Quick (44 page)

Smash.
It hits the water and shatters into a thousand pieces, but doesn’t explode.

Franka couldn’t be more delighted. ‘Yeah, baby!’

Billy grins, then glances at his watch. ‘Farrk!’ He did it with three seconds to spare. He pivots, scales the ladder, navigates the cockpit, drops into the pilot seat, disengages the autopilot, looks out the windscreen and adjusts the aircraft’s trajectory towards the tunnel.

It’s extremely close now, maybe a kilometre and a half away. He can see no sign of Claude.

Where is that bloody Frenchman
?

He can only land this thing if Claude can do what was asked of him. If not, the Australian will need to ditch it in the ocean and, well, he doesn’t want to think about that option. He works the stick and pedals again, slows the aircraft, searches for Claude. ‘Where are you, man?’

~ * ~

Zip zip zip.

Engine screaming, the Frenchman’s bike whips past the last three trees, exits the park, jumps the gutter, catches big air and lands in the middle of the track and rounds both the Portier corners. He slides the back wheel because he’s carrying too much speed but manages to keep it upright. ‘Yee-ha!’

Man, I forgot how much I loved to ride these things.

He races into the mouth of the tunnel and it takes a moment for his eyes to adjust to the low light. He scans the track to see if there’s anything inside that could impede the aircraft’s landing. The tunnel curves slowly to the right but it’s clear for as far as he can see.

Good.

He brakes hard, spins the bike around, gives it full bananas and rockets back to the mouth of the tunnel.

‘Christalmighty.’ The plane is
so
close. Maybe three hundred metres away and dropping fast. He holds both arms straight up.

~ * ~

There!

Billy sees the Frenchman. He straddles the police bike in the middle of the track and holds both arms aloft, the signal they agreed on over the phone. It means the track is clear.

‘Okay then.’ Billy works the controls and tips the wings up and down.

~ * ~

Claude clocks the wing’s movement, knows the Aussie has seen him, spins the bike around again and thunders into the tunnel. He wants to make sure it’s clear the whole way along and that no one drives in from the other direction and gets a nasty surprise.

~ * ~

Billy shouts back to Franka. We’re seconds away.’

‘Good to know.’

The tunnel approaches quickly.

Billy plays the controls and the plane loses the correct amount of altitude and speed. Still something doesn’t feel right.

What have I missed?

‘Come on.’

Franka hears him. ‘What does “come on” mean?’

He stares out at the fast approaching tunnel. It’s ten seconds away. Nine.

‘It’s like I’ve forgotten something.’

‘Then let’s recap. What do you need to do before you land?’

Eight seconds away. Seven.

‘I’ve done it all. Flaps are in position, airspeed is correct, altitude is correct, landing gear is—oh Christ! The bloody landing gear.’

I forgot it again.

Six seconds away. Five.

The plane drops lower.

He scans the instrument panel before him, searches for the lever to lower the landing gear. He can’t see it, doesn’t even know if he should be looking for a lever. ‘Where the hell is it?’ He reaches out, flicks a switch.

Every light in the aircraft is extinguished.

‘I don’t think that’s it.’ Franka pipes up.

Billy flicks them back on.

Four seconds away. Three.

The plane drops lower.

Billy has no idea where it is
—there!
Low and to the right he sees a small handle and yanks it down. A hydraulic thrum vibrates the floor beneath him.

‘Sounds promising!’ Franka again.

Billy looks out the windscreen.

The track is right there.

Two seconds, one.

He’s out of time.

‘Hold on!’

‘Is there another option?’

‘Not really!’

Crunch.
The plane slams into the roadway. The airframe convulses as Billy pulls on the wheel brakes.

They don’t slow the aircraft. At all. He needs engines for that. He raises the flaps to push the plane into the ground, hopes that might help.

It does not. The C-123 plunges into the tunnel —

Crunch.
The top half of the tail is sheared off and what’s left grinds along the ceiling in a shower of sparks. The plane vibrates wildly, the noise a horrendous combination of rending metal and scraping cement.

Billy works the controls, steers the aircraft to the right so the wing tip pushes into the tiled wall. They connect and fat orange sparks light up the right cockpit window. The vibrations intensify, as does that sound of scraping metal. He hopes it might act like a brake.

It does not. The C-123 careers onwards.

~ * ~

Claude rides hard.

He hears a godawful racket behind him and looks back. ‘
Merde
.’

The plane surges towards him, fills the tunnel like a fire-breathing demon, the grinding of aluminium on rock setting his teeth on edge. The top of the tail is missing and grinds along the roof, spewing great fans of orange sparks that fill the space around the aircraft. One wing rips into the tiled wall, also creating a spray of sparks, while the other skims the barrier fence.

The plane catches him fast, just fifty metres behind. He wrenches back on the throttle and surges onwards, scans the roadway to make sure no one is in the aircraft’s path. So far so good. He can’t see anyone —

Spoke too soon.

To the right, thirty metres ahead, a flash of orange. It’s a track worker, a woman who stands on the other side of the safety barrier and turns to the approaching aircraft, her expression a snapshot of disbelief.

Claude swerves across the road towards her, shouts over the deafening noise as he skids to a halt: ‘Get on!’

The woman looks at him for a stunned moment, then vaults the barrier and jumps onto the seat behind him. He gives the bike full throttle and zips away. The noise of the aircraft is so loud Claude can barely hear the motorcycle’s engine.

He looks over his shoulder—and immediately wishes he hadn’t.

The C-123 is right behind him.

And closing fast.

