by Sean Ellis
"No. That's just it. We've got to split up. I have to slow those soldiers down, or misdirect them somehow." He saw emotion welling up in her eyes, but willfully ignored it. Instead, he rose and crawled out onto the back of the left-hand horse.
It took him less than a minute to loose the steed from the yoke that held it in thrall. Although it continued to trot apace with the other animal, it no longer contributed its power to pulling the sleigh.
Kismet quickly realized how awkward it would be to ride the creature. Its back was virtually twice as broad as any horse he had ever ridden; his legs were spread painfully apart as he straddled its bare torso. He was confident with most horses and had ridden camels and even an elephant, but rarely faster than a brisk walk. There was simply no way to ride the draft horse in the conventional manner. He was unable to exert any pressure with his inner thighs, so instead he leaned forward against its neck, gripped either side of its bridle with his hands and shouted into its ear: "Giddyap!"
Instantly, the great steed pulled away from its shackled cousin. Kismet ran the horse out ahead of the sleigh, and then tugged its bridle to swing it around. As the sleigh drew close, his gaze met Irene's.
"Nick."
He could see it in her eyes; the declaration that she had not quite been able put into words. "Don't say it. You'll only make this harder."
She shook her head, blinking back the tears. "Just be careful."
He knew those weren't the words that were poised on her lips, but was grateful that she had held back. With a nod, he coaxed his mount back up the trail, letting the thump of hoof-beats refocus his attention. After a few moments, he looked back, but the sleigh had already diminished to a dark speck in the snowfield. When he returned his gaze forward, half a score of white-clothed skiers had appeared directly ahead of him, and suddenly there was no more time for emotional turmoil.
Grimacing, he urged his mount onward, racing toward the pack like a runaway boulder down a mountainside. Hugging the horse's neck with one arm, he drew the Gurkha knife and raised it in the air over his head. A moment later, he was plowing through the midst of the loose formation. The knife slashed down repeatedly, causing confusion and not a few superficial wounds. Half of the group, in their haste to get out of the way, went down, crashing into each other or veering off course into the mire of the powder valley. The few left standing after his passage snowplowed to a halt and turned to face him.
Kismet also came about for another pass. One skier raised a pole to block the downward stroke of the blade, only to have it shorn clean in two. A kick from Kismet sent him flailing. A soldier on Kismet's left stood his ground, raising his rifle, but before he could fix his sight picture, Kismet twisted his body in order to launch a vicious slashing attack. The knife quivered in his grip as it struck flesh and smashed through the man's collarbone and stuck there.
He urged his mount ahead with another shouted vocalization. The horse charged ahead and the soldier was dragged along, in shock and unable to resist. Kismet kept his hold on the hilt of the kukri, twisting it until the blade slipped free and the wounded man fell away.
Behind him, the commandos hastened to close ranks and get back on their skis. It was time, Kismet decided, to lure the hunters away from his friends. The trail ahead was marked by the very obvious passage of the sleigh—deep parallel lines cut by the steel rails and enormous craters stomped by the massive hooves of the draft horses. Kismet sheathed the knife and urged the horse forward, all too aware that his back was now a target.
He followed the path of the sleigh for several hundred yards, passing the point where he had separated from Irene and her father. He stayed on that course a while longer, occasionally looking back to check on the pursuit and was dismayed to see that more troops had arrived to supplement the ranks of the fallen.
Riding full out across the flats, the horse was superior in speed to the skiers. Kismet held back however, at all times keeping himself in view of the German troopers. He didn't want them splitting up to follow the sleigh; beyond that, he wasn't really sure what he hoped to accomplish.
The treetops alongside him exploded in a spray of noise and ice. The skiers were shooting after him in a wasteful and futile attempt to slow him down. Because they were in a flat snowfield, the soldiers could not advance and fire at the same time, giving him a chance to widen the gap if he successfully dodged their fusillade. Kismet urged the horse forward, angling right and ducking behind a snowdrift that was twice as high as the horse's head.
