Quick

by Steve Worland

  Bloody hell!

  He looks along the tunnel, sees the white dot at the far end, knows that’s where it ends, then looks across at the Mercedes.

  He gets an idea.

  ~ * ~

  The giant flameball dissipates and Thorne stares out of the Mercedes’ rear window at the tumbling wreckage of the burning chopper.

  Kurt glances back as well. ‘Did we get him?’

  ‘I can’t see—I think so.’

  Vandelay’s not convinced. ‘Are you sure? I can still hear the engine.’

  ~ * ~

  Franka stares at the burning wreckage as it shrinks into the distance.

  Billy.

  Stricken, she takes a breath then looks up as she wipes the moisture from her eyes—and sees the Iron Rhino through the sunroof, directly above. It’s upside down and drives parallel to the line of lights on the tunnel’s ceiling, balanced on nothing but a blast of air.

  Stunned, her mouth falls open as she watches the Australian’s arm extend from the cockpit with a pistol in hand. He grins and, she’s certain, winks at her, then aims the weapon at the hood of the Mercedes.

  ~ * ~

  Yee ha!

  Oh baby. Two hundred kilometres an hour in an F1 car upside down.

  This just might be the greatest adrenaline rush ever.

  Billy squeezes the trigger.

  Bam. The bullet slams into the bonnet of the silver SUV.

  Kuushh. Steam billows from the radiator.

  Excellent.

  He can see Thorne and Vandelay freak out at the Merc’s sudden engine failure as Franka’s jolie laide face calmly looks up at him and smiles. She doesn’t give him away because, he’s sure, she feels the same way about him as he does about her.

  The end of the tunnel approaches quickly. Billy slows the car and turns the wheel, drives down the side, makes sure there’s no maintenance doorway to give him a nasty surprise, then slips back onto the roadway.

  ~ * ~

  The Mercedes blasts into the sunlight, steam blowing from its radiator.

  Thorne glances back at the mouth of the tunnel and is stunned to see the Iron Rhino loom out of the darkness thirty metres behind them. ‘Where the hell did it come from?’

  Kurt unhappily clocks the F1 car in the rear-view mirror. ‘What do we do about him?’

  Thorne drives a hand into his jacket, draws out an item and shows it to the driver.

  Kurt sees it and nods. ‘That’ll work.’

  Franka sees it too. ‘Don’t. Please.’

  Thorne turns to her, his voice hard: ‘Would you snap out of it for chrissake. This guy is trying to arrest us.’

  ~ * ~

  Sunlight glints off a small circular object as it is ejected through the SUV’s sunroof.

  What is that?

  Billy focuses on it.

  Bounce. It’s thirty metres away.

  He can’t quite make out what it is.

  Bounce. It’s twenty metres away.

  Christ, it’s another bloody grenade.

  Billy has a split second to make a decision. Hit the brakes and hope it doesn’t reach his car as it explodes or hit the gas and hope it doesn’t reach his car as it explodes.

  Bounce. Ten metres away.

  He stamps on the loud pedal and the car pounces forward. He steers left.

  Bounce. The grenade clips a roadway reflector and alters course, follows the Iron Rhino across the road.

  Dammit.

  He swerves right.

  Too slow.

  Thunk. It slams into the sidepod and ricochets away —

  Boom. Billy ducks his head but the car is travelling so fast that the explosion is left behind him. He glances in his wing mirror, sees chunks of asphalt rain down on a newly created pothole the size of a jacuzzi—

  Bam. Claude’s police bike hits it and goes down, slides along the roadway, orange sparks spraying from a foot peg as it grinds along the tarmac.

  ‘Shit!’ Billy returns his gaze to the Merc in front of him. It brakes hard and takes an abrupt right-hand turn up a narrow dirt road.

  What do I do?

  Follow the car or help Claude?

  ~ * ~

  Claude lies prone on the roadway, the bike nearby, dinged and scratched but still running. The Iron Rhino skids to a halt beside him and Billy looks at him horrified. ‘Mate, are you okay?’

  There’s no response—then Claude slowly raises his head. ‘Now I remember why I gave these things up.’

  Billy grins, clearly relieved. ‘Now, did you give them up for the first Bridgette or the second Bridgette?’

  Claude gingerly holds up two fingers.

  ‘Right. Man, I thought it was curtains.’

  ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘Because I thought it was curtains.’ A moment passes. ‘And you came back for me. I wanted to pay you back.’

  ~ * ~

  Claude smiles. ‘I’m fine.’ In fact the Frenchman isn’t. He has a serious case of road rash on his right thigh and elbow. He pulls himself up and regards Billy with a steely expression. ‘If you want to pay me back then you’ll nail those pricks to the wall.’

  Billy nods. ‘I’m on it.’ The Australian floors the gas pedal. The Renault V6 barks and the Iron Rhino spins into a screeching one-eighty then slingshots away.

