The Sword of Fire

by Rob Jones

  “Keys,” Reaper repeated, ignoring Ryan’s comment. “Where?”

  “In the office,” the technician said, his voice quivering.

  “Take us there.”

  The man led them to the office and handed the keys over. He started to speak but Reaper punched him again, and this time hard enough to end the debate.

  “Bon... let’s get after them!”

  “You can’t be serious?” Kim said.

  “He’s always serious,” said Ryan.

  “True story,” Scarlet said.

  Reaper fired the chopper up and raised the collective, slowly lifting the machine off the ground and pushing up into the sky. “What was the AgustaWestland’s registration number, Ryan?”

  Ryan gave the number, burned into his eidetic memory during the fight with Bruno.

  “Scarlet, start tracing the number and see if the flight path is on a live tracker website,” Reaper said.

  “All over it like a donkey on a waffle, Reap.”

  “Bon.” He swooped the chopper over the top of Horak’s burning mansion and turned it to the east in pursuit of the fleeing AgustaWestland.

  “They would never let themselves be tracked that way!” Kim protested.

  “No, he’s right,” Devlin said. “They have to have the transponder switched on for safety reasons. If they turn it off they’re inviting a mid-air collision.”

  Reaper spoke through the headset, “In the meantime, everyone else try and keep an eye on it, non? If Hawke gets control of that chopper he’s going to need back-up when he brings it down.”

  Reaper looked into the sky and saw the AgustaWestland slowly vanishing in the sky to the east. Things had looked better for the ECHO team, but he took a deep breath and raised the collective.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  With the letter held tightly in her hands, Lea closed her eyes and tried to work up enough courage to read it. She had kept it in the pocket next to her heart since Dublin but now it was time. When she opened her eyes again, she saw her hands were trembling. She fought against it and started to read the letter.

  My Dearest Lea,

  I’m writing this letter to you because I’m feeling tired and I’m not sure how much longer I have. There is no easy way to say what I must say, so I’ll just write it down – I know you’ll be strong enough to handle it. You’re a Donovan.

  I am your sister, Lea, and our father was not like other men. He was born at the end of the nineteenth century and well over 120 years old when he died. I know this is hard for you to understand, but there it is.

  He wasn’t born this way. He often told me he wasn’t one of ‘them’, whatever that means. He never explained. He told me they were a kind of cult, and used some strange Greek word to describe them. He said if I knew more it would frighten me too much.

  As a young man, our father travelled on a medical research expedition to find a cure for malaria but he found something else – a water that kept him young. He drank some and it extended his life. You ask why he never shared it? He said it was too dangerous. Too much or too little brought not youth, but an even faster death. He told me he wished he’d never tasted it. He regretted it his whole life. I felt so sad for him.

  You have probably seen the little gold statue I left behind. Father called it an idol. He gave it to me many years ago for safe keeping. He said the cult didn’t know about me so they would never find it. He told me he found it in Italy during an expedition there in the 1920s. He spent his life searching for more but never found any.

  He told me the idols were the key to everything but they don’t belong to the cult. They belong to something much more ancient and deadly that the cult doesn’t understand. He refused to tell me more because the knowledge was too dangerous.

  Don’t think badly of me, sister. I wanted to tell you about these things, but father made me promise to keep it to myself and let him tell you in his own time when you were a grown woman. Now you are grown, he is dead and I am dying. Now is the time for me to tell you.

  You need to understand that our father was not a bad man. He kept these things from you only because you were too young to understand. He wanted to keep you safe. He loved you. I know it was his intention to tell you everything he knew when you grew up, but then they murdered him, as I think you know in your heart.

  Only you can continue the search that cost him his life.

  With love, my dear sister,

  Maggie

  Lea Donovan was not expecting to cry, and it came even harder for the lack of expectation. Overwhelmed by what she had just read, she began to sob but quickly stuffed the letter back inside her jacket and dabbed her eyes with the cuff of her sleeve.

