The bone road, p.27
The Bone Road, page 27
The snow began to fall more heavily, and the light turned a weird unearthly grey. The tracks in front of Heather were soon feathered with a fresh layer of snow. She could see them for now, but she guessed that in an hour or so they would be hidden and if she hadn’t reached Simo by then, she’d be lost out here on the mountainside with no one but Drakulić and his gun.
Another glance back told her that Drakulić was attacking, rushing forward, closing the gap between them. Only eighty metres separated them. Heather surged forward, urging her legs on. There was the crack of the gun again. This time it came too close, dimpling the snow beside her. She began to run in zigzags so that it was harder for him to get a bead on her position, but it also meant it was much harder to sustain the pace. She had to run twice as fast to keep up the space between them. She breathed steadily and deeply, filling her lungs. The cold air burnt her chest as she inhaled it and her legs ached, while each thudding footstep against the iron-hard ground sent shockwaves up and into her collarbone, ripples of furious pain. She must not stop. Must not slow. Come on, legs. She felt a trickle of sweat tickle the length of her spine. She dared to glance back. Drakulić had slowed and the distance opened up again. He wasn’t firing, saving his last bullets until he was certain of a clear shot. She’d seen off the attack. She carried on at the same speed, no longer zig-zagging. It was a good tactic, taught to her by her first ever director sportif – show them when they’re hurting that you’re not. Even if it’s a lie, pretend you’re not suffering. Heather was in agony and the throbbing of her sternum was making her vision play odd tricks – she could see shadows at the edges and her ear jabbed with pain – but she kept up the same pace for another fifteen minutes, purely to torment Drakulić, to show him how strong she was, that she felt nothing. At last, she slowed, but as she looked back in expected triumph, instead she saw to her horror that the gap was only a hundred and fifty metres. That massive effort at great physical cost had barely gained her fifty metres. He probably hadn’t even noticed that she hadn’t slowed, her acceleration had been so small. She cursed herself. She bent down and scooped up a handful of snow, sucking it to keep hydrated. She stuffed a hand in her pocket, glad of the biscuits she’d secreted there yesterday. She’d bought them at the same time as the pregnancy test, along with some sweets and raisins. The last thing she needed was her muscles to go into shock for lack of energy. The dreaded fringale. She’d suffered it in many a race, and while out training when she hadn’t taken on enough calories. Black vision. The shakes. Confusion. She took a bite, then another and felt in her pocket and discovered the raisins. It wasn’t enough, but it would have to do. She saved the sweets for later.
The road was still going up and up, disappearing in stretches of fog and falling snow, the visibility growing worse. As Heather ascended a hairpin bend, she could look down to see Drakulić. Unlike her earlier snatched glances, from here she was able to get a good, long look at him. He was still dressed in his blue jumper and court shoes, his coat discarded, hot from the exertion, but what frightened her was his expression. He exuded primeval anger and he was pushing all that fury into his legs, gun clasped in his fist. He took aim, and a metre away from Heather a rock split, pebbling the snow with shrapnel. She ran faster. As she gained height, spools of fog began to tangle around her body, so that she had to concentrate to see the way, but she felt only relief – Drakulić wouldn’t be able to see her to shoot at.
The road began to dip again, going lower and then sharply lower again. Heather saw trees in the distance – a dark forest of pines, lavishly coated with snow. Somewhere a woodpecker rattled, reminding her that it was still supposed to be spring. This winter was a mirage, a sudden barrage that would bloom and then vanish. Her thoughts were drifting, slow and unclear; like she was reaching for them through water. A sign of exhaustion. The black pinpricks reappeared in her vision. She was at high risk of the fringale. She felt drunk. She was dizzy and her thoughts were becoming thicker and unfocused. There was no way of knowing whether it was exhaustion and the effects of torture and her injuries or, the lingering withdrawal from the drugs. She fumbled in her pocket for one of the sweets. It didn’t help. Her muscles were trembling and her own voice was one of many chattering in her head. She mustn’t lose it. Not now. Keep it together, Heather. You can do it. Some of the voices urged her on, but others hissed their doubts. Then, another voice, sharper than the others, hissing at her that Drakulić was attacking again. Sure enough, he’d picked up the pace. Oh God, she wasn’t sure if she had anything left in her. She hiccupped and vomited the sweet she’d just eaten along with the snow. She couldn’t stop. She wanted to cry, but she forced herself to steady her breathing. The gap between them was narrowing like the disappearing crack in a slamming door.