The grade of the terrain abruptly began to fall away beneath him. The snow was much softer and deeper here, slowing the draft horse, bogging it down as each step sunk knee-deep. The landscape ahead was clear—a sloping plain with only a few treetops barely visible. The Germans would have the advantage here. They would be able to utilize the slope for locomotion while focusing their attention and their weapons on him. The distant treetops would be his only cover. With renewed urgency, he began coaxing speed from the horse.
At a point midway down the hill, he risked a rearward glance. The commandos were rounding the corner, poling and stepping vigorously to close the gap. Though unable to get a head count, Kismet had the sickening feeling that at least a few of the elite soldiers had veered off in pursuit of Irene and Peter Kerns. The narrow cross-country skis buoyed the commandos atop the powder, and in a matter of moments, his lead was erased. Three of their number blazed a trail down the hillside, compressing the grainy snow deep beneath the curved tips. The tracks they left behind provided an effortless path for their comrades to utilize.
The trees Kismet sought for cover remained frustratingly distant. Only the tops were visible, as if the entire system of trunks and branches had been buried beneath deep snow. The slope remained consistent though and Kismet was plagued by the vague notion that he was failing to see something obvious.
In one heart-stopping instant Kismet saw that the hillside ended at a plunging embankment—the edge of a deep ravine—where the draft horse abruptly halted. As it planted its forelegs, hooves biting into the snow for stopping traction, it also lowered its tremendous head, removing the only obstacle between Kismet and the ravine. He shot forward, hitting the slope six feet ahead in the snow.
As he tumbled toward the edge he frantically plunged his hands into the deep powder, searching for some way to arrest his fall. The snow compressed into a tentative barrier, but his momentum caused his lower body to whip around, his legs sticking out into empty space. He could feel the snow beneath him crumbling and compacting as his weight settled. He drove his hands deeper, desperate to find something solid, aware with each heartbeat that he was slipping away toward the ravine.
A cloud of white sprayed into his face as the leading soldier realized too late that he was racing to his doom. A hasty attempt to turn parallel to the edge threw up a dusting of powder, but failed to stop the skier's doomed plunge. He shot past Kismet, screaming as his skis lost contact. The man made a last-ditch attempt to assume the position for a Nordic ski jump, but his skis and his body were turned irrecoverably sideways. His curses were cut off as he crashed into a web of tree branches.
Kismet was only peripherally aware of the commando's demise. His own situation was growing more precarious by the moment as the snow-bank against his belly eroded. A second wave of snow splashed over him as another skier plowed to a stop right above him. Kismet raised his head enough to clearly see the soldier slowly working his way back up the slope.
As he stepped sideways away from the edge of danger, the commando flashed broad grin of triumph, directed solely at his dangling prey. Kismet saw the taunting smile and grimaced in return as he slipped another inch. With casual slowness, the soldier unlimbered his rifle and flipped off the safety, preparing to blow Kismet into oblivion.
Sacrificing his failing grasp on safety, Kismet drove forward, making a mad grab for his foe. He immediately began to slide into the ravine but before gravity could fully claim him, his right hand found the tip of the man's ski. His fin
gers wrapped around the carbon fiber, clutching it tightly as he started to fall. Unprepared for the desperate move, the soldier fell back as his leg was yanked from beneath him. The rifle fell from his grip as he began sliding toward the precipice.
Kismet gripped the ski with both hands but was still descending into the ravine as his weight drew the soldier toward him. He stuck his feet out, trying to brace them against the sheer cliff but his boot soles slipped ineffectively on the ice, making it appear as though he was running in place on the vertical wall. An instant later, his downward journey halted and he slammed against the ice encrusted sheer face.
Shaking off the daze of the impact, he looked up and saw a foot, bound to the ski, protruding over the edge above him. Without hesitating, he began pulling himself up. His muscles screamed with the exertion but the adrenaline in his bloodstream provided a surge of nearly superhuman strength. He seized hold of the soldier's ankle and hauled himself above the level of the precipice.
