Devil's Run (9 page)

The flat wall of the approaching
container was close enough to touch. I shut my eyes and braced for the crash.
Moments later, the sled hit the ground, slewing back and forth in the mud and
snow, rearing up on the left ski so high that I had to lean like an outrigger
to keep from tipping over. I still had a death grip on the throttle, so when
the sled righted itself it jerked forward so eagerly I almost rolled off the
back.

Once I was fully in
control, I experienced a surge of juvenile exhilaration at having survived such
a lunatic stunt. Then adult thoughts began to intrude. I had no plan and no
weapons. What would I do if I caught up to these two murderous and presumably
armed men? That line of thinking depressed me, so I concentrated on driving the
snowmobile.

The nuances returned
quickly. A little body lean here, a little less throttle there, and the sturdy
and powerful machine was soon eating up the trail. The snipers were no doubt
feeling safe, convinced that the shock of the attack and the lucky break of a
passing freight train would prevent any immediate pursuit. From the way they
had discarded the rifle, I reasoned their main concern was not attracting undue
attention. Probably they were traveling at a moderate rate of speed. Sure
enough, I crested a rise and there they were, about a seven iron away, just
turning into the woods on the same trail Roger and I had used. The shooter saw
me and tapped his companion's shoulder. The driver glanced back before
accelerating onto the trail.

Daylight was fading fast
and once I entered the trees it was as gloomy as dusk. My sled, more powerful
than theirs, gained ground quickly. We dropped into a narrow valley where the
trail paralleled a wide brook for about a hundred yards before crossing over a
small bridge. There was a turn to the left and then the trail straightened into
a long, steep incline. They were close to the top. I opened the throttle and
the speedometer touched seventy.

My memory of the earlier
ride suggested the trail turned right at the crest and then ran for a few
hundred yards along a ridge. If they were going to lay an ambush, this was the
perfect spot. I pulled my feet out of the stirrups and slid down until I was
almost prone on the seat. To see around the shield, I leaned my head out far to
the right, swinging my legs off the other side as counterbalance. It was
awkward and uncomfortable, but presented a much smaller target. I throttled
back to take the curve.

Their sled was turned
sideways to block the trail and the shooter was aiming a pistol across the
seat. He fired as I rounded the corner. The bullet blew a chunk out of the
windscreen, leaving a little spider web of cracks near the hole. If I had been
sitting up, he would have ten ringed me in the chest. Guess they no longer
needed me alive.

I turned off the trail
to the right, banging and stuttering through several saplings. The pistol fired
twice more. The rounds must have gone high, but I lost control anyway, striking
a rotted stump that shattered into splinters. I found myself staring at an
onrushing maple and yanked my head back just in time. The sled struck the tree
a glancing blow and ricocheted off to the left, leaving a gaping crack in the
hood.

Bullets or no bullets,
this was no way to ride through trees. I swung back to proper riding position
just in time to steer past a log that threatened to rip the skis off. That was
when the ground simply dropped away and I was briefly airborne. The right ski
hit first on uneven ground. Dirt, snow, and dead leaves exploded around me. I
wrestled the handlebars, managing to avoid a head on with a tree, but the left
ski ran up the trunk, turning the sled on its side. I threw myself off to avoid
being crushed. The sled slid about ten feet before stopping, the nose pushing
up a wet pile of snowy leaves and forest debris.

I'd gone off a rocky
shelf about three feet high at a very bad angle. I was lucky I wasn't dead. So,
like any reasonable person, I got to my feet and ran over to see if I could
resurrect the sled, which lay parallel to the rock, skis on the downhill side. I
put one hand on the console and one on the side. Pushing hard with my legs, and
aided by gravity, I shoved the sled upright. Glass tinkled from the shattered
headlight lens. The hood and bumpers looked like they'd been through a war. A
macabre thought crossed my mind: it was a good thing Roger was dead, so he
wouldn't see what I had done to his ride.

