Amongst a pile of toppled tables and chairs, AJ and Raimond tussled over the Sig Sauer on the ground. AJ locked one hand around the barrel and with his other gripped the suppressor of the pistol, controlling the direction of the muzzle. Raimond clutched the pistol grip with his right hand, repeatedly jerked the weapon, trying to pull it free from AJ’s grasp. With his free left hand, Zurn rabbit punched AJ in the face. Once. Twice. As Raimond cocked his fist back for a third blow, AJ tucked his knees and swung his lower body around 180 degrees so that the soles of his feet were now toward Raimond. He pulled with both hands on the Sig Sauer, drawing it close to his chest, straightening and lengthening Raimond’s right arm. The maneuver had repositioned AJ’s head out of fist striking distance and gave him additional leverage. But, in doing so, the muzzle angle had changed. Raimond grinned. He squeezed the trigger, sending a round whizzing centimeters past AJ’s face. The errant bullet struck a metal table behind AJ with a clang.
Will jerked at the strident sound of the bullet ricocheting off the metal table. He looked down at AJ and Raimond wrestling on the ground over the gun, then at the Ducati, and then back at the van. His expressionless eyes belied the turmoil he felt inside. How could he abandon Julie now?
Will stared at Kalen, motionless.
“We’ll get her back,” Kalen said. “I promise.”
Will reluctantly climbed on to the motorcycle behind Kalen. He locked his arms around Kalen’s waist and placed his feet on the passenger stirrups.
“Keep your forehead pressed in the middle of my back. Close your eyes, and no matter what happens—DON’T LET GO,” Kalen instructed, yelling over his shoulder. He flipped his helmet visor down with a thud, engaged the clutch, and twisted the throttle. Kalen’s black Ducati streaked away from the Café Sacher in a blur.
“Raimond is in trouble,” Stefan said, looking out the driver’s side window of the van at the commotion across the street.
“What do we do?” Udo asked, leaning forward from the cargo compartment of the van so that his head was even between the driver and passenger seat headrests.
“We’re behind on the timeline. If someone saw you take the Ponte girl, then the police will be coming soon,” Stefan answered, panicked. “We need to go.”
“We can’t leave Raimond behind! I’ll crush those bastards.”
“There’s no time, Udo. Raimond can take care of himself. Foster is getting away. Take the Kawasaki and follow that bike. Do not lose Foster. We’re switching to the backup plan. Remember, no matter what happens, we rendezvous at the warehouse at 2200.”
“Okay, ja, I’ll get him back.”
AJ’s eyes bulged as he looked down and saw the open muzzle pointing at his face. He twisted the barrel violently, reorienting the line of fire away from his head and up toward the sky. As he did, Raimond squeezed off another round—this time piercing one of the maroon colored Hotel Sacher awnings. AJ pulled Raimond’s arm straight between his legs and drew his knees up to his chest. With all his might, AJ kicked with both feet at the same time. The sole of one shoe impacted the top of Raimond’s head, and the other foot glanced off Raimond’s left shoulder. The force of the blow had its desired effect, popping the handgun free from Zurn’s grip. AJ scooted backward, crablike, pushing with his feet to distance himself from his foe. Raimond grunted and grabbed the top of his head in pain, before rolling over onto his hands and knees into a crawling position. Raimond lifted his head up to look at AJ, who had backed himself up against the stone façade of the building. AJ sat with his back upright, legs extended in “V,” and both arms fully extended as he aimed the Sig at his rival.
“Fuck you,” said Raimond with disdain, staring at AJ. He then stood up, and dusted himself off.
AJ said nothing, but elevated the barrel of the gun to maintain his aim at Raimond’s chest.
In the background, the scream of a second motorcycle engine echoed in the night. Raimond turned in the direction of the sound. A red Kawasaki Ninja launched out of the open rear cargo doors of the van parked across the street. Both motorcycle tires chirped when they hit the pavement—the bike skidded and wobbled momentarily—before the rider skillfully recovered his balance. The rider sped west on Philharmoniker Strasse in pursuit of Kalen and Will. Raimond turned back to look at AJ, and then limped toward the van idling across the street. He hauled himself into the rear cargo compartment and pulled the two doors shut behind him, as the vehicle raced away down Kärntner Strasse.