  Hawke moved over to her. “Are you all right? What did it say?”

  “It said...wait.” Lea leaned her head over to look past Hawke’s shoulder. “Kruger’s coming. Vermaak too.”

  Hawke turned to see the men walking down the short aisle from the cockpit, and both Kruger and Vermaak were holding guns. No one, including Lea, had noticed that when she was reading the letter he had pulled his tied wrists under his backside and now his arms were in front of his body, instead of behind it. They were still held together with the cable ties, but at least this way he had a fighting chance.

  “All right,” the arms dealer said. “This is your stop. Get over to the door.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “Orders are orders. You’re going to die this way because the Oracle wants it this way. He wants a message sent to your top brass, and he wants to see your demise on the news this evening while he dines.”

  Kruger opened the side door while Vermaak kept his gun on them. “By the time you’re splattered all over the streets of London I’ll be well on my way.” He turned a devilish grin on them. “Who wants to go first?”

  Hawke stepped to the door. Lea pulled at his arm but he brushed her away and peered outside at the city so far below. He knew people had survived falls from this height after parachute failures, but it was a one in a million hope.

  Then he saw something that gave him much more hope, and it was right in Dirk Kruger’s hands.

  The South African arms dealer had left the safety catch up on the HK USP pistol he was gripping.

  Hawke was familiar with the weapon and knew Kruger would have to reach up with his right thumb and click it down into fire mode if he wanted to shoot a round, and that was going to give him time.

  As the wind buffeted his hair and he got closer to the open door, his mind made a speedy calculation: three seconds for Kruger to fire at him and realize the catch was on, another two seconds for him to release the catch and take the shot. Two more seconds for Vermaak to work out what had happened and turn his own gun on him.

  Seven seconds.

  Hawke turned on Kruger and stepped toward him.

  Kruger grinned fiendishly as he raised the gun and prepared to fire. “I knew you’d do something stupid,” he said, and fired.

  Nothing happened, and now the South African’s eyes widened as he realized the mistake he had made. As he fumbled with the catch he suddenly looked like a man thrown into a tiger cage.

  Hawke piled into him, elbowing him in the face, grabbing his gun and twisting it in the direction of Vermaak. Kruger had released the catch and the weapon was now on fire mode. With the gun still in the arms dealer’s hands Hawke fired at Vermaak.

  Lea screamed and Vermaak dived for cover behind a leather seat, causing Hawke’s rounds to rip through the cockpit cabin wall and drill into the pilot’s back. The dead man slumped forward in his shredded seat and the helicopter immediately started spinning around like a sycamore seed.

  Kruger grunted as he struggled against the former commando. Blood poured out of his nose as he fought hard to regain control of the gun, and now Vermaak was firing a volley of shots from behind the front row seats. The rounds missed Hawke, raked the rear bulkhead and then snaked their way through the starboard side of the chopper. Everyone watched in horro
r as the rounds blasted chunks from the speeding rotors.

  With the chopper now angled down and speeding toward the ground in a spin, and with his hands still tied, Hawke twisted the gun from Kruger’s hands and pushed the muzzle into his neck. “Tell him to drop the gun, Kruger – or I’ll put a hole thorugh your head.”

  Kruger needed no time to consider the choice. “Lower your weapon, Adem!”

  Vermaak obeyed.

  Hawke yelled over the sound of the wounded aircraft. “Now get two of those parachutes.”

  Vermaak hurriedly obeyed once again and brought two parachutes down from the front of the helicopter, struggling against the angle as he went. Hawke watched as Kruger’s eyes crawled over to the bag containing the Sword of Fire.

  “Put a chute on, Lea,” Hawke said. “We’re getting out of here and we’re taking the sword with us.” He pushed Kruger toward Vermaak but kept the gun trained on them both. “You two scumbags can argue about who gets the third parachute.”

  “Ready, Joe!”

  Hawke lifted up the bag. “All right, take this, and...”

