Quick

by Steve Worland

  The truck pulls ahead. Two metres. Three metres.

  No!

  They reach the end of the tunnel and race outside into the brilliant sunlight. He can now see how much his earlier warning to the television camera helped clear the crowd.

  Not that much.

  Clearly some people have left but it’s still packed.

  The truck heads down the hill towards the Nouvelle Chicane, the spot where he needs to turn it left. Instead of doing that it will slam into the ground floor of an eight-storey highrise apartment building that overlooks the track which, as far as he can see, is packed with hundreds of spectators on at least twelve balconies.

  This is not working out the way he had hoped. He’s just moved the explosion from one location to another. Visions of the Oklahoma City bombing and the half-collapsed Federal Building swirl through his mind.

  He digs even deeper, ups his pace. He catches up to the truck a little—but it ain’t happening. The cabin is now five metres ahead, and a hundred and fifty metres away from an extremely rude introduction to that building. He’s running out of time.

  Christ, the time.

  He glances at the Spaniard’s watch.

  Thirty-two seconds, thirty-one seconds until detonation.

  I am so screwed.

  Hooonnnnkk. A car horn. He glances back.

  The sharp angles of the black Lamborghini loom behind him.

  Claude Michelle, you magnificent bastard.

  The Frenchman jabs a Gallic finger at the car’s bonnet. The carbon fibre is cracked and broken but Billy knows what he means. The Australian drops onto the left wheel arch and grabs the windscreen for balance.

  The Lamborghini’s V12 screams and the car lunges forward, instantly catches the truck, slides up beside it. Billy leans, reaches for the grab handle behind the door, misses, tries again, snags it, levers himself onto the step and sees the chicane is just twenty metres away.

  ‘Oh man.’ He wrenches the door open, leans in, pushes on the steering wheel, and keeps pushing. Tyres screech as the truck abruptly turns into the corner. The dramatic change in direction causes the inside wheels to lift off the ground.

  His eyes flick to the watch again.

  Seventeen seconds, sixteen seconds until detonation.

  He looks ahead. A metal safety fence is ten metres away.

  Time slows.

  It’s all about to go down and Billy has no idea how it will end. At least this bomb won’t detonate under the hotel, or the apartment block, though it might take out one of those superyachts. Yes, that’s where this sucker is headed, straight to the bottom of Monaco Harbour, which is ringed by a flotilla of very large, extremely expensive boats.

  Time speeds up.

  Bam. The truck blasts through the barrier at seventy-five kilometres an hour. Designed to stop lightweight racing cars, the fence doesn’t stand a chance against a big rig at speed.

  Billy launches himself into the cabin as the torn fence slams the door shut beside him and cracks the window. He looks out the windscreen and sees a superyacht directly in front of him. For a split second he thinks the truck will land on its deck, then its grill drops abruptly and the vehicle plunges into the azure blue of the Mediterranean.

  Smash. It hits the water with a violent jolt—and sinks fast. Cold seawater pours into the cabin through the vents. Billy yanks on the handle to open the door, pushes against it with his shoulder. It won’t budge. The impact with the safety fence has jammed it shut.

  ‘Shit.’ He’s trapped.

  How the hell do I get out of here?

  The window is cracked. He slams his elbow against it —

  Wham. It hurts like hell. The crack widens but the glass doesn’t break. He swings his elbow again.

  Bam—whoosh. The glass explodes and water pours inside. He looks at the watch.

  Eleven seconds, ten seconds until detonation.

  He silently counts it down as he squirms through the hole where the glass used to be. He may not know how to swim but fleeing a bomb that’s about to detonate metres away is certainly motivation to learn.

  Nine seconds, eights seconds until detonation.

  He strokes with his arms and kicks his feet, eyes locked on the water’s glinting surface.

  The trailer slips past him on its journey to the ocean floor. It’s just two metres away, which means that gigantic bomb is just two metres away.

  Seven seconds, six seconds until detonation.

  He strokes and kicks harder.

  The surface seems so far away.

  Five seconds, four seconds until detonation.

  He finally passes the rear of the truck.

  Three seconds, two seconds until detonation.

  The surface doesn’t seem to be any closer.

  One second.

  Out of time.

  He waits for it —

  Nothing happens.

  Has the salt water short-circuited the weapon’s electronics —?

  Kaboom. The explosion sounds like it’s a mile away.

  That’s not so bad.

  Then the shockwave hits —

  Actually it’s really bad.

  It’s like he’s been bitch-slapped by the hand of God.

  Billy is thrust towards the surface in a roiling ball of water. He’s flung around, doesn’t know which way is up—then explodes out of the ocean, rockets skywards on a giant geyser, arms windmilling as he tries, unsuccessfully, to influence his trajectory. In a split second he’s level with the racetrack, then two, three, four metres above it. A split second later his ascent stalls and he hangs in the air above a gleaming sheet of water.

