The bone road, p.26
The Bone Road, page 26
At least that reduced their chances of going up in flames. With David conscious and able to move, albeit gingerly, Simo helped him from the smoky cockpit. Simo groaned as his stitches split from the effort of supporting his friend. Blood began to seep through his jacket. Ignoring the pain, he kept on going until they’d put some distance between them and the downed helicopter. They collapsed on the snow, panting with the effort.
David wiped a hand across the open cut on his brow and then tried raising his head. He winced, clutching his neck.
‘Don’t move,’ said Simo, checking him over. ‘It’s probably whiplash. For future reference, you need to work on your landings.’
David gestured to the stricken helicopter. Black smoke clung in the air around it, mingling with the fog and falling snow. ‘Locker behind the seats. There’s a first aid kit. Should be some Vicodin in there.’
Simo nodded and began to get up. He felt like an old man creaking slowly up from his armchair. And then it crossed his mind that if the day continued like this, he almost certainly wouldn’t ever get to sit in that armchair.
‘And my rifle and backpack,’ added David.
Simo returned a few minutes later with the items. David swallowed the pills and Simo handed him the hunting rifle, which sported white camouflage like the rest of David’s kit. David went to take the weapon by the stock but dropped it with a cry of pain. Simo studied his friend – the crash-landing had left him in worse shape than he’d initially assumed. David was in no condition for a mission like this. Far from being Heather and Marina’s best hope, the two of them were a couple of broken men. But they were the only hope.
To make matters worse, if that was still possible, the cut on David’s brow had swollen, pushing down on the eyelid, severely compromising his vision. Unfortunately, Simo knew that it was the eye he sighted his rifle through. Hardly auspicious. ‘If we find you a vantage-point where we can dig you in, can you still cover me?’
David grunted. ‘Sure. Never felt better,’ he said, adding with a shrug, ‘So long as I don’t have to move.’
What a shitshow. There was nothing more to add, so Simo turned his attention to the tree-less landscape. ‘If they didn’t hear us come down, then they’ll see the smoke from the wreckage. Either way, we’re sitting ducks here – let’s get going.’
They stumbled through the drifting snow, hearing voices in every snap of the wind, seeing shadows in the whorl of flakes. Simo supported David, who groaned with every step and leaned heavily on his friend. Suddenly, through the snow, the giant Olympic rings rose into view, looming over the shell of the abandoned cable car station. The two men dropped to the ground. David pulled a pair of binoculars from his backpack and hesitated, before passing them to Simo.
‘Probably best if you look,’ he said, his other hand going to his tender and now completely swollen eyelid.
Simo pointed them at the cable car station less than a hundred metres away. It was a high, bluff building, braced against the vicissitudes of mountain weather, the neglected exterior flayed by the winds. There was a line of broken windows about halfway up the building, but no signs of activity that would indicate Drakulić’s presence. So where was he? Drakulić was well resourced, but as far as Simo knew he didn’t have access to a helicopter. Which meant he would be driving here with Heather and Marina. Simo turned the binoculars to point back down the mountain to a road – a track, really – that only a properly equipped vehicle could hope to traverse. The road terminated a couple of hundred metres from the station, meaning the final approach had to be navigated on foot. The roofline of a solitary car poked up. Judging by the thin layer of snow that coated it, the car hadn’t been there for long. Simo briefly adjusted his position to focus the binoculars on the rest of the vehicle. There was no one inside, unless they were crouched down beneath window level.
‘Drakulić?’ said David.
‘Possibly. But if I were him, I’d send an advance party, wouldn’t you?’
David nodded, forgetting for a moment about his neck. He let out a wince of pain.
‘If you were a sniper covering the approach, where would you position yourself?’ Simo asked.
‘Any-fucking-where I like,’ said David, gesturing to Simo to hand him the binoculars. He swept them across the snowy vastness. ‘It’s wide open. A killing ground.’ He stopped. ‘Hello.’
‘What is it?’
‘He’s in the cable car station.’ David indicated the line of windows Simo had already checked. Even with two fully functioning eyes, he had missed the man’s presence.
