Read Online Running Blind / The Freedom Trap by Desmond Bagley - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Desmond Bagley
Tags: Fiction
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bubbling cry and dropped the rifle to claw at his chest. Then his knees buckled and he fell to the ground, thrashing and writhing among the bushes.
I ignored him and ran to where I had seen Elin, pulling the flashlight from my pocket as I went. She was sitting on the ground, her hand to her shoulder and her eyes wide with shock. ‘Are you all right?’
She withdrew her hand and her fingers were covered in blood. ‘He shot me,’ she said dully.
I knelt beside her and looked at her shoulder. The bullet had grazed her, tearing the pad of muscle on top of the shoulder. It would be painful later, but it was not serious. ‘We’d better put a dressing on that,’ I said.
‘He shot me!’ Her voice was stronger and there was something like wonder in her tone.
‘I doubt if he’ll shoot anyone again,’ I said, and turned the light on him. He was lying quite still with his head turned away.
‘Is he dead?’ asked Elin, her eyes on the haft of the knife which protruded from his chest.
‘I don’t know. Hold the light.’ I took his wrist and felt the quick beat of the pulse. ‘He’s alive,’ I said. ‘He might even survive.’ I pulled his head around so that I could see his face. It was Graham—and that was something of a surprise. I mentally apologized for accusing him of having been wet behind the ears; the way he had approached our camp had been all professional.
Elin said, ‘There’s a first-aid box in the Land-Rover.’
‘Carry on,’ I said. ‘I’ll bring him over.’ I stooped and picked up Graham in my arms and followed Elin. She spread out the sleeping bag and I laid him down. Then she brought out the first-aid box and sank to her knees.
‘No,’ I said. ‘You first. Take off your shirt.’ I cleaned the wound on her shoulder, dusted it with penicillin powder, and bound a pad over it. ‘You’ll have trouble in raising your arm above your shoulder for the next week,’ I said. ‘Otherwise it’s not too bad.’
She seemed mesmerized by the amber light reflected from the jewelled pommel of the knife in Graham’s chest. ‘That knife—do you always carry it?’
‘Always,’ I said. ‘We have to get it out of there.’ It had hit Graham in the centre of the chest just below the sternum and it had an upwards inclination. The whole of the blade was buried in him and God knows what it had sliced through.
I cut away his shirt, and said, ‘Get an absorbent pad ready,’ and then I put my hand on the hilt and pulled. The serrated back edge admitted air into the wound and made extraction easy and the knife came away cleanly. I half expected a gush of arterial blood which would have been the end of Graham, but there was just a steady trickle which ran down his stomach and collected in his navel.
Elin put the pad on the wound and strapped it down with tape while I took his pulse again. It was a little weaker than it had been.
‘Do you know who he is?’ asked Elin, sitting back on her heels.
‘Yes,’ I said matter-of-factly. ‘He said his name is Graham. He’s a member of the Department working with Slade.’ I picked up the sgian dubh and began to clean it. ‘Right now I’d like to know if he came alone or if he has any pals around here. We’re sitting ducks.’
I got up and walked back into the trees and hunted about for Graham’s rifle. I found it and took it back to the Land-Rover; it was a Remington pump action carbine chambered for .30/06 ammunition—a good gun for a murderer. The barrel not too long to get in the way, the fire rapid—fiveaimed shots in five seconds—and a weight and velocity of slug enough to stop a man dead in his tracks. I operated the action and caught the round that jumped out. It was the ordinary soft-nosed hunting type, designed to spread on impact. Elin had been lucky.
She was bending over Graham wiping his brow. ‘He’s coming round.’
Graham’s eyes flickered and opened and he saw me standing over him with the carbine in my hands. He tried to
I ignored him and ran to where I had seen Elin, pulling the flashlight from my pocket as I went. She was sitting on the ground, her hand to her shoulder and her eyes wide with shock. ‘Are you all right?’
She withdrew her hand and her fingers were covered in blood. ‘He shot me,’ she said dully.
I knelt beside her and looked at her shoulder. The bullet had grazed her, tearing the pad of muscle on top of the shoulder. It would be painful later, but it was not serious. ‘We’d better put a dressing on that,’ I said.
‘He shot me!’ Her voice was stronger and there was something like wonder in her tone.
‘I doubt if he’ll shoot anyone again,’ I said, and turned the light on him. He was lying quite still with his head turned away.
‘Is he dead?’ asked Elin, her eyes on the haft of the knife which protruded from his chest.
‘I don’t know. Hold the light.’ I took his wrist and felt the quick beat of the pulse. ‘He’s alive,’ I said. ‘He might even survive.’ I pulled his head around so that I could see his face. It was Graham—and that was something of a surprise. I mentally apologized for accusing him of having been wet behind the ears; the way he had approached our camp had been all professional.
Elin said, ‘There’s a first-aid box in the Land-Rover.’
‘Carry on,’ I said. ‘I’ll bring him over.’ I stooped and picked up Graham in my arms and followed Elin. She spread out the sleeping bag and I laid him down. Then she brought out the first-aid box and sank to her knees.
‘No,’ I said. ‘You first. Take off your shirt.’ I cleaned the wound on her shoulder, dusted it with penicillin powder, and bound a pad over it. ‘You’ll have trouble in raising your arm above your shoulder for the next week,’ I said. ‘Otherwise it’s not too bad.’
She seemed mesmerized by the amber light reflected from the jewelled pommel of the knife in Graham’s chest. ‘That knife—do you always carry it?’
‘Always,’ I said. ‘We have to get it out of there.’ It had hit Graham in the centre of the chest just below the sternum and it had an upwards inclination. The whole of the blade was buried in him and God knows what it had sliced through.
I cut away his shirt, and said, ‘Get an absorbent pad ready,’ and then I put my hand on the hilt and pulled. The serrated back edge admitted air into the wound and made extraction easy and the knife came away cleanly. I half expected a gush of arterial blood which would have been the end of Graham, but there was just a steady trickle which ran down his stomach and collected in his navel.
Elin put the pad on the wound and strapped it down with tape while I took his pulse again. It was a little weaker than it had been.
‘Do you know who he is?’ asked Elin, sitting back on her heels.
‘Yes,’ I said matter-of-factly. ‘He said his name is Graham. He’s a member of the Department working with Slade.’ I picked up the sgian dubh and began to clean it. ‘Right now I’d like to know if he came alone or if he has any pals around here. We’re sitting ducks.’
I got up and walked back into the trees and hunted about for Graham’s rifle. I found it and took it back to the Land-Rover; it was a Remington pump action carbine chambered for .30/06 ammunition—a good gun for a murderer. The barrel not too long to get in the way, the fire rapid—fiveaimed shots in five seconds—and a weight and velocity of slug enough to stop a man dead in his tracks. I operated the action and caught the round that jumped out. It was the ordinary soft-nosed hunting type, designed to spread on impact. Elin had been lucky.
She was bending over Graham wiping his brow. ‘He’s coming round.’
Graham’s eyes flickered and opened and he saw me standing over him with the carbine in my hands. He tried to
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