Quick

by Steve Worland

  He does the opposite.

  Time speeds up.

  He sprints towards the grenade, bends low, sweeps his right hand and bats it down the walkway. It bounces once, twice, thrice —

  Boom. It detonates. Billy drops flat to the walkway and shields his head from the concussion, is hit with a stinging cloud of grit and debris. He turns and looks at the spot where the grenade detonated— and grins.

  The maintenance door and part of the wall beside it no longer exists, in its place is a jagged hole. He has a way off this walkway.

  He moves fast, stays low, sprints through the hole and bounds down the cement stairwell four steps at a time, reaches the landing, swings around and bounds down the next flight of stairs, uses the handrail to keep his balance.

  Clink clank clunk.

  ‘What the hell is that?’ He knows the answer before he finishes asking himself the question. Another grenade. He glances up, sees it bounce down the flight of stairs he just navigated. He increases speed, reaches the landing, swings into the next flight, takes this one five steps at a time.

  Don’t fall!

  Clink clank clunk. The grenade bounces off the wall, tumbles down the next flight.

  It’s bloody following me.

  Death. Sure, he was in no rush to experience it but he knew he would eventually so there was no point worrying about it. It happened to everyone, and, as far as he could work out, most of the really cool people were already pushing up daisies. His Bathurst accident had demystified the idea so completely that he had felt very relaxed with the concept over the last six years.

  So why don’t I feel that way now?

  Easy. Franka. He doesn’t know the woman, has only just met her, but for the first time he can remember he feels like he has a reason to live. Which is, of course, insane because he doesn’t know her.

  Clink clank clunk. The grenade keeps on coming.

  He bounds down the next flight of stairs. ‘Woh!’ He overbalances, just stays upright, swings into the next flight. A door without a handle blocks his path. He runs towards it. ‘Please-open-please-open-please-open.’

  Clink clank clunk. That grenade is going to explode now, surely.

  He drops his shoulder and slams into the door —

  Thwump. It bursts open and he careens into the middle of the Mall of the Emirates. Hundreds of shoppers mill about. Everyone turns and takes in the tall man wearing the scary black ski mask. Many gasp. Billy ignores them all, pivots, sprints back to the door.

  Clink clank clunk. The grenade is close.

  He pushes the door closed then turns, arms wide, and runs towards the shoppers, shouts as loud as he can: ‘Everyone get back!’ He doesn’t have to ask twice. People instantly scatter. It must be his scary black ski mask because they all look terrified.

  Nothing happens.

  Billy turns back to the door, surprised. Maybe there’s something’s wrong with the grenade. Maybe that’s why it took so long to explode —

  Boom. The detonation is huge, shakes the building. The door blows out, flies across the mall, hits Billy flush on the chest, slaps him off his feet and drives him backwards, straight into another shopper who is knocked to the ground.

  The place goes bananas. Everyone rushes for the exits.

  Billy’s chest hurts like hell but he can breathe so that’s a positive. He finds his feet and turns to the shopper he just bowled over. ‘Sorry about that. Are you okay —?’

  It’s Kurt.

  WTF?

  But Kurt is Schumacher, isn’t he? Isn’t he outside, right now, flying around in one of those bloody helicopters? Isn’t he the guy who just threw the grenades?

  Clearly not. He holds a container of frozen yoghurt in one hand, a bag from Abercrombie & Fitch in the other and is dressed ‘mall casual’ in khaki pants and a navy Lacoste polo. He stares at Billy with the horrified expression of a passenger who just realised the plane is being hijacked.

  Billy needs to get out of here now, before anyone starts asking why he’s wearing the scary black mask. He cannot blow his cover. He scrambles to his feet, pivots and sprints away, searches for a doorway to the car park stairwell, can hear people shout at him to stop.

  There. He pushes through a door, pulls off the mask, descends the flight of steps three at a time, reaches a landing, shoulders another door open. From there he runs into the car park, finds his Toyota Corolla, pulls the door open, slides inside and catches his breath.

  ‘Fuck-a-doodle-doo!’

  How is it possible?

  If Kurt isn’t Schumacher then who just robbed Tiffany’s? And if he isn’t one of the Three Champions then why did he have all that information about the heists on his iPad?

  Maybe it wasn’t his iPad. Maybe he just borrowed it from someone.

  ‘Maybe I’ve completely screwed this up.’ Billy pulls a hand through his hair, confused, annoyed and a long way from solving the case.

  ~ * ~

  14

  A dark hotel room. The only light slips in from beneath the drawn curtains.

  Hunt paces back and forth deep in thought, eyes locked on the carpet. ‘He knew we were coming. We were lucky to get out of there.’

  Schumacher sits on the edge of the bed. ‘Luck had nothing to do with it. We prepared well and were able to think on our feet and adjust our plan accordingly.’

  Hunt’s not convinced. ‘No, we were lucky.’

