Will jerked at the strident sound of the bullet ricocheting off the metal table. He looked down at AJ and Raimond wrestling on the ground over the gun, then at the Ducati, and then back at the van. His expressionless eyes belied the turmoil he felt inside. How could he abandon Julie now?
Will stared at Kalen, motionless.
“We’ll get her back,” Kalen said. “I promise.”
Will reluctantly climbed on to the motorcycle behind Kalen. He locked his arms around Kalen’s waist and placed his feet on the passenger stirrups.
“Keep your forehead pressed in the middle of my back. Close your eyes, and no matter what happens — DON’T LET GO,” Kalen instructed, yelling over his shoulder. He flipped his helmet visor down with a thud, engaged the clutch, and twisted the throttle. Kalen’s black Ducati streaked away from the Café Sacher in a blur.
“Raimond is in trouble,” Stefan said, looking out the driver’s side window of the van at the commotion across the street.
“What do we do?” Udo asked, leaning forward from the cargo compartment of the van so that his head was even between the driver and passenger seat headrests.
“We’re behind on the timeline. If someone saw you take the Ponte girl, then the police will be coming soon,” Stefan answered, panicked. “We need to go.”
“We can’t leave Raimond behind! I’ll crush those bastards.”
“There’s no time, Udo. Raimond can take care of himself. Foster is getting away. Take the Kawasaki and follow that bike. Do not lose Foster. We’re switching to the backup plan. Remember, no matter what happens, we rendezvous at the warehouse at 2200.”
“Okay, ja, I’ll get him back.”
AJ’s eyes bulged as he looked down and saw the open muzzle pointing at his face. He twisted the barrel violently, reorienting the line of fire away from his head and up toward the sky. As he did, Raimond squeezed off another round — this time piercing one of the maroon colored Hotel Sacher awnings. AJ pulled Raimond’s arm straight between his legs and drew his knees up to his chest. With all his might, AJ kicked with both feet at the same time. The sole of one shoe impacted the top of Raimond’s head, and the other foot glanced off Raimond’s left shoulder. The force of the blow had its desired effect, popping the handgun free from Zurn’s grip. AJ scooted backward, crablike, pushing with his feet to distance himself from his foe. Raimond grunted and grabbed the top of his head in pain, before rolling over onto his hands and knees into a crawling position. Raimond lifted his head up to look at AJ, who had backed himself up against the stone façade of the building. AJ sat with his back upright, legs extended in “V,” and both arms fully extended as he aimed the Sig at his rival.
“Fuck you,” said Raimond with disdain, staring at AJ. He then stood up, and dusted himself off.
AJ said nothing, but elevated the barrel of the gun to maintain his aim at Raimond’s chest.
In the background, the scream of a second motorcycle engine echoed in the night. Raimond turned in the direction of the sound. A red Kawasaki Ninja launched out of the open rear cargo doors of the van parked across the street. Both motorcycle tires chirped when they hit the pavement — the bike skidded and wobbled momentarily — before the rider skillfully recovered his balance. The rider sped west on Philharmoniker Strasse in pursuit of Kalen and Will. Raimond turned back to look at AJ, and then limped toward the van idling across the street. He hauled himself into the rear cargo compartment and pulled the two doors shut behind him, as the vehicle raced away down Kärntner Strasse.
AJ looked for the safety on the Sig Sauer, finding none, he stuffed it inside the waistline of his pants at the small of his back. He looked up. Two shapely female legs in high heels and black stockings filled his frame of view.
“Let’s go. We don’t have much time,” Albane said to AJ, extending her hand to help him up. He grabbed her wrist and rose to his feet. Her grip was firm, and the pull she exerted on his arm both impressed and surprised him. Albane had some muscles packed on her lithe frame.
In the background, the sound of police sirens blaring grew louder with each passing second. The Tank’s armored BMW 760Li was waiting at the curb for them with the rear passenger door open. AJ and Albane ran to the sedan and jumped inside. The driver wasted no time, pressing the accelerator to the floor before AJ had shut the door. The V12 engine roared and the svelte sedan raced away into the Viennese night.
As instructed, Will pressed his forehead against the middle of Kalen’s back. His fingers clenched the folds of Kalen’s leather jacket, like a madman holding the reigns of a demon stallion galloping toward the gates of hell. Will was not an experienced motorcycle rider, but he knew that any attempt by him to balance the bike, or anticipate an evasive maneuver by the driver would have a deleterious effect. As long as he was deadweight, the driver’s reflexes would naturally compensate for his presence. A backpack. That was what he aimed to be, a 170-pound human backpack.
The speed was ludicrous. Will knew this because the loose fabric of his chinos stung his thighs as it flapped violently in the wind. He kept his eyes shut, pretending like a small child that what he couldn’t see wasn’t really happening. A terrible jolt, followed by a skid caused Will to instinctively open his eyes. Bright red taillights swept by in a blur. Tires squealed as drivers in passing cars slammed on their brakes. Will squeezed his eyes closed, for fear panic would cause him to fall off the bike. Behind, he could hear the whine of another street motorcycle. But no sirens. He assumed the worst — one of the thugs from Prague was in pursuit. He cringed. For one motorcycle, the chase was certain to end badly.
Kalen panted inside his helmet. Evasive driving was exhausting. Exhilarating. Hot pain shot through his right knee. He grunted, but his concentration did not waver. He had clipped something — a fender, a bumper, a small dog. It didn’t matter, the pain was a reminder. With Foster on the bike, he was severely hampered. Like a gymnast trying to compete with a lead weight strapped to one foot, maneuvers he could normally perform with ease were impossible with a passenger. His pursuer had no such handicap. Time to level the playing field.
K. Immel—RS: Physical: “This jerkoff on my ass is starting to piss me off. Give me the count.”
C. Remy—RS: Coordinator: “Three minutes forty seconds — seventy seconds past the evacuation timeline. Physical, you need to escalate your evasion tactics.”
K. Immel—RS: Physical: “No shit, really. The problem is I’ve got a two hundred pound gorilla on my back. I can’t cut for shit. I’m shredding my tires.”