Femme Fatale (16 page)

Money had changed hands with the Czech police last night. Quite a lot of it. Over the past five weeks, Mick had learned that Scherba never traveled anywhere without a lot of cash from a dozen different nations. American and Canadian dollars, Japanese yen, Russian rubles, German marks, French francs and British pounds sterling were only some of the slush fund that Scherba carried. That had been the only thing that had kept most of Scherba’s security staff from jail after they had indiscriminately fired into the river after the fleeing woman.

With the situation being what it was after last night, Josef had talked to Mick that morning, suggesting that it was time for both of them to head to greener pastures. Both of them had reached the conclusion that Krystof Scherba wasn’t the kind of man they wanted to work for. But the money had been good for Josef and his large family, and the work had temporarily broken the funk Mick had found himself in since the CIA had severed ties with him almost a year ago over the Black Dragon Triad incident in Shanghai.

Mick had told Josef he was going to stay on for at least a little longer, till he was certain the threat that the woman had represented to Scherba was gone. Mick wasn’t the kind of guy who left unfinished business. Josef knew and respected that. After all, he was a bloody professional and depended on his reputation, which the damned CIA had more or less scuttled a year ago.

But that wasn’t the real reason he’d stayed. The real reason was that Mick was afraid for the woman. Josef had stayed because of Mick, and he’d known of Mick’s concern for her. She’d been too cocky, too sure of herself. Either she didn’t know how dangerous Scherba was, or she was grossly overestimating her own skills.

True, she had been good at what she did, but if Scherba
found out who she was—and Mick had every reason to believe that the man would, because
he
had deduced who she had to be from the moves she’d exhibited and the flash-bang equipment she’d left behind—she was dead.

The way Mick had it figured, he was maybe the only chance the woman had of getting out of the situation alive. Doing that put him at risk, though, and as he stood there on the third-floor landing, he was keenly aware of that.

A warning flickered through his mind. The feeling was something he couldn’t have named, cultivated from years of close cover work and spending time with principals who were hunted and stalked by murderers and assassins.

Sweeping the street with his gaze, Mick spotted a man in the shadows of an awning in front of a small sidewalk café at an alley corner. The man was alert, tense. He lifted his left wrist and spoke. Mick knew the man was carrying a headset walkie-talkie, indicating that he was part of a team.

The man was also an unknown. Mick knew all of Scherba’s people. Getting to know a principal’s daily life and the contacts within it was standard operating procedure for a professional bodyguard.

A minute passed, and Mick spotted two other men at the end of the four-block run on the set. Those men spread out, and the way they moved told Mick they were armed. The man in front of the sidewalk café glanced up at the roofline.

Following the man’s gaze, Mick searched the rooftops. He didn’t see what the man was looking for, but Mick knew that whoever he was looking for up there was on-site. The first thing that came to Mick’s mind was that the buildings were a perfect place for a sniper to hole up for a shot. He started making his way up to the roof, intending
to get to the other end of the stunt run as quickly as he could.

Behind the Aston Martin’s steering wheel, Kylee strapped herself into the five-point safety belt harness. She pushed her mind past Mick Stone and Creepstof Scherba, dismissed the cameras and the film crew on the other side of the window and focused solely on the gag. A stunt person without focus had about as much of a chance at a long life as a Christmas turkey on December twenty-fourth.

She drew her breath in through her nose, taking it deeply into her lungs, then blew it out her mouth. Nerves and instinct training and adrenaline all came together in a rush and gelled.

The radio mounted under the sports car’s dash crackled and the director’s voice asked, “Ready, Kylee?”

“Ready,” Kylee said.

“Whenever you’re ready, then.”

Kylee twisted the key in the ignition. The powerful engine snarled to life. “Ready.” She tapped the accelerator and felt the engine rev.

“And…action,” the director said.

Kylee dropped the accelerator to the floor and popped the clutch. The Aston Martin’s tires squalled as they spun against the street. Then the rubber found traction and hurtled the vehicle forward while slamming Kylee back into the seat.

