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

car hit the barrier, and then a moment of near-silence strangely audible against the hum of the wind, and the final crunching of metal on ice or rock. King could hear Stewart calling for him and responded as best he could, but he did not feel the sound leave his throat. He clawed his way across the ice, the sound of Stewart’s shouts getting louder. He could see the shape of the man in the gloom, the colour of his jacket contrasting the white. He reached him, caught hold of him and together they clung on to await nature’s mercy or wrath.

21

The squall had died. Departing as abruptly as it had arrived. The snowmobile had been hastily, yet thoughtfully parked, wedged up against a substantial tree with the constant dominance of the wind driving the machine in place. Only if the tree had been uprooted would the machine be blown further down the road.

The loose ice had been dispersed, leaving the snow from a fall ten days ago in its place. The sky had cleared somewhat, the sun opaque behind low-lying cloud. But it was as light as it would be today, and the forest had taken on a pristine look. The trees were dark green in colour and cleared of heavy ice and snow, and the snow, three-feet deep above the forest floor, looked as if it had been swept clean. An Arctic fox trotted across the clearing, its ears pricked and searching the forest for food. An eerie calm had descended, noise somehow more perceptible since the storm had swept through and taken all the ice from the trees, detached the weak branches and driven the animals away or to ground.

Fifty-metres from the snowmobile a patch of snow started to move. The fox stopped in its tracks, its ears picking at the sound at first, then its keen eyes homing in on the slightest movement. It dropped low to the ground, its eyes and ears unwavering, its claws sprung out for purchase against the ice. Its back arched, and it looked set to take the twenty-feet or so in just two or three leaps. The crust of ice moved again, and the fox readied itself. A hare, rabbit or even mouse would be a good feed. Prey was not plentiful at this time of year. The snow moved again, and a man’s hand smashed through the ice and snow and the figure got out of the snowhole, dusting his fur jacket and trousers off, a rifle clutched tightly in his left hand.

The fox was nowhere to be seen.

22

The squall blew itself out, dispersing as rapidly as it had arrived. King rolled away from Stewart, brushed the ice crystals from his clothing and got onto his knees. He had some feeling in his hands and fingers, but his cheeks felt like slabs of defrosting steak. He adjusted the hood around him, pulling down on the toggles until he was left looking out of a four-inch hole of fabric.

Stewart rolled onto his back. His limbs were stretched out like he was about to start making a snow-angel. He was breathing rapidly.

“Are you okay down there, old timer?”

“Aye, lad. And I could still out-fight and out-fuck you, so stick the old timer where the sun don’t shine.”

King smiled. He’d missed their banter. He reached down and offered a hand, was genuinely surprised when the tough Scotsman took it and hauled himself to his feet.

“That was interesting,” said King. “I was caught in one when we went out to see where Fitzpatrick had died. Not as violent as that one, mind.”

“We don’t have much time,” said Stewart. “The weather report confirmed there would be leading winds, like pockets of violent storms ahead of the main event. If the main storm hits us, we’re done for.”

“I agree.”

“So, what now?”

“We’re over halfway,” said King. “Mission or not, we have no choice but to press on.” He took his mobile phone out of his pocket and unlocked it, but it showed the charging icon and switched off. “Gone,” he said. “It was fully charged, must be the cold.”

“Tuck it down by your cock.”

King looked bemused, but it was standard practice for cold hands, a phone should be no different. King tucked it down his trousers and the two men shared an awkward silence.

“Well, I’m not using it now,” Stewart quipped.

The sky had brightened, and the sky had cleared. It was as light as King had seen it since he arrived. He walked to the edge of the precipice and peered over the edge. The steel barrier had given way, leaving a Volvo-sized hole in its place.

“I’m surprised that gave out,” King commented.

“Irresistible force.”

“I’ve never known a wind like it.”

“And you spend time down in Cornwall,” Stewart grinned.

“Not anymore.”

“Sold your cottage?”

“No. It was blown up. Long story.”

“Sorry.”

King shrugged. “We have to get moving.”

“We need to scavenge the car,” Stewart said. “Fuel and fabric. In case we need to hunker down and get a fire going.”

“You can have a sing-song around a campfire…” King paused. “I’m going to be in a five-star hotel tonight.”

“I thought I taught you to be thorough?”

“You taught me a lot of things, but we’re wasting time here. That drop is three-hundred feet, and it’s sheer. The exposed rocks are covered in ice, the ice and frozen snow is unclimbable without rope or at the very least, an ice pick.” King looked at his watch, frowned as he looked up in search of the sun. The pale, white-yellow orb was just about visible through the white cloud. As he stared directly at it, it seemed almost moonlike. He lined up the hour hand of his watch on the sun, looked at the minute hand and from there he ascertained north. He turned back