The Valhalla Prophecy

  Passersby ran to help, worried faces peering down into the vehicle. Eddie winced as he moved; the pain in his left hand had been joined by a throb in his right shoulder where he had scraped the ground. But nothing was broken. His concern was more for his wife. “Nina!” he gasped, struggling upright. “Are you okay?”

  “No, I’m frickin’ not!” she cried as the onlookers helped her up. She had struck her head on the icy road, blood running from a gash above her temple. She put a hand to her forehead, then immediately wished she hadn’t as more pain stabbed through her skull. “Son of a bitch, that hurts!”

  Someone in the growing crowd spoke English. “I’ll call an ambulance.”

  “Call the cops too!” Eddie ordered, turning to locate the Audi. The driver clambered woozily out. “Shit! They’re still moving.”

  “What about Tova?” Nina asked in alarm, concern overcoming discomfort.

  Eddie scrambled out of the capsized Twizy. The Russians were pulling Tova from the Audi—

  No, they were trying to pull her out. But she was limp, apparently unconscious. Her captors seemed little better off. One man hobbled around the car, his hard gaze darting between the historian and the onlookers before he barked a command to his companions. The trio abandoned Tova and ran toward a park to the northwest.

  “Nina, make sure she’s okay,” said Eddie as he set off—not to intercept the Russians, but back toward the bus, where he had spotted something on the road.

  “What are you going to do?” she demanded.

  “Find out who they are,” he called back. He reached what he had seen—the dead man’s fallen gun. He picked it up. It took him a moment to identify it: an SR-1 Vector, a high-powered sidearm used primarily by the FSB—the Russian intelligence service that had succeeded the KGB. That pretty much confirmed who had tried to kidnap Tova Skilfinger—but the question now was why.

  Only one way to find out. As Nina climbed from the wrecked Twizy and started for the Audi, he raced after the fleeing men.

  The leader was hurt, running with a limp, but he clearly had the training and fortitude to overcome the pain. As he and his comrades reached the park entrance, he glanced back and saw Eddie following. Another barked order, and one of his men skidded to a halt on the sidewalk, then drew his gun—

  Eddie dived and rolled behind a stationary Volvo as the Russian opened fire. The woman in the car screamed and hunched down in her seat as bullets struck her vehicle.

  “Jesus!” Nina gasped, dropping low beside the Audi at the crack of gunfire. Panic spread among the people nearby, sending them scattering like terrified birds. The Russian kept shooting, blowing out some of the Volvo’s windows, then looked back over his shoulder for a moment to see how far his companions had gone—

  A moment was all Eddie needed.

  He popped up and fired through the car’s cabin in front of the hysterical driver. Two bloody bullet wounds burst open in the Russian’s chest. He crumpled to the ground. The Englishman offered a quick apology to the woman, then ran across the road to kick away the Russian’s gun in case he was still a threat.

  He was not, eyes frozen wide. Eddie gave the dead man an angry look, then ran into the park after his companions.

  Nina watched him go, then rose and leaned into the Audi. Tova was sprawled on the backseat, unmoving. “Tova?” the American asked fearfully, reaching out to check her neck. “Are you okay?”

  For a moment she felt nothing … then she found a faint but steady pulse. Tova reacted to the touch, flinching before crying out in Swedish. “It’s okay, it’s okay!” Nina told her. “They’ve gone.”

  The historian stared at her, still frightened. “Who were they? What did they want with me?”

  “I don’t know, but you’re safe now. The police are on their way. Are you all right?”

  Tova sat up, putting one hand to her head. “I—I think so. I hit my head when we crashed …” She took in Nina’s own injury. “Oj herre Gud! You are hurt!”

  “I’ll live,” Nina replied through gritted teeth.

  “And what about Eddie? Is he okay?”

  “God, I hope so.” She turned to see her husband running into the park.

  Eddie hurdled a low fence, pounding across a snow-covered flower bed to cut a corner before reaching a wide path. The two Russians were about fifty yards ahead, having passed a large statue on a high stone plinth. The limping leader looked back again, seeing that Eddie was still in pursuit. Another barked order, and the other man stopped and raised his gun.