  Claude watches him go, concerned.

  ~ * ~

  The Mercedes thumps along the unpaved road, steam still streaming from its radiator. Thorne glances out the rear window, sees the Formula One car is no longer following them. He grins, turns to Vandelay. ‘We going to make it?’

  Eyes glued to the engine’s temperature gauge, Vandelay nods optimistically. ‘We should be okay.’

  Thorne pulls out his mobile phone and dials. It’s answered immediately. ‘We’re on our way.’ He glances at his watch. ‘ETA is 16:17. We need immediate evac.’

  ~ * ~

  Billy’s Iron Rhino turns up the narrow dirt track. It’s steep and the vehicle’s slick rear tyres spin up before they bite and launch it up the incline. He steers with the pistol in his hand as he scans the tree-lined road.

  Where is this leading me?

  He rounds a bend and has his answer. There is a large field of waist-high grass. A kilometre away is the plane he saw last night, the Fairchild C-123 Provider, from Con Air, with its rear hatch open. The Mercedes, steam billowing from its hood, is about halfway towards it.

  He points the Iron Rhino towards the SUV and accelerates. Again the rear tyres spin up before they grip and shove him across the bumpy field.

  ~ * ~

  The Mercedes slows, then surges, then shudders, then surges again, then slows.

  ‘Shit.’ Vandelay keeps the accelerator flat to the floor but it makes no difference, the car continues to lurch and shudder. Behind them Thorne hears the unmistakable howl of a Formula One engine. He turns to see the Iron Rhino bounce across the grass towards them. It approaches fast. He turns to the C-123, which is about a hundred metres away. It approaches slowly. He pushes the phone to his ear: ‘I need engines turning now. We are coming in hot.’

  A voice bursts from the walkie-talkie: ‘Copy that.’

  Thorne’s eyes lock on the plane’s turboprops. ‘Come on, come on—’

  Black soot blasts from the engines’ exhausts and the propellers start to turn.

  He grins—then the Mercedes coughs, shudders violently, before grinding to a stop.

  Vandelay looks at Thorne, dismayed. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘We run. Everyone grab a bag.’ They all do it, except Franka. Thorne slides out of the car, moves to the rear drivers door, pulls it open and unlocks her handcuff from the door handle. ‘Are we doing this the hard way or the easy way?’

  ‘Fuck you.’

  ‘The hard way it is.’ He slaps the open cuff on his own wrist, pulls her out of the car, grabs two bags, turns to the aircraft and drags her towards it.

  F
ranka resists. ‘No! Let me go —’

  ‘It’s for your own good.’ Thankfully the plane is just forty metres away. Thorne turns and takes in the Iron Rhino as it slices towards them, about fifty metres away now, its air intake protruding above the grass like the dorsal fin of a great white shark. He glances at Kurt. ‘Deal with your friend please.’

  The Austrian nods.

  ~ * ~

  Billy watches Thorne drag the handcuffed Franka towards the plane, Vandelay behind them and Kurt bringing up the rear —

  The Austrian stops abruptly, throws the duffel bag he’s carrying to Vandelay, swings around and draws an Uzi from inside his jacket. Billy hits the brakes and the Iron Rhino slides to a halt.

  Thirty metres apart, the two old friends stare at each other over the top of the grass.

  It’s a standoff—except Billy’s sitting.

  Do we really want to shoot each other?

  Billy doesn’t want to shoot Kurt, and yet here they are, in the middle of a field pointing loaded weapons at each other. He wonders if it was his old friend firing that Uzi last night.

  Kurt sprints towards the car, raises the weapon and fires.

  Bam bam bam thud thud thud. The bullets shatter the Iron Rhino’s nose-cone.

  Well, that’s disappointing.

  Clearly Kurt doesn’t feel as misty-eyed about the whole not-shooting-each-other thing as Billy. Still, the Australian can’t bring himself to shoot the guy.

  I need to deal with him another way.

  Billy steps on the gas pedal and the car leaps forward.

  The once best friends career towards each other like they’re part of a medieval joust, except without the horses or lances.

  Actually, without the horses or lances it’s really nothing like a joust.

  They’re twenty metres apart.

  Billy flicks the steering wheel right.

  As Kurt fires. Bam.

  He misses.

  Ten metres apart.

  Billy flicks the steering wheel left.

  As Kurt fires again. Bam.

  The bullet shatters the right sidepod and the Australian wonders if dealing with him this way is really the best approach after all.

  Five metres apart.

  Billy flicks the steering wheel left then right.

  Kurt fires again. Bam.

  Thud. The bullet slams into the cockpit beside Billy’s left arm as he yanks the car into a sharp skid-turn —

  Thunk. The side of the rear wing whacks Kurt across the torso and sends him cartwheeling skyward. He’s airborne for a long moment, then lands on the grass with a dreadful crunch.

