Love Is for Tomorrow (15 page)

The truck ploughed into stone. It spun out of control, flipping tail over end before slamming into solid rock.

Antoine heard the screeching of tires and felt the impact as he was flung to the roof of the truck cab.

Antoine got thrown forward as something crashed into them. He smelled burning and gas. He opened his eyes. Bright sunlight fell into the tunnel exit, engulfing them. He was tossed around as helpless as a rag doll.

He fumbled for the door handle and ripped it open. Bright sand and rocks blinded him.

The truck ground to a stop upside down on the edge of the ravine.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

END OF THE LINE

“Rest in pieces.”

In the wide canyon, two gunshots rang out. Priya swerved her car to a stop and jumped out. She and Jason rushed to the truck, adrenaline pumping and the sun hot on their backs. Her knees were weak and shaking.

Priya came closer with her gun drawn. Kovac had left his car and approached from the other side, ready to shoot Khabib. Antoine’s arm came out of the front window, then his head and the other arm, pistol in hand.

“Antoine,” Priya said, squatting besides him. “Are you alright?”

“I’ve been better,” he said. His bleeding gums turned his teeth pink.

“I heard shots,” she said.

“Shot the airbag,” he said. “Rest in pieces.” He smiled despite his split lip.

He climbed out and turned back.

“That was close,” Antoine said.

“It’s not over yet,” she said.

Priya stood with her gun out and aimed at the truck driver. Her breathing was fast. She was trembling but focused.

“Get the painting,” she called out to Jason.

Antoine turned around to get Khabib out of the truck’s cabin.

The driver got on his feet, a black balaclava mask pulled over his face.

Antoine grabbed him by his mask and pulled him closer.

“What are you planning?” he spat.

The man panted. Fine blood droplets sprayed into Antoine's face.

“What do you want to do next?” he said with a fake laugh. “Water-board me?”

“No, I've never been a fan of water-boarding,” Antoine replied.

Antoine propped him up against the truck and then dragged him towards the edge of the ravine.

“You have no idea who you make enemies with,” the man whispered.

Antoine looked down at him.

“We know everything,” Antoine said.

“Fool! You know nothing. You do not know who you are dealing with and now you have lost.”

“We'll see about that,” Antoine replied. “Who are you working for?”

The man gurgled.

“Who are you working for?” Antoine shouted.

The man grinned at him.

“You are not getting anything from me.”

Antoine punched him, knocking him out. He slumped down like a sack of meat, one arm around the broken truck door, his head lolling back on the smooth road.

Antoine ripped the man’s mask.

It was not Khabib.

Jason went to the back of the truck and opened the hold. He rummaged through the cargo.

He came out again, holding a small electronic device in his hands. “There’s no painting. Just our tracker.”

***

A phone rang in the silence of the mountain road. Antoine looked around. It wasn’t one of theirs. The driver didn’t have one either. It was coming from the truck cabin. He went back to it and stuck his arm through the broken window. The phone was lying on the ceiling.

It was an unknown number.

Antoine picked up the phone and put it on speaker.

“Can you pass the phone to your Slavic colleague, please,” a woman’s voice said.

Antoine stretched his hand out to Kovac and scanned the craggy slopes of the mountain chain. It was an unpeopled region as far as the eye could see. The call could be a means to keep them there and buy time or it was part of a setup.

“How do they know…?” Priya said.

Antoine waved her to silence so they could all hear what the caller said.

“Yes? Can I help you?” Kovac said.

“You may help yourself,” the female voice on the other end of the line said. “Mr. Carter. If that is your real name.”

Kovac stared at Antoine.

“I have two questions and please choose which one is most important to you first,” Tanya said. “Who sent you after my
Treachery of Images
? Why does Interpol have a picture of you from
LeDoyen
in Paris?”

Antoine swallowed. A chill ran up his spine.

“Priya, is there anything you can do?” Antoine asked. “Track the call’s source?”

“I’ll see,” she said and rummaged in her bag for something with which to try to trace the call.

Antoine gave Kovac a look that clearly stated
Buy us more time
.

“Why don’t you tell us how your magic trick works now that you've fooled us with it?” Kovac said.

“We found the bug on the painting and put it into a different truck. If you need me to spell it out, the truck was a decoy,” she said. “You are being watched through the truck’s cameras.”

“Call’s encrypted,” Priya said. “I can’t get through.”

Antoine closed his eyes.

“Can I get a name to go with your voice?” Kovacs asked.

“Who I am is none of your concern. All you need to know is
ceci n’est pas une menace
-
I am not a threat
.
Or more accurately put, I am willing to forgive Monaco and Belgrade,” she said. “I hope you are not offended that I will not personally look into this, but I am currently pre-occupied with bigger things. I wish you and your friends a good day.”

The line went dead. Kovac kept holding the phone out so that everyone could hear.

Priya's head sagged.

They knew nothing. They had lost everything.

“I have a bad feeling that you have just met Tanya,” Rose said with her concern in her voice.

“Our only hope is that the FSB can stop the bomb,” Antoine said. “It rests in Olga’s hands now.”