  “Shit!” Eddie yelped, hurriedly changing direction to put the plinth between them. The supersonic whipcrack of a bullet passed just behind him. More screams echoed across the park as people realized the firefight was coming their way.

  He reached the statue. Castings of old-fashioned cannons or mortars acted as fence posts at each corner, chains hanging between them. He jumped over the obstacle and pressed his back against the plinth. Raising his gun, he edged sideways to peer around the corner. Was the Russian just trying to slow him down, or actively attempting to kill him?

  A gunshot and a shower of stone chips from the plinth’s corner as he hurriedly ducked back into cover gave him an answer. Until the car crash the Russians had minimized collateral damage, but now that the kidnappers had lost their target and were in danger of being cornered, all bets were clearly off.

  He leaned back out as far as he dared, trying to see what his opponents were doing without exposing himself to fire. The leader was cutting across a lawn in the direction of a red church beyond some trees. Even with his limp, it wouldn’t be long before he was lost to view—and Eddie had no doubts that he had been well trained in melting away into a city’s population.

  If he got away, then Tova was still at risk of another kidnap attempt—or worse. He couldn’t let that happen.

  But he had to deal with the gunman first …

  Eddie shrugged off his leather jacket. He threw the garment out from one side of the plinth—as he darted out into the open on the other.

  The Russian fired—at the first target, the jacket twitching in midair as a bullet punched through it. The man was quick to realize that it was a decoy, already swinging around to take aim at the second—

  Eddie was quicker. His shot hit the shooter squarely in the forehead, a wet spray erupting from an exit wound in the back of his skull. The man almost somersaulted backward to land in the snow, red flowering across the white expanse.

  No need to check if his target was dead this time. Eddie hopped over the chains, snatching up his punctured jacket and running after the last Russian.

  He quickly gained, the kidnapper’s pained ankle slowing him. The Russian left the park and ran up a road past the church. Eddie closed the gap. Twenty feet, ten. The man heard him coming and looked back, raising his gun—

  Eddie tackled him to the ground.

  Both men skidded through the snow before tumbling to a stop. The Russian’s cap came off. Eddie drove a punch at his groin. He made contact, but his opponent had twisted so the blow struck his hip. His foot lashed out in retaliation. Eddie jerked away. The man’s heel hit his shoulder. The Englishman rolled back, whipping up his gun.

  As did the kidnapper—

  They each got their first clear view of the other’s face—and froze.

  Eddie’s gun remained locked on the other man—just as the Russian’s own weapon stayed fixed on him. The kidnapper was taller than his pursuer, intense pale eyes set in a hard, lean face. They regarded each other for a long moment.

  The other man broke the silence. “You know why I am here, Chase.” A statement, not a question.

  “Yeah” was Eddie’s only reply. The kidnapper nodded, then lowered his gun. Eddie did the same.

  The Russian’s level gaze remained fixed on him, thoughtful, calculating—then without a word he stood and hurried away. Eddie rose, silently watching him round the red-painted church and disappear from sight.

  Only when the limping figure was gone did he
move, putting his battered leather jacket back on and slipping the gun inside. He heard someone approaching from behind and turned. “Eddie!” Nina called, running to him. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” he replied.

  She looked around, worried, but saw no sign of the kidnapper. “What happened? Where did he go?”

  “He got away.”

  “But you were right behind him.”

  “He got away,” Eddie repeated flatly. He started back toward the park, leaving the bewildered Nina staring after him.

  8

  Vietnam

  “This whole thing’s not right,” said Chase. “I don’t like it.”

  “Beggars can’t be choosers,” Sullivan told him, though with considerable disquiet. “We’ve still got to get those hostages out of there, no matter what. But …”

  “But they are obviously not just bandits,” Castille said, finishing his thought.

  “Then who are they?” asked Rios.

  “You said they were all carrying 74Us?” Sullivan asked Chase, who nodded. “The only Vietnamese who are issued those as standard are members of their special forces—or TC2.”

  “What’s TC2?” said Lomax.

