back of the truck, the weapon in both hands, pointed at the passenger-side window. Two rounds whizzed by her ear, ricocheting off the asphalt behind her.
Chapter 64
Rif descended in the L-39 for a closer look at the action unfolding on the Chain Bridge. Jean-Luc and Johansson had sandwiched the truck from either side, boxing in their quarry. Vehicle after vehicle was trying to access the bridge but giving up after determining it was blocked. Even given the helpful distraction downriver, it would be only a matter of minutes before local officials were alerted about the traffic stoppage and arrived on the scene.
He flew past the bridge, then circled back, staring down at the Danube. A few boats were parked along the Pest side; some sort of exhibition was happening later in the day.
This mission was fluid, the plan designed to adapt to events as they unfolded. He preferred a mission with strict parameters, but you played the hand you were dealt. The team always prepared backup plans, and backup plans to the backup plans, and they’d explored countless operational scenarios, but none in depth. The ideal take-down spot would have been on a quiet road outside of the city, but now they’d have to depend on their training to make up for the less-than-ideal location.
Among the scenarios they had considered—one of them featured Thea and Brown boarding the truck from their motorcycles—many had a high risk of going sideways, so in some ways the bridge was a minor blessing. Still, the blockade ratcheted up the likelihood of gunplay. Trapped, the operators would have nowhere to go, and that would make them desperate and dangerous. And the local police and/or Prospero’s men could arrive at any minute, adding to the total number of combatants. His gaze combed the area below, searching for any indication of the gendarmes or other actors approaching. But the streets below looked normal enough for what had turned out to be a busy Saturday morning.
“The vans are in position on the Buda bank,” Neil said. “Ready to receive.”
Rif clocked the location of the white vans and noticed Thea’s motorcycle parked on the bridge; she would be preparing to engage the smugglers.
“Let’s do it,” Hakan said.
Seconds later, heated shouting erupted over the radio. Here we go. As expected, the targets weren’t interested in surrendering without a fight. Rif wished he could be there by Thea’s side.
Chapter 65
Thea crouched at the back of the truck, protecting herself from the man on the passenger side, who had cracked his door open and taken a potshot at her with his revolver. The round had spanged off the roadside and smashed into the vehicles behind her and ricocheted harmlessly off the bridge, but that was dumb luck. If he kept firing, a civilian injury or death was all but inevitable.
She snuck a quick look around the corner of the truck, poised to fire, but the shooter had retreated inside the GMC, leaving the door slightly ajar. Johansson kept low and sprinted along the bridge to her left, zigzagging to be a harder target. Just as he took up his position at the other corner of the truck, the rear canvas flap opened and terrified refugees piled out of the back.
In Arabic, Thea told the refugees that everything was going to be okay, but that they had to get aboard the two vans immediately if they wanted to stay safe. Scared but not knowing what else to do, they obeyed.
Her radio crackled again and she heard Jean-Luc’s voice. “Two targets in the cab. Driver is hiding below the dash, but I have a clear shot on the passenger.” He was stationed inside the cab of the garbage truck, a silenced M4 propped up on the window frame of the open door.
“Take him out,” she said, trusting her teammate’s aim. She didn’t like the idea of killing the smugglers, who were probably victims in this plot, too, but they had to take out the hostiles quickly to protect the greatest number of people.
Even muffled, the report of the M4 was loud. The glass of the truck’s windshield shattered in a ragged star as the round passed through and found its target. The passenger slumped out the truck’s door, pushing it open. One down.
“Driver still not visible,” Jean-Luc said.
“We’ll take it from here. Cover us.” Thea glanced behind her at the Pest side of the bridge. Neil and Stewart were shepherding confused refugees into the vans. Everyone would be taken to the nearest shelter for safekeeping after the two brothers had debriefed them. Some evacuees seemed hesitant at first, but whatever her teammates were telling them was working to keep them calm and compliant.