AJ looked for the safety on the Sig Sauer, finding none, he stuffed it inside the waistline of his pants at the small of his back. He looked up. Two shapely female legs in high heels and black stockings filled his frame of view.
“Let’s go. We don’t have much time,” Albane said to AJ, extending her hand to help him up. He grabbed her wrist and rose to his feet. Her grip was firm, and the pull she exerted on his arm both impressed and surprised him. Albane had some muscles packed on her lithe frame.
In the background, the sound of police sirens blaring grew louder with each passing second. The Tank’s armored BMW 760Li was waiting at the curb for them with the rear passenger door open. AJ and Albane ran to the sedan and jumped inside. The driver wasted no time, pressing the accelerator to the floor before AJ had shut the door. The V12 engine roared and the svelte sedan raced away into the Viennese night.
• • •
AS INSTRUCTED, WILL pressed his forehead against the middle of Kalen’s back. His fingers clenched the folds of Kalen’s leather jacket, like a madman holding the reigns of a demon stallion galloping toward the gates of hell. Will was not an experienced motorcycle rider, but he knew that any attempt by him to balance the bike, or anticipate an evasive maneuver by the driver would have a deleterious effect. As long as he was deadweight, the driver’s reflexes would naturally compensate for his presence. A backpack. That was what he aimed to be, a 170-pound human backpack.
The speed was ludicrous. Will knew this because the loose fabric of his chinos stung his thighs as it flapped violently in the wind. He kept his eyes shut, pretending like a small child that what he couldn’t see wasn’t really happening. A terrible jolt, followed by a skid caused Will to instinctively open his eyes. Bright red taillights swept by in a blur. Tires squealed as drivers in passing cars slammed on their brakes. Will squeezed his eyes closed, for fear panic would cause him to fall off the bike. Behind, he could hear the whine of another street motorcycle. But no sirens. He assumed the worst—one of the thugs from Prague was in pursuit. He cringed. For one motorcycle, the chase was certain to end badly.
Kalen panted inside his helmet. Evasive driving was exhausting. Exhilarating. Hot pain shot through his right knee. He grunted, but his concentration did not waver. He had clipped something—a fender, a bumper, a small dog. It didn’t matter, the pain was a reminder. With Foster on the bike, he was severely hampered. Like a gymnast trying to compete with a lead weight strapped to one foot, maneuvers he could normally perform with ease were impossible with a passenger. His pursuer had no such handicap. Time to level the playing field.
K. Immel—RS:Physical: “This jerkoff on my ass is starting to piss me off. Give me the count.”
C. Remy—RS:Coordinator: “Three minutes forty seconds—seventy seconds past the evacuation timeline. Physical, you need to escalate your evasion tactics.”
K. Immel—RS:Physical: “No shit, really. The problem is I’ve got a two hundred pound gorilla on my back. I can’t cut for shit. I’m shredding my tires.”
C. Remy—RS:Coordinator: “Be advised, the police have just issued a pursuit call on the police band to units in your vicinity.”
K. Immel—RS:Physical: “That’s just fucking great. I need real time routing.”
C. Remy—RS:Coordinator: “Standby for routing. . . . In four hundred meters execute a U-turn. Three hundred. Two hundred. Standby for the turn. Mark the turn.”
K. Immel—RS:Physical: “Turn executed. I think I . . . ooooh, that’s a four, no five-car pile-up in my wake.”
<
br /> C. Remy—RS:Coordinator: “And your bogie?”
K. Immel—RS:Physical: “Checking . . . he made it through. Still on my ass.”
C. Remy—RS:Coordinator: “In five hundred meters execute a left turn. Three hundred. Two hundred. Standby for the turn. Mark the turn.”
