Devil's Run (31 page)

Boyd watched while I put
the card away. “You’ll never get out of there alive.”

“I may surprise you,” I
said.

“What do you want me to
do?”

“Stay out of sight. Ski
as long as you can. Go to a bar. Just don’t go home.”

He nodded.

“Go on,” I said.

Boyd pushed off down the
trail. I followed him for a time, but when we came to the fork I took the
branch towards The Retreat’s private chairlift. In a quarter mile, I was there.
The little plastic gate opened as I approached. I skied into position. The
attendant came out of his shelter to slow the chair.

“You best hurry, Mr.
Boyd, the weather’s moving in fast.”

I waved an
acknowledgment as I sat down. I glanced back down at the lift station to make
sure the attendant wasn’t doing anything suspicious. He wasn’t, but two skiers in
orange parkas were speeding down the trail I’d just used. When they reached the
lift station they spoke to the attendant, who pointed at me. The two hurried
onto the lift.

Somehow they were on to
me. Maybe I’d missed a tail, or Boyd had a second cell phone. Whatever the
reason, I had to assume I was headed into a trap and a reception committee was
gathering at the top.

I had to get off the
chair, but how? I leaned forward against the safety bar and peered down. The
snow beneath my skis looked far away. I looked at the chairs ahead. The
distance to the ground varied somewhat depending on the terrain, but I
estimated it was never less than fifteen feet. If I jumped from that that
height, with or without skis, I would probably break a leg.

I thought about getting
to one of the pylons. The green metal cylinders had ladder rungs welded to the
uphill side and the chairs passed about four feet away. It might be possible to
jump from the chair and grab the rungs, maybe even get down to the snow before
anyone got a clear shot. But there was no way to do it without removing my skis
and boots, which would hardly escape the notice of the two guys following. I’d
probably be still hanging from the rungs as they cruised by, making me an easy
target. That’s if I made it to the pylon in the first place. The chair was
moving fast and bound to give way as I pushed off. I might miss completely and
fall on my face.

I watched the chairs in
front of me again. About a hundred yards ahead a pylon stood near a hillock
that slightly decreased the distance between the chairs and the snow. That gave
me an idea. I snapped my poles together and got ready to move.

 The watchdogs
behind me were indistinct shapes in the thickening ice storm, so I would be a
blur to them as well. I was about to start wriggling under the safety bar when
I noticed a lone figure on the slope above. He was on skis in the center of the
chair lift right of way, a rifle with a telescopic sight cradled casually in
his arms. His head moved as I passed, slowly pivoting to follow me.

Then I was past him,
past my intended jumping off point, entering the meadow below The Retreat, now
totally exposed to the ice particles driven by the wind funneled through Diablo
Canyon. The chair swayed sickeningly. My clothing, already frosted like a
glazed doughnut, took on even more ice.

The forest at the far
side of the meadow gradually appeared. At the end of the lift line loomed the
ghostly mass of The Retreat, its brightly lit windows like predator’s eyes. I
decided to make my move once the chairlift entered the trees, the same Easy
Street trail I’d skied on a bright sunlit day that seemed ages ago.

The wind dropped,
blocked by the trees. I flung my poles to the side and slid partway under the
safety bar until my skis were below the foot rest. Then I turned on my stomach
and grabbed the rear of the chair seat to catch myself. I slipped under the
rest of the way and transferred my grip, one hand at a time, to the footrest, a
little more aggressively than I had planned. The chair began bouncing. I
lowered myself the full length of my arms, bobbing like a children’s toy, but
the drop to the snow was now reduced by eight or nine feet.

My friends had not been
idle during my gymnastics. One was on a phone or radio, the other was taking
something out of his jacket. I saw the muzzle flash and heard the first shot,
but I wasn’t an easy target. I looked down at the snow, trying to ignore the
gunfire. Stretching out until only my fingertips bore my weight, I pointed my
skis slightly down and dropped towards the snow.