‘Didn’t fancy waiting in a freezing hole in the ground, I guess,’ he said, with a degree of sympathy.
A further sweep revealed no one else in the immediate vicinity, unless they were well dug-in, of course. The consequence of which was the first positive thing that had happened since they’d survived the crash-landing. ‘Drakulić’s not here yet,’ said Simo. They’d beaten him to the rendezvous; the only benefit, as far as he could tell, of taking that damn helicopter. Now they had a chance to prepare.
A glint of light flashed from the sniper’s position at the cable car window. ‘Scope reflection,’ said David, dismissively. ‘Amateur.’
Despite David’s opinion of the man’s skills, Simo knew that the sniper’s presence meant that Drakulić was planning to finish things here. As soon as Simo gave him the name of the assassin, that would be the signal to kill everyone, either with a long shot or, knowing the man, something much more close-up and personal.
‘Change of plan,’ said Simo. ‘How’s that Vicodin working for you?’ David gave a non-committal mutter and Simo went on. ‘I need you to take care of our friend in the cable car station.’
The task required crossing the snowy plateau and getting into position without the sniper noticing the advancing figure. A difficult enough proposition for a soldier at the top of his game, let alone one in David’s condition.
David raised his binoculars again. ‘There’s a building to the side of the station. Some kind of storage shed, I guess. If I can get to it, I’ll have an angle on him and some cover of my own. Assuming he doesn’t have a friend.’ He passed the binoculars back to Simo, took a couple of short-range walkie-talkies from the backpack and handed Simo one of them. Then he slipped on the backpack, shouldered his rifle and turned to Simo. ‘Don’t do anything brave.’
‘Goes against my nature.’ Simo clapped a hand to his friend’s back. ‘See you later.’
‘Count on it. You owe me a new helicopter – and I plan to collect.’
With that, he began to make his way up the mountainside and in a few strides his camouflaged figure had vanished into the snow. Despite David’s bravado, Simo knew it may very well be the last sight he ever had of his friend.
An uneasy stillness hung over the mountain, nothing but the falling snow and the faint sound of the wind in the empty cable car building, wheezing through the broken windows. The sky was fully light now, increasing the visibility. Simo trained the binoculars down towards the single track that twisted up towards Bjelašnica. It was empty, no sign of an approaching car. Drakulić had said dawn. He glanced at his watch. It was after six, so where the hell was he? Something wasn’t right.
27
The falling snow caught in the rosy dawn light, turning pink like cherry blossom. As pretty as it was, Heather felt only dread for the arrival of the new day. The track was hard to see from the back of the car, and it appeared as if Drakulić in the driver’s seat was having just as much difficulty making out the treacherous route. He wasn’t helped by the fact that the road wound up and up in a series of ever-tightening hairpin bends. Although the car was hot, the pudgy guard next to her was alert, wincing at every unplanned motion of the car.
Out of nowhere a rabbit bounded across the track, and at the appearance of an obstacle the nervous guard cried out. Instinctively, Drakulić braked. There was a rattle as one of the snow-chains came loose from its tyre, like a spooked horse throwing a shoe. They lost grip and slewed across the road. As the car skidded, the guard was thrown against Heather and she noted that he wasn’t wearing a seatbelt. Drakulić corrected the skid and brought them to a stop, turning around to issue a snarling rebuke. Heather saw that his face was coated with sweat – the strain of the drive was taking its toll. They abandoned the broken chain and set off again, only for the track to vanish in the latest snow flurry. Drakulić drove blindly, peering into the blankness, the wipers flailing uselessly, until suddenly the way ahead appeared again. On the right-hand side was a rock wall covered with snow, and on the other a steep slope where tall strands of spiked mountain grass still poked through the layers of powder like spiny fingers. The slope was a sheer drop, and in the poor visibility Drakulić crawled forward, mindful that one misjudged corner would likely be fatal. Heather realised there was a chance they might not even make the intended rendezvous. Not because she might escape, but because they’d all die here on this god-forsaken road.
Drakulić fell silent with concentration as he positioned the car for another sharp turn. After the bend the road straightened and Drakulić accelerated. Beside Heather, she saw the guard open-mouthed with nervous anticipation, warily scanning the road for another obstacle. Neither man was paying her any attention.
