by M. G. Harris
“Oh no,” Ixchel breathes. “We really are in trouble now.”
So far there’s still no sign of Gaspar’s car. That tractor must have held back quite a tail of traffic because for a long way behind us there’s no sign of a car.
We slow down, approaching a hairpin bend.
“Don’t brake on the turn,” I suggest. “Or we’ll skid. And accelerate as soon as you’re straightening. . .”
Ixchel shoots me a questioning look. “Thought you couldn’t drive.”
“I know the theory,” I say.
“Sure, and I’m the one behind the wheel.”
I flush. “Just trying to be helpful.”
Ixchel says nothing. She’s gripping the steering wheel so tightly that her knuckles have gone white. She takes the first few hairpins so slowly that I’m starting to get nervous. At this rate Gaspar won’t have much trouble catching us.
To take my mind off it, I try calling Benicio again. Still nothing.
Surely he’s close to Lake Lucerne now? Why isn’t he phoning me?
I put a hand on Ixchel’s shoulder. “You’re doing really well.”
The encouragement seems to work, because she takes the next bend a bit faster. And the next two. In fact, by the fourth, my stomach is starting to lurch. Then I make the mistake of looking over the edge of the road.
It’s a sheer drop of several hundred metres.
“Don’t look down,” I warn Ixchel.
“Think I’m mad? I’m looking right ahead . . . and nowhere else!”
My hand moves to my mouth, hiding a smile. Ixchel is even cute when she’s scared.
At the next bend I look down again. That’s when I see the red Mercedes. Gaspar and his men are only two bends away from us.
“OK. . .” I tell her. “I want you to stay calm. . .”
But there’s an unmistakable edge of panic to her reply. “Gaspar?”
“Yeah. Just keep driving. You’re doing brilliantly.”
“Josh. . .”
“Yeah?”
“Look at the petrol level. . .”
I follow Ixchel’s paralysed stare. The arrow is in the red zone. We’re almost out of petrol.
“Oh, you have got to be joking. . .”
I gaze back over the road. We’re most of the way up the mountain face, overlooking a forested valley cradled by mountain peaks. At this altitude there’s snow piled high at the edge of the road in stacks as tall as me. The temperature outside drops. The car windows begin to mist.
Perilous mountain roads, an inexperienced driver, low on petrol and now we’re having trouble seeing through the windows. . .
At that moment my Ek Naab phone rings. I almost leap out of my seat.
Benicio shouts down the phone, “Where the hell are you?”
“We’re on the Sustenpass. . .”
“I know that! What are you doing there? I can’t land in these mountains.”
“We’re almost out of petrol, Benicio. The guys chasing us have almost caught up.”
Benicio swears quietly a few times. Exasperated, he says, “What do you expect me to say? Keep going as far as you can. I’m getting a good lock on your location . . . I’ll stay close. At the top of the pass there’s a small lake at the base of a glacier . . . if you can make it that far, I can land around there.”
“OK . . . what if we don’t. . .?”
He’s silent for a second. “Keep going. I’ll call you when you’re close to the lake.”
But as I snap the phone shut, it’s already too late.
The red Mercedes has just pulled around the last bend in the road. It bears down on us until I can see Gaspar’s eyes in the mirror. He looks triumphant, winks and gives us a little mock-salute.
Then their car rams ours from behind. We skid slightly; Ixchel pushes harder on the accelerator. They speed up, catch us at the next bend and slam hard into the rear right flank. Our car goes into a tailspin. Looks like we’ll twist too far to make the turn.
I shout, “Hit the accelerator – not the brake.” The car straightens just in time.
My phone rings again. “There’s a place I can land up ahead!” Benicio yells. “The next hairpin bend, there’s a little place for stopping. I’ll be waiting!”
We hit the first long stretch of straight road, thickly lined with snow and deep-green pines.
“Put your foot right down,” I urge.
“I’ll kill us both!”
But when the Mercedes creeps up behind us again, she doesn’t think twice. Even so, they match our speed and then pull out to overtake.
“Don’t let them overtake! We have to get to the rendezvous with Benicio!”
There’s nothing to be done. Gaspar’s car is already drawing level in the opposite carriageway. It starts to snow: a drizzle of thick, wet flakes. I flip the windscreen wipers into action.
Ahead, a lorry trundles around the corner, heading towards our position. For a second the Mercedes pulls even further ahead, daring to go for the overtake. Ixchel screams as the lorry hurtles straight at Gaspar’s car.
“Don’t let them in!” I shout, grabbing hold of the wheel.
At the last second, Gaspar chickens out. The Merc’s brakes squeal as it drops back in line behind us. The lorry whizzes by close enough for us to feel the rumble of its wheels. As soon as the lorry has passed, Ixchel swings our car out to block the Merc overtaking. I check the petrol level. It’s right at the bottom.