  “Tông cuc Tình báo—Vietnamese military intelligence, officially, but it also acts as secret police and a spy agency. But I can’t think of any reason why they would be taking aid workers hostage.”

  “And what about these Russians?” Chase asked. “It looked like they were in charge of whatever they were doing to Natalia. But what were they doing, and why her?”

  “First things first,” the New Zealander said. “We’ve got to rescue her and the others—and if these people really are TC2, then that makes doing so with a zero body count even more important. If we kill members of their secret police, then believe me, we will be hunted down.”

  “I don’t see how we’re going to manage that,” said Hoyt. “If there’s as many of ’em as Chase said—”

  “We find a way,” Sullivan snapped. “Understand? I got a taste of communist Vietnamese hospitality in the ’70s. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy—and I sure as hell don’t want to experience it again!”

  “If we’re going to go in stealthy, this is the best time,” Chase pointed out. “The storm’ll give us cover. No bugger’ll go out into this if they don’t have to.” Even in what shelter they could find, the mercenaries were still drenched.

  Sullivan peered over the rock behind which they were crouching. “There’s still only one sentry on this side of the camp,” he reported, spotting the speck of torchlight. “Looks like he’s sticking to the same route. If we time it right, we should be able to take him down without any trouble. Non-lethally,” he added, giving Hoyt a warning look.

  The American made a sarcastic sound. “Yeah, yeah. I got the message.”

  A plan was rapidly worked out, then the six men advanced on the camp. Having already covered the ground, Chase took the lead. Pausing occasionally to confirm the sentry’s position, he moved in until he reached the line of footprints, then signaled to the others.

  No words were needed; everyone knew what to do. Chase hunched down behind a bush a few feet from the path, while Castille took up position nearby. The other men spread out behind them, ready to react if needed.

  The wind gusted, raindrops bursting against the Englishman like little bombs. For all the dryness his poncho provided, he might as well not have bothered wearing it. But it served another purpose: The blotchy camo pattern broke up his outline. With his head low and the bush’s branches further hiding his shape, the sentry wouldn’t see him until he was just a few feet away.

  He hoped …

  A glance to the side revealed a crouching shadow: Castille. In the other direction, the light gradually got closer, its bearer taking on form as he plodded along the track. A faint gleam of wet metal showed that the gun was still slung over his shoulder. As before, the torch’s beam was mostly following the path, only occasionally checking the undergrowth on each side.

  Fifteen feet, ten. Chase tensed, ready to strike. Five feet, and the torch briefly swept over the bush—then abruptly snapped back toward him—

  He sprang, slamming his shoulder into the Vietnamese man’s stomach and knocking him to the ground. The sentry tried to cry out, but only managed a choked gurgle as he took a savage elbow to the groin. He convulsed in pain. Chase rolled and wrapped one arm tightly around his throat as Castille rushed over to toss the AKS into the bushes.

  Chase tightened his choke hold. The man writhed, clawing at his face with one hand, but then Castille pinned him and the result was inevitable. Eyes bulging, the sentry made a last strangled moan, then went limp. Chase maintained the hold for a few more seconds to make sure he wasn’t faking, then eased the pressure. The man’s head lolled. He quickly checked his pulse. He was still alive.

  Shapes rose from the undergrowth. “Is he okay?” Sullivan asked.

  “He’s out,” Chase reported, pushing the unconscious man away and standing.

  “Good.” Sullivan looked around. “Hoyt, Rios, tie him to that tree there. Gag him too—he probably won’t be able to shout loud enough for anyone in the camp to hear him over this wind, but let’s not take chances. The rest of us’ll move on. Eddie?”

  Chase took point again, retracing his earlier path to the edge of the encampment. Before long the mercenaries were in the bushes behind the largest tent, Rios and Hoyt soon catching up. “No one in the open,” said Castille, surveying the scene.

  “Two men guarding the hostages, yes?” Rios asked.

  Chase nodded. “Better check nobody else has gone in there, though.”

  Hoyt glanced toward the dark block of the cabin. “What are we going to do about the girl?”

