Read Online Desperate Measures by David R. Morrell - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: David R. Morrell
Ads: Link
branch pawed his face, stinging him so hard that he didn't know if the moisture on his cheeks was rain or blood. He ducked, avoiding another branch.
"Where the-?"
"There! I think he's over-!"
Behind Pittman, a bough snapped. Someone fell. "My nose! I think I broke my fucking-!"
"I hear-!"
"In those bushes!"
"Shoot the son of a bitch!"
"Get him! If they find out we let somebody-!"
Another branch snapped. Behind him, Pittman's hunters charged through the trees.
Just in time, Pittman stopped himself. He'd come to a high stone wall, nearly running into it at full force. Breathing deeply, he fiercely studied the darkness to his left and then his right.
What am I going to do? he thought in a frenzy. I can't assume I'll find a gate. I can't keep following the wall. Too obvious. They'll listen for the sounds I make. They'll get ahead of me and behind me and corner me. Turn back?
No! The police will soon arrive. The house has too manyoutside lights. I'll be spotted.
Then what are you going to ... ?
Pittman hurried toward the nearest fir tree and started to climb. The footsteps of his pursuers thudded rapidly closer. He gripped a bough above him, shoved his right shoe against a lower branch, and hoisted himself upward along the trunk. Bark scraped his hands. The fir tree smell of turpentine assaulted his nostrils. He climbed faster.
"I hear him!"
Across from the top of the wall, Pittman reached out along a branch, let his legs fall away from the tree trunk, and inched hand over hand toward the wall. The branch dipped from his weight. Dangling, he kept shifting along. The bark cut deeper into his hands.
"He's close!" "Where?
Moisture dropped from the fir needles onto Pittman. Even greater moisture dropped from the branch to which he clung. Water cascaded onto the ground.
"There!' "That tree!
Pittman's shoes touched the top of the wall. He swung his legs toward it, felt a solid surface, no razor wire or chunks of glass along the top, and released his grip, sprawling on the top of the wall. The gunshot was deafening, the muzzle flash startlingly bright. A second shot was so dismaying that Pittman acted without thinking, flipping sideways off the top of the wall. Heart pounding, he dangled. The rough wall scraped against his overcoat. He didn't know what was below him, but he heard one of his pursuers trying to climb the tree. Another man shouted, "Use the gate!" Pittman let go. His stomach swooped as he plummeted.
Exhaling forcefully, Pittman struck the ground sooner than he anticipated. The ground was covered with grass, mushy from rain. He bent his knees, tucked in his elbows, dropped, and rolled, trying desperately to minimize the impact. That was the way a skydiver he had once interviewed had explained how parachutists landed when they were using conventional equipment. Bend, tuck, and roll.
Pittman prayed it would work. If he sprained an ankle, or worse, he would be helpless when his pursuers searched this side of the wall. His only hope would be to hide. But where? As he had swung toward the top of the wall, his impression of the dark area behind it had been of unnerving open space.
Fortunately he had an alternative to being forced to try to hide. Using the momentum of his roll, he surged to his feet. His hands stung. His knees felt sore. But that discomfort was irrelevant. What mattered was that his ankles supported him. His legs didn't give out. He hadn't sprained or broken anything.
On the other side of the barrier, Pittman's hunters cursed and ran. Noises in a tree suggested that one of them continued to climb toward the top of the wall. His chest heaving, Pittman charged forward. The murky lawn seemed to stretch on forever. In contrast with the estate from which he'd just escaped, there weren't any shrubs. There were hardly any trees.
What the hell is this place?
It felt unnatural, eerie. It reminded him of a cemetery, but in the darkness, he didn't bump into any tombstones. Racing through the drizzle,
"Where the-?"
"There! I think he's over-!"
Behind Pittman, a bough snapped. Someone fell. "My nose! I think I broke my fucking-!"
"I hear-!"
"In those bushes!"
"Shoot the son of a bitch!"
"Get him! If they find out we let somebody-!"
Another branch snapped. Behind him, Pittman's hunters charged through the trees.
Just in time, Pittman stopped himself. He'd come to a high stone wall, nearly running into it at full force. Breathing deeply, he fiercely studied the darkness to his left and then his right.
What am I going to do? he thought in a frenzy. I can't assume I'll find a gate. I can't keep following the wall. Too obvious. They'll listen for the sounds I make. They'll get ahead of me and behind me and corner me. Turn back?
No! The police will soon arrive. The house has too manyoutside lights. I'll be spotted.
Then what are you going to ... ?
Pittman hurried toward the nearest fir tree and started to climb. The footsteps of his pursuers thudded rapidly closer. He gripped a bough above him, shoved his right shoe against a lower branch, and hoisted himself upward along the trunk. Bark scraped his hands. The fir tree smell of turpentine assaulted his nostrils. He climbed faster.
"I hear him!"
Across from the top of the wall, Pittman reached out along a branch, let his legs fall away from the tree trunk, and inched hand over hand toward the wall. The branch dipped from his weight. Dangling, he kept shifting along. The bark cut deeper into his hands.
"He's close!" "Where?
Moisture dropped from the fir needles onto Pittman. Even greater moisture dropped from the branch to which he clung. Water cascaded onto the ground.
"There!' "That tree!
Pittman's shoes touched the top of the wall. He swung his legs toward it, felt a solid surface, no razor wire or chunks of glass along the top, and released his grip, sprawling on the top of the wall. The gunshot was deafening, the muzzle flash startlingly bright. A second shot was so dismaying that Pittman acted without thinking, flipping sideways off the top of the wall. Heart pounding, he dangled. The rough wall scraped against his overcoat. He didn't know what was below him, but he heard one of his pursuers trying to climb the tree. Another man shouted, "Use the gate!" Pittman let go. His stomach swooped as he plummeted.
Exhaling forcefully, Pittman struck the ground sooner than he anticipated. The ground was covered with grass, mushy from rain. He bent his knees, tucked in his elbows, dropped, and rolled, trying desperately to minimize the impact. That was the way a skydiver he had once interviewed had explained how parachutists landed when they were using conventional equipment. Bend, tuck, and roll.
Pittman prayed it would work. If he sprained an ankle, or worse, he would be helpless when his pursuers searched this side of the wall. His only hope would be to hide. But where? As he had swung toward the top of the wall, his impression of the dark area behind it had been of unnerving open space.
Fortunately he had an alternative to being forced to try to hide. Using the momentum of his roll, he surged to his feet. His hands stung. His knees felt sore. But that discomfort was irrelevant. What mattered was that his ankles supported him. His legs didn't give out. He hadn't sprained or broken anything.
On the other side of the barrier, Pittman's hunters cursed and ran. Noises in a tree suggested that one of them continued to climb toward the top of the wall. His chest heaving, Pittman charged forward. The murky lawn seemed to stretch on forever. In contrast with the estate from which he'd just escaped, there weren't any shrubs. There were hardly any trees.
What the hell is this place?
It felt unnatural, eerie. It reminded him of a cemetery, but in the darkness, he didn't bump into any tombstones. Racing through the drizzle,
Similar Books