Our car, the Merc and the lorry: we all shoot past the stopping place. I guess not one of us gives a second glance to the Muwan parked there. . .
Ixchel wails in despair. “Josh . . . what are we gonna do?”
“Don’t let them overtake, Ixchel, keep driving . . . let me think. . .”
After the next bend, the terrain changes. The road clings to the edge of a slope, drops off steeply to a forested valley on the right. There are hardly any trees up here, just snow-coated scrub. The snow falls more thickly. Heavy mist hovers over the road ahead. To the right we can finally see across the valley from which mountains rise. They dominate the entire field of vision now, rising like an apparition out of the clouds: snow-smoothed peaks over ashen rock.
I check the petrol gauge. It’s practically empty. We’re running on vapour.
In the distance, I spot a pool of milky-green water. Behind it there’s a long trail of grey ice flowing from somewhere high. It must be the lake and glacier Benicio mentioned . . . but I can’t see a way down to it.
Our car enters a cloud slung low across the valley. We’re enveloped in grey, damp mist so thick that we can’t see more than a few metres ahead. Ixchel slams on the brakes. The Merc finally shoots ahead of us.
Then she groans, “Oh no. . .” We’re almost at a standstill. Ixchel pumps away at the accelerator, but nothing happens.
“We’re out of gas!”
Through the mist, I can just make out that the Merc has pulled off to the side of the road.
“We have to get the car off the road, Josh . . . or someone will crash into us. . .”
Eyes glazed, we both stare ahead at Gaspar’s car. One of their doors opens; a shadow appears at the side of the Merc as someone climbs out.
Our car comes to a halt. I look across at Ixchel. Her hands are still gripping the wheel. Violently, she begins to shake, her teeth chattering.
I put a hand on hers. Her muscles are locked rigid.
Gently, I say, “Ixchel . . . let go . . . we need to get out of the car.”
Actually, we need to run for it. I have no idea where. We’re almost out of options.
The grey figure of Gaspar walks through the mist towards us, slowly. From behind us there’s another sound – a third car enters the cloud. It speeds just beyond our car and screeches to a halt.
The cops.
Two uniformed policemen spring out of their car, making a beeline for us.
I unwrap Ixchel’s fingers from the wheel and squeeze her hand.
“It’s OK, Ixchel . . . we’re
safer with the police than with the Sect. . .”
She can’t stop trembling. The stress of the car chase has finally slammed into her. Ahead, Gaspar has stopped moving.
Both doors are yanked open. One of the cops starts shouting at us in German.
“I think they want us to get out. . .” I whisper. Ixchel nods slowly, still shaking. “Come on, Ixchel,” I tell her. “It’s gonna be OK now . . . we’ll just let them arrest us. . .”
We’re both about to step out of the car when from the direction of Gaspar’s car there’s a muffled, almost squeaky sound – a shot being fired. The cop at my side of the car slumps to the ground, stone-cold dead.
Lightning-fast, the second cop ducks behind our car. A second later he pops up again. This time he fires a round into the fog. It’s followed up by a barrage of bullets in our direction. Some of them hit the car, shattering the rear windscreen, bursting a tyre.
Ixchel and I cower in our seats, bent double, clutching our heads.
My Ek Naab phone rings. My own hand trembles slightly as I answer it. The gun battle isn’t letting up. A bullet explodes into the back of my car seat – I almost jump out of my skin.
“You have to get out of there!” Benicio’s voice screams against my ear.
“Oh, ya think?” I reply. “Where are you?”
“I’m right next to you, buddy, I’m right here. I’m hovering under the road, at the edge of the mountain.”
I gasp. “Hovering. . .? What do you expect us to do?”
“Jump,” he says firmly. “Move in a straight line from your car to the edge of the road. Jump off. I will catch you.”
In this fog, there’s no way I can check whether Benicio is right or not.
“Benicio is here. We have to run for it,” I tell Ixchel. “Get over to this side . . . we need to crawl out together.”
Ixchel hesitates for a second, then slides across my knee. We both squirm around until we’re both lying across the front two seats with both our heads next to the passenger door. We’re completely squashed together, but thankfully Ixchel doesn’t seem too bothered by that.
Of course I’m not bothered about it either, not one bit. . .
I raise my hands above my head, getting ready to push on the door.
Right then, the front windscreen shatters. Crumbled glass rains down over us, scatters across the floor of the car.
My eyes meet Ixchel’s. “It’s gonna be OK. . .” I murmur. “On the count of three, crawl out, stay low, get to the edge of the road. You’ll see Benicio there. He’ll catch you.”
Silently, she nods.
“One . . . two. . .” I push the door open, hard. “Three!”
We both drop to the ground, slithering out of the car on our bellies. The edge of the road is only a metre or so away – and we have the shelter of the car.
