Quick (33 page)

‘Get on with it. I have pins and needles in my
derriere.’’

‘And whose fault is that?’ Billy points the pistol at the ground. ‘Okay. One, two, three —’

A high-pitched wail reverberates overhead. Billy and Claude look up as a large twin-prop plane skims the tree line with its landing gear lowered.

Startled by the noise, the panther growls and leaps straight towards the terrified Frenchman—then breaks left and disappears into the brush. Claude watches it go, then exhales roughly. ‘So that was two
hours
of terror followed by two
seconds
of
absolute
terror.’

Billy watches the plane disappear over the tree line. ‘What the hell was that?’

‘I think I know.’ Claude pulls himself up. ‘I’m pretty sure it’s linked to the bastard who ran me off the road.’

The Frenchman’s a little unsteady on his feet so Billy helps him find his balance. ‘Which bastard?’

Claude brings the Aussie up to speed. It only takes a moment.

‘So you think the field’s large enough to land that plane?’

‘Oui.’

‘And where is this farm?’

‘Not far. Five minutes by car.’

‘Let’s check it out.’

‘Need to find my phone first.’

Billy calls the phone again. Half a minute later Claude locates it lying facedown under a shrub, ten metres away.

~ * ~

Billy pulls the Renault onto the roadway. ‘Which way?’

Claude points. ‘Straight ahead. And no lights. Don’t want them to see us coming.’

The Australian nods and leans forward to focus on the road. It’s extremely difficult to see anything through the darkness.

They drive on for a couple of minutes, before Claude points again: ‘Park here. Try and get it as far off the road as you can. We don’t want anyone to know we’re here.’

‘Yes sir.’ Billy turns the car off the road, navigates the shoulder, then winds down the window and shines the flashlight on the ground so he can see where he’s going. He drives the car a good five metres off the road then slots it behind a tree. The Australian doesn’t need to ask which way to go next because the blinking lights of a taxiing aircraft intermittently illuminate the forest to the right.

They climb out of the Renault and quickly move towards the lights.

~ * ~

Wearing their helmets, Schumacher, Hunt and Senna stand in front of the farmhouse and watch the silver Fairchild C-123 Provider taxi along the grass field towards them, its twin Pratt & Whitney turbo fans throbbing in unison. It’s a short, stubby aircraft, about twenty-five metres long, designed to airlift troops and cargo to and from short, makeshift airstrips. It was deployed most notably during the Vietnam War where it was also utilised to spray Agent Orange defoliant to clear the forests of leaves and deprive the Viet Cong of tree cover.

Senna takes it in. ‘Why does that thing look so familiar?’

Hunt knows. ‘It’s the same plane they used in
Con Air.’

‘Oh yeah, I love that movie.’ He smiles under his helmet. ‘“Make a move and the bunny gets it.”‘

The C-123 swings around, momentarily sweeps them with prop wash, then powers down. With a hydraulic whine the rear hatch clunks, then splits in two. The top section rises and the bottom ramp drops until it lies on the ground.

Senna takes a breath. ‘Okay, here we go. Be ready.’

The others nod, check the pistols they each hold, then turn and watch two men walk down the ramp towards them.

One is tall, the other short. They both have tattooed arms and look like they’ve done hard time. They also hold nine-millimetre pistols. The taller of the two speaks first. He has a thick Russian accent. ‘So, I see everybody has a gun.’

Senna steps forward. ‘Better to be safe than sorry.’

The short one also speaks with a Russian accent. ‘What’s with the helmets?’

‘No one needs to know who we are. So, are they here?’

The tall Russian smiles. ‘No, I flew this whole way and forgot them. What do you think?’

‘That I’m in no mood for your humour.’

The short Russian glances at his partner. ‘Is it ironic that the funniest thing here are those helmets?’ The two share a grin.

Senna doesn’t join in. ‘Can we get this done please?’