She signaled to Johansson, and he signaled back as they worked together to cover the driver’s exit routes from the cab. Refugees kept stumbling out of the rear cargo area, one after the other. She couldn’t believe how many people had been sardined inside.
Thea covered the passenger side door, approaching the truck with caution, as Johansson—his back pressed against the side of the truck—inched toward the driver’s side door. He was trying to “slice the pie,” surprising the driver by using the blind spot to approach the window.
Johansson moved silently and quickly. In position, he raised his Glock with both hands, stepping out from the truck until he had an angle on the target. Crouched low, the driver leaned out, raising his weapon. Before the man could fire, Johansson reached over and yanked open the door. Eyes wide with surprise, the man tried to regain his balance, but he was extended too far. Johansson delivered a crushing blow to the man’s larynx with his left hand. A horrible choking sound escaped the man’s throat and he dropped his weapon. Johansson shoved the driver inside while scanning for other occupants, Glock raised and ready in his other hand.
Johansson opened the door and pulled out the driver one-handed while scanning for other occupants, firearm raised and ready in his other hand.
“Clear,” Johansson announced.
“Cops are headed for the Buda side.” Rif’s deep voice sounded in her earpiece.
Brown wheeled onto the bridge on his motorcycle, the final team member to arrive at the scene. He threaded through the fleeing refugees and parked his bike off to the side.
Sirens wailed, but no cherries were visible yet. Brown helped Thea load the passenger back into the truck, then she ran back to the cargo hold as the last few refugees jumped off the truck. One of the men, wearing a black-and-white checkered shemagh around his neck, knocked into her shoulder in his rush to get off. Something about him caught her attention, but she didn’t have time to investigate.
“Get out now,” Hakan’s voice urged in their earbuds.
Jean-Luc joined them, hopping into the driver’s side of the GMC and shoving the two bodies out of his way. He had abandoned the garbage truck with the keys inside, so the police could move it. The entire team had worn latex gloves to avoid leaving fingerprints on any of the vehicles.
Johansson sprinted back to the S8, turned off the hazards, completed a three-point turn, and raced off in the opposite lane, allowing egress for the truck. Brown jumped onto his bike and sped off the bridge. They would shadow the target to the “delta” warehouse to ensure it arrived safely.
Thea helped a wide-eyed young mother holding her child, two of the last wave climbing off the truck. In Arabic, she said, “We’re here to help. Those men will take you somewhere safe.” She indicated Neil and Stewart, standing beside the panel vans.
The mother pointed at the man wearing the shemagh, who strode quickly past the group of refugees. “He’s one of them,” she whispered.
“Thank you,” Thea said as the woman hurried off to the bus. “We have a live one,” she said. “Going after him.”
“Roger that. Police in under five, so be quick.”
Thea clutched her Glock in both hands and started after the man. As the last living member of the team that had been driving the truck, he might have important information to offer. He had a solid head start, so she ran. He glanced over his shoulder and saw her chasing him. He turned, raising a pistol
. She dove to the ground and rolled. He fired off a couple of rounds, then bolted.
She jumped up, frustrated she couldn’t return fire because of all the civilians. The man raced off the bridge and turned left onto the road bordering the Danube, with Thea attempting to close the gap.
A few boats were parked along the river, the owners milling about. She was still a hundred feet behind when he aimed his handgun at the men and shouted at them. Seconds later, he jumped into a sleek Cigarette boat and fired up the engine. He untied the mooring ropes, gunned the throttle, and knifed through the water, heading north just as she was catching up to him.
Thea greeted the boat owners in Hungarian. She wasn’t fluent, but with the gun in her hand and her chest heaving from the footrace, her intentions were pretty clear. “Need to follow him—will bring the boat back.”
Looking at the gun in her hand, one of the men tossed his keys to her. She caught them as he pointed to a red-and-white Donzi.
“Köszönöm,” she said, thanking him.