She ran through the gears using the paddles built into the steering wheel. The Vanquish used six forward gears, and the transmission ratio was tight, allowing her to get through the first five gears before she had to make the turn.

The buildings at the end of the four-block distance
swelled into view, providing a solid unbreakable wall. If she lost the Aston Martin, she knew she’d end up smashed against the wall.

Downshifting from fifth gear to second, Kylee tapped on the brakes and threw the sports car into a controlled skid. The back end of the vehicle skewed around as she whipped the steering wheel into the direction of the skid and depended on the rack-and-pinion steering to pull her out of the drift. The second she felt the tires grab traction again, she let out on the clutch, stomped the accelerator and pulled the steering wheel straight. The car came to a rocking stop only inches away from the brick wall.

“Oh, man!” the director crowed. “Way to fire, Kylee! That looked great!”

The sports car burned rubber coming out of the tight turn, looking for all in the world like it had caromed from the brick wall. Heart pumping, adrenaline flooding her system, Kylee searched for and found the jump ramp two blocks ahead. The Aston Martin shivered beneath her like a big cat preparing to take flight.

“Get to speed, Kylee,” the director urged.

Then there was no more time for anything. Kylee felt the world slow down around her as it always did when she was in the heart of a stunt.

The Aston Martin’s front wheels hit the ramp. In the same instant, Kylee noted the shifting shadow at the roofline of one of the buildings at the end of the four-block run. The figure brought a long bar-shape to its shoulder.

Kylee knew what the shape was even before Barbara broadcast a warning over her tiny earpiece.

“Sniper!” Barbara said. She had already let Kylee know that Mick Stone had put in an appearance in the audience. At first, the news had shocked her, but then Kylee had buzzed with excitement over the increased stakes.

But Barbara’s warning arrived too late. Kylee was already into the stunt. Trying to turn back would have busted the gag, wrecked the Aston Martin, and required days of downtime on the movie to repair.

And if she stopped, she knew she would only be a sitting duck for the sniper.

The sports car’s V12 engine roared in Kylee’s ears, drowning out the noise of the rest of the world. She felt the slow thud of her heart in stretched-out explosions and knew that in real time, not the frozen time of the stunt, her heart was hammering.

Dim morning sunlight glinted from the sniper’s telescopic lens as he took aim.

I’m in motion,
Kylee told herself.
I am a moving target. I am one of the fastest moving targets in the world at this moment. Wile E. Coyote couldn’t catch me with an Acme jetpack.

She held the steering wheel steady as the rear wheels roared onto the ramp. The centrifugal force of the rapid ascension up the ramp shoved her back and down into the specially contoured seat.

Mick Stone, I know you’re behind this, and I am
so
going to kick your ass when I find you.

Near the top of the ramp—moving at seventy-eight miles an hour as they had agreed on—confirmed by the digital speedometer on the dashboard, Kylee slid her forefinger over the button concealed under the steering wheel and pressed.

A rifle bullet shattered the windshield, throwing out small squared chunks of safety glass that peppered Kylee’s face. For an instant she thought she had been hit, and kept waiting for the pain to ignite within her. Then the explosion rigged under the Aston Martin fired.

Carefully placed and measured, the explosion under the sports car’s driver’s side was designed to roll the vehicle in midair on leaving the corkscrew end of the ramp. A whipsaw motion heeled the car over like a small plane twisting into a barrel roll.

Snug inside the safety harness, trapped by the momentum of the stunt, Kylee watched the world revolve around her. The Aston Martin totally inverted, then continued rolling. If everything worked right, the sports car would hit an apex of twenty-three feet, go a distance of forty-seven feet, and land top down like an overturned turtle.

A second bullet ripped the driver’s side mirror off. Fragments of the mirror’s housing flew into the car and clattered against the car’s side like beaks of carrion birds beating against the metal to get in.

Secured in the seat, Kylee flipped a total of two and one-half times as she came down into the street. Despite the heavy padding and the weight distribution design, the seat belts painfully cut into her shoulders. Another bullet cracked the windshield, letting her know that whoever was on the business end of the rifle was an excellent marksman.