I hit the snow upright,
both skis flat, but I had misjudged the pitch of the slope. I fell backwards
and started going downhill sitting on the skis. Praying the bindings would not
release, I struggled to a semi-upright position, using my arms like a tightrope
walker.

Where were the damn
poles? I spotted them, black lines against the snow below and to my left. Now
in something approaching proper skiing position, I snatched them up as I went
past. Several bullets churned up the snow nearby. I veered off the trail,
prepared this time for powder, headed for the only trail available to me,
Devil’s Run.

After three minutes or
so, I broke out of the trees and did a hockey stop just above the trail. At
this point, Devil’s Run was no more than fifty feet wide, winding and steep. A
triple diamond would be difficult for me on a clear day. In this kind of
weather it was insane, but I had no choice. Better skiers, armed skiers, were
no doubt already on the way to stop me. Outmatched and unarmed, my only hope
was to put some distance between them and me.

I tossed Boyd’s phone
and my two burners into the snow. No sense making things easy for them. Then I
pushed off and started down the trail.

I once talked to a top
downhill racer and asked him how, moving at such high speeds, he maintained
control. He laughed, and said he didn’t. The secret was not to panic when you
lost control. “Fight the snow snake too hard when it grabs the ski and you’ll
lose,” he said. He simply focused on not overcorrecting. “The skis, they want
to keep going, too,” he said. Wrestle with them too much and you are sure to go
down.

Well, I was certainly
following the skis on this run. Some of the time I was a little proud of
myself, but mostly I was fighting for balance, rocketing, or so it seemed to
me, down the deliberately difficult terrain. I navigated a succession of steep
drops, the odd mogul, and sudden narrow chutes. The toughest part was not
tightening every muscle in anticipation of a crash.

I was grateful when I
finally hit a relatively level section that turned towards the canyon. I ran
into a steady blast of wind and didn’t just stop, I began moving backwards.
Rubbing away the ice encrusting my goggles, I saw the rim of the canyon dead
ahead. The trail went right up to the edge before curving back into the trees.

I crouched low and used
the poles to help me skate forward. Once around the bend, the wind had the
opposite effect, propelling me like a schooner. The assist lasted until the
next turn, where the wind dropped and I was on my own again, working terrain
that was once again steep and unpredictable.

I was just getting into
a rhythm when the left ski suddenly veered off on its own and was wrenched
away. The binding let go like a champ. The other ski and I continued downhill,
both of us airborne. The remaining ski’s tip caught on the snow and snapped
off, leaving me to fly on solo. I hit chest first and slid several more feet,
coming to a stop with my face in the mound of snow I’d plowed.

Nothing felt broken, but
you can never be sure. A serious injury causes shock, and shock is a funny
thing. I got slowly up on my hands and knees. Everything seemed to be working,
and there was no serious pain. I still had a death grip on my ski poles, and I
used them to help me stand. My skis sat rather forlornly about fifteen feet
apart. I stumbled up to the closest one. As I bent to retrieve it, movement
above caught my eye, a flash of muted orange through the driving ice. Someone
was catching up.

It could only be the
sentry from the meadow, the man with the rifle, moving to intercept me. I was
in the middle of the trail, with nowhere to run or hide. Had he seen me? I
knelt below his line of vision. Chances were that between the storm, my crust
of ice, and Boyd’s white parka I was nearly invisible. I dropped my poles and
grabbed the ski with both hands just below the binding.

When I saw his head, I
stood up. It must have looked as if I rose right out of the ground. He went to
his right, only to find my other ski in his path. He instinctively veered back.

I was already swinging
the ski at his head. The edge took him in the throat as he passed. I was
knocked back on my ass. He hit the snow on his back, leaving a bright red smear
as he slid a few feet. When he came to rest, blood continued to fountain for
several seconds from the gaping wound in his throat.

I grabbed my poles, and
headed up to my other ski. It would be nice to have a gun, but first things
first. I laid the skis crosswise on the slope and stepped into the bindings.
Just as the second boot snapped into place, several bullets stitched a line in
the snow.