  Senna turns from his seat at the desk. ‘It doesn’t matter. It’s done.’

  Hunt looks at him like he’s crazy. ‘Of course it matters. We’re about to execute the major element of the plan, the only part that actually matters. What if that guy knows what we’re doing next?’

  Senna shakes his head. ‘How is that possible? We don’t know even know what we’re doing next. We haven’t planned it yet.’

  ‘He’s been onto us three times in three weeks. I don’t think we’ve heard the last of this prick.’

  Senna looks at Hunt, ‘If it’s the same prick.’

  ‘It’s the same prick.’

  ‘We don’t know that.’

  ‘Why are you burying your head in the sand about this?’

  ‘I’m not burying my head about anything, but what’s there to do? We don’t have the time or the resources to track down some guy we don’t know. We need to concentrate on what comes next so we get it right. And if he does turn up, then, well, we deal with him like we did today.’

  Hunt’s not buying it. ‘You know how I feel. We should cancel.’

  ‘That is not going to happen. Christ. I’ve always said this wasn’t going to be easy and now when it isn’t easy you’re wringing your hands surprised it isn’t easy. You need to man up.’

  Hunt takes this in unhappily.

  It is quiet for a long moment.

  Senna breaks the silence. ‘Look, it’s going to be okay. We continue as planned, knowing there may be some rough weather ahead but also knowing that our path is just and true and everyone is going to get what is coming to them, both good and bad.’ He takes a deep breath. ‘Now, are we agreed?’

  Hunt takes a moment, then nods reluctantly.

  ‘Okay. I would have liked a slightly more enthusiastic response but that’ll have to do.’ He grins, hopes it’s infectious.

  It isn’t.

  ~ * ~

  15

  There’s no way around it, Claude is deeply embarrassed that he let Kurt slip past him at the racetrack, though he was extremely relieved when it turned out the guy wasn’t actually part of the Three Champions after all. He’s sure that’s why the Australian didn’t give him a hard time, but then he didn’t need to: the Frenchman had already beaten himself up about it. The truth is his skills as a detective are still as rusty as hell and don’t seem to be improving.

  Maybe I’ll never be the cop I used to be.

  Claude follows Billy out of the Iron Rhino mobile home and into the Abu Dhabi heat. They immediately slide in ea
rplugs to protect their hearing from the throbbing bark of the F1 engines that reverberate across the track. The race has been running for twenty minutes.

  ~ * ~

  With the Frenchman in tow, Billy heads across the road to the Iron Rhino garage. He didn’t give Claude too much grief about losing Kurt because, well, what was the point? The guy is clearly off his game and haranguing him about it isn’t going to help him find his mojo. Billy would have liked an apology but he knows that’s never going to happen so he isn’t holding his breath.

  Kashif ended up being a great help. The Police Chief cleaned up the mess left after the Three Champions heist, barred any mention of it in the press and scrubbed all security camera images of Billy and the thieves. He helped the Australian retrieve his pistol, which was still in the deflated Zorb in Ski Dubai, and, through one of his cousins, sourced him a new iPhone to replace the one he shattered on the slope. Unfortunately, he was unable to do anything about the fact that the investigation was back at square one with no viable leads.

  Right now all Billy wants to do is watch the Grand Prix and take his mind off his current predicament, which is usually when he has his best ideas. Here’s hoping it works because he sure needs a good one to restart the case.

  They enter the Iron Rhino garage and take in the state-of-the-art facility. It’s like something from a sci-fi movie where the director wants everything to appear both sleek and functional. They take up a position in the far left corner at the very back, well out of the way, where guests and hangers-on can watch the race without impeding the team while enjoying plates of cheese and hors d’oeuvres and chilled cans of Iron Rhino.

  Billy notices the bright yellow-green Evergreen car flash past on the pit straight and his eyes flick to the television in the corner of the garage, which shows the same car. The driver info graphic confirms that Franka is driving.

  He watches her slice into the first series of corners. The car is an understeering handful, but she keeps her foot in. As the lap progresses he can see she’s wrestling the vehicle like it’s Hulk Hogan. Billy couldn’t be more impressed. The vehicle is, to put it politely, a pig on skates, but she’s dragging a time out of it through a combination of raw skill and unbending will. Then the television’s image cuts to Vandelay in the Iron Rhino and he loses sight of her.

  As for his epiphany at the coffee shop in the Mall of the Emirates, well, he has yet to contact Franka and apologise for running off in the middle of their conversation. After the race he’d like to find her, compliment her driving, beg her pardon for the disappearing act and ask her out. He’d like to do that but he won’t because he knows from experience that walking and chewing gum at the same time is not his strong suit. He can’t be focused on solving this case while attempting to start a relationship. He’ll do neither well and both will crash and burn, especially considering Franka can’t know what he actually does. Even so, having decided he won’t do it, it’s still incredibly difficult not to.

