Quick

by Steve Worland

  Billy is stunned.

  What on earth is he doing here?

  And then the penny drops: ‘You’re part of this crew?’

  ‘God no, but I made sure they had what they needed so they could deal with their daddy issues.’

  Billy is confused. ‘Daddy issues? I don’t understand—you funded them? To commit those robberies?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But you had me working for you?’

  ‘So I could keep an eye on you. It was better to have you close. Now get out of that thing.’

  Billy doesn’t have to be asked twice. He steps out of the cockpit, then nods at Thorne. ‘And you didn’t tell him who I was?’

  ‘If I’d done that you would have been dead in an instant and I would have had police swarming all over pit lane.’

  Billy tries his best to process the information. ‘So why did you do it?’

  ‘For my race team. For the money for the race team actually.

  The Australian is even more confused now. ‘What? But you’re worth like a billion dollars.’

  Dieter shakes his head and smiles. ‘I have never been worth a billion dollars. Not even close. That was just PR spin so people would think the company was successful and want to advertise on the cars. The Iron Rhino drink business is buckling under the weight of the Formula One expenditure. At the current rate of spending, which is two million a week, a little under, I won’t be able to finish the season and the company will be on life support. At least that’s what the accountants tell me. Red Bull is kicking our behinds in the marketplace and the banks won’t lend me any more money, and I’ve spent all my own. So, well, it is not a rosy picture.’

  Billy is astonished. ‘You’re broke?’

  Dieter chuckles half-heartedly. ‘And the team isn’t even competitive, which is the funniest part, or the saddest, I can’t decide. No, saddest. Anyway, it’s all going to turn around now. There’s at least seventy-five million in the bags from the casino. Fifty million of that is my pay-off for helping them. And that should see us through to the end of the season. Hopefully you’ll score some points in the remaining races and we can start to charge a little more for signage on the car and pick up some prize money along the way —’

  ‘You think I’m going to drive for you?’

  ‘What else are you going to do?’

  ‘I’m a cop, mate.’

  ‘But only because no one would give you a drive. But now I am giving you a drive.’

  ‘What on earth makes you think I would do that?’

  ‘The continuing health and safety of young Miss Franka Edlebrock will be your guiding motivation, I suspect. It will make sure you give one hundred per cent on the track and never mention anything to anyone.’

  Billy takes in the threat, astonished.

  Thorne is apoplectic. ‘He’s fucking Interpol, you old fool. He’s the only one who knows who we are. We need to get rid of him now.’

  Dieter’s not having it. ‘The team always comes first. Always. I didn’t go through all this to have you to kill the only quick driver we’ve had in five years who I don’t have to pay.’

  Thorne shakes his head. ‘He’s a fucking driver.’ He points the weapon at Billy’s face. ‘There are hundreds of them.’

  ‘The same could be said for team principals. Now put that thing down. You’re not good enough at your job to annoy me like this.’

  Thorne squeezes the trigger. ‘You’ll thank me for this one day —’

  Bam. Thorne’s body convulses and a dark circle spreads across the front of his shirt. Stunned, he looks down, raises a hand to touch it and is horrified to feel blood on his fingers. ‘What did you —?’ He looks up and sees the pistol in Dieter’s hand, then staggers sideways, tries to find his balance, fails miserably and drops off the side of the ramp.

  ‘Enjoy the view on the way down, it’s a sight you’ll never see again.’ Billy knows it’s a terrible thing to say, but hey, the guy’s a prick. He watches Thorne fall but quickly realises he’s not going to take the advice. He has something else in mind, like turning in midair and pointing his weapon up at the aircraft.

  Oh damn, this is going to be bad.

  Billy now wishes he hadn’t said anything.

  Bam. Thorne fires the pistol.

  Boom. The C-123’s starboard turboprop detonates in a cloud of flaming debris. A chunk of engine cowling flips straight back towards Billy. He ducks and turns away —

  Whack. It slams into his shoulder, stings like a mofo, spins him around. He stumbles backwards, towards the edge of the ramp.

  Woh! He just manages to stay upright as the aircraft shudders violently. The car’s front wing endplate dislodges from the side of the hatch and the vehicle swings around —

  Wham. Its shattered nose slams into Billy’s legs, knocks him off his feet. ‘Oh dammit.’ He tumbles off the ramp —

  Thump. He catches the trailing edge with his left hand, dangles over the abyss like a ribbon in a breeze. The car swings over his head then tips over the edge and drops away.

  Billy watches it tumble towards that lush forest below, then grabs at the ramp with his right hand and looks up. Through a giant flaming hole in the left side of the fuselage he can see the burning nacelle that was once the left engine.

  Not good.

  He turns and his eyes find Dieter, slumped outside the hatch, his hand wrapped around a large, jagged chunk of rotor blade embedded in his chest.

  That can’t be good either.