  Then he doesn’t. He falls towards the track. Fast. Face first. Instinctively he turns his head and closes his eyes, throws out his hands and waits for the pain. He’s about to experience a nasty case of bitumen poisoning.

  And it’s going to hurt.

  Crunch. He hits hard—and bounces.

  Why in hell did I bounce?

  His body aches but the pain, well, it isn’t that bad. His eyes blink open. He’s landed on the cracked bonnet of the Lamborghini. The stunned Frenchman stares at him from the driver’s seat. ‘Are you dead?’

  ‘Not yet.’ Billy pulls himself up and stiffly slides off the vehicle. His palms and knees feel numb from the impact but apart from that he’s all right. He looks back to the spot where the truck passed through the catch fence to the undulating ocean beyond. ‘I can’t believe it worked.’

  ‘Cool beans.’ Claude takes a moment then turns to the Australian. ‘Did I use it correctly?’

  Billy grins. ‘Not even close.’ He looks at Claude. ‘Thanks mate, I couldn’t have done it without you.’

  ‘My pleasure.’ The Frenchman nods, then realises something: ‘That’s the first time you’ve called me “mate” without it being sarcastic.’

  ~ * ~

  Vandelay’s voice squawks over Kurt’s walkie-talkie: ‘The first package has failed.’

  The Austrian is not happy to hear it. He speaks into his walkie: ‘Roger that. Are you okay?’

  Vandelay’s voice squawks again: ‘I’m okay, but Juan didn’t make it.’

  Kurt’s face flushes red with anger.

  ‘Proceed as planned.’

  ‘Copy that. Over.’ Stunned, Kurt takes a moment to gather his thoughts.

  Grief stricken, Franka closes her eyes and bows her head. ‘This is exactly why I didn’t want us to do this.’

  ‘He knew the risks. He did it willingly.’

  ‘And now he’s dead. Was it worth it?’

  ‘It was to him, and the rest of us. Just not you.’

  She regards Kurt for a moment, her expression a combination of pain and sadness. She opens her mouth to say something, but doesn’t. She knows from bitter experience that no argument will change Kurt’s mind, or any of their minds.

  The Austrian nods at her. ‘Put your helmet on. We need to make thi
s count.’ He pulls on the Senna helmet and waits for her. After a moment she reluctantly slides on the Hunt helmet. He fires up the turbo diesel and works the controls. The semi-trailer pulls out and rolls along the narrow street. He has one hand on the steering wheel and one on the handgrip of the Uzi that lies on the seat between them.

  The semi-trailer picks up speed and Franka’s eyes move to the roadblock a hundred metres ahead. The Monaco police have deployed three large water-filled road barriers to stop entry to the track area. Those two officers still stand guard in front of it.

  The truck accelerates. The roadblock is fifty metres away when the officers realise it is heading towards them. Franka watches them unhappily. Juan is already dead and now God knows how many innocent people, including these poor bastards, will be put in harm’s way because of what they are about to do.

  I must stop it. There is no one else.

  She glances at the Uzi. If she can control that weapon she can control the Austrian driving this truck. Trouble is his hand has been resting on it since they entered the cabin.

  The truck is twenty metres from the roadblock when the two Monaco officers look at each other, realise what they think is happening is actually happening and reach for their holstered pistols.

  ‘Get down!’ Kurt barks at her then ducks behind the truck’s dashboard to take cover. Franka does the same but keeps her eyes on the Uzi.

  She hears the engine accelerate, then the sharp clap of gunshots as Monaco’s finest fire at the cabin, then the dull thud of bullets as they slam into the bodywork, then the loud thump as the bumper bar hits the road barriers, then the low gush of water as they are crushed under the wheels. The truck bounces over them and Kurt’s hand instinctively rises off the weapon to steady the juddering steering wheel.

  That’s all it takes.

  Franka’s right hand shoots towards the Uzi as Kurt’s left hand drops back down from the steering wheel. They both touch its handgrip at the same moment.

  He glances at her with a surprised expression. ‘What are you doing?’

  She doesn’t answer, just wraps her fingers around the weapon and yanks it towards her. His surprise morphs to anger as he grabs the muzzle and pulls back. She almost loses her grip but her index finger loops around the trigger guard and she yanks it towards her. He yanks it back towards him and for a moment they resemble a pair of siblings squabbling over the last ice cream.

  She grabs the now upright muzzle with her left hand, raises her index finger to the trigger and squeezes it.

  Nothing happens.

  The safety is on.

  ‘Shit.’ She raises her left hand, flicks off the safety and pulls the trigger.

  Bam bam bam thud, thud thud. The Uzi unleashes a volley of bullets into the roof. It so takes Kurt by surprise that he momentarily relaxes his grip on the weapon. Franka capitalises, twists it out of his hands and points it at the Austrian. ‘Stop the truck.’

  He shakes his head. ‘You’ll have to kill me.’