  Without warning, the AgustaWestland spun uncontrollably the other way and caught Hawke off-guard. The sudden change in direction knocked everyone into the side of the aircraft, which was now tipping over dangerously and about to lose its lift. Hawke dropped the bag and gun, and Vermaak moved like a hyena, snatching up the weapon.

  “Time to die, Hawke!” Vermaak yelled, and pointed the weapon at him.

  “No!” Lea cried out.

  “Say hello to the devil for me!” Vermaak said, and fired the gun at his chest.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  The bullet missed Hawke by an inch and blasted through the seat behind him. He ducked down and yelled at Lea.

  “Jump!”

  “I’m not leaving without...”

  Hawke coiled his leg back and kicked her from the chopper. She screamed on her way out but he knew she’d survive. She was an experienced skydiver and now she was safe.

  He knew the helicopter had no more than three or four minutes before it was nothing more than a fireball somewhere down in London. If it landed in a built-up area it meant more innocent deaths, and more blood on Kruger’s hands but there was nothing he could do to control the beleagured AgustaWestland now.

  It would be a miracle if he could save himself.

  Kruger ordered Vermaak to kill him while he strapped himself into one of the parachutes. Vermaak fired again, and emptied the USP’s mag but Hawke dodged the rounds, leaving nothing for it but to go mano-a-mano. Now the commando from Joburg was crawling along the angled floor on his way to Hawke.

  As Vermaak lunged at him. Hawke knew if he wanted a parachute then he was going to have to fight him for it, and now he was struggling against the man’s incredible strength. Unlike the former SBS man, Vermaak had been a serving commando until a few weeks ago and it showed. His stamina was impressive and he was using it to force Hawke toward the open helicopter door. When they reached it, Vermaak hooked his feet out from under him and Hawke slammed down on his back with his head hanging out the open door.

  The Englishman strained with all his might to push the man’s hand up away from his throat and managed to elbow him in the face. Vermaak recoiled and this bought Hawke a few seconds to get his breath back. He sucked the air into his lungs as the howling air whipped his hair around and buffeted against his ears.

  Vermaak’s response was aggressive and fast. He slammed his fist down into Hawke’s stomach and punched every last breath of air from him.

  Hawke’s eyes bulged as he strained to draw some air into his lungs. In the corner of his eye he saw Dirk Kruger pulling himself up the aisle of the luxury business chopper. He was safely strapped into his parachute and holding the other one in his hand. In his other hand he held the bag containing the sword. They must have lost at least ten thousand feet by now, and time was running out fast.

  “I must bid you farewell, Mr Hawke,” he said, his thick Afrikaans accent cutting through the howling wind like a serrated dagger. “Adem here has orders to kill you and then join me on the ground.”

  Vermaak’s hand was now wrapped around Hawke’s throat, stopping him sucking the air back into his empty lungs and slowly Hawke felt the life draining out of him.

  *

  Reaper navigated the chopper over the buzzing London metropolis as he tried to handle the various ATC demands to identify themselves. They could still see the AgustaWestland in the sky ahead of them and now it looked like it was in serious trouble.

  Reaper pulled the chopper closer to the other helicopter but kept a safe distance. “We’re almost there now. Look – the chopper’s in a lot of trouble. Mon Dieu... I hope they’re all right.”

  “How the hell can they survive that?” Kim said.

  Scarlet shot her a stern glance. “Hush, darling. We don’t talk like that in ECHO. If there are two people in this world who can get out of a situation like that then it’s Joe and Lea. Never say die.”

  Kim looked suitable chastened. “I’m sorry.”

  “I see a parachute!” Ryan said.

  “That’s the way!” said Mack.

  Reaper shook his head and gave a low whistle. “Only one though. That’s not good. That helicopter can’t have more than a couple of minutes to live and soon there won’t be enough time to make a safe jump.”

  “Maybe that’s the second parachute and the other one is already safely on the ground?” Devlin said. “Chin up!”