He must not win the race. She wouldn’t let him get the leader’s yellow jersey. She’d endured so much. It was hers. She had suffered. It wasn’t fair, she complained. Where was the peloton? Why was she alone? Where were all the other riders? Heather looked around for them. There was no one. No team cars. No other riders. Only the snow and fog and the thud-thud of her own feet, the whirr and click of her own bike. She and Drakulić were in a breakaway, way out in front. But it was a bitter, cruel rivalry, a race with only one winner, and they would not work together and help each other. She was alone on this mountain, pursued by a demon rider. No, she whispered to herself, I’m pursued only by a man. All riders are human. All have frailties. If she was suffering, then so was he.
And she could suffer longest.
She must. Only if she reached Simo first would she live. Yes, she was in worse physical condition than Drakulić, but she had more stamina. Remarkable, superhuman stamina. She needed a hill. A steep, horrible hill, the kind that terrified other riders. Drakulić would see it and give in, but not her. Give me a damn hill, and I’ll win.
It was so hard to keep going in a straight line; she knew she was weaving all over the road. She reached into her pocket and pulled out the last of her sweets before it was too late and exhaustion overtook her. Then she scooped up handfuls of snow to suck, but that wouldn’t quench her terrible thirst. The falling snow was slowing and the fog was starting to clear, but the endless flurries had completely covered the route and, for the first time, Heather realised she couldn’t see the vehicle tracks. Without them to guide her, she was blind. She couldn’t stop to find them again. A feeling in her legs. More pain. Its significance lifting her spirits. The ground rose steeply in front of her. A hill. A nasty, steep hill. Two hundred metres to the top. If she could just get there, perhaps she would see the way again.
Sweat stung her eyes, mingling with tears as she pushed with everything she had. The noises coming out of her were animal. The incline was sharp. Nothing that would usually get her, but then again she wouldn’t usually race in this physical condition. She daren’t look back. Daren’t see how close Drakulić was. Just keep going. Fifty metres. She felt a buzzing in her ears. Voices. Tried to block them out. The voices hadn’t been doing her any favours. They’d been nothing but trouble after the accident. All she wanted was silence. For her mind to be her own again. She was all alone on this hill. She was a real long-distance rider. A champion. Drakulić was not. Twenty metres. He’s an ordinary rider. Her legs burned. Fifteen. Ten. Nearly there. Five. You can lose him. Her lungs screamed.
She reached the top and saw, high above her in the distance, beyond the last of the trees, was the wedge-shaped outline of a building, and over it the glittering circles of the Olympic rings. She gave a little cry of desperation. The fringale had caught her. Her eyes were playing tricks, fooling her with an illusion conjured from old desires, summoned from the recesses of her unconscious. And then she remembered: Ryan had wanted to bring her here. He’d wanted to show her the site of the abandoned Winter Olympics and to cycle here together – before the snow had come, before they’d taken him. The fear dissolved and, for the first time, she allowed herself to think of Ryan. Ryan, who she would never get to tell that she was pregnant. Never speak to again. Never hear his laugh again. Even if she won this race and lived, she would never hold him again, or feel the scratch of his stubble against her cheek.
The rings. Aim for the Olympic rings. Don’t stop. Keep going. You can do it. You can fight it.
The voice in her head was Ryan’s. This was a macabre joke, but it might just save her. As long as she could see the gold of the rings, she had something to aim for. The Olympics had been over for her long ago, and yet this race, the one for her life, was going to finish there, after all. The tarnished rings were as broken and forgotten as she, and even through the pain and the uneasy fogginess of her thoughts, Heather sensed that it was fitting. For the first time since she’d climbed into the car beside Drakulić, she knew where it would all end, one way or another.
