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

seat of his pants, throwing the machine left and right as he dodged or skipped over mounds and obstructions.

As he neared the summit of the hill, he steered hard to the left and traversed the slope. He heard a gunshot over the engine’s wail. And then another. But this time he saw the muzzle flash. Four-hundred metres distant and at this speed he would be upon the sniper within seconds. But he would also become an easier target the closer he got. He throttled back, veered higher up the slope and turned hard left, throwing up a hundred-feet of snow into the trees. He needed the sniper to take another shot. He needed a marker to aim the snowmobile at when he gave it a full throttle charge. And he needed the sniper to be working the bolt action of the rifle, not taking aim.

The shot came soon enough. Louder now, the muzzle flash wider and brighter the closer he became. King could feel the zing of the bullet tearing through the air close to him. He reckoned inches rather than feet. The gunman was a hundred-metres from him now and scrabbling to his feet. A tall, thin figure despite the bulky clothing. He shouldered the rifle, took aim, then fell to the ground, the rifle spinning out of his grip and into the snow. King released the throttle and the tracks stopped altogether, brought the machine to an abrupt halt. The gunshot that had floored the sniper resonated behind King and echoed throughout the clearing. King could see the man reaching for the rifle. He heard another shot, but the bullet struck the snow a foot in front of the sniper. King glanced behind him and saw Caroline heading out of the trees into the clearing aiming the tiny pistol. She had either had the perfect shot, or a lucky break. King suspected the latter because she was still eighty-metres distant and walking steadily towards her target. The man worked the action of the rifle, but the bullet from the Walther had struck the frame and distorted it enough for the bolt to stiffen in the action. He tugged at it, drew it back. King saw the brass cartridge eject and spin through the air. The man struggled to push the bolt forward. Caroline’s next shot kicked up snow an inch from the man’s foot. King pressed on the throttle and the man suddenly had to weigh up what posed the greater threat. Caroline’s shots were getting close to him, but the snowmobile would reach him with a damned-sight more force. He pressed the bolt home, spun around and fired at King. The bullet struck the front of the snowmobile and the steering went to pieces. King was thrown to his right as the snowmobile veered left and rolled down the slope. He was winded, but instinct told him to move. He tried, but his movements were slow and unsteady. He could not get air into his lungs, and his chest felt as if an elephant was standing on it. He rolled, anticipating another shot, but all he heard was a steady volley from the tiny Walther below him. He looked up to see Caroline lying prone in the snow, aiming the pistol with both hands. The man screamed and hobbled backwards. One of the punchy little bullets had struck him in the thigh. He had dropped the rifle and was now scrabbling up the slope. King got to his feet and started to lumber up the slope after him. He tried to run but slipped and fell. He settled on a rapid walk, crouching low and grabbing at the slope in front of him to steady himself.

Caroline got to her feet. She had one round remaining and knew better than to waste it. She had wounded the man, her last shot needed to count. She made better progress than King up the slope. She neared him, but he waved her on.

“Don’t run blindly over the ridge!” he shouted, but it came out as a croak, the air still not finding his lungs quickly enough. “Move left and head him off. He may be waiting…” he saw the rifle on the ground, decided to head for it.

Caroline did as he said, veered to her left, and pumped her legs hard to sprint up the slope. The sound of a snowmobile starting filled the air. She hesitated, decided to head back towards King. The tone of the snowmobile changed as it accelerated hard and became quieter by the second.

“He’s gone,” she said. “I wouldn’t have made it over the ridge.” She reached him and hugged him tightly. “Are you hit?” she asked, pulling away and looking at his torso in concern.

“Winded,” he grimaced. “The handlebars snatched out of my hands. I think his bullet severed the steering rack. That snow is bloody hard…”

She pressed her hand against his ribs and he flinched. “I think you might have cracked a rib,” she said.

“Where’s your snowmobile?” he asked, ignoring her diagnosis.

“He shot out the engine,” she replied.

“Great.” King turned and headed for the upturned snowmobile. “Here, give me a hand.”

Together they rolled the snowmobile back onto its tracks. The skids were locked hard to the left. He pressed a button under the lip of the seat and the seat popped up. There were a few tools and a coil of rope stored in a recess.

“What are you thinking?”

“Well, we’ve got a working engine but no steering and a machine that will steer, but with no engine.” He shrugged. “Where are you parked?”

“At the bottom, towards the end of the clearing. There’s not enough light to see from here.”

King swung his leg over the seat and started the engine. It spluttered for a moment, the oil had drained from the sump and the petrol had drained from the cylinders. He gave it a quick rev and it