Quick

by Steve Worland

  Oh dammit.

  Schumacher knows who’s inside it, where he’s going and what he wants to do when he gets there. It’s the guy in the black mask, and he’s moving fast, much faster than this damn ski lift. Suddenly those giant inflatable balls don’t look like fun at all.

  ~ * ~

  Billy may be wearing shoes that can’t grip the snow but he’s running inside a ball that can. So far. Man, he is exhausted. It doesn’t help that he’s not match fit and hasn’t been since his accident at Bathurst, but this would be exhausting even if he was Lance Armstrong, before the dark times. His legs, the engine room of this particular enterprise, and his arms, the steering mechanism, are both aching from the exertion. It’s all about maintaining momentum, not letting the ball stall as it climbs the hill, and making sure his centre of gravity is tilted forward. He can’t see very clearly through the ball’s dull plastic but he can make out the outline of the ski lift.

  Hopefully Schumacher won’t realise he’s inside until it’s too late.

  ~ * ~

  This prick really wants to catch me.

  Schumacher looks from the fast-approaching inflatable ball, which is fifty metres away and closing in quickly, to the top of the ski lift, which is also fifty metres away and approaching slowly. He looks back at the inflatable ball.

  Surely that guy can’t keep up this pace?

  ~ * ~

  ‘Keep it up, man, keep it up!’ Billy pumps his leg and works his arms, keeps the giant ball moving forward. It slows as the incline becomes steeper, but he pushes forward, ignores the burning sensation in his thighs and the shooting pain across his lower back.

  He can make out the outline of the lift above him and it’s not that far away, maybe forty metres. He just has to keep going.

  ~ * ~

  Astonished, Schumacher watches the inflatable ball. The hill gets steeper but it just keeps on rollin’. He turns and looks to the top of the ski lift. It’s now thirty metres away but at this pace the giant ball will reach it before he does.

  Jesus Christ.

  What the hell does he do?

  Then he knows.

  The answer is in his pocket.

  ~ * ~

  Billy is sucking in the big ones but he keeps at it. He can see the top of the hill and he’s certain he’ll make it before the chair Schumacher’s in, which is just five metres away now. He just hopes Schumacher doesn’t realise he’s in the Zorb —

  Thwump. ‘What the hell was that?’

  Kuuusshh. The Zorb deflates. Fast. ‘No!’

  Billy increases his tempo to reach the top of the hill before all the air rushes out.

  It doesn’t work.

  The plastic collapses. And it’s bloody heavy, presses him down on him. He tries to stay on his feet but the weight is too much. He slumps to the ground and slides down the hill. Fast.

  Dammit! Schumacher must have realised I’m in the Zorb.

  Billy searches for the opening he crawled through.

  There. He finds it, drives his hand along the tunnel—but only feels plastic!

  Come on.

  He pushes his hand along the tunnel. He draws in a sharp breath, doesn’t get much air because there’s hardly any in here. He’s not only sliding down the hill but he’s asphyxiating as he goes. He’ll be dead before he reaches the bottom. He plunges his hand along the plastic tunnel on more time —

  It hits snow. Yes! He jams it into the soft powder and stops sliding.

  Thank-you-thank-you-thank-you.

  Now all he has to do is get the hell out of this thing. He snakes his way down the plastic tunnel.

  ~ * ~

  Finally.

  The ski lift reaches the top of the hill. Schumacher jumps off, walks as fast as he can without falling over, makes it to the far door, then glances back. The deflated ball is perched on the side of hill, his thrown Swiss Army knife did exactly what he needed it to do. If he’d missed he would have used his pistol but that was a last resort as he didn’t want to draw attention to himself by discharging a firearm. He’s surprised the deflated ball didn’t slide further down the slope but actually he just needed to stop the guy.

  Schumacher pulls the door open, steps outside and is punched in the face by a wave of hot air. He draws the door closed behind him, turns left and sprints along the narrow walkway.

  He rounds a corner and sees the maintenance ladder attached to the side of building. He grabs the first rung. It’s hot to the touch but he ignores it, pulls himself up, climbs quickly, reaches the top of the structure. It’s high up here, the equivalent of twenty storeys, and hot, a shimmering haze rises from the silver insulation cladding that covers the roof and steeply slopes away. He turns, sees what he came up here for and runs to it.

  ~ * ~

  Billy yanks the door open and is greeted by a wall of heat.

  Do I go left or right?

  He looks right, can’t see any sign of Schumacher along the walkway, so he goes left, runs hard, approaches the edge of the building, slows, peeks around the corner.

  No Schumacher, but there is a maintenance ladder.

  Is he on the roof?

  Only one way to find out. Billy reaches down to grab his pistol from his ankle holster —

  ‘No.’ It’s not there. It must have jarred loose when the Zorb deflated on top of him. ‘Come on, man.’ He can’t believe it. He looks back at the ladder.