  Dieter’s gun slides over the edge of the ramp and falls away. Billy doesn’t want to suffer the same fate and pulls himself forward. It’s the chin-up from hell so he uses all his strength.

  Jeeezus this is difficult.

  He hooks his left leg over the ramp, drags himself on, crawls forward, finds his knees and stands up —

  Woh! The plane shudders. The Australian just keeps his footing but Dieter’s body slides off the side of the ramp and follows his weapon to the forest below. Billy watches him go, conflicted. He liked the guy, and he saved Billy from Thorne, but then he also bankrolled the Three Champions and considering everything they’ve done, it erases any of the good. The old bastard gave everything for his love of Formula One and that now includes his life.

  Billy sprints into the dark cabin and his eyes take a moment to adjust. On the right-hand side there are three parachutes secured behind orange netting.

  At least there’s a way off this thing.

  At the end of the cabin he sees a two-metre-square wooden pallet. It carries five one-hundred litre barrels and five twenty-five kilogram bags.

  He stops dead. ‘Oh, come on!’

  It’s another fertiliser bomb. A big one.

  ‘You have to be fuckin’ kidding me!’

  Behind it Franka stands near the short metal ladder that leads up to the raised cockpit. He runs to her, wants to kiss her but feels it’s inappropriate considering the situation. ‘You okay?’

  ‘Yes.’ She’s clearly relieved to see him. ‘I thought you were dead.’

  ‘So did I.’ He nods at the fertiliser bomb anxiously. ‘It’s not armed or on timer, is it?’

  ‘No, they hadn’t done that yet. They were going to drop it on the palace.’

  He looks at her, confused. ‘Palace? Buckingham Palace?’ It’s the only one he can think of.

  ‘No no, Monaco Palace. Where we went to the ball.’

  ‘Right. Why do these guys have such a problem with the royal family—oh.’ He remembers Dieter’s words: ‘daddy issues’, then thinks about what Vandelay said after Kurt died. It takes a moment then the Australian pieces it together and is shocked by what it reveals: ‘Prince Alfred is your father, isn’t he? And not just you but Kurt, Juan, Vandelay and Thorne?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So he—what, cut you out of his life? Like you said?’

  ‘He didn’t want to know us because he thought we would make a claim to the throne.�
�

  ‘That’s why you only robbed places insured by the royal family’s company.’

  She nods.

  ‘So this whole thing has been payback?’

  ‘Yes, but I never wanted it. Seven years ago, when we found each other, my brothers weren’t like this. I felt like I was finally part of a family. All we wanted was to be acknowledged, but it never happened. He never even spoke to us. Not once. But he did speak to the press to say he had no illegitimate children and anyone who said he was their father was doing it to extort money.’

  Billy nods. ‘I remember that.’

  ‘It was the final straw for my brothers. They decided to take what would never be given to them, rip the heart out of Monaco, even got tattoos to commemorate it. I tried to talk them out of it but I was just the annoying little sister who they barely tolerated.’

  ‘How’d you all end up in Formula One?’

  ‘Our mothers were all involved in it in some way, either as fans or through their careers, that’s how they met my father. I guess we all thought that being in motorsport was our best way to get close to him. I hoped that if I was good enough to race at Monaco then he might, somehow, accept me. Pretty silly when I think about it now.’

  He sees her eyes are wet with tears. ‘I’m so sorry you had to go through that.’

  ‘So am I.’ She takes a deep breath to compose herself, then forces a smile. ‘So where’s Thorne?’

  He takes a moment, tries to break it gently: ‘I’m sorry. Dieter shot him and he—well, fell off the ramp.’

  Her faces creases with pain. ‘He was a prick but he was my brother.’

  He puts a comforting hand on her shoulder. ‘I am really sorry. If it’s any consolation he was about to kill me.’

  She nods. ‘I warned all of them, over and over.’ She sniffs back the tears. ‘You know what the funny part is?’

  ‘What?’

  She holds up her wrists. They’re handcuffed to the ladder. ‘Thorne has the keys to these.’

  Billy studies them unhappily. ‘Christ.’

  ‘Is Dieter okay?’

  He shakes his head. ‘Not really. He came down with a nasty case of propeller poisoning.’

  Her eyes close and her heads drops.

  ‘What?’

  ‘He was the pilot.’

  ‘What? Who’s flying the plane?’

  ‘It must be on autopilot.’

  Astonished, Billy looks into the cockpit. Yep. No pilots. At all. ‘This just gets better and better.’ He pulls in a deep breath. ‘We need to get you out of those so we can use those.’ He points at the handcuffs then the parachutes.

  ‘How?’

  He scans the cabin, clocks a small fire extinguisher attached to the right-side bulkhead. He slides it from its receptacle and turns to Franka. ‘Move back.’