She jumped into the speedboat, pulled in the bumpers, and cranked the throaty engine. She untied the boat from the cleats and pushed her off from the dock as the men looked on in stony silence. When she had the boat in the middle of the channel, she slammed the throttle down and raced after the Cigarette. Given the cool temperature, there wasn’t much traffic on the Danube, but the man ahead of her seemed to be a little twitchy at the helm, perhaps unfamiliar with driving such a powerful racer.
But as speedy as the Donzi was, Shemagh still had the faster boat.
Chapter 66
Rif checked the fuel and realized he was running low. Blue and white lights flashed below as cops swarmed the Chain Bridge, but the team had escaped in time.
“The eagle has landed.” Jean-Luc’s gravelly voice rumbled over the radio.
The GMC had arrived safely at the warehouse. Their team would tear the truck apart and figure out what had driven Prospero Salvatore to such lengths to procure it. It would be a distinct advantage to know what, exactly, they were handing over.
Meanwhile, Thea was chasing one of the men in a racing boat—and from his bird’s-eye view, it looked as if she was falling behind the larger, more powerful Cigarette.
Thea’s voice, buffeted by the wind, came in over the CommRadio. “Rif, any obstacles ahead?”
He looked north along the Danube—it must be freezing on the river. “Clear sailing, but you’re losing ground.”
“The throttle is wide open—this is all she’s got.” Her voice was choppy.
“Leave it to me. Drop back a little.”
“Roger, out.”
Thea decelerated, allowing the Cigarette to plunge ahead. The man in the shemagh would undoubtedly feel cocky, so close to escape. He’d never expect an attack from above.
Rif went into a swift dive, banking hard right, the huge non-tumbling altitude indicator spinning in reverse. He pushed his left thumb onto the speed brakes, keeping the Albatros under 250 knots as he plunged below 10,000 feet.
The Cigarette shot under the bridge at Margaret Island, churning up a huge wake. Thea’s Donzi had dropped back, allowing Rif the room he needed to maneuver. He dipped down and zoomed under the bridge in pursuit, the steel rafters mere feet above the rudder. He was nail-bitingly close to the dark water, but the Albatros was nimble.
Time slowed as Rif closed in on the boat. The man driving the boat glanced up, a stunned look on his face. The concussive force of the powerful jet engine sent shock waves rippling across the water faster than the boat could travel. Seconds later, the turbulence from the L-39 slammed into the Cigarette, lifting the prow of the craft and flipping it end over end. The driver pinwheeled into the frigid water as the boat finished its tumble, the engines swamped.
Rif lifted the nose of the plane and accelerated, heading for the airport. His fuel level was now dangerously low. He needed to get this bird onto the ground.
He pressed the button to connect with Thea. “Your man’s ready for pickup.”
Chapter 67
Thea’s mind was still blown from Rif’s stunt. Watching the L-39 zoom under the bridge breathtakingly close to the water had been exhilarating. But seeing the Cigarette flip like a playing card caught in the wind, flinging the man through the air, had been something else. She opened the throttle on the Donzi, happy to have been far away when the large boat capsized.
Reaching the accident site, she slowed the Donzi, scanning the water. It didn’t take long to find the man. He still had his scarf wrapped around his neck as he paddled weakly toward the shore. His eyelids flickered, and his teeth chattered nearly loudly enough for her to hear over the purr of the boat’s engine. The river had to be around forty degrees, so hypothermia would set in quickly if he didn’t get out of there. She killed the engine and tossed him one of the bumpers from the boat. He grabbed hold, his hands fumbling and desperate. She pulled him in, bringing him to the aft, where he could use the ladder to climb aboard.
His hands were weak, his body shivering uncontrollably, so she pretty much had to haul him onto the Donzi. It occurred to her that he might also be concussed from the force of hitting the water. She patted him down to make sure he didn’t have a weapon. His handgun was probably at the bottom of the Danube. She shepherded him to the passenger seat and sat him down.
A quick search of the Donzi yielded a first-aid kit. She wrapped the reflective Mylar blanket around him to stabilize his body temperature. Soaked and stunned, he seemed harmless enough, but she’d learned long ago not to take any unnecessary risks. She grabbed a zip tie from her pants pocket and secured his wrists together in his lap.