We crawl within centimetres of the dead body of the first policeman. I almost throw up when I see what the bullet did to his head. He’s dead because of us – because he chased a stolen car.
The soggy air is filled with the sound of gunfire. One person has died because of us . . . and the second one has no hope against Gaspar’s men. We have to do something to help this guy. I can’t leave this place with two innocent deaths on my conscience.
We crawl under the railing that lines the edge of the road. The lights of the Muwan greet us, glowing white and blue behind the mist, hovering about three metres below the road.
Benicio – he really is here.
The cockpit opens and Benicio stands up. He’s less than two metres away from the edge of the road. I can’t quite make out his face, but I can see him stretching out both arms.
He calls, “I’ll catch you. . .”
I nudge Ixchel forward. “You go first. Jump out as far as you can, and put your arms out so that he can grab you.”
We look at each other one more time. With one smooth movement Ixchel gets to her feet and leaps off the edge of the slope, arms outstretched . . . flying. The Muwan dips slightly when she lands smack-dab in Benicio’s arms. I hear her relief as she tumbles into the passenger compartment.
Behind me the gunfire is relentless. Abruptly, the cop stops shooting. Gaspar’s men yell something . . . I hear them rushing forward, towards the edge of the road.
They start shooting on the Muwan.
“Give up, Josh,” calls Gaspar, his voice coming from somewhere close. I’d guess he’s just behind the car. “Hand yourself over, boy. How many people have to die?”
I watch in dismay as the Muwan drops out of sight under the cloud. When I look around again, Gaspar is right next to me. He gives me a smug grin.
“OK, Josh. Game over.”
Before I can budge, Gaspar grabs hold of my left wrist and twists it hard, into an armlock. I’m opening my mouth to gasp when he pulls me against him fiercely, wrenching my arm even further. An agonized yell leaves my throat.
He pushes me down to my knees, presses his foot against the back of my neck. Slowly, he forces me to bend all the way to the floor.
“I could snap your neck right now, you know that, don’t you?”
My eyes water from the pain. I just nod.
“I’m not going to end up like Simon and that girl, Ollie . . . doing only the stupidest jobs. After all their training! No. The minute they put me in charge of hunting you down, boy, I told them: no problem. OK? With Gaspar on the case, you got a deal. You cannot fight me, boy, I will always win. Hear me?”
I nod again, my face stinging as he pushes me harder against the gravel.
He shouts, “You got that, Josh Garcia?”
“Yes!” I groan in reply, voice muffled.
“You’re gonna work for us now. You’re a miracle of science, you know that? A walking Nobel Prize for DiCanio. You should feel honoured!”
“What did she do to me?” I manage to ask.
He repeats, “What did she do. . .? Man, what didn’t she do? The whole nine yards. You’ve got it all, kid. You’re wayyyy too valuable to lose now.”
Behind us there’s a sudden crunching sound – a body rolling on the ground. Then a single gunshot, then a scream of pure agony. Loud, uninterrupted groaning follows – I get a terrifying vision of pain. Gaspar turns away for a second, evidently shocked by what he’s just heard.
Sounds like someone is dying. But is it Gaspar’s man? Or the cop?
Gaspar loosens his grip just enough for me to get some wriggle room. In another second I’m out of the armlock, attempting a dodge roll. His attention returns with laser-like focus. He sweeps a foot into my ribs – it’s like being kicked by a horse. I’m so winded that I can only lie motionless, gasping like a fish tossed on to the deck.
There’s another gunshot; the bullet whizzes past above Gaspar, who stops moving. I tilt my head slightly for a better view. Like a ghost emerging from behind a veil of gauze, the figure of the second Swiss policeman appears. He holds his arm rigid, straight, the gun and he merging into one shadowy killing machine. In the distance, the groans subside, replaced by an occasional pitiful whimper.
“In my country,” the cop begins in halting, heavily accented English, “we do not tolerate child killers.”
I whisper a prayer of thanks. Gaspar says nothing.
“Move away from the boy,” says the cop.
Gaspar hesitates, then takes one step away from me. I finally manage to catch my breath and suck in a few freezing-cold gulps.
The grey shadow-cop waves his gun slightly. “Further away.”
Gaspar takes two more steps away from me. I struggle to my feet, still slightly unsteady. Gaspar and the cop stare at each other for a few seconds.
“Take out your gun,” the cop orders, “and throw it to the ground, over here.”
“I’m no child killer,” Gaspar says slowly. “The boy is a runaway. Look what he did – he stole a car.”
“You killed a police officer. My partner. This we also do not tolerate.”
“It was an accident. If I wanted the boy dead,�
� says Gaspar, “he would be.”
But still Gaspar won’t obey.
I can hear the policeman’s breathing quicken. He takes aim and points the gun straight at Gaspar’s head. “Boy . . . get behind me.”