  “Whatever the hell is going on,” Scarlet said, “you can guarantee Hawke is on top of things. Every time.”

  “If you say so,” Kim said.

  *

  Kruger stepped over Hawke and crouched down so they were face to face. “Please allow me to say fuck you very much for all the trouble you have caused.” He punched Hawke in the face and laughed.

  The Englishman felt a tooth break and spat it in Kruger’s face in a spray of blood from his split lip. “You’re very welcome, Dirk.”

  Kruger pulled a machine pistol from his bag and put it in Hawke’s mouth. “So this is how you want to go out? Knowing that I can catch up with your girlfriend and do what I want with her because you’ll be underground?”

  Vermaak took the other parachute and slid inside the harness. While he was tightening the straps Kruger pulled the gun out of Hawke’s mouth, leaned out of the door and fired it at the AgustaWestland’s tail boom. The bullets shredded through the rotors and punched a line of holes all over the rest of the boom. “Just to make sure you go out the hard way,” he said with a sneer.

  The Agusta responded immediately, lurching even more violently to the right and going into another steep inverted dive.

  “Enjoy the ride, you bastard,” Kruger yelled. He grinned at Hawke and leaped over him and through the small door.

  Hawke was still on his back on the chopper’s floor with his head hanging out the door. He watched as Dirk Kruger tumbled over a few times before stabilizing himself and settling into a controlled skydive over London.

  As he watched him fade from sight, Hawke’s head spun with the beating he had just received at the hands of Adem Vermaak. He was aware that his throat was filling up with blood. The muzzle of Kruger’s gun had gouged a deep cut in the roof of his mouth, and now he leaned over and spat more blood out on the carpet.

  Vermaak drew his boot back and powered it into his stomach, and then again in his face before leaning forward and drawing a hunting knife. “Nighty, night.”

  Hawke raised his arms to protect himself and used the blade to slash open the cable ties. Vermaak leaped back and readied himself for a third kick when the AgustaWestland stalled and dropped back into a steep dive, throwing him against the bulkhead at the rear of the aircraft.

  Hawke saw a chance and climbed up to his knees, but Vermaak was too fast. He pushed past him and jumped out of the aircraft, taking the last parachute with him.

  Hawke saw Vermaak’s move coming and made a split-second decision. Grab
bing the man’s legs as he exited the chopper he was sucked out into the air without a parachute of his own, but it was his only play. Kruger had utterly annihilated all of the AgustaWestland’s control surfaces and there was no way to stop it smashing into the ground at hundreds of miles per hour. It was no more than a flying coffin, so Vermaak was the only way out now.

  Two men, one parachute.

  Hawke knew they had been cruising at around twenty-five thousand feet, and he estimated that thanks to the dive they had left the AgustaWestland at around ten thousand feet. He also knew terminal velocity was one hundred and seventy-six feet per second. It didn’t take Albert Einstein to know that without the parachute he was hitting the ground in fifty-six seconds. He didn’t know what kind of chute Vermaak was using, so he had to allow around a thousand feet of free fall for the chute to open. That gave him nine thousand feet or fifty-one seconds.

  Fifty seconds.

  These were all serious concerns, but the main problem was that Adem Vermaak also wanted the parachute.

  Then Vermaak lashed out with his leg in a bid to smash his boot into Hawke’s face.

  The wind howled around them as Hawke pulled his head back but maintained a cast-iron grip on Vermaak’s khaki cargo pants. The South African kicked out with his legs as he desperately tried to kick Hawke away, but the Englishman wasn’t letting go for anything, and took the blows as he unclipped the other man’s harness and wrenched it from his body.

  Vermaak’s eyes widened with terror as Hawke coiled up his legs and wedged his boots in the South African’s stomach before kicking away from him with the parachute firmly in his grip.

  Hawke knew there and then he’d be able to hear the South African’s screams for the rest of his life, but he shook the thought from his mind and strapped himself into the harness. When it was safely on, he pulled the cord to open the chute but nothing happened.