Fifteen metres, ten metres, five.

The damn thing is too quick.

Thwump.
The plane’s nose slams into the bike’s rear wheel and jolts it forward.

~ * ~

Through the windscreen Billy watches in horror as the Frenchman’s bike wobbles into a violent tank-slapper. It’s going over and both he and his passenger will be crushed beneath the fuselage.

~ * ~

Woh!
Claude works the handlebars—remembers his skills from all those years of riding—and keeps the bike on two wheels. He grins in spite of the abject terror he’s experiencing and jams the throttle wide open. The bike reaches the downward slope of the tunnel and pulls away from the aircraft.

~ * ~

Billy watches Claude and his passenger race away, thrilled that he’s okay, then realises the plane is now on the drop towards the Nouvelle Chicane. It picks up speed and races directly towards a large tow truck in the middle of the track.

The truck is in the process of winching the black Lamborghini they used earlier onto its flat bed. The driver operates the winch as he watches the car slide up the ramp.

The C-123 blasts out of the tunnel. Again, Billy pulls on the wheel brakes and works the flaps but this plane isn’t slowing down. In fact it picks up speed on the slope. ‘Get out of the bloody way!’ He watches Claude race past the driver and shout at him. The guy looks up and sees the plane approach—then runs away.

‘Oh no no no! Don’t do that! Don’t do that —’

He did that. He left the truck and the half-loaded Lamborghini in the middle of the track. The C-123 is now on a collision course with that duo and there’s absolutely nothing Billy can do about it.

There’s maybe twenty seconds until impact.

Billy swivels out of the pilot’s seat, exits the cockpit, descends the metal ladder and lands beside Franka.

She reads his expression and realises the situation is grave. ‘That bad, huh?’

‘We’re about to hit a tow truck that’s parked in the middle of the track.’

‘Thank you for trying. If we’d landed in the ocean I would have drowned in a minute.’ She nods at the open rear hatch. ‘You should go-’

He sweeps back a wisp of hair that has fallen across her face. ‘I’m not leaving you.’

She takes a breath. ‘But what if we get out of this?’ It’s clearly difficult to say: ‘What will you do then?’

Time slows.

What will I do?

Will he leave this life and go on the run with a felon he thinks might be his soul mate?

Will he help her escape, knowing he may never see her again?

Will he arrest her for the Three Champions’ crimes?

Her laser-blues eyes stare up at him. ‘What will you do?’

He studies her
jolie laide
face and opens his mouth to answer —

Time speeds up.

~ * ~

29

Smaassh.

The Fairchild C-123 slams into the tow truck and the cockpit disintegrates.

The vehicle is jammed backwards as the aircraft rides up and over its cabin, becomes airborne one last time. The left wing slams into the Lamborghini and shears off in an explosion of flame and carbon fibre, launches the wrecked hypercar over the safety fence and into the harbour like the world’s most expensive frisbee.

~ * ~

Claude holds the motorcycle at full throttle. He hears the destruction behind him and glances back, sees the now mono-winged aircraft drop back to the track and slide towards him, surrounded by a cloud of sparks and smoke, moving faster than ever before. It’s coming straight for him, fifty metres away and closing fast —

It clips a track divider and tips over onto its left side, veers left across the track, its remaining wing pointing straight up, and careers towards the safety fence.

Crunch.
What’s left of the cockpit ploughs through it. It’s headed straight into the Mediterranean —

Whump.
The rear landing gear catches hold of the safety fence and the plane shudders to a stop, balanced half over the track, half over the harbour.

Claude throws out the anchors and the bike skids to a shuddering halt. He whips it into a one-eighty-degree turn and speeds back towards the aircraft.

Creeaak.
The C-123 is balanced precariously, smoke rising from a tear in the fuselage, liquid trickling from another. Claude scans the plane, searches for a way in. The rear hatch is a no go, jammed shut during the accident, and the plane is on its side so there’s no access through the side hatch.

~ * ~

‘Billy! You okay?’

Concerned, Franka kneels beside the Australian, clears debris off his chest and gently shakes his shoulder. The handcuffs are still attached to both her wrists but the metal chain between them has been severed during the crash. She has a graze across her right cheek and a bruise on her forehead but seems to be all right.

‘Billy, can you hear me —?’

‘Hey!’ The Australian comes to with a start, pulls himself unsteadily to his feet. There’s a gash across his right eyebrow.

She wipes away the blood with her sleeve. ‘You okay?’

He nods, a little groggy. ‘It’s been a long day.’

She smiles. ‘There’s a little way to go yet.’

The cabin is partially illuminated as daylight pokes through the rips and tears that dot the fuselage.

‘Billy? Are you okay? I’m trying to find a way in.’ Claude’s voice reverberates outside the plane.

Franka searches the fuselage under her feet—and finds what she’s looking for. With her foot she pushes a handle. It moves with a squeak as she lifts up the side hatch and looks down at the rise and fall of the water below.

Billy sees it. ‘You want to jump in the harbour?’

‘Well, your buddy’s outside so it’s the only way out.’ She looks at him. ‘You never told me what you’re going to do —’

Creeaak.
The plane shudders and tips towards the harbour. It seesaws precariously for a moment—then regains its balance.

Franka fastens her eyes on Billy. ‘So what’s it going to be? Arrest me, let me go or come with me?’ She tries to ask the question like it’s no big thing but fails completely.

Billy is torn.

Franka sees it. ‘We won’t be on the run forever. We’ll find a place, settle down, make a home, maybe even —’ She draws in a sharp breath: ‘Become a family.’