***
 

Saint Petersburg, Russia

Olga drew with her finger along the city map of Saint Petersburg, tracing the infrastructure and access ways to the address Tanya had given her. She had it laid out on the hood of her SUV, next to a strong coffee, a mobile radio and a set of night vision goggles. The vast garage of the Federal Security Bureau’s motor pool was filled with agitated voices, banter between the operatives and nervous laughter. Everything was perfectly timed. She knew when and where to strike, the number of opposition and the planned date of the dirty-bomb detonation.

A shout echoed through the underground parking garage.

“Ten minutes to gear up.”

A flurry of hands grabbed at weapons, equipment and hazmat suits.

Olga checked the building’s blueprint and internalized the structure. Every room, every measurement was important. What lay behind walls could be the difference between life and death.

She was ready to make the biggest bust in her career. It would change her life forever.   

***

The queue was long, but tonight she jumped it. The ping of raindrops on her face stopped as she stepped under the canopy with her back stretched, shoulders wide and chest out. She strode with purpose. The bouncers raised objections and their outstretched palms against her advance. They went quiet fast. Olga was in company. Tonight the club would know a storm.

The entrance hall was a labyrinth of mirrors and red carpets over a marble floor. The men before her were tall and dressed in black. She walked underneath an arch and the metal detector went off. The door girl awaiting her ticket was left with an empty hand. Olga brought her admittance with the twelve gauge Benelli Tactical Shotgun resting on her biceps like a baby.

The crowd parted, even though most hadn’t acknowledged her, nor the men flanking her with body armor and shields, yet. Only the three yellow letters on the sew-on patch on her vest let them know, they were FSB.

A pillar brushed on Olga’s side as she stepped into the main hall, mimicking the agility of a panther. The loud music swallowed her, drum beats booming like rolling thunder, electronic music like lightning discharge. She fought through the fog and smell, breaking into the crowd, all hands up. And still they hadn’t seen her.

She tapped the phone in her vest and leant down, weapon raised. Her nails were freshly cut, her hair kept short.  “Now. Now! Kill it.”

She moved in. The music didn’t stop. Instead, the lights went on. A floodlight flashed on and burnt itself with a bright smack into her eyes. The beat drummed on, letting people stutter to staccato flashes of light.

Olga knew in a nanosecond what it meant. In the adjoining room, the club manager was making problems. He hesitated to cooperate, with a colleague having him by the throat, pressed against the bar counter. Bad timing. It would make things bad for him and worse for her.

A glass shattered on a tray in front of her, spilling champagne like a wet spray of gluey sparks. More shots punched through the thick air, their booms drowned by thunder, their muzzle flashes veiled by lightning. Someone had spotted her and raked the floor with bullets. More spray splashed against Olga’s visor. Crimson blurred her sight. The agent next to her had been hit.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

LIGHTS OUT

“Turn out the lights, the party is over.” - Don Meredith
 

Saint Petersburg, Russia

“Now! Kill the lights!” Olga repeated.

The music ebbed, replaced by a hurried voice, sounding through all the speaker boxes.

“Attention all, this is a FSB raid. Stand down! Drop your weapons and lay on the floor, I repeat!”

Olga didn’t wait for the second time. Colleagues in body armor flowed into the establishment.

The madman was shooting again.

This time she saw him, staggering back, hiding behind a woman. He opened up on full auto.  

She threw herself forward, landing on top of the bar. She rolled off for cover. Glasses, ashtrays and bottles fell with her. Spilled liquor rained from overhead like a leaking drain.

A hail of bullets lashed in horizontally. They punched into the bar, shattering glass and sending shards flying. Splinters of blood trickled down her neck.

Suddenly the world went dark. With a clack, the light and the music stopped. Screams and the staccato of muzzle flashes filled the void.

Finally, the owner of the establishment had complied. Olga looked to the side. FSB units were advancing. Guests and dancers scattered in their wake. Everyone sought shelter in the darkness.

Olga switched on her light, spearing through the blackness and heralding the muzzle of her shotgun. The light caught the madman and a henchman at the same table. Her redpoint-visor aligned. The stock of her gun felt cold against her cheek. She didn’t even think. She pulled the trigger and braced against the incoming blow. The Benelli bucked and sent a thick slug filled with ten iron-balls into its target, the spread wide enough to fill out most of the light cone. It caught one thug’s shirt, staining it red and slamming him into the wall. The other ran. Two more emerged, opening fire. Olga threw herself sideways, then scrambled towards a table. Adrenaline made her numb. Tomorrow she would feel it, if she lived through the night. She peeked between the table legs and put two well aimed shots at the enemies, winging one and felling the other with a headshot.

The dance floor was in mayhem. Figures spread out in all directions, getting caught in the crossfire.

A bullet punched a hole as big as a fist through the bar only a handbreadth away from her face.

A man in FSB body armor and helmet huddled against her cover.

“That won’t last forever.”

Olga nodded. The direct fire would soon stop, as the criminals tried to get away. Hopefully they would run into the units positioned at the back exits. It took her a moment to see, it wasn’t what the operative meant.

“This cover will be blown to bits.” He held up a tactical shield in between her and the incoming fire. Bullet tips punched through the table and clanged against metal.

Olga remembered the flash bang grenade stashed in her vest and drew it out. She pulled the pin and threw it in a wide loop. She waited for the sound of sucking air and the bullets to stop, before she swung out from behind the shield. She raked the air with gunfire, sending three bullets towards the cover where the goons were hiding and another into the gallery above them.