  Do I continue without a weapon?

  ~ * ~

  Schumacher settles into the seat, reaches down, flicks a switch, presses a button and a sixty-five-horsepower turbine engine howls to life behind him. Above him a five-and-a-half-metre-long rotor blade turns, slow then fast.

  He takes the controls in hand and powers up the Mosquito Air, a metal-framed, twenty-four-thousand dollar ultralight personal helicopter, which he landed up here last night. It is perched at the very top of the sloping roof and anchored by three heavy sandbags that cover its three landing footpads. He reaches down, pushes away the sandbags then throttles up.

  The Mosquito lifts off —

  ~ * ~

  Whack.

  Billy slams Schumacher across the back of his helmet with the heel of his hand. It knocks him sideways and the little helicopter thumps back to the roof. It’s an odd contraption, looks like an ultralight with rotor blades instead of wings. Billy’s pretty sure James Bond flew something like this back in the day. He can’t remember which movie it was though he thinks it might be one of Sean Connery’s —

  Wham. Schumacher swings an elbow and collects Billy’s jaw. It doesn’t jog his memory so much as rock him back on his heels. Schumacher draws his pistol and swings it towards Billy, who steps right and bats it out of his hand —

  Slam. The pistol spins through the air then hits the sloping roof and slides away. Schumacher works the controls and the little helicopter lifts off again. It quickly rises a metre and a half —

  Billy grabs the rear footpad and halts its ascent. He’s not going to let this guy get away for a third time. The chopper’s turbine screams and the throb of the rotors increases. Schumacher’s powering up. The little chopper rises again—and lifts the Australian off the roof.

  ‘Oh damn.’ His feet dangle half a metre, then a metre off the ground. Billy looks up at Schumacher, the guy he thinks could be his old mate Kurt.

  Will he keep rising if I don’t let go?

  The Australian hears another sound and looks left. Two more of these crazy ultralight helicopters sweep into view fifteen metres away. They’re piloted by Senna and Hunt.

  Wonderful.

  Hunt has one hand on the collective lever and one hand on the cyclic stick, which also aims a nine-millimetre pistol at Billy. He gestures downwards with the barrel of the weapon.

  Billy knows what he must do. He lets go of Schumacher’s chopper and drops to the roof. He lands hard on his heels but stays upright.

  Live and Let Die! That’s the Bond movie he
was trying to remember. Live and Bloody Let Die. Is that what these guys are going to do?

  Live and let me die?

  Schumacher’s chopper rises, banks sharply to the left, then slides into position beside the other two, their rotor blades thumping in staccato unison.

  Another standoff.

  Schumacher turns and nods his helmeted head towards Hunt, who instantly returns the gesture. Billy takes in the exchange unhappily.

  ‘That can’t be good —’

  Bam. Hunt’s pistol fires.

  Thud. The bullet strikes Billy in the chest.

  ~ * ~

  13

  Billy is knocked off his feet by the impact. He falls back and his head slams into the roof. His vision blurs and his eyelids grow heavy and he drops towards a dark place —

  He forces his eyes open.

  Oh Christ.

  He’s slipped over the edge of the platform and slides down the roof of Ski Dubai. It’s very steep and he picks up speed quickly. He throws out his hands to stop the slide and finds the surface both slippery and hot from the afternoon sun. He can find no purchase.

  His chest aches from the bullet hit to his ballistic vest. It’s a slimline design that sits unobtrusively under his polo shirt. It doesn’t have quite the same protection as the full-fat version, but it still worked as advertised.

  The edge of the roof is three hundred metres away and approaches fast. Unfortunately he can see there’s nothing to grab hold of when he gets there. He’s going to sail off the edge, plummet fifty metres to the ground below and that’ll be the end of that. The situation could not be worse.

  Thump thump thump. A deep sound reverberates behind. He turns to it.

  It’s worse. Those three helicopters slice towards him, low to the roof. They’re fifty metres away and closing in rapidly. He’s either going to get shot or fall to his death so he really needs to find a third option. He looks back to the edge of the roof.

  Think.

  There must be something. He spent two days scoping this place out after all.

  The walkway.

  The maintenance walkway, which allows access to the strip of lights that run the length of the building and illuminate it at night. It might offer him some cover. Unfortunately it’s two hundred metres away and over the edge of the roof.

  He needs to get to it before the choppers get to him.

  ~ * ~

  I knew it.

  Something told Schumacher the guy wasn’t dead. Yes, he’d been shot in the chest and yes he’d hit the roof like a sack of potatoes, but still, it didn’t feel right. Then the guy started to slide and woke up.