Shemagh pointed his hands up to the sky, where the L-39 had faded into the distance. “Majnoon.” Crazy.
Rif definitely was, but in a good way. Instead of letting the man escape in the barreling Cigarette, Rif had stopped him cold—and now they had a potential source of information. She’d take him back to the warehouse, get him into some warm, dry clothes, and then the majnoon pilot could interrogate him.
Thea piloted the Donzi in a half circle and headed back down the river. She used her satphone to call Rif. “I caught the fish.”
His warm laughter sounded in her ear. “Been a long time since I’ve been able to execute a flyby like that.”
“You certainly cut it close.”
“It’s the only way. Just landing now. Meet you at the warehouse.”
“Roger that. Meanwhile, what should I tell the Cigarette’s owner?” The boat Shemagh had stolen was a total loss.
“That you hope he’s insured?”
“Ha ha.” Hakan would track down the owner and make sure that everything was taken care of. If she had her way, Prospero would buy the guy a new racing boat.
She couldn’t wait to get back, tell Prospero they had secured the truck, and set up the meet. Ayan, Jabari, and the other passengers could come home at last.
Chapter 68
Jean-Luc picked up Thea and her captive in a borrowed Peugeot and took them to the warehouse, where the team was tearing apart the GMC. Neil and Stewart were working under the hood, Rif sat near the right front wheel well with a ratchet set nearby, and Brown and Johansson were in the back compartment, ripping it apart. Every inch of the vehicle would be scoured before they met with Prospero.
She’d given their guest dry clothes and food before applying another zip tie to his hands and tying him down in a chair.
With luck, whatever Prospero wanted could be removed from the truck and transported in another vehicle, as every police officer in Budapest would now be on the lookout for the GMC. If not, they’d paint the truck and change the plates before driving it to Turkey for the meet.
“How are the refugees?” Thea asked, standing near the engine block and looking over the shoulders of the Scots.
“Safely ensconced with friendly locals,” Neil said.
Quantum had black-book contacts across the globe they could reach out to in emergencies. In exchange for future services
, Hakan had mobilized the Hungarian contacts to see that the refugees arrived safely at processing centers across Eastern Europe. Most of them would not stay in Hungary, which was ranked among the worst countries in Europe for its treatment of asylum seekers. They would be safe for now, though the challenge of integrating into their new countries would provide them a difficult, and in some ways more arduous, journey than the one they had just taken.
She strode to Rif, who was working to remove the front left tire for an inspection of the rim and wheel well. “Would you like the honor of chatting with our new friend? He admired your aerobatics earlier.”
Rif smiled, wiping his hands as he stood. “I’d be delighted to talk to him.”
Thea entered the office portion of the warehouse, closed the door, and sank into a leather chair. She hadn’t had much sleep, just a short nap while flying to Budapest with the team. Sleep was a treasured commodity in their business—you grabbed it when you could. But before she could try to nap, she needed food and insulin. Dealing with her illness was a pain in the ass, but there wasn’t much she could do about that.
She opened the box of diabetes supplies Hakan had sent with the team. It had been three days since her last rotation, and she always adhered to a strict regimen. Couldn’t have her pump malfunctioning while in the field.
Thea ripped off the sticky tape holding down the sensor, wincing as it pulled a few hairs along with it. Her skin underneath was red and irritated—no surprise, given the recent sweat-fest in Libya. The small hole in the middle of the irritation looked puffy. She smeared Neosporin on it and covered it with a Band-Aid.
Her hands worked quickly to replace the sensor and infusion sites, as she needed to keep moving the sites to avoid infection. She’d been at the drill of looking after her diabetes for years, but the technology had changed since she’d first been diagnosed at age twelve. Remove the tube, rewind the pump, fill the reservoir with insulin, prime the pump. She liked to think that her diabetes routine wasn’t all that different from disassembling and reassembling a gun.