The rock that caused the
crash had also limited the snow accumulating in its lee. At most it was only
about a foot and a half deep, so assuming the motor still worked I’d be able to
get the sled moving without digging a path. When I hit the starter it roared to
life instantly. I gunned it a few times to be sure and took off.

I remembered that the
trail they were using meandered a bit before curving sharply down to the right
and into the clearing where Roger and I had frightened the deer. I took a more
direct line, weaving around trees and skirting anything that resembled a hump
in the snow, the already considerable chance of connecting with some hidden
obstacle made worse by the growing darkness.

Less than a minute later
I plowed through some bushes and broke out into the open. In the dying light I
saw the well worn trail exiting the trees below and to my left. Their
approaching headlight was a bobbing wraith just inside the trees.

When they entered the
clearing I came in from behind and to their right. The shooter was holding the
pistol in his right hand, resting it on his thigh. I made that my aim point.

At the last moment, he
saw me. It was too late. The battered nose of my sled struck his leg at sixty
miles an hour. He shrieked with pain. The pistol flew out of his hand and was
lost behind us. Both sleds slewed and skidded from the impact. Then we were
racing side by side, maneuvering for position, smashing into one another. The
shooter was a pro. Despite his obvious agony, he maintained control, reaching
around the driver, fumbling for something. Of course: the driver had a handgun,
too.

The other side of the
clearing, where it funneled onto the earthen bridge, was approaching. After
that was a farm and the public road, open country where I'd have to veer off or
be an easy target. If I was going to make a move, it had to be now.

The bridge was a dark hole
in the trees. I dropped back a little, egging them on. The driver gunned the
motor and surged ahead. No matter, I knew my sled was faster. The shooter's
hand came out of his partner's snowsuit holding another pistol. He turned and
aimed. I accelerated and veered towards them. The shooter reacted
instinctively, dropping his hand and attempting to pull in his injured leg.
Instead of hitting them, I surged into the lead, a move that made me an easy
target. There were only seconds before the shooter managed to lean around his
companion and put one in my spine. My back muscles tensed in anticipation of
the bullet.

Then I was on the land
bridge, where the trail was the width of one sled. Releasing the throttle, I
braked and wrenched the yoke to the left. The snowmobile spun sideways and
stopped. I let momentum carry me off, tucking and rolling when I hit the
ground.

There was nowhere for my
pursuers to go. The driver had two bad choices and he split the baby, clipping
the back of my sled before flying over the edge of the trail. I heard the whine
of the track and a crash. The sound of splintering wood and tortured metal was
followed by a rolling rumble, punctuated with big thumps, as the smashed
machine rolled down the slope. It came to rest in the stream with a crackling
of ice. Then there was silence.

I lay in the snow and
took inventory. All my limbs moved and I felt pretty good considering, but
between adrenaline and shock you often don't know you've been shot until it is
way too late. I sat up slowly and checked myself for holes or blood. When I was
satisfied there was nothing, I stood up and took the helmet off, setting it on
the wrecked remains of my sled.

The sniper who shot
Epstein and Roger lay just below me on his back. I made my way down the incline
and knelt next to him. He was not in a good way. I gently opened the visor of
his helmet, remembering it is best not to move anyone who might have a neck
injury. The absurdity of that thought was not lost on me. After all, I had put
him in this condition.

Anyone who has ever used
one of those timed public toilets in France knows that the one tool you should
never be without is a flashlight. I used the small LED light on my keychain to
examine his face. In the pale blue glow, I recognized the man I’d chased in
Newark. He looked at me and mumbled something.

“Who sent you?” I said.

His eyes took on a
distant look, and seemed to lose focus. He said something again, so softly I
couldn't hear. I put my ear close to his lips.

“
Hilfe
,”
he said, his voice barely a whisper, “
hilfe
.”

German. That was
interesting. He made as if to speak again, but there was only a slow, rattling
sigh. I leaned back a little and watched the life fade from his eyes. The sound
of breath leaving for the last time gradually faded and died away completely.
His body seemed to shrivel slightly. The house was empty, the owner gone.