K. Immel—RS:Physical: “The light is red, do you have traffic cameras? Can I burn it?”
C. Remy—RS:Coordinator: “Negative, take the sidewalk.”
Kalen braked the bike hard and turned left onto a sidewalk just before the cross street of the busy intersection. A twist of the throttle and he catapulted the bike forward on the new vector, blowing past 100 kilometers per hour in three seconds. Kalen bobbed and weaved between potted trees and shrieking pedestrians on the sidewalk like an alpine skier negotiating the flags on a downhill run.
Udo braked late, wrestled his bike through a skidding turn, and scraped along the side of a parked Audi as he recovered his balance. He accelerated in pursuit of his quarry, electing to drive against the flow of traffic in a narrow gap between a row of parked cars and on-coming vehicles in the right lane. Horns blared and tires squealed as drivers reacted to the reckless motorcycle racing past.
Kalen jumped the curb back onto the street; the rear tire squealed as it grabbed asphalt. Udo shot through a gap across two lanes of ongoing traffic, a red blur, and merged into the southbound flow behind Kalen and Foster. Three police cars were now in pursuit, dodging and weaving clumsily behind the more agile racing bikes. Kalen took up a position precariously piloting the divider line, overtaking two lanes of moving traffic between the cars. Udo followed two hundred meters behind, steadily closing the gap. The light at the upcoming intersection was green.
K. Immel—RS:Physical: “Shit, I still have my bogie. . . . I need a blocking fullback. Where the hell is Bavarian One?”
C. Remy—RS:Coordinator: “Bavarian One is in egress with Bio and Social. Do you want me to reroute?”
K. Immel—RS:Physical: “Shit . . . umm, hold on.
Kalen glanced to his right, looking down the cross street, checking the flow of traffic. The front cars were crossing, but the lagging cars were slowing.
The light ahead changed to yellow.
K. Immel—RS:Physical: Never mind, Coordinator, I have a crazy idea.”
This was his chance—the transition—the two-second period when the intersection was vacant between the switching of traffic flows. He would need to time the maneuver perfectly. If it worked, he would trap the police cruisers behind the blockade of stopped cars at the light and peel his bogie off into the grill of a crossing vehicle moving into the intersection. If his timing was off, or if some bastard ran the light, then it would be him and his precious cargo that the EMTs would be scraping up off the pavement.
Kalen twisted the throttle, accelerating toward the column of cars ahead slowing at the intersection. The space between the doors of adjacent cars was just wide enough to permit the clear passage of a motorcycle and rider, provided, he maintained a perfectly straight trajectory . . . and nobody opened a car door.
One hundred meters to the intersection.
The light changed red.
Braking was not an option.
Kalen clenched his teeth.
Headlights flashed.
Someone was about to die.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
“CHECK HER,” RAIMOND ZURN ordered Stefan.
Stefan walked over to the chair where Julie was bound. Her body sagged, like a wet paper doll. Only the duct tape they’d bound her with kept her from sliding off the seat onto the floor in a heap. Stefan leaned over at the waist and put his right cheek next to her nose and mouth. Her faint warm breath caressed his smooth, boyish skin.
“She’s alive, and still unconscious,” Stefan said.
“Wake her.”
“How do you suggest I do that? The chloroform is still in her system.”
“Slap her, yell at her, use the smelling salts, I don’t care. Just wake her!” Raimond yelled.
Stefan tensed. He was not accustomed to seeing his brother Raimond in such a manic state. Then again, fieldwork was rare for Stefan, so it was possible that Raimond was always this way in the field. Stefan preferred to stay behind in Munich, functioning as a one-man computer command center for the brothers’ assignments. He left the wet work for his two older brothers; they seemed to enjoy it immensely. Stefan did not have the stomach for it. Tooth and nail were not his weapons of choice; the pain Stefan inflicted on his victims was in the form of ones and zeros. The anonymity of his firewall was his shield, the software hack his blade.
Stefan stared at the American woman. She was completely vulnerable, oblivious. He had never held a position of power over a woman like this before. Stefan Zurn had been dominated by women his entire life, starting with his mother and then followed by every woman he had encountered ever since. Women were an enigma—enchanting and enraging—and Stefan was a boy of a man. Even at age twenty-four, he had yet to know a woman. Now, at this moment, he had the sudden urge to strip this woman of her clothes. Make her naked, while he stood over her, clothed. Dominant. Erect. Powerful.