  It means he’s wearing a bulletproof vest and confirms Schumacher’s suspicion he’s some kind of a law enforcement officer. Is he the same guy who chased them in Malaysia? And Melbourne? And if he’s operating in more than one country does that mean he’s from Interpol?

  Schumacher realises it doesn’t actually matter.

  What matters is that he dies.

  Right now.

  ~ * ~

  Billy rockets across the roof and picks up speed, the friction burning the seat of his pants. The edge is now a hundred and fifty metres away and approaches fast. He needs to slow down before he reaches it, which means he needs to find something to use as a brake.

  I’m wearing it.

  He dives a hand under his polo shirt and slides it into his ballistic vest, finds the left breast pocket, drags out the armour plate, still embedded with the nine-millimetre slug, and, using both hands, drives it onto the roof beside him.

  Screeeeccchhh. The sound is godawful but it’s music to his ears. The armour plate digs into the sheet metal that covers the roof and leaves a deep, gnarly scar across its surface.

  It slows him, but not enough. He’s still sliding so fast that those choppers aren’t catching him, the edge of the roof is now just one hundred metres away.

  Screeeeccchhh. He jams the metal into the roof even harder.

  It’s not enough. He’s still travelling too fast.

  The edge is eighty metres away —

  Screeeeccchhh. He pushes harder.

  Still not enough. This isn’t working.

  The edge is fifty metres away —

  Screeeeccchhh. He jams the plate into the roof even harder. ‘Come on!’

  He slows abruptly.

  Too abruptly.

  He wiped off too much speed too quickly.

  ‘What? No!’ He lifts the plate off the roof and picks up speed again, but not enough. The edge of the roof is still thirty metres away and now he’s moving too slowly. He glances back.

  Thump thump thump. The choppers close in. They’re thirty metres away too.

  I’m a sitting duck.

  Thud. The roof’s metal surface explodes beside his leg.

  They’re bloody shooting again.

  He uses the metal plate like a paddle, rows himself forward and picks up some speed. It’s faster than running, but not by much. The edge of the roof is still fifteen metres away.

  Thud. Another bullet slams into the roof beside him. He feels the sting of shrapnel on his arm. He paddles harder.

  Thump thump thump. The choppers are right there.

  And so is the edge of the roof. He keeps paddling. Five metres, four, three. It’s not a sheer drop but a rounded gradient. He slips over the edge and falls, turns, throws out his right arm —

  Thunk. It hooks around the walkway’s handrail.

  Wrench. He jolts to a stop. His shoulder screams blue murder but it’s better than the alternative. He looks down, sees a row of industrial air-conditioning units fifty metres below. He looks up, takes in the metre-wide lights that line the exterior of the walkway. If he can get himself behind them the Three Champions won’t see him. He just needs to do it before they know where he is —

  Thump thump thump. Too late. The choppers thunder overhead and each tip into a steep turn. Billy throws the metal plate onto the walkway then levers himself up and over the railing, slumps onto the walkway, regathers the metal plate.

  Thud thud thud. Bullets strafe the walkway. The lights explode and glass sprays. Billy keeps his head down and crawls as fast as he can. He knows where he’s going.

  Thud thud thud. The bullet storm is relentless but Billy keeps crawling —

  There. The maintenance door. He moves to it, grabs the handle, turns it.

  Locked.

  ‘Of course!’ He swings the metal plate, whacks the handle.

  Thunk. It sheers off. ‘Fuck!’ He slides both hands under the door, braces a foot against the wall and yanks on it. ‘Come on!’ It won’t open. He tries again. No joy. ‘Damn it.’ He’s trapped. That door is the only way off this walkway.

  Thud thud thud. The bullet storm grows in intensity—then stops abruptly. Billy holds his breath. The thumping rotor blades and howling turbines are loud so the choppers are still close.

  Why did they stop firing? Are they reloading?

  What do I do now?

  Billy looks at the metal plate in his hand. It’s his one and only option, which is not fantastic. Even less fantastic is the fact he’ll only get one chance to use it. Still, it’s better than nothing. He takes a deep breath, rises from behind the shattered lights.

  They aren’t reloading. Hunt and Senna’s choppers have fallen back but Schumacher’s is close, just five metres away.

  The Australian pivots and hurls the metal plate in one sharp movement. It cuts through the air like the Terminator’s fris-bee straight towards the chopper’s rotor blades. As he does it Schumacher throws something towards Billy.

  What is that?

  Then he sees what it is and realises it’s going to be very bad.

  Time slows.

  The striker lever boomerangs away from the hand grenade as it flies towards him —

  Wham. It hits the metal plate. The plate falls away but the grenade ricochets onto the walkway five metres t
o Billy’s right. It bounces off the wall—and rolls towards him.

  He should turn and run from it, hope the shrapnel wounds aren’t too serious. That’s what he should do.