The Alex King Series, A BATEMAN [good books for high schoolers .TXT] 📗

ricochet. King worked the bolt and applied the safety. He shouldered the weapon by its strap and looked at the base of the tree. He could imagine Fitzpatrick crouching behind, taking cover from the gunfire. Or perhaps he was done. Perhaps he was sitting down and resting. His back against the tree. King thought about the body in the medical centre. The wolves had taken one hand, but what about the other? That had been bloodied and frost-bitten. Two of the nails had broken away. King studied the ground at the base of the tree. He dug at the ice with the toe of his boot. There were two different textures, a split in layers. He bent down and dug his gloved fingers into the snow. He straightened up and used the buttstock of the rifle to loosen the ice further. He could see an orange glint in the snow. He reached for it, but a huge chunk of ice was blown out of the ground just inches from his fingertips.

King was already moving. He had taken in the eruption of ice, the noise of the gunshot, still echoing around the clearing. He made it to a nearby tree and was diving behind it for cover, already realising that it was no bigger than himself. A second gunshot hit the tree, but King had already subconsciously worked out the position of the gun before he hit the ground.

Standard hunting rifles used flush-fitting five-round magazines. King had dropped the round at the woman’s feet. He had taken a shot with the rifle to ascertain the distance and approximate calibre of the rifle that had made the bullet strike. Which gave him three bullets. He had six more in the Walther, but the shooter was already too far away. With the extreme cold and thick Arctic clothing to penetrate, King wouldn’t have much faith in the tiny weapon at more than twenty-five metres. And that was best-case scenario.

Another shot rang-out. The tree blocked the round, but it was close. King could feel the bark hit his shoulder. He got the rifle up to his shoulder and eased himself out for a peek. He did not use the sight yet, just needed to see some movement.

There was no movement, but there was smoke. The super-heating of the previously ice-cold barrel and the residue of hot propellant created both steam and smoke. He could feel a gentle breeze on his face, mirrored it in his mind, estimated the amount of dispersal the smoke and steam would make in the air as it left the barrel, and sighted two-metres to his right. He fired a round and was met with the sight of a figure clad in traditional furs jump to his feet and run back into the treeline. Something about the way he moved, the way the rifle dangled on its sling-strap. King worked the bolt. He had best-guessed and he had hit his target. But he knew it would have been a graze, a skim across the shoulder. Enough for the wound to have stung like a hundred bees and shock his attacker. King got to his feet, but he darted to his left before he made his way into the treeline. He needed to space himself, not follow directly. Should the gunman turn, take cover and wait for King, he wasn’t going to have it easy. He’d have to be watching his flank.

King entered the treeline. He moved carefully, slowly. His clothes rustled, and the snow crunched underfoot. But he knew that if he had hit the gunman, then he would have his own problems. He no longer had the advantage. The man would be scared, and he would be in pain. Both these factors would raise his heartbeat, increase his breathing rate. Affect his decision-making.

King took another couple of paces, put a tree between himself and the direction the man had taken. He hesitated when he heard an engine behind him, followed by a rev of power that wound up to a crescendo. He turned and ran back through the trees to the clearing. He hesitated, stopped at the tree and bent down to retrieve the orange capsule.

It had gone.

King scoured the ice, dusting his hand over the surface. In a background of white, he knew he was wasting his time searching further. He could see faint footprints around him. Two dents in the snow where someone had rested on their knees.

He stood up, scanned the area around him, then went to the woman’s body. He could see the flap of her pocket had been opened. He checked, and the Glock pistol was no longer there. He checked the other pockets. Her phone was gone too.

Another engine started, and King raced in the direction of the sound. He could hear the revs gaining, reaching as frantic a crescendo as the other machine. King ran as fast as his clothing and footwear would allow against the terrain. He caught sight of a snowmobile at almost one-thousand metres distant. The figure riding was clad in grey and white. The same person who had been shooting at him. The second snowmobile was following, five-hundred metres behind. And that put it at five-hundred metres from him. King shouldered the rifle and sighted on the figure. He moved the crosshairs ten-feet or so in front of the snowmobile and fired. He worked the bolt and gave the vehicle more of a lead. He estimated it was travelling close to seventy-miles-per-hour. He gave it a full fifteen-feet and fired again. The snowmobile and the rider parted company and the snowmobile slewed and rolled and came crashing to a halt fifty-metres further on. The rider was still sliding and rolling. King aimed at him and fired, but it was miss and the man scurried over to the snowmobile and took cover. King ran back to the clearing. He picked up the loose round he had called the woman’s