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

King stared at him as he took off his right glove and got the Walther into his hand. He cursed loudly; his hand already cold. He got the glove back on and tucked the tiny pistol into a zip pocket on his chest.

“I think a signal fire is the last thing we need…”

Stewart looked towards the sound, already it was louder and had slowed in revs. “Why?”

King thought back to the clearing where Fitzpatrick’s body had been found. He could picture the snowmobile taking off from behind the medical centre – the same tone. “Because I’ve heard that sound before.”

“Big deal! A snowmobile in Lapland!”

“No!” King snapped. “The same tone, the same machine. Older, more emissions, a less efficient exhaust. Like a classic car or motorbike. It’s an old model. Not super-tuned like the ones the police department have… I’ve heard that exact same engine. And the person on it tried to kill me, and certainly killed Doctor Engelmann.”

“You’re certain?”

“Absolutely.”

Stewart struggled with his jacket and got his pistol clear. It was the same model as he had given King, and like King’s, was good for twenty-five to thirty-metres in these temperatures. Maybe less so, given that anyone they would be shooting at would be wearing many layers of clothing. “Let’s not mess about then, son.” He dug his poles in and headed to the left. Easier progress.

King could see his reasoning but questioned him nonetheless. “You’re heading towards the noise?”

“No cover out here and it’s too far to keep on our course. We’ll never make it and will be exposed. They’ll pick us off for sure. Especially as everybody out here has a hunting rifle.”

King felt a surge of adrenalin. He knew what was coming. He’d been there before. He followed his old mentor as the man raced towards the belt of trees that would by now be hiding someone who was hunting them. Like so many times before, the two men launched face on to their enemy. At a time when most people would have run the other way to escape, both men headed for a fight.

25

He had seen the two men on the ice. Sitting ducks. They were over eight-hundred metres from him and he would have to admit that was a sight too far for his .308 rifle with its short varmint barrel. He had the luxury of distance and could spot his misses and adjust his aim accordingly, but this would waste ammunition, and the men would undoubtedly run away and create more distance. He could pursue on the snowmobile, but he didn’t want them dying on the ice. He would have to move the bodies back to the forest to call the wolves in – the animals seldom ventured onto the frozen lake. Too exposed. Besides, he needed to make the bodies look like they had been attacked by wolves. Bullet wounds would be too obvious. No. He needed to ambush them, hold them at gunpoint. Perhaps bludgeon them on the back of their necks. A few knife wounds to the area and the wolves would do the rest once they got the taste of blood on their lips.

He knew where he would do it. The men were heading for the furthest tip of the lake. The forest would provide him with the cover he needed, a place to hide the snowmobile and move closer on foot.

He had started up the machine and moved east. Losing sight of the two men on the ice, he threaded through the trees and finally came to a halt at the bottom of an enormous snowdrift. He cut the engine and listened to the forest for a moment. Utter silence. His machine would have scared off any birds or ground game. There was little left in the way of cover after the violence of the squall. The grouse, or ptarmigan, roosted in the trees and enjoyed the cover of the ice and frozen snow in the pines. They had fled at the first signs of the storm, and this area was devoid of either birdsong or the ruffling of wings and feathers.

The man took the rifle out of the cradle and carried it loosely as he trudged up the face of the snowdrift, which would afford him an uninterrupted view across the lake. From here, he would track them in his scope until they were near. A shot or two at their feet, perhaps even cracking the ice, and they would surrender upon his command.

He edged his way further up the drift, shouldered the rifle and eased himself into position. He checked the scope…

Nothing.

Nobody.

He craned his neck, forgot about the narrow field of view of the scope and shielded his eyes with his gloved hand as he looked out across the vast white plain. Almost at once, he heard a gunshot, felt the spray of ice in his face as the bullet struck the ground two-feet away. He dropped back behind the ridge of the snowdrift and reached for the rifle he had managed to drop as he had thrown himself down. Another gunshot, this time head on, taking the ridge of ice apart. Another, then another. The gunman had his eye-in and was chiselling the ice away. A pop-gun in comparison with his mighty and trusted hunting rifle, but it didn’t matter because he was the one cowering and taking fire. He steeled himself, took a deep breath and came up over the ridge a few feet from where the bullets had struck. He caught a glimpse of blue. The same blue jacket he had aimed at and missed at the gulley where he had previously butchered the English spy. The same man who had put a hole through the bulky shoulder of his reindeer skin coat, skimmed the flesh that had