  Sullivan considered the question. “We deal with the guards inside this tent first,” he decided. “Once they’re out of the way, you and Eddie go and get her while we secure the rest of the hostages.”

  “The two guards were at opposite ends,” warned Chase, “and there’s only one entrance. If one of them raises the alarm we’re fucked, so how’re we going to get ’em both at the same time?”

  Sullivan grinned, reaching under his poncho to take out a glinting knife. “Make another entrance. Okay, let’s move.”

  The group split into two teams of three, Chase accompanied by Castille and Sullivan. They went to the closed end of the large tent, while the other mercenaries crept toward its entrance. The Englishman peered through the plastic window again. “Still two guards,” he whispered as he rejoined his companions. “One’s sitting by the door—back to it, watching the prisoners. The other’s got his back to the other end of the tent.”

  Sullivan quietly used his radio headset to relay the information to the others. Rios gave him a thumbs-up. “All right,” said the New Zealander, “let’s open up another door …”

  He examined the tent’s corner, then with intense concentration and precision pressed the tip of his knife against it, about four feet above the ground and right beside the supporting pole. The wet canvas strained, then split as he applied more pressure. The constant beat of the rain covered the thin crackle of fibers being severed. Slowly he forced the blade downward. It was extremely sharp; the fabric peeled apart as if he were slicing a boiled egg. Castille held the material in place as the cut lengthened.

  Finally the blade reached the groundsheet. Sullivan withdrew it, taking hold of the bottom corner of the slashed canvas to prevent it from flapping in the wind. A nod to Chase, who in turn leaned around the side of the tent and signaled to the men at the other end. He got another thumbs-up in reply. “They’re set,” he whispered.

  “Weapons ready,” Sullivan ordered. Making sure Rios and the others could see what he was doing, Chase carefully unshouldered his Kalashnikov. They did the same. He nodded to the mercenary leader to confirm this. “Okay. Tell them to go in five.”

  Sullivan moved back a little, using his boot to hold the canvas in position as he readied
his AK. Castille took up a firing stance as Chase held his hand out, all five fingers extended. He waited until he was sure the other three men had seen it, then brought in his thumb. Four. Forefinger, three …

  With the countdown established, there was no need to keep displaying it. All six men knew exactly how long they had to wait. Chase gripped his gun in both hands, feeling a rush of adrenaline. Ambushing the lone sentry was one thing, but any mistakes here and people would die.

  Two, one—

  Sullivan yanked back the flap, hissing a warning in Vietnamese for both guards to freeze as Chase ducked through and jammed the muzzle of his AK-47 against the closest man’s neck. Castille was right behind him. Simultaneously, the tent’s entrance was thrown open and Rios and Hoyt rushed in. The Spaniard pointed his gun at the startled second guard beside it—but Hoyt had already flipped his rifle around and smashed its butt against the man’s skull. He tumbled to the floor. “Don’t you fuckin’ move, Charlie,” Hoyt growled, planting a foot down hard on his back and bringing his AK back around to push it against his head.

  “Enough of that,” snapped Sullivan as he entered the tent. He issued an order in the guards’ language. Chase’s prisoner scowled but raised his hands behind his head before kneeling. “Are we still clear outside?”

  Lomax peered in through the entrance. “Yeah, we’re good.”

  “All right. Keep watch.” The American nodded and returned to his position outside. “Secure these two.”

  The weapons pointed at them deterred the guards from offering any resistance as they were bound and gagged. Once they were secure, Chase checked the hooded figures. The nearest was a woman; her clothes were dirty, but with no sign of blood. The other captives were in much the same state. A couple of the men had visible bruises, but they were days old, received when they were taken hostage rather than from subsequent beatings.

  “Okay, we’re here to rescue you,” Sullivan announced quietly. “We’re going to untie you. Don’t make any noise, okay? If you understand me, nod your head.” All but two of the prisoners responded. “Free the ones who nodded so they can tell their friends that we’re getting them out of here,” he told his team before signaling to Chase and Hoyt. “Okay, you two get Natalia. Be careful—we still don’t want to risk a firefight.”