The tall Russian nods to his comrade, who moves up the ramp and disappears into the belly of the aircraft.

Senna picks up a briefcase beside him and turns to the others with a surprised whisper: ‘What are they so happy about? They’re Russian.’

~ * ~

‘It’s the plane from
Con Air.’

From the tree Claude took cover behind earlier in the day, Billy looks through the binoculars. He focuses on the Three Champions, each with a weapon in hand, and wonders which is Juan-in-a-million. He must have driven fast to get here from the ball, must have left when Billy did, though he is a racing driver and they never believe speed limits apply to them.

Claude can’t see much without the binos. ‘What’s happening?’

‘There’s a briefcase. The guy with the Senna helmet is holding it.’

The Frenchman reaches for the binoculars. ‘Let me see.’

Billy pulls them out of reach. ‘Hold on, there’s—there’s a van. A big one. White. It’s driving out of the plane. It’s an ugly-looking thing—oh, Senna’s opening the briefcase, and he’s showing the tall guy from the plane what’s inside.’ Billy passes over the binoculars.

The Frenchman pushes them to his eyes, focuses. ‘And that van is called a Renault Trafic by the way.’

‘Really? That’s the name?
Trafic
? In case you forget where you’ll be stuck when you drive one?’

‘It’s a very practical utility vehicle.’

‘Which fell out of the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down.’

~ * ~

Senna holds open the briefcase as the tall Russian peers inside. It is filled with a dozen velvet rolls.

‘The wholesale value is ten million, as agreed.’

The Russian nods and picks up one of the rolls, unravels it inside the case and exposes at least one hundred loose diamonds. He reaches into his pocket, draws out a loop, a pair of tweezers and a small flashlight. He pushes the loop to his eye, turns on the torch, holds it between his teeth then picks up one of the diamonds with the tweezers and inspects it in the light.

Senna watches him. ‘They are all WS1 or WS2.’

‘Every one?’

‘Check them. I have all night.’

The Russian checks another stone, then another, then rolls the rocks back up in their velvet home, then opens a second roll and checks three more diamonds, then does the same with a third roll. He’s fast but seems to know what he’s doing. Satisfied, he nods at Senna and points at the white van his short comrade just drove out of the aircraft. ‘It’s all yours.’

Senna turns to Hunt. ‘Check it.’

Hunt moves to the van, slides open the side door.

~ * ~

‘Can you see inside?’

‘No.’ Claude can’t see into the Trafic because Hunt blocks his view from this angle.

‘Let me see.’ Billy plucks the binoculars out of Claude’s hand and lifts them to his eyes. ‘Come on, move you mofo—oh ...’

‘What?’

‘He moved.’ The Australian studies the interior of the van. It contains a great number of one hundred-litre barrels and just as many fifty-kilogram bags. ‘Oh shit.’ Billy yanks the binoculars from his eyes, visibly shaken.

The Frenchman takes in the Australian’s expression. ‘
What?’

Billy passes the binoculars to Claude, who focuses them on the white van. ‘Migod.’

‘That’s a big fucking fertiliser bomb, right?’

Claude lowers the binoculars and nods, stunned. ‘It is, conservatively, ten times larger than the bomb Timothy McVeigh used to destroy the Oklahoma Federal Building in ‘96.’

‘That’s really not good.’

‘You could level the Empire State with what’s in that van.’

Billy’s expression is grim. ‘This just got real.’

~ * ~

After a moment Hunt turns from the van and nods to Senna. ‘All looks good.’

‘Check the plane.’

Hunt hotfoots it up the ramp. A long moment passes, then he exits, again nodding. ‘I’m happy.’

‘Okay then.’ Senna turns and passes the briefcase to the tall Russian.

The tall Russian gestures towards the van. ‘Keys are in the ignition.’

Senna nods and holds out a folded piece of paper. ‘Deliver the plane here.’

