Gunfire crackled from below. Not pistols, but automatic weapons. A couple of shots hit the chopper’s belly before the firing stopped - someone had spotted Dominika. Chase risked a look down. Guards were running round the corner of the mansion; he saw Kruglov amongst them, pointing up at him.
The helicopter kept rising, wheeling about to fly back over the building. Chase saw the lights of Moscow in the distance as it straightened out. He fought against the blasting rotor downwash as he tried to pull himself up, glancing across at Dominika - who reached between her legs, under the hem of her dress, and pulled out a glinting knife from a sheath strapped to her thigh.
Nina stood in the lobby, a couple of dozen people crowding around her. A few seconds earlier, the noise of the helicopter coming through the earpiece had abruptly stopped, followed by gunfire from outside.
Had Chase been hit? She had no way of knowing. Vaskovich, Kruglov and Maximov had pushed through the nervous crowd shortly before, the host apparently telling everyone to remain in the building and stay calm. The guests had obeyed at first, but now some of them wanted to get the hell out of the place as quickly as possible. Several men near the exit came to a rapid agreement and threw open the doors.
It was as if a plug had been pulled from a bathtub: everyone surged for the exit, crushing together in the entrance before spilling outside. Nina fought to stay on her feet as she was jostled from all sides. Cold air hit her face, blowing away the fug of smoke. She was through the door—
A hand locked round her arm and pulled her fiercely aside. Maximov glared at her, a frown creasing the bandage covering his forehead. He dragged her across the steps as the fleeing guests hurried down them.
Vaskovich was waiting for her, flanked by a pair of armed guards. ‘Hello again, Nina,’ he said coldly. ‘Nina
Kruglov ran up the steps. He glanced at Nina, eyebrows flicking up as he finally recognised her, then spoke to Vaskovich. ‘Chase has the sword - he jumped on to the helicopter. I’m sure it was Mitchell flying it. And Leonid - Dominika went after him! She’s hanging on the skid.’
Vaskovich looked across the lawn, seeing the military helicopter waiting on the grass. ‘Where the hell is that idiot Mishkin? Get him here, now!’
Kruglov shouted orders, and barely fifteen seconds later Mishkin was escorted to the group by more guards. Nina saw that his once-slick hair was now dishevelled, and that he had a large damp patch running from his crotch down both legs. He stared wide-eyed and sweating at Vaskovich.
‘That English bastard has just been picked up by a helicopter!’ Vaskovich told him. ‘I
‘What am
‘Is it armed?’
‘I - I suppose—’
‘Then tell your pilot to get the damn thing into the air! Now!’ Mishkin turned and started for the chopper; he looked back as Vaskovich shouted after him. ‘Don’t shoot it down unless you have to - I don’t want to risk losing the sword, and one of my people is aboard. But if anything happens to her . . .’ He left the command unspoken. ‘Just tell your man that recovering the sword is more important than anything else. Go!’
Mishkin nodded and ran across the lawn. The pilot was already in his seat, having sprinted for the helicopter at the first sound of gunfire, ready to respond. He listened to Mishkin’s shouted orders, gave him a thumbs-up and closed the cockpit canopy, running through the emergency start-up sequence. The aircraft came to life, the stacked rotor blades starting to move.
They turned in opposite directions, their counter-rotation eliminating the need for a tail rotor and making the helicopter faster, more manoeuvrable. More deadly. It was no mere transport, but a gunship, a high-tech Kamov Ka-52 ‘Alligator’ designed to hunt down and destroy whatever targets were offered it.
Including other helicopters.
Nina watched in horror as the war machine left the ground, hanging malevolently like a glittering black locust before turning and powering away after the other helicopter.
After Chase.
26
The MD 500 roared over the outskirts of Moscow. Glowing night-time streets swept past below, apartment blocks glinting like jewellery boxes in the dark. Chase would have found the view impressive - if it hadn’t been unrolling beneath his dangling feet.
The helicopter wasn’t holding a steady course, jinking as it flew. He didn’t know if it was because of damage to the machine or its pilot. Without the headset he had no way to communicate with Mitchell short of climbing up and banging on a window.
And Dominika wasn’t going to allow that.
She was wrapped almost cat-like round the starboard skid, the knife in one hand. The skids were about six feet apart, putting him just out of reach of her blade.
For now.
He hung by his weakening right hand, the sword in his left, pounded by the rotor blast from above and the slipstream as the chopper raced across the city. To get back up he would need to swing and hook a leg over the skid - and when he did, he would be within range of Dominika at full stretch. All she had to do was stab an artery, slash a tendon, and he would fall.
But he had no choice. Much longer, and he would fall anyway . . .
He kicked, swinging Excalibur at the same time for extra momentum. His foot swiped out, well short of the skid, then fell back. He tried again, this time swinging higher, but still not high enough.
Dominika watched him, shifting position. Ready to attack.
Chase kicked again. His hand slipped slightly on the skid. This time the side of his foot banged against it - only to drop away again. He fell back down, palm slick with sweat against the cold metal. Another slip, further. He tried to tighten his grip, but he had nothing to push against.
And he saw a new danger, closing fast from behind. Another helicopter. Even against the dark sky he could see it had twin rotors, the ghostly circles of the blades pulsing with each flash of the navigation lights.
The only people who flew co-axial helicopters, he knew, were the Russian military. They’d sent a fucking gunship after him!
After the
And the wounded MD 500 couldn’t fly for ever.
His hand slipped again. If he didn’t get a better hold on the skid in the next few seconds, he never would.
Swinging again, metal slithering through his fingers—
His right heel hooked over the skid. With the last of his strength, Chase yelled and pulled up his other leg. He just managed to sweep it over the landing gear as his grip finally gave way.
Moscow rolled inverted beneath him as he hung by his legs, leather jacket flapping violently around his shoulders. The empty holster and heavy spare magazine batted against his chest. Straining, he swung both arms and bent at the waist to pull his body up.
The sword clanged against the skid. He twisted his left wrist to hook the cross-guard round the landing gear. With a firmer hold, he was able to haul himself up, right hand clamping once more round the metal. He let out a breath of relief—
The tip of Dominika’s knife stabbed into his forearm.
Chase lost his grip, injured right arm flailing in the wind. He looked across at Dominika. She was gripping the support connecting her skid to the fuselage with one hand, stretching out across the gap to jab at him again.
He pulled his bloodied arm away across his chest, the knife tearing another slash in the leather just below his shoulder. Another stab, falling mere millimetres short.
She switched her attention to the sword. With the cross-guard taking Chase’s weight, he didn’t dare move it until he could regain his grip with his right hand. Which he couldn’t do as long as she had the knife.
And Dominika knew it. Her sour face for the first time displayed what was almost a smile beneath her wind-