The Aston Martin landed in a scream of tortured metal. Kylee hung from the seat belts as the car revolved and slid across the street. Sparks sprayed out in the sports car’s wake, and fresh white scars tracked the street’s stone surface.

And when the sliding stopped, Kylee was grimly aware that she was going to be a much easier target for the rooftop sniper.

Even with his lead and the pause she took between the stunts, Mick barely reached the last rooftop at the turn in time to see the bright green Aston Martin hit the end of
the ramp. The sharp bark of a high-powered sniper rifle rang out during the snarl of the racing engine.

The sports car was still in the air when Mick spotted the sniper three rooftops away. The man was lean and ferret-faced, his rifle nearly as long as he was.

And there it is then,
Mick thought in a cold second.
The sheila is the target.
Even though the man wasn’t someone Mick recognized, he knew the man couldn’t have come from anyone else. Scherba was covering his bases.

By the time the Aston Martin rolled two times, the sniper had fired twice more. One of the bullets had struck the driver’s side mirror, but the other had gone wide of its intended target.

Mick pulled the Colt .45 pistol from the holster under his jacket. The distance made accuracy with the handgun more a thing of luck than skill. Still, the .45 made a hell of a lot of noise. He opened fire as the car skidded down the street on its top.

The bullets slammed into the tarmac beside the sniper and tore out fist-sized divots that skipped into the man. Startled, the man turned from his target, rolling sideways and looking for whoever was firing at him. He lifted the rifle.

Calmly Mick stood his ground and fired through the last three rounds of the seven-round clip. One of the bullets caught the man and knocked him backward, rolling him across the rooftop.

Then a hail of gunfire ripped through the air by Mick’s head. The sniper had evidently had backup shooters in place on the ground.

The Aston Martin rocked to a halt but turned sideways like a good boxer slipping a punch for the camera. Kylee
watched the world revolve slowly through the windshield. Two fist-sized holes showed in the glass now.

She hung suspended in the seat belts, but her hands sought out the catches automatically. The sweet, acrid scent of gasoline cloyed at her nostrils. Before long, she was certain the sniper would think about targeting the gas tank.

Designed to work even under the most hostile circumstances, the seat belts peeled away. Kylee fell, trying to take most of her weight on her shoulders.

“What the hell is going on down there?” the director bellowed over the radio.

“Somebody’s shooting at the car,” one of the cameramen called back.

“At Kylee or the car?” the director asked.

“I don’t—”

“To hell with that,” he exploded. “Are you rolling film?”

“Oh yeah.”

“Because I’ll have your ass if you aren’t,” the director threatened.

Terrific,
Kylee thought as she squirmed out of the seat.
Nice to know I’m working with professionals.

But the thought was only partly remonstration against the cold-blooded reality of the situation. The footage was real, and having it in the film would be a bonus, something the Internet film schemers and dreamers could talk about before the movie released. Emerson was definitely going to have a box-office smash on his hands because of the word of mouth over this one alone.

“Kylee,” Barbara Price called over the ear bud.

“I’m okay.” Kylee paused at the window. Little room remained in the sports car. At least the reinforcements had
kept the top from collapsing and burying her in a twisted ruin.

“Oz,” she said. Despite the rush of adrenaline she was feeling, a combination of the jump and being shot at, she was scared.

“I’m here,” Barbara said.

“How many shooters?”

“We’ve tagged four.”

Four! Four?
Kylee took a deep breath.
Four isn’t so bad. Now ten—ten would be bad.

“What about Stone?” Kylee asked.

“He’s there.”

“I knew that. Was he the one shooting at me?”

“Negative,” Barbara answered.

“Am I clear?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re the one with the satellite recon,” Kylee pointed out.

“You’ve got a riot forming there. We’ve got a lock on the rooftop sniper, but we don’t know where the other shooters are. Two of them shot at Stone.”

“Why?”

“I have to assume it’s because he shot at the sniper shooting at you.”

“Doesn’t sound like he’s one of the bad guys,” Kylee said. She couldn’t resist the gibe. “I mean, unless he’s a bad shot. An
incredibly
bad shot.”