  Billy pushes Franka from his mind and focuses on the race. He realises he’s not feeling jealous or resentful about not being out there on track. Interestingly, being so close to the F1 circus hasn’t dredged up any baggage regarding his failure to make it to ‘the show’. He’s almost certain it’s because he’s so obsessed with capturing the Three Champions that everything else has taken a backseat, except for Franka —

  Screech. Tyres skid on bitumen —

  Thwump. A heavy impact —

  Slam. Another big hit, louder than the first —

  Billy turns to the pit straight and watches a fireball roll into the sky opposite the Iron Rhino garage. His eyes flick to the television. It shows a flaming car spin across the track.

  ‘Christ, did you see that?’

  ‘Oh, I saw it. The camembert is frightful.’

  Billy glances at Claude who scrutinises the cheese platter.

  ‘Not that! My God. The TV.’

  They both look up at the screen. Billy can’t see who’s driving the spinning car, or the burning car behind it, though he thinks it may be an Iron Rhino. A third machine with only two wheels attached slides towards it —

  Bam. They connect and Billy feels the impact through the soles of his feet. It’s a gigantic hit, the biggest he’s seen during a lifetime watching Formula One. A cloud of carbon fibre fragments spray into the air and now one of the cars is upside down and both are on fire.

  Smoke envelops the track.

  A moments passes.

  No one seems to be doing anything about the burning cars.

  Where are the fire marshals?

  If Billy knows one thing it’s that the faster the flames are extinguished the better the chance the driver has of surviving. Through the smoke he glimpses a driver drag another from a burning wreck. But still no one is helping the driver of the third car. It burns directly in front of the Iron Rhino garage.

  Where in hell are the bloody fire marshals?

  ‘Come on.’ Billy says it to the Frenchman then turns and sprints across the garage, yanks a fire extinguisher off the wall, grabs a pit crew safety helmet and pulls it on as he runs to the pit wall. He leaps up, grabs hold of the thick chain-link debris fence that divides the pit lane from the pit straight and climbs. He realises the Frenchman is not with him as he reaches the top and looks down at the track.

  Christalmigthty.

  Surely this is what the gates of hell look like. The car burns but he can’t see it clearly through the towering wall of fire and smoke that bisects the track.

  Then he can.

  It’s an Evergreen.

  Christ, is it Franka’s car?

  No one is putting out the fire.

  I have to do something.

  He vaults over the top of the chain-link fence and hits the track hard, sprints towards the wall of fire, aims the extinguisher and lets it rip.

  Kuuushh. A blast of white powder slams into the flames and tamps them down. They immediately spring back up.

  Kuuushh. He swats them flat with another blast and surges forward, searches for the car within the thick, acrid smoke. Flames leap again.

  Kuuushh. ‘Fuck off.’ They’re flattened momentarily and he pushes forward once more.

  There. He can see the outline of the car through the smoke. The rear half is ablaze.

  Kuuushh. A blast from the extinguisher subdues the fire for a moment. The heat is unrelenting but he moves closer, can smell the singed hair on his arms above the pungent odour of burning oil and petrol.

  Who is the driver?

  Please-not-Franka-please-not-Franka —

  It’s Franka.

  She’s slumped in her seat, head lolled to one side.

  ‘Franka!’ He shouts it up but there’s no response. His right hand instinctively moves to the side of her neck and searches for a pulse. He can’t find one—then he can.

  Thank God.

  Connected to the chassis by a twisted suspension rod, the left front wheel lies across the front of the cockpit and it’s on fire. Did it flick back and hit her helmet? If it did, that would be bad. A head impact from a ten-kilogram tyre during a three-hundred kilometre an hour shunt would be enough to kill a bull elephant.

  He pushes it from his mind, needs to concentrate on putting out these flames so she can be extracted from the vehicle by medical professionals. If she has any kind of spinal or neck injury he can’t just yank her out and carry her away because that could make it worse —

  Jeeze! Flames shoot out of the car’s air intake and fill his world. He ducks his head but he’s too slow, feels pain as the fire roasts the right side of his neck. The flames envelop the rear of the cockpit and torch the top of Franka’s helmet.

  Kuuushh. ‘Get back muthafucka!’ He blasts the air intake, then the rear of the vehicle with a long burst of white powder from the extinguisher. It subdues the flames but only for a moment. They leap up again.

  Kuuushh. Once more he douses them with the white powder. Ag
ain they die down, then roar back to life.

  Kuusss. Another blast—and the extinguisher coughs.

  ‘Come on!’ He triggers it again. No joy. Empty.

  He looks at Franka. The flames from the air intake are even larger than before and continue to burn the top of her helmet. It’s fireproof but only for so long. He has to get her out of there now, in spite of what her injures might be. He drops the extinguisher, kicks the blazing tyre off the car and dives his hand into the cockpit to unlock her safety harness —