  She moves back as far as possible so the chain between the cuffs is exposed and taut against the ladder’s metal rung. He slams the bottom edge of the cylinder down on it.

  Clang. No joy. He hits it again, and then again, and then again. He studies the chain to see if it’s about to break. It is not. It looks fine. It’s both surprising and depressing. ‘Christ.’

  ‘This is just like Titanic.’

  ‘Except in the movie Leonardo gets free.’ Billy swings the cylinder again.

  Clang. The chain doesn’t break.

  Franka looks at him. ‘Did you pull me out of the burning car in Abu Dhabi?’

  He nods. ‘I did. Sorry I lied but nobody could know.’

  He swings the cylinder again. Clang. The chain doesn’t break.

  ‘I knew it. That terrible aftershave gave you away.’

  He swings the cylinder again. Clang. The chain doesn’t break.

  ‘Gillette is great and did I chase you at any point?’

  ‘Gillette is terrible and I was in the truck on Collins Street.’

  He nods and swings the cylinder again. Clang.

  ‘Why the three ex-champion helmets? What did they signify?’

  ‘Nothing. They’re just our favourite drivers —’

  The plane lurches hard right and the shuddering gets worse, then it noses down sharply.

  ‘Shit.’ Billy looks over the top of the ladder into the cockpit.

  ‘Why did you just look in there? You don’t know how to fly, do you?’

  He pulls an expression that’s half a grin, half a grimace. ‘I’ve had lessons.’

  Franka lights up. ‘That’s fantastic.’

  ‘Three. Three lessons. My performance was — mediocre.’

  ‘Mediocre? Mediocre is great. I love mediocre. It’s so much better than “crash and burn”.’

  He stares into the cockpit, lost in thought. ‘Yep.’

  ‘Or you could just take one of the parachutes and go.’

  Still staring, he nods. ‘Yep.’ Then he catches himself and looks at her. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I’m serious. Take a chute and go.’ She tries to ice it with a grin but doesn’t really pull it off.

  He looks at her like she’s crazy, then says it: ‘Are you crazy?’

  ‘I don’t want you to feel obliged to stick around.’

  ‘Oh for heaven’s sake. As if I’d leave.’ He watches a smile crease the side of her mouth then climbs the short ladder to the cockpit. ‘Wish me luck.’

  ‘Luck.’

  Billy slides into the captain’s chair. The plane noses down as it makes a lazy right turn. It’s already lower than he imagined. Much lower. Two thousand feet off the ground at most. He can see the Mediterranean laid out before him, then Monaco to the right. It’s not that far away. He takes the aircraft’s stick in hand and his feet find the pedals.

  Stick and pedals, my man, stick and pedals.

  ‘Okay, you can do this. Stick and bloody pedals.’ He works the stick and pedals and pulls the plane level. He scans the gauges in front of him, focuses on speed and altitude: eighteen hundred feet and two hundred knots respectively.

  The plane shudders again and then the thrum from the port engine changes pitch.

  Franka pipes up. ‘That doesn’t sound good.’

  Billy leans across the cockpit and looks out the right-hand window, takes in the sole remaining engine as it coughs, then coughs again—and dies.

  ‘Really?’ Not happy, he scans the gauges to see what he can do to fix it, finds the problem and realises the only options are diddley and squat. It’s the fuel pressure, or lack there of. When the port engine exploded it must have destroyed the fuel line or fuel pump, which means the starboard engine has been starved of gas.

  ‘Wonderful.

  This thing is now a very heavy glider. Billy scans the countryside below. They’re too far away to double-back to the airfield they departed from so there are just two options for a landing. Hills covered in dense forest or the ocean. Both blow chunks as a runway. Planes and trees never mix well and if he lands in the ocean, this aircraft, with that giant hole in the side of the fuselage, will sink instantly and take the handcuffed Franka down with it.

  Where do I land this thing?

  He’d better come up with a better option quick smart because the plane is dropping like a stone, sixteen hundred feet and falling fast. He looks across at Monaco, can see the circuit snake around the principality’s highrise buildings, the casino still pumping black smoke into the sky. He can’t think of anywhere on the track where he could land this thing that wouldn’t endanger a huge number of people.

  Except for one spot.

  He’s just going to need some help to do it. He draws the iPhone from his back pocket, hopes it still works after being dumped in Monaco Harbour. He works the screen. No joy. The thing is completely stuffed. ‘Farrk.’

  ‘Why “farrk”?’

  ‘A phone. I need one.’

  ‘Ta-da.’

  He looks back into the cabin as her cuffed hands pop up holding an iPhone.

  ‘You’re bea
utiful.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Ta.’ He leans back and their hands touch as he takes it. He dials fast and the phone rings. And rings. Billy waits and listens. ‘Come-on-come-on-come-on.’ The phone keeps ringing. It’s not going to happen. This plan will not work unless he can —