“Stefan!” Raimond yelled, startling his brother out of his trance. “Wake her up. I’m not waiting for Udo any longer. I want answers.”
“Yes, I’m sorry. I was just . . .” Stefan stammered.
He pulled a tiny sealed container of pungent smelling salts from his pocket. He unscrewed the black cap, held his breath, and wafted the open container beneath Julie’s nose.
Her head jerked once, but her eyelids did not open.
He repeated the process, this time letting the open vial linger beneath her nostrils several seconds longer. Stefan was not sure if smelling salts could wake a person from drug-induced unconsciousness, but he had no intention of arguing with Raimond about the point. She would wake up as soon as her body metabolized the sedative compound in her bloodstream, and not one second before. Until that time, he would appease his brother by trying his damnedest to wake her.
After several attempts, she made a gurgling noise and pulled her face away from the source of the piquant odor. Her eyelids opened a crack, and then quickly shut again.
“Julie Ponte. Julie Ponte, wake up,” Stefan said in her ear, shaking her by the shoulder.
“Sleeping,” Julie moaned. “I want to sleep.”
Stefan put the salts under her nose again. This time her eyes popped open.
The warehouse where they had taken Julie was empty. Once a storage facility for a plastics company, all that remained inside were rows and rows of barren metal shelving. Each storage rack was ten feet tall and stretched off into the darkness. Julie sat, duct-taped to a decrepit metal chair. The only light in the warehouse emanated from the headlamps of the van, parked ten feet away and facing Julie. Raimond had cut a rusty padlock from one of the loading dock doors, and Stefan had pulled the van completely inside so they could not be seen.
“Hey!” Raimond snapped at Julie, annoyed at his brother’s ineffectiveness at such a simple task. “Wake up!”
Her head bobbed; she was still in a fog.
Raimond slapped her across her cheek. “Wake up, bitch!”
The slap sent adrenaline pumping through her veins, and she regained consciousness. The shadow in front of her moved, letting the headlights from the van blind her. She tried to raise her hand to shield her eyes, but it was securely lashed to the frame of the chair. Panic set in.
“This is an interrogation, Ms. Ponte. Before we begin, I am going to explain the rules. Listen very carefully. I ask you questions. You answer them truthfully. If you answer truthfully, you will live. If you try to deceive me, I will torture you until your death,” said a voice from behind her. “Do you understand the rules?”
The last thing she remembered was watching Will across the street at the Café Sacher meeting with Agent Nelson. Something went wrong. Someone had grabbed her from behind. She had no memory of the events that transpired afterward. S
he had no knowledge of her captors, their motives, or where they had taken her. One thing she did know was that her life was in grave danger. She looked left and then right, trying to catch a glimpse of her interrogator.
“I said, do you understand the rules?” Raimond repeated, growing more and more agitated by the second.
“I understand the rules,” she mumbled.
“Good,” he replied.
“What is your name?”
She paused. He already knew her name; he had said it earlier. This was a test, she told herself.
“My name is Julie Ponte.”
“What were you doing at the Wiener Staatsoper?”
He was setting her up. Baiting her to lie so he could punish her and begin the process of breaking her. She had never been interrogated before, but her instincts told her this was no time to be coy. Every answer was a high-wire crossing. One misstep, and she would pay.
“I was watching a meeting take place across the street.”
“Where was the meeting?”
“At the Café Sacher.”
“Who was at the meeting?”
“You already know the answer to all these questions,” she said.
“Don’t test me. I will hurt you if you break the rules again. This is my promise to you,” he said quietly.
“It was a meeting between a man named Will Foster and a man calling himself Agent Nelson.”
“Agent Nelson? What kind of agent?”
She took a deep breath. The easy part was over now. She was at the crossroads now. She had to make a choice: tell the truth and risk him not believing her, or lie, and risk him seeing right through her. She knew what she had to do.
“He’s not a real agent. It was all part of the plan.”
“What plan?”
“Meredith Morley’s plan to get Foster back.”
Raimond took a step backward. “What are you talking about? Who do you work for?”
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