Read Online Running Blind / The Freedom Trap by Desmond Bagley - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Desmond Bagley
Tags: Fiction
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before in that tone of voice and she blinked at me in surprise, but she turned quickly and ran into the trees.
I dived under the Land-Rover and groped for Lindholm’s pistol which I had taped there in Reykjavik, but it had gone and all that was left was a sticky strand of insulation tape to show where it had been. The roads in Iceland are rough enough to shake anything loose and I was bloody lucky not to have lost the most important thing—the metal box.
So all I had was the knife—the sgian dubh. I stooped and picked it up from where it was lying next to the sleeping bag and tucked it into the waistband of my trousers. Then I withdrew into the trees by the side of the glade and settled down to wait.
It was a long time, nearer to half an hour, before anything happened. He came like a ghost, a dark shape moving quietly up the track and not making a sound. It was too dark to see his face but there was just enough light to let me see what he carried. The shape and the way he held it was unmistakable—there are ways of holding tools, and a man carries a rifle in a different way from he carries a stick. This was no stick.
I froze as he paused on the edge of the glade. He was quite still and, if I hadn’t known he was there, it would have been easy for the eye to pass over that dark patch by the trees without recognizing it for what it was—a man with a gun. I was worried about the gun; it was either a rifle or a shotgun, and that was the sign of a professional. Pistols are too inaccurate for the serious business of killing—ask any soldier—and are liable to jam at the wrong moment. The professional prefers something more deadly.
If I was going to jump him I’d have to get behind him. which meant letting him pass me, but that would mean laying myself wide open for his friend—if he had a friend behind him. So I waited to see if the friend would turn upor if he was alone. I wondered briefly if he knew what would happen if he fired that gun in Asbyrgi; if he didn’t then he’d be a very surprised gunman when he pulled the trigger.
There was a flicker of movement and he was suddenly gone, and I cursed silently. Then a twig cracked and I knew he was in the trees on the other side of the glade. This was a professional all right—a really careful boy. Never come from the direction in which you are expected, even if you don’t think you’ll be expected. Play it safe. He was in the trees and circling the glade to come in from the other side.
I also began to circle, but in the opposite direction. This was tricky because sooner or later we’d come face to face. I plucked the sgian dubh from my waist and held it loosely—puny protection against a rifle but it was all I had. Every step I took I tested carefully to make sure there was no twig underfoot, and it was slow and sweaty work.
I paused beneath a scrawny birch tree and peered into the semi-darkness. Nothing moved but I heard the faint click as of one stone knocking against another. I remained motionless, holding my breath, and then I saw him coming towards me, a dark moving shadow not ten yards away. I tightened my hold on the knife and waited for him.
Suddenly the silence was broken by the rustle of bushes and something white arose at his feet. It could only be one thing—he had walked right on to Elin where she had crouched in hiding. He was startled, retreated a step, and raised the rifle, I yelled, ‘Get down, Elin!’ as he pulled the trigger and a flash of light split the darkness.
It sounded as though a war had broken out, as though an infantry company had let off a rather ragged volley of rifle fire. The noise of the shot bounced from the cliffs of Asbyrgi, repeating from rock face to rock face in a diminishing series of multiple echoes which died away slowly in the fardistance. That unexpected result of pulling the trigger unnerved him momentarily and he checked in surprise.
I threw the knife and there was the soft thud as it hit him. He gave a
I dived under the Land-Rover and groped for Lindholm’s pistol which I had taped there in Reykjavik, but it had gone and all that was left was a sticky strand of insulation tape to show where it had been. The roads in Iceland are rough enough to shake anything loose and I was bloody lucky not to have lost the most important thing—the metal box.
So all I had was the knife—the sgian dubh. I stooped and picked it up from where it was lying next to the sleeping bag and tucked it into the waistband of my trousers. Then I withdrew into the trees by the side of the glade and settled down to wait.
It was a long time, nearer to half an hour, before anything happened. He came like a ghost, a dark shape moving quietly up the track and not making a sound. It was too dark to see his face but there was just enough light to let me see what he carried. The shape and the way he held it was unmistakable—there are ways of holding tools, and a man carries a rifle in a different way from he carries a stick. This was no stick.
I froze as he paused on the edge of the glade. He was quite still and, if I hadn’t known he was there, it would have been easy for the eye to pass over that dark patch by the trees without recognizing it for what it was—a man with a gun. I was worried about the gun; it was either a rifle or a shotgun, and that was the sign of a professional. Pistols are too inaccurate for the serious business of killing—ask any soldier—and are liable to jam at the wrong moment. The professional prefers something more deadly.
If I was going to jump him I’d have to get behind him. which meant letting him pass me, but that would mean laying myself wide open for his friend—if he had a friend behind him. So I waited to see if the friend would turn upor if he was alone. I wondered briefly if he knew what would happen if he fired that gun in Asbyrgi; if he didn’t then he’d be a very surprised gunman when he pulled the trigger.
There was a flicker of movement and he was suddenly gone, and I cursed silently. Then a twig cracked and I knew he was in the trees on the other side of the glade. This was a professional all right—a really careful boy. Never come from the direction in which you are expected, even if you don’t think you’ll be expected. Play it safe. He was in the trees and circling the glade to come in from the other side.
I also began to circle, but in the opposite direction. This was tricky because sooner or later we’d come face to face. I plucked the sgian dubh from my waist and held it loosely—puny protection against a rifle but it was all I had. Every step I took I tested carefully to make sure there was no twig underfoot, and it was slow and sweaty work.
I paused beneath a scrawny birch tree and peered into the semi-darkness. Nothing moved but I heard the faint click as of one stone knocking against another. I remained motionless, holding my breath, and then I saw him coming towards me, a dark moving shadow not ten yards away. I tightened my hold on the knife and waited for him.
Suddenly the silence was broken by the rustle of bushes and something white arose at his feet. It could only be one thing—he had walked right on to Elin where she had crouched in hiding. He was startled, retreated a step, and raised the rifle, I yelled, ‘Get down, Elin!’ as he pulled the trigger and a flash of light split the darkness.
It sounded as though a war had broken out, as though an infantry company had let off a rather ragged volley of rifle fire. The noise of the shot bounced from the cliffs of Asbyrgi, repeating from rock face to rock face in a diminishing series of multiple echoes which died away slowly in the fardistance. That unexpected result of pulling the trigger unnerved him momentarily and he checked in surprise.
I threw the knife and there was the soft thud as it hit him. He gave a
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