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

“Caroline. Are you alright?”

“Get over here!”

“What’s happening?”

“I’m pinned down! Getting fired upon from someone on the high ground!”

King was already on the snowmobile. “Where are they firing from?”

“The high ground!”

“I know that! As you look at the clearing, where are the shots coming from?”

“The first hillock, the more easterly one…”

“Caroline?” All that King could hear was the dial tone. “Caroline!”

The snowmobile started on the press of the button and King thumbed the throttle to full revs and turned sharply to the right. The machine skidded round, the track throwing up snow and ice fifty-feet into the air. He aimed for the edge of the cliff, directly in line with the tracks he had made on the way up. As he was ten-feet short of the edge, he halved the revs and held on for all he was worth. The snowmobile shot out ten-feet from the edge, an ominous engine whine as the tracks lost contact with the snow, followed by silence as he plummeted fifty-feet before hitting the seventy-degree slope. The two front skids caught, and the tracks tore at the snow as it gained traction and powered down the precipice. The slope levelled out and the machine was travelling at close to ninety-miles-per-hour when King slowed and turned for the second rendezvous point.

50

Rashid had ended the call with King and pushed himself out of his hide, dragging the rucksack behind him. He put the pack back on, reamed the tags tightly. He had a feeling he was going to have to move quickly. Better if he spent a few seconds getting sorted than regret it later. He kept the rifle in his hands and started to make his way down the steep and unforgiving slope towards the lone figure on the plateau.

The figure looked his way, then started to run. Rashid increased his pace, sliding and leaping until the slope levelled out and he was on the same terrain. He was sure now, positive that the figure was a woman. The movements, the slight curve of the hips under the bulky snowsuit. He chanced it, called out, “Stop running, madam! I am with the British Government, you’re contact!” he shouted. “I’m here to help!”

The figure hesitated momentarily, then continued towards the trees.

“You have something for me. The defection is going ahead, but I’ve had to stand in. your initial contact was killed!”

The figure stopped. Turned around. Rashid could see her face. Vulnerable, scared.

Rashid added, “Look, I have a gun, I would have used it if I wanted to harm you.” Snow and ice showered them, the burst of automatic gunfire tearing up the snow between them. Rashid watched as the bullets tracked towards the woman. He shouted, “Move!”

Natalia watched the bullets smash through the crust of ice and she darted to her right, towards the treeline. Rashid followed, the gunfire stopping while the gunman changed magazines. He caught up with her, gripped her by the shoulder and guided her to his left. “This way!” he shouted, the gunfire opening-up again. The gunman had his eye in now, the bullets tracking closer to their feet. Rashid stopped dead, pulled her backwards and the bullets tracked onwards, paused, then came back. This time they were wide of them and he pushed Natalia onwards towards the treeline.

He risked a glance as they reached the trees. He could see the muzzle flashes high and right of their position. He pushed Natalia into the trees and threw himself onto his stomach.

“Get behind a tree!” he shouted. He ignored her, keeping his eyes on the ridge. She had been told what to do and he wasn’t going to babysit her.

He shuffled over to a tree and used the trunk as cover while he tore off his pack and shouldered the old hunting rifle. He got his right eye to the scope and worked his way to the last position he had seen the flashes. The light was dim, but the scope coped well. He could see the gunman moving on his stomach towards a set of trees. Rashid kept the rifle steady but took his eye away and glanced to his right. He was midway between two sticks poking out of the snow. He tracked across the plateau, counting the sticks on a line with the far slope. He had placed them at twenty-metre intervals. The sticks marked a line some three-hundred metres to the line of trees at the top of the slope. He counted down three sticks until he found the man in his sights. He was still working his way steadily towards the trees. The cluster would give the man a perfect aimpoint and a good amount of cover. Rashid checked the markers again and his calculations put the man at exactly two-hundred and forty-metres. He thought back to King’s reckoning that a bread and butter hunting rifle in these extremes being zeroed for one-fifty metres. Two hundred tops. He put the crosshairs dead centre to the man’s forehead, then eased the rifle up so that the crosshairs sat a full two-inches above the man’s forehead. He kept it there, tracked with the man until he rested still for a moment. The man was looking at a stick in front of him. The bark had been peeled away in several places and resembled an old-fashioned barber’s pole. He craned his neck, saw another one twenty-metres further forward. Rashid saw the man’s realisation as he squeezed the trigger.

Contrary to widely held belief - and impossible at this close range - you rarely saw the pink mist. The recoil of the powerful round and resetting of the weapon’s aim meant that it was the sniper’s companion – the spotter – who usually saw that. When Rashid got the sights back on target for a second shot, he saw that his first had been enough. The man was slumped