I sat back on my
haunches and stared at the dead man. Three days on the job and three men were
dead, possibly four, all by my action, directly or indirectly. Everything I'd
spent years getting away from, thrust back at me again. Or had I embraced it? I
told myself that all I had wanted was some answers, but I knew that wasn’t
strictly true. I could have backed off when they spotted me following, and
again when they shot at me, or when my sled crashed. I’d pushed it, determined
that someone had to pay for using me as a stalking horse. Worse than that, I
felt nothing. No remorse, no guilt, just the shakiness that comes after an
adrenalin overdose. I was in the zone again. Job well done, Nick, very
efficient. You bastard.

Someone carrying a
flashlight or lantern was moving up from the farm house. I didn't have much
time, so I continued down the slope to where the driver lay. He was gone
already, a massive dent where his ribcage ought to be. He was Caucasian, with
short brown hair and nondescript features. I went through the zippered pockets
of his snow suit. There was no identification, but plenty of cash, at least
five hundred in various denominations. He had two spare magazines for a Heckler
and Koch Universal Service Pistol, both full of hollow points. There was a map
of the local snowmobile trails and the keys to a Hertz rental car, which
according to the fob had been rented at the Albany airport. Beneath the
snowsuit he wore nondescript slacks and a dark sweater that looked fairly new.
There was nothing in the pants pockets and he wore no jewelry, except a TAG
Heur military watch.

I pocketed the cash and
put everything else back before sliding down to the remains of their snowmobile.
I went a little too far and my left foot ended up in the ice choked water.
Yanking it out with an appropriate curse, I stepped onto the sled and gave it
the once over with the flashlight. There was a small plate screwed to the dash
that read “Property of Ranger Ridge Resort”. Above that was the number fourteen
painted in yellow rubberized paint. I dug out the registration. The owner was
“Verdugo Properties, dba Ranger Ridge Resort”. Well, well, small world.

Above me the light was
moving closer to my sled. I scrambled back up to the shooter. A quick search of
his clothes revealed another five hundred or so in cash, a duplicate trail map,
a throwaway cell phone, and his own pair of USP mags. I took the cash and cell
phone before climbing back up to the trail.

A heavyset man was
running laboriously towards me, a hissing Coleman lantern in one hand and a
flashlight in the other. I snatched up the helmet and put it back on. No need
to make the description any easier for him. He stopped about six feet away,
fixing the beam of his flashlight on the dents in my snowmobile. Then he
shifted the light to my face, blinding me.

I put up a hand. “Can
you take that thing out of my eyes?”

“What? Oh, sorry.” He
lowered the light. “What happened?”

“There’s been an accident.”
After a moment my eyes readjusted a little. It was an old man with a snow-white
beard wearing an old fashioned wool hunting coat over red pajamas. His feet
were shod in half-buckled rubber snow boots. All he needed to complete the
picture was eight tiny reindeer and a bottle of Coke.

“Anyone hurt?” He was a
little short of breath.

“I’m okay. There are two
down there that weren’t so lucky.”

“Gosh,” he said, “gosh.
My goodness.” He peered into the woods, flashing his light around, looking for
more casualties. “I warned them. More than once. Always knew something like
this would happen, way these kids come through here.”

Damn whippersnappers
probably played their rock music too loud as well.

“You have a phone?”

“What? Oh, yes. Well,
Ann, that’s my wife, she already called the 911.”

“Good.”

I tried the motor, while
he went back to searching, but I’d crashed the beast one too many times. I took
off the helmet and sat down on the sled. To pass the time I went through the
throwaway cell. Only two calls had been made, both to the same number with a
970 area code, the same area code as the numbers on the Spanish Mountain
website. I memorized the number, but these guys were pros and I doubted it
would trace back to anything solid. I checked if the old man was watching
before flinging the cell into the woods on the side opposite the wreck.

He was still flashing
his light into the ravine below, and it came to rest on the body of the sniper.
“My goodness gracious,” he said, “this is just terrible.” A thought hit him.
“Should I go get my first aid kit?”