I took a quick look as I
turned and pushed off. There were two of them. One had stopped to fire from a
stationary position, the other was continuing on towards me. I cursed myself
for not going for the gun first, but it was too late now. I pointed straight
downhill and just let myself go.

A short burst sent snow
spurting head high all around me. The speed and the rough terrain allowed for
almost no accuracy. We entered a narrow section with dramatic, uneven sides,
and the firing stopped.

I stole a look over my
shoulder. He was now focused on skiing, concentrating on closing the distance.
His superior skill was showing, despite the burden of the gun. If he got too
close, I was a dead man. A pistol would be problematic, even at close range,
but with a submachine gun he was almost sure to hit me.

Ahead the trail widened
and curved again towards the canyon. I ran a glove across my goggles to clear the
ice particles. The branches near the turn were straining back towards the
mountain, pushed by the same steady wind I’d encountered above.

He was much closer now,
maybe twenty feet back. I sank into a crouch and tucked my arms against my
sides, going for as much speed as possible. My pursuer did the same. When I
turned the corner, I stood upright and flung my arms wide. The blast of wind
brought me almost to a halt. Still in his tuck, my pursuer caught right up to
me. I thrust a pole between his thighs. His skis crossed and he flew out of the
bindings, tumbling head over heels.

I kept going, skating
hard against the wind and stinging ice particles, switching my remaining pole
from side to side like a gondolier. Bullets striking to my left told me the
third man had not stopped to render first aid and was closing. I was running
out of bright ideas, not to mention stamina. I was short of breath, severely
dehydrated, and my quads were on fire. If these bastards chased me long enough,
they wouldn’t have to shoot me, I’d die of a heart attack.

I took the next bend,
into the trees and out of the wind. Picking up speed, I checked behind me.
There was no one I could see. Why had he stopped? Then again, why look a gift
horse in the mouth? I was not interested in meeting any more people with guns.
Most likely they were sending people on snowmobiles to cut me off at the bottom
of Devil’s Run. My best bet was to get off the trail and angle my way back to
the main resort. The ice storm would make me hard to follow, which is why it
seemed odd that last guy wasn’t at least keeping an eye on me.

After one more glance
behind, I skied into the trees on my right, relaxing a little, taking the
pressure off my thighs and concentrating on not colliding with a tree. Soon the
conifers began to mix with aspens, and the whole slalom thing got a little
tougher, but it was better than being shot at, however. I relaxed a little
more.

That’s when an NFL
tackle slammed into me at full speed, or so it seemed. I was lifted off the
snow and thrown sideways, a blast of hot, foul air sucking the breath from my
lungs. Wood splinters and chunks of earth flew around me. I fell into the snow.
Debris raining down on top of me.

I raised my head to look
around. A cloud of smoke rose from a black hole in the earth several yards
away. What the hell? Then, over the sound of the wind, I heard a weird
screaming sound that rose in intensity and ended only when the top of a tree
thirty feet behind me disappeared in a ball of orange flame and black smoke. I
buried my head in the snow as more pulverized lumber fell on me.

They were shelling me
with that fucking howitzer! A solid citizen couldn’t buy a large Coke in New
York, yet Colorado let a former East German spy have a fucking cannon.

I didn’t even pause to
take inventory; I just got up and went, skiing recklessly through the trees.
Within a few hundred yards, another shell screamed in, exploding just to my
left. The next one struck just ahead, but I managed to keep going through the
debris shower. Their aim was uncanny. They were either great guessers, or I had
a ‘shoot me’ sign painted on my back. I’d ditched Boyd’s phone, so how in God’s
name were they targeting me?

About one hundred feet
below, I could see a break in the trees that stretched away on both sides,
probably Easy Street. If I continued past it and found one of the upper trails
of the public resort, I’d be safe from the artillery. The lifts closed at four
o’clock, so there would be skiers out until at least four-thirty. It was barely
four now. If I could get in with the tourists they could hardly shoot me, much
less shell me.