Go, Heather, go! He’s coming for you.
‘Will you stay with me, Ryan?’ she asked.
Until the end. But you need to go now. He’s coming.
As she started to race again, she reached down and brushed her stomach. The baby inside her was minute, no bigger than a grain of rice, but it was part her and part Ryan. As long as she lived, so did Ryan. She must live. She must. She took a gasping breath and accelerated down the descent, faster and faster. She heard Drakulić’s footsteps padding behind, deadened by the snow.
28
Simo’s walkie-talkie squawked and he told David to go ahead.
‘Am outside the cable car, in position. No sight of the shooter. Over.’
Simo replied. ‘Copy that. Possible he exited the building? Over.’
‘Oh, he’s in there, all right. Just hunkered down.’
This wasn’t good news. If they were going to have any chance of getting through the rest of the day alive, they had to neutralise the threat of the shooter before Drakulić arrived for the exchange.
‘I would go in after him,’ David continued, ‘but, y’know, I’d rather not get shot in the face. Over.’
Simo had an idea. It was a terrible idea, but there didn’t seem to be another option. He keyed the talk button. ‘I think I know how to flush him out. Over.’
‘You’re going to walk straight up to the front door, aren’t you? Over.’
Hearing it spoken aloud made his plan sound even worse. Simo pressed on regardless. ‘He’s expecting to see me here. Drakulić needs me alive; his guy won’t shoot me. Over.’
‘Sure about that?’ asked David doubtfully. ‘These are Drakulić’s men we’re talking about. Fucking morons. He’ll probably shoot you by accident. Great plan. Okay, let’s do it. Over and out.’
Simo surveyed the terrain. His current position, the distance from the cable car and the conditions meant that even if the shooter decided to target Simo, he had little chance of making a kill shot. But as Simo trudged uphill, he reminded himself that every step closer increased his percentages of winding up dead in the snow with a bullet through his chest. The sleet was dimpling the snow, creating puddles of slush. Simo’s foot slid from under him. He managed to stay upright, but in doing so wrenched his back, which was already hurting. The stitches had snagged and the pain was making him woozy. He should have taken one of the Vicodin himself. As he drew closer to the building, he raised his arms, hoping that the shooter recognised him. His Glock semi-automatic was tucked out of sight in a deep pocket of his coat, though if he needed it, by the time he got to it he’d be dead.
Out of the corner of his eye, shielded by the maintenance shed and his winter camouflage, he saw David with his rifle trained on the row of broken windows. David was sighting through his one good eye. Jesus Christ, what a nightmare.
There was a crack and a moment later the snow exploded ten metres in front of Simo. The shooter had fired a warning shot, which had landed far enough away from him that Simo knew it was meant as a message: I see you. Come no further.
But in taking aim, he had exposed himself at the window. There was an answering crack from David’s hunting rifle. Simo didn’t wait to find out if the shot had hit its target. He half-ran, half-limped for cover. As he dashed across the snow, sleet stinging his face, he was aware of several more shots as the two gunmen exchanged fire. There was a loud report from David’s position in the snowfield and then, this time, no return fire from the cable car building. Simo made it to the shed, panting with the effort of the short run. He put his hands on his knees and caught his breath, but as he looked down he saw David lay sprawled in a drift, bleeding from his left side.
He looked up at Simo with a beatific smile. ‘Got the bastard.’
‘Looks like it was mutual.’
David was indignant. ‘I’m still alive.’
Yes, thought Simo, but for how long was another matter. He knelt down beside him. There were medical supplies in the backpack. Without hurting his friend by moving him, he unzipped the pack and tentatively removed them. But bandages wouldn’t be enough. Simo had to get him off this mountain, and soon, or he’d die from blood loss, shock, exposure or a combination of all three. He patched him up as best he could with the limited supplies, propped him in the lee of the shed and walked to the end of the building.