The commando had stabbed one of his poles deep into the snow and was holding on for dear life; it was the only thing preventing him from being pulled over the edge. But when he saw Kismet attempting to climb up his leg to safety, he released one hand and fumbled for his weapon.
Kismet saw the black barrel swing his way and instinctively ducked. On an impulse, he grasped the ski and twisted savagely. Bones and tendons snapped apart and the soldier screamed, forgetting about everything except the pain his foe was inflicting.
The move bought Kismet the time he needed. Grabbing first the soldier's trouser leg, then his belt, he heaved himself onto the slope, away from the deadly drop-off. The German commando faced him, seething with primal rage, but before he could give voice to his wrath, Kismet's right fist battered him senseless.
Escape from the edge of death fueled the fire of Kismet's will to survive. He plucked the fallen soldier's weapon from the snow and ripped the sling free of the man's shoulder. He knew how to operate the weapon, even realized in a distant corner of his mind that it was cocked and ready to fire. He rolled away from the unconscious German and without even picking a target, sprayed the hillside with a storm of lead.
The snow blossomed red as the commandos fell, wounded and dead, in the sweeping volley. Kismet immediately released the trigger, conscientious of the need to conserve ammunition, and scanned the slope for signs of enemies still standing.
His grim satisfaction turned to horror as the crimson-splotched hillside was rent by a jagged, horizontal shadow. The entire snowfield and the hard ice beneath, loosened by the impact of bullets and the percussive explosions of gunfire, split apart. The lower portion fell lazily away in massive chunks, which in turn dislodged everything below.
In the space of a heartbeat, the hillside above him became a tremendous wave of rolling snow, an avalanche that would sweep away everything in its path, including Nick Kismet.
TEN
As she had done every few seconds since he'd left, Irene glanced over her shoulder to see if Kismet had caught up. Once again, there was no sign of him.
Deprived of half its impetus, the sleigh made slow progress across the flats and tended to veer off course in the direction of the remaining draft horse. She had to keep a constant rein on the animal to correct this leaning. Not long after Kismet's departure, the trail took them into a gently sloping pass, following the course of what was likely a snowed-in ravine. The rising walls of snow on either side offered cover from any pursuing forces, and the distinctive pattern left by the snow-cats pointed the way off the mountain.
Peter Kerns crawled over the back of the bench seat and sat beside his daughter. "A brave man," he commented wistfully. "He reminds me of myself."
Irene raised an eyebrow. "Is that supposed to mean something?"
Kerns laughed. "Well, look where it got me; always in trouble and on the run. You should find someone with a little more stability in his life."
Although she had already decided not to have this conversation with her father, she couldn't hold back her riposte. "Someone more pedestrian, maybe? How about a lawyer?"
He shrugged.
She shook her head disparagingly and corrected the horse's path again. She was too confused by her feelings to even attempt to argue them with her father. Her intended but unspoken declaration of uncertain emotion now haunted her with its potential for insincerity. Her thoughts were punctuated by a burst of noise through the trees; the staccato beat of automatic weapons in the distance. The sound hit her like a physical blow. The shots were surely aimed at Kismet.
A wave of nausea clenched her gut, then rose into her throat; a sour mixture of concern, guilt and certainty that he was dead. With a shudder, she fought back the premonition and regained her composure, but there was no stopping the tears.
A fatherly response moved Kerns to place a consoling hand upon his daughter's neck. A second volley of gunfire echoed across the mountainside, shorter bursts at sporadic intervals. "You see?" Kerns whispered. "They haven't got him yet. He'll get away. The horse is faster."
She nodded, blinking at the tears and wiping their trails with the back of one hand. She was distracted momentarily by a sudden cloud of snow that arose for no apparent reason alongside the path of the sleigh. An instant later, another short burst of machine gun discharge split the air, but this time closer. Much closer.