The edge of the trees
was only fifty feet away when the next round impacted directly in front of me.
The world disappeared in flame and smoke, and I was blown backwards out of my
skis.

I may have been
out for a few minutes, because the next thing I remember was lying on my back,
staring up at the pelting ice, trying to remember where I was and why. When I
could think clearly again, I continued to lie there, waiting for the
coup de
grace
. I remember thinking that, all things considered, I would have
preferred to die on a warm, sunny day. Still, nothing happened.

“Okay,” I yelled,
“what’s the hold up? Let’s get on with it!”

But, the next shell
never came. I sat up slowly. My ears were plugged and ringing. My hand moving
in slow motion, I automatically pinched my nose and blew into it to pop my
ears. My hearing improved a little, but the ringing stayed. I listened hard for
another shell, but there was only the wind and the sound of ice particles
rattling against the branches.

Why did they stop?
Because they’re coming for you, Nick. How? They don’t know where I am. Really?
Then how’d they know where to send the shells? They were tracking me, but, how?
I’d dumped Boyd’s phone. All of my clothes were new, except for Boyd’s jacket.
Maybe they’d Lojacked it by replacing the avalanche reflector in the jacket
sleeve. But, he wouldn’t always be wearing the jacket. More likely, it was the
white card. Along with the electronics that said what doors you could open and
what lift line you could use, there was probably a tracker. I was now a point
of light on that big board in the howitzer building, a light that had not moved
for several minutes. I might be wounded or dead. Or maybe I’d figured it out
and dumped the tracker. In any case, they couldn’t use the artillery too often
or somebody was going to notice. They’d send someone to investigate.

Right on cue came the
sound of an approaching vehicle. On the trail below, an orange shape was making
its way up the trail through the driving sleet. When it got closer, I saw it
was one of the four tread Tucker Sno-Cats. This one had no grooming tools to
slow it down and a cab big enough to hold several armed men.

I got into my skis and
took off the parka. The cold wind cut through the wool sweater and layers of
underwear. I pushed off towards the trail below, straight towards the oncoming
Sno-Cat.

When I broke out of the
trees, they made things easy by turning directly at me. The motor roared and
thick clods of snow and ice spewed out behind the four rubber treads. From
ground level the onrushing machine resembled a monstrous, jacked up tank.

Aiming between the
treads, I sat back on my skis and went right under the chassis, catching the
differential with both hands. I was dragged backwards for several feet, but
then the Cat slowed and jerked to a halt. I tied the arms of the jacket around
the differential and then slid past the rear treads and out the back. I rose to
a crouch and tucked in for a straight downhill run.

From the change in sound
behind me, I knew they were turning to give pursuit. I heard machine gun fire
and the now familiar sound of bullets passing much too close. I concentrated on
gaining speed, not daring to zig zag. A particularly long burst churned up the
snow next to me, and one bullet clipped the tip of my right ski. The firing
paused, and I chanced a look behind me. The Sno-Cat was closing fast, headlamps
blazing. A man was half out of the cabin door, bracing one leg on the footstep
as he inserted a fresh magazine. I prayed that someone up on the mountain had
panicked when that blip on his screen started moving again.

Someone had. Over the
roar of the engine, I heard the whining shriek of the incoming shell. The
gunman heard it, too. He lowered his weapon and looked up just before the cabin
of the Sno-Cat disintegrated. Shards of orange metal, mixed with human body
parts, shot skyward. The shockwave rippled visibly towards me through the
falling snow.

I turned away and sank
into a ball, wrapping my arms around my knees, none of which mattered much. The
shockwave tossed me into the snow. The remains of the Sno-Cat rolled on gamely
until the fuel tanks exploded. The wreckage spewed oily smoke laced with orange
flame, the steady roar of the fire augmented by a chorus of pops as the
ammunition cooked off.

“Thank you, boys,” I
said aloud. “Nice shooting.”