The Americans had a term for missions like this, where everything that could go wrong, does go wrong. Clusterfuck.
Where the hell was Drakulić? There was a new urgency to resolving this damn business. The sooner they got the exchange over with, the sooner they could all get off this damn mountain. Simo raised his binoculars and turned them to scan the track leading up to the mountaintop. The sleet had subsided, and thin sunshine was attempting to make its way through a break in the clouds. There was still no sign of a car and he was about to lower the binoculars when on the path below, at the limit of the scope, he spotted a small figure, running. Just behind came another, moving faster and gaining on the first. And as it did, catching in the sunlight Simo saw a metal glint of what he had no doubt was a gun. He didn’t have to wait for them to come closer in order to identify the figures. He knew in his bones.
‘It’s Drakulić,’ he said. ‘And Heather Bishop.’ There was no sign of Marina Tomić. Even without confirmation, he understood what that signified. But Heather was alive and she needed his help. However, that would mean leaving behind his mortally injured friend.
David seemed to sense his dilemma. ‘Go,’ he mumbled.
‘I’ll be back as soon as I can. Try not to die on me.’
‘I’ll do my best.’
Simo began to run.
They had regained the treeline. Trees loomed, sunlight flashing through the gaps in the canopies. The silence that Heather had been racing with for hours was now punctured by the chatter of birdsong. She pretended that it was the roar of crowds lining the route along the Alpine stages of the Tour, where the cheers willed you on when you thought you were done in, ready to surrender to the mountain. Her face was sloppy with tears and sweat and blood. She had exhausted the last of her meagre supply of sweets and raisins some time ago, but there was still snow to slake her raging thirst and keep her hydrated. She bent to scoop up a handful, but in her exhaustion tripped and fell and found herself lying dazed on the ground staring up at the sky. She pulled herself up into a sitting position, every part of her aching. She saw Drakulić sprinting through the trees, bearing down towards her, teeth bared. The Wolf incarnate. She scrambled to her feet and ran, but he was closer to her than at any time since they had fought over the steering wheel in the car.
‘You look terrible, Heather,’ he called.
She rubbed her tailbone. She’d bruised it when she fell, and she’d dropped the snow. All she was left with was a handful of wet dirt. Furiously thirsty, she licked it all the same. She tried to play the usual mind games to cope with the pain: reciting the speeches of her old coaches; song lyrics; visualising the moment of crossing the finish-line, a winner. But she couldn’t see it. Nothing worked. She was used to discomfort. Suffering. Anxiety. But this raw, feral fear was sharp and pierced through everything. The adrenaline had made her muscles work for a time, but now it was fading and her body had worked beyond even its great capacity, and she was approaching the very limits of what she could physically endure. At some point soon – and she sensed it would be very soon – her mind and her body would shut down. There would be no more sugar in her blood to supply her muscles, and without more adrenaline to take its place, she would go into shock. The uncontrolled trembling would start. Confusion and dizziness would follow. Then more vomiting. Although, with Drakulić behind her, she doubted she’d get to that point. It would all be over long before then.
She felt a wetness along her inner thigh. Vaguely, she realised that she must have peed herself. She’d been unable to stop to relieve herself, and now she was losing bladder control. Through the wooziness of her thoughts, she felt a stab of indignation. The race leader was supposed to be able to stop for a call of nature and the other riders would not attack. Those were the unwritten rules. But Drakulić didn’t play by her rules.
She touched the smooth cotton of her leggings and her fingers came away daubed with red. It wasn’t urine, but blood. No. Rage ignited through her veins like electricity. She wouldn’t die and she wouldn’t let them take away her last piece of Ryan. They had stolen him; they wouldn’t steal his baby too. She swallowed back tears, not out of pride but necessity. She couldn’t cry and breathe, and she needed every gasp. The altitude was making her suffer more than usual. She felt another rush of wetness between her legs and tightened the muscles in her pelvic floor as though she could hold it in, could tighten her womb around the foetus, cradle it safely. It wasn’t fair. Her anger powered her on.