The tall Russian takes it with a smile. ‘Always a pleasure.’ He turns and moves back up the C-123’s ramp, his short compatriot in tow.

~ * ~

Billy turns to Claude. ‘So that was a trade, right? The huge fucking bomb in the ugly van for a briefcase full of stolen diamonds.’

Claude looks through the binoculars again. ‘I believe so—oh, they’re leaving. The van
and
the plane. Now what?’

‘We follow the huge fucking bomb.’ The Australian pivots and moves back into the forest, the Frenchman right behind him. They keep their eyes on the van as it traverses the farm’s driveway, then lose it behind thick foliage. Without the van’s headlights the forest instantly turns pitch-black. Billy clicks on his flashlight, keeps the beam aimed at the ground so they’re not seen. Behind him he can hear the plane’s turboprops run up for take-off.

Billy searches for the Renault in the darkness.

There.
It’s close, about ten metres away —

The van’s headlights cut across the roadway.

‘Down.’ Both men drop flat to the ground. The white van rolls by—and doesn’t stop. They clearly didn’t see the Renault. Billy whispers to the Frenchman: ‘Good call on the parking.’

‘
Merci
.’

They wait until the van is out of earshot, find their feet, quickly move to the Renault and slide inside. In a flash Billy pulls out, drags the car into a sharp U-turn then drives after the van, again without headlights on.

The Frenchman peers out the windscreen at the road ahead. ‘Drifting, drifting to the right.’

‘Yep, got it.’ Billy corrects the Renault’s trajectory, keeps it in the middle of the road. ‘Man this is tricky.’ He leans forward, wills his eyes to adjust to the darkness. It takes a moment before he can see in the dark, then a couple more before he can see the van in the distance. He slows the hatchback, doesn’t want to get too close, then checks the rear-view mirror to make sure some poor sucker isn’t about to rear-end him. Fortunately the road is both dark and empty behind.

Billy turns to Claude. ‘You saw all three of them get into the van, right?’

The Frenchman isn’t sure. ‘I think so.’

‘You
think
so?’

‘They were on the other side when they got it —’

Smash.
The Renault’s rear window explodes from a bullet hit.

‘Shit!’ Billy ducks his head and accelerates.

~ * ~

‘Faster!’ Senna holds a pistol out the open passenger-side window of the BMW and aims at the Renault.

Schumacher accelerates. The BMW catches the Renault quickly, its hood in line with the left rear panel.

Senna aims the pistol again and pulls the trigger.

~ * ~

Boom.
The Renault’s rear left wheel explodes.

The car slides over the shoulder of the road and Billy knows there’s nothing he can do to stop the inevitable. ‘Hold on!’

Claude grabs the door handle as the right rear wheel rim digs into the soft earth and the hatchback is launched into a roll.

Oh baby this is bad.

One, two, three —

The car rolls across the road towards the BMW —

Four, five, six —

Crunch.
The Renault clips its right rear panel and the Bimmer is knocked onto its two left wheels. The car balances there for a moment, like it’s part of a stunt-driving performance at a country fete, then slumps onto one side, grinds along the gravel and tips onto its roof.

Thwump.
The Renault lands on its wheels in the middle of the road.

It is silent.

‘Haaa.’ Billy comes too with a start.

He shakes himself awake, then performs a quick inventory of limbs as he always does after a rollover. All seem to be in place and in working order. Thankfully the car’s right side up. Though the actual experience did not improve the second time around, at least he’s walking away from this one, so he can chalk that up as a success. He glances at the Frenchman. ‘How’re we doing over there?’

Claude’s eyes blink open. He’s groggy. ‘That was even less fun than the panther.’

‘You okay?’

He winces. ‘My right knee’s not feeling fantastic but apart from that I’m just
wonderful
.’

Billy peers through the shattered windscreen. A figure limps away from the BMW. The Australian grins, pushes on his door which creaks open two feet then he turns to the Frenchman. ‘This won’t take long. You okay to wait here?’