In disbelief, both Irene and her father turned their heads to look. Four shapes, nearly indistinguishable because of their white camouflage clothing, were speeding along their trail, fifty yards back but rapidly closing. Irene swung her attention to the horse and began shaking the reins and shouting for it to move faster. Another burst from the lead soldier's weapon kicked up an eruption of snow to their right.
"Here!" She thrust the reins into her father's hands. His jaw dropped in incomprehension, but his fists tightened on the leather straps. Irene rolled over the back of the seat and stayed low on the floor of the sleigh.
"Be careful, Irina!" Kerns shouted, knowing it was fruitless to ask what she was up to. He was correct in this assumption; Irene herself had no idea what to do next. She glanced around for inspiration, trying to imagine what Kismet would do.
The floor of the sleigh was littered with the broken remains of a pair of skis left behind from the earlier invasion by one of the daring troopers. She gathered the fragments into her arms and hurled them off the back of the sleigh. The lightweight pieces of carbon fiber didn't seem like much, but to a speeding skier any obstacle might prove hazardous, and a sudden turn to avoid such a hurdle might likewise cause a crash. Soon other pieces of detritus were scattered out behind them. Irene even sacrificed a few of their warm blankets.
The jetsam worked exactly as she had planned. The leading soldier was forced to slow and carve a wide turn around the wreckage. A piece of ski pole, all but buried in the snow, caught the left ski of the rearmost trooper, stopping it dead. The soldier flew headlong and went cartwheeling down the slope, his gear flying in every direction.
"One down," Irene muttered under her breath, unable to suppress a self-satisfied grin. The remaining skiers picked their way carefully through the debris field, impeded but only briefly. The delaying tactic had earned Kerns and Irene a few precious seconds of lead time, but in her heart, she knew more desperate measures would be necessary to guarantee their escape.
"Irina!" Kerns shouted. "Listen!"
Climbing into the front seat, she cocked her head to the side. "What?"
"It's stopped. The shooting. A moment ago, there was a long burst. I heard faint screams and a strange noise, almost like distant thunder. Whatever has happened, I fear the worst for our friend."
Irene bit her lip. Somehow, the immediacy of their plight insulated her from a physical reaction to her emotions. She dissociated from her feelings, put them in a distant corner of her mind, and focused on their flight from the commandos. If and when they reached safety, there would be time to grieve.
The pursuing soldiers had retreated to mere specks in the dista
nce. They did not attempt to fire their weapons, yet it was clear that they were once more on the move and gaining ground.
For several long minutes the sleigh held its lead, winding through a needle's eye pass and onto a shallow grade, which cut across the face of a mountain. Kerns had coaxed the horse up to a trot, but controlling the sleigh still proved difficult. It kept veering to the right, toward the edge of the trail and a precipice overlooking a sheer drop. He had to focus all his attention on steering it. Irene, on the other hand, continued to monitor the progress of the pursuit. The three remaining soldiers had lost their advantage temporarily, unable to close the gap because of the shallow gradient. There was no sign whatsoever of the fourth, fallen skier. If he had regained his equipment and joined the chase, he was too far behind to be of consequence.
"Irina!" Kerns' voice was filled with trepidation. Irene had witnessed her father's flight from the Soviet secret police, his captivity to Grimes, and other terrifying events, but had never heard the tone of desperation that now trembled in his words. "Look ahead."
As she turned her gaze forward, she felt the sting of her father's infectious dread. At first, all she saw was the radical increase of the slope. The angle of descent changed from a mere ten percent to nearly forty-five degrees. It continued like this for only a few hundred yards however. After that, it appeared to end altogether.
"A switchback," she gasped.
Kerns nodded. "We'll never make it. We can't slow down. We have to jump."
"No." She didn't have to look back to verify her next statement. "They'll have us for sure if we do."
"We're dead if we don't."
"There's another way." Tearing her eyes away from their doomed course, she began looking for the miracle that would save them. To her surprise, she found it. "Nick had the right idea!"