  Billy slides the car to a halt.

  Kurt doesn’t get up.

  That can’t be good.

  Vandelay drops the bags he’s holding and sprints over to Kurt’s prone body, kneels beside him. It only takes a moment to get the prognosis. ‘You killed him.’

  Billy is sick to the stomach, in spite of the fact Kurt just tried to shoot him. The whole reason he did what he did was so he wouldn’t kill the guy.

  Vandelay rises and glares at Billy with unconcealed fury: ‘You fucking killed my brother.’

  Hold the phone. Brother? What the hell is he talking about? Kurt’s an adopted only child. He didn’t have any brothers.

  Is that the connection between these people? Are they related?

  Apoplectic, Vandelay hobbles towards Billy and raises his pistol.

  Bam bam bam. He fires.

  Thud thud thud. Bullets thump into the Iron Rhino chassis.

  Billy raises his nine-millimetre and takes aim. Bam.

  Thud. One shot. Vandelay crumples to the ground, a bullet to the forehead.

  Billy takes a breath, tries not to dwell on the fact he just killed two men, albeit in self-defence. He turns and locks eyes on the C-123, which now rolls across the grass. Thorne and Franka close in on its open rear hatch. Not only does Thorne drag Franka along behind him but he now carries all four duffel bags.

  Franka looks back at Billy, her expression a portrait of fear and apprehension.

  She needs my help. I can’t let that plane take off.

  He points the Iron Rhino towards the rear of the aircraft and stamps on the gas. The car pounces forward and slides behind the C-123. It’s thirty metres away so the prop wash severely buffets the vehicle.

  Thorne and Franka reach the aircraft’s ramp and the turboprops instantly run up.

  Billy realises the plane is no longer taxiing but taking off. It gathers speed.

  But the car is quicker.

  It’s just twenty metres away.

  Billy drops down a gear and the Iron Rhino surges forward.

  Ten metres away. Five. One.

  The car’s front wheels thump onto the ramp. Immediately the ramp rises and the vehicle is lifted off the ground. Half on and half off the ramp, the car is hoisted towards the large upper door as it swings down to close.

  Oh shit.

  With immense hydraulic force the upper door presses onto the front of the vehicle —

  Crack. The nose shatters.

  Boom. The front left tyre explodes.

  Crunch. The air intake is crushed.

  This is not working out the way I had hoped.

  Billy feels like he’s in a horizontal version of the garbage compactor from Star Wars. He looks up, realises his head is a foot away from suffering the same fate as the air intake. He drops the gun into the cockpit and braces his hands against the upper door’s metal skin, pushes against it.

  It doesn’t stop, just continues on its merry way towards his face, five inches away, four inches —

  Eeerrk. It grinds to a halt, its hydraulics whining in protest, Billy’s right cheekbone jammed against its cold metal surface. He can’t move. The only thing he can do is look out the left-hand side of the car’s cockpit. It’s not a cheery sight. The green grass of the runway falls away as the C-123 lifts into the sky.

  The hydraulic whine stops abruptly. The upper door rises and the pressure is released from Billy’s face. The front of the car has been squashed flat, like it’s been stepped on by a stegosaurus. The wrecked vehicle is balanced precariously, still half on and half off the ramp. Billy reaches down, searches for his pistol, can’t locate it in the cockpit —

  The vehicle shudders and tilts backwards.

  ‘Oh shit.’ He’s going over.

  Clunk. The inch-wide endplate on the front wing catches under the right side of the hatch and the car stops tilting. It’s the only thing preventing Billy and his vehicle from tipping over the edge and plummeting to that lush forest below.

  Thorne steps into view at the top of the ramp, a pistol in one hand and the ramp’s controller in the other. He is no longer handcuffed to Franka.

  Billy reaches down, searches for his pistol again, feels something on the floor of the cockpit, looks down. After being crushed, the cockpit’s safety tub has cracked and there is a gaping hole in the floor. The gun has fallen through it.

  Pistol raised, Thorne strides down the ramp towards the Australian, shouts over the wind: ‘You know she fought for you. She really does like you.’

  Billy considers this and for the first time since his accident at Bathurst truly feels his mortality, realises he’s about to die, right now, and there’s nothing he can do to stop it. But, even more than that, he feels sadness because he’s sure he has missed out on something extraordinary with Franka.

  What a bummer.

  Thorne rests his foot on the car’s front wing. ‘This is for my brothers. Enjoy the view on the way down, it’s a sight you’ll never see again.’ He grins at his lame joke, then presses his foot down and begins to push the car off the back of the plane . . .

  ~ * ~

  28

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

  Thorne turns.

  It’s Dieter. The old German stands on the ramp two metres behind Thorne.

&
nbsp;