Heather studied the speedometer. Fifteen miles an hour. Sixteen. Eighteen. Twenty. Twenty-two.
As the needle hit twenty-five, she leant forward through the gap between the seats and lunged for the steering wheel. She missed. Jolted into action, the guard tried frantically to yank her back, pulling at her hair, her waist. Drakulić was yelling at him in Serbian, presumably to deal with her. Fumbling for his gun, the guard couldn’t shoot her without risking hitting Drakulić too. She elbowed him hard in the crotch and he doubled up.
She reached forward again and wrenched on the handbrake. As she planned, instead of slowing the car, it locked the back wheels and sent them into a skid. At once, the car started to turn away from the rock wall and veer towards the snow bank on the other side. But as they collided with the bank, it gave way.
Too late Heather saw that it hid a drop. At first the car slid down the steep slope, but the angle was too acute and it quickly flipped over, bouncing and crashing, careering down and down. Drakulić smashed against Heather and then was thrown against the roof, cracking his head against it. The guard screamed and then was silent. Everything was moving too fast. Heather was briefly aware of snow and rocks rearing up through the broken windshield as they tumbled end over end. She screamed with pain as her shoulder and broken collarbone were hammered again and again, and then with a boom and heavy jolt, they came to a stop.
The car was on its crumpled roof, Heather wedged tightly against it, the pressure on her fractured collarbone almost unbearable. Blood pounded in her head. The guard was no longer in the car. She recalled his scream, but nothing else. In the tumbling chaos it seemed he had been flung out through the windshield.
Drakulić lay sprawled beside her, a gash seeping on his forehead, his leg twisted at an odd angle. She couldn’t tell if the crash had killed him, but if it hadn’t there was one way to put an end to this now. She reached for his gun. As she did, Drakulić’s eyes flicked opened. He stared at her, confused and unfocused. Then he saw her hand down at his hip, poised over his holster. He swiped it away and then made another swipe for her.
Heather leapt back. Thoughts of turning his gun on him gone, she groped for the door, slicing her hand open on a jagged piece of the chassis. Adrenaline stifled the pain. The door was wedged shut with snow and she’d have to force it. Gritting her teeth, she heaved against the frame with her damaged shoulder. She daren’t look round, but behind her she could sense Drakulić stirring like some ancient monster awakened from its slumber. With a final desperate push, the door sprang open, her momentum carrying her tumbling out into the snow. She lay there, face-to-face with the pudgy guard. Scrabbling away from him on her knees, she saw with relief that he wasn’t moving, and his body looked crooked and wrong. She was almost certain he was dead. But Drakulić was very much alive. He slithered out of the car behind her.
She pulled herself to her feet, looking around frantically to get her bearings. Her only hope was to follow the vehicle tracks. They would lead her to Simo – she must get to him first. It was a race. And one that she had to win.
Heather heard the crack of a gunshot, the sound reverberating around the mountains. Drakulić knelt on the snow, pistol extended in his hand. Still shaky from the aftermath of the crash, his aim was wild. Heather couldn’t help but recall that it had only been an hour since the last time she’d made a break for it, and then he had swiftly chased her down. But the car crash had levelled the competition – now they were both injured. She began to scramble up the slope to where they had first veered off the road. She must reach the track.
The gun went off again. She ignored it and continued her climb, scrabbling for handholds among the rocks and snow. Drakulić stopped firing. Heather presumed that he was saving his bullets for when he was closer with a better chance of hitting his target. She risked a glance over her shoulder. Years of competitive cycling ensured that she could judge distances with the accuracy of a laser. He was three hundred metres behind her. She must not let him close that gap. Was he limping? God, she hoped so.