  ‘If you insist.’ She squeezes the trigger—but can’t do it. ‘Fuck!’ She glances out the windscreen. The truck careers across the square towards the Grand Casino a hundred metres away. Even in this moment its beauty is overwhelming. It has been her favourite building since she first saw it as a seven-year-old.

  She slides across the seat and pulls on the door handle. It swings open and, one hand holding the door frame, she hangs out the side of the truck and aims the Uzi at the closest rear tyre.

  Bam bam bam thud thud thud. The tyre explodes—but the truck keeps on trucking.

  ‘Christ.’ She swings around one hundred and eighty degrees and fires at the front right tyre.

  Bam bam bam thud thud thud. The tyre detonates and the truck lurches—but doesn’t slow.

  ‘Shit.’ She raises the weapon and unloads a stream of bullets into the engine compartment.

  Bam bam bam thud thud thud. The engine hisses as it spits steam and oil—but doesn’t stop.

  ‘Come on!’ She turns back to the cabin —

  Oooff. Kurt’s boot shoots out and hits her square in the solar plexus. She is launched off the side of the truck.

  Thwump. She hits the ground hard, rolls with it, stops abruptly. Knees and elbows bloodied, body aching, she looks up at the truck as it grinds to a halt with its nose pressed against the left side of the building.

  It may have stopped but that doesn’t make her feel any better. She watches Kurt climb down from the cabin and stride towards her. He glances at his watch then triggers his walkie-talkie and speaks into it. She can’t hear him but knows exactly what he’s saying.

  He approaches her. She points the weapon at him but he doesn’t flinch, just snatches it from her hand, pushes it under his jacket and drags her to her feet. ‘You’re being incredibly annoying.’ He holds her forearm like she’s a recalcitrant child and briskly pulls her away from the truck. The square is empty because spectators aren’t allowed in during the race, but Franka looks around, hopes someone in the casino or maybe one of those cops from the roadblock might make an appearance—oh, and there’s one now. The cop is a good fifty metres away but limps towards them with pistol drawn.

  Kurt instantly eyes him and raises the Uzi, sprays a volley of bullets in his direction. The policeman dives, takes cover behind a tree.

  A silver AMG Mercedes SUV slides to a halt in front of them, blocks the cop’s view of them. The door swings open and Kurt pushes Franka into the backseat.

  ‘She just tried to abort the mission. Lock her down.’

  The driver is Vandelay. Clearly not surprised, he leans back, casually snaps a handcuff on her right wrist then attaches the other cuff to the door handle.

  She pulls against it. ‘No!’

  ‘You brought it on yourself.’ Kurt slides into the backseat and addresses the front passenger. ‘You ready to do this?’

  You bet.’ It’s Thorne, who wears a Hunt helmet with the visor up.

  An alarm chirps.

  Kurt glances at his Casio digital watch then grins and looks at the truck one hundred metres away. ‘Hold on to something . . .’

  ~ * ~

  27

  Kaboom.

  The ground shifts beneath Billy’s feet as a thunderclap echoes across the principality. ‘That can’t be good.’ He turns and searches for the source of the sound.

  The Frenchman does the same. ‘What was that?’

  Billy sees exactly what. He recoils in shock then points to the right as a giant orange fireball rolls into the sky. ‘There were two bombs. Where is that?’

  Claude takes in its position. ‘The Grand Casino?’

  ‘We have to go there now.’ Billy moves to the Lamborghini’s passenger-side door as Claude twists the engine to life.

  It doesn’t turn over. ‘Come on!’ The Frenchman’s eyes find the instrument panel. ‘No fuel.’

  Billy takes it in with a nod. ‘I know where there’s another car.’

  ~ * ~

  ‘I’m not enjoying this!’

  Claude hugs the air intake as he sits on the edge of the vehicle, one leg hooked into the cockpit, the other dangling free, his eyes squinted against the blasting current of air.

  Billy drives hard. ‘Just man up and hold on. It won’t take long.’

  ‘The engine is burning my derrière.’’

  It’s not a surprise considering the Frenchman is sitting on top of an engine producing six hundred and fifty horsepower with nothing but a flimsy sheet of carbon fibre between them. ‘We’ll be there in a sec.’

  The car thunders along the tunnel in the wrong direction. They reach the end, turn left and head back up to the Loews hairpin where Billy blocked the traffic earlier. Thankfully, the cars have been parked to the side of the track and they have a clear run up the hill. None of the drivers are with their cars and he has a pretty good idea why.

  He mounts the crest at the top of the hill, turns the Iron Rhino hard left, guns it, ca
reful not to turf off Claude, turns left again, then left once more. The Grand Casino looms before them.

  Or what remains of it.

  ‘Jesus.’ They say it together. To the left of the building there is a crater three metres deep and ten metres wide. Inside it is the charred chassis of a truck that he can only guess is similar to the one Billy deposited in Monaco Harbour earlier. It has clearly detonated and caused the left section of the casino to collapse. Flames engulf the structure and pump thick black smoke skyward.