The snow had drifted unevenly on the slope, leaving some of it patched and thin, exposing bare rocks, while other sections were thick and padded with heavy snow. Every time she landed in deep snow, it slowed her to a crawl. The mountains glowed with a weird backlight, casting the world with the unearthly light of a dream. The cold and pain reminded her that it was anything but. She took another step and, with a yell, sank up to her waist, caught as if in quicksand. Easy pickings for Drakulić if she couldn’t get out quickly. A glance back confirmed that he’d made up ground; now the gap was two hundred metres. Frantically she tried to claw her way out, but she could only use one arm; her broken collarbone meant her right side was useless. She hoisted one leg free, used it to lever herself out. A hundred metres. She started to scramble again. The boulders and rocks made it hard to find a route through the snow, hidden obstacles under the layers of powder lying in wait to trip her up, but Drakulić was struggling too, stumbling and falling. As she watched, he too fell into a drift.
Heather noticed a dark shape ahead of her in the snow. As she drew closer, she saw that it was Marina’s body. The car boot must have burst open during the descent, throwing her out and now she lay half buried on the cold mountainside. Heather glanced back to Drakulić, still caught in the drift, digging furiously. That gave her just enough time to pause and whisper a hurried goodbye, before setting off again. Her legs were cold and stiff, and starting with a cruel uphill was not ideal, but at least when they’d hurt her yesterday they’d left her legs alone. The only sore spots were on her ankles where the bonds had rubbed them raw, but they were superficial wounds, the sort that Heather was accomplished at ignoring.
She reached the edge of the road where the car had come off and hoisted herself back up onto the level. With the ground flatter and more predictable, compacted in places by the passing of the earlier vehicle, she was able to break into a run. But how fast? That was the difficult part. She was in a running race, but with no idea how long there was to go to the finish line she couldn’t judge what kind of pace to set. Too slow would risk being caught by Drakulić; too fast risked exhausting herself if it turned out she was in an endurance race. Without knowing which race she was running, she decided her tactic would be to watch her opponent, respond to him, fending off every attack and ensuring she kept up a pace that maintained the distance between them. If he caught her, then she was dead. Of that she was certain. Whatever his earlier plan had been – to pretend to hand her over to Simo before killing them both, most likely – her escape had changed everything. Now he just wanted to kill her. As if to underline her point, another gunshot rang out. It impacted off to her right, spitting up rock and scree, the shot wide, but not as wide as his earlier attempts. Drakulić had reached the path.
What Drakulić didn’t know was that she had stamina. Once upon a time, Olympic fucking stamina. She might be broken and bruised but she was in the goddamn lead, and when Heather Bishop had the lead, she defended it. It was up to Drakulić to attack, and she would respond. This was a game of tactics; she would race with her head. While adrenaline and fear were telling her to hurry, to get away from Drakulić, a dark and malevolent presence behind her, it took all her willpower to disobey every instinct and to pace herself.
She heard him shouting but she did not turn around. Just keep running. He was yelling at her to stop, in Serbian and then in English. But she would not stop; she would never stop. Not till the finish line. The adrenaline masked the pain. And the pain had a rightness to it now. She was supposed to hurt. She’d raced with a broken collarbone before. Crashed on Alpe d’Huez and broken it, then climbed on a fresh bike and finished the stage only ninety seconds down. That’s what separated long-distance riders from other athletes: we can endure it all, thought Heather. Drakulić was still shouting and Heather smiled grimly. He was wasting breath. He seemed to realise it and stopped, saving his energy for the race. The mountain was silent except for the steady huff of her breathing, the thud-thud of her trainers on the compacted snow. She was grateful that she was wearing comfortable shoes and decent leggings. She hadn’t packed much else for cycling with Ryan. Her T-shirt and fleece were a bit thin, but the sheer exertion was warming her. Her left eye was cut and swollen and watering badly, and as she ran Heather noticed that her balance was off; she stumbled more than usual. Her shoulder was throwing her. It ought to be in a sling, but she needed the right rhythm and weight to run. She had to be careful of her footing. Her ear was trickling blood again and the bitter cold made it very uncomfortable – a sharp pain that pierced through the endorphins. She glanced back. Drakulić ran steadily behind her, about a hundred metres between them. He wasn’t trying to close the gap, but neither was he giving up. He might have been hurt in the crash, but even with a slight limp he was otherwise in good shape. And motivated. If he didn’t catch her, he risked losing everything. Those opponents, Heather knew, the ones with everything at stake, were the most dangerous.
