The darkness was almost total, as he slid down into an icy ditch. Ryderbeit had moved off silently into the night, and the only sound now was the distant hum from the autoroute. Then, almost simultaneously, there were two cracks from ahead, followed by the clink of the Fiat’s shatterproof windshield. Packer had seen no muzzle-fire, but guessed that the shots had come from their side of the road, opposite the dark blur of the panel-truck which he could just make out, about fifty feet away.
Ryderbeit’s whisper reached him out of the darkness ahead. ‘You stay put. The car’ll give you cover for the moment.’ As he spoke a pair of headlamps swept round the bend, throwing the panel-truck into hard relief, and dazzling them both as they pressed themselves flat into the icy mud of the ditch.
It was a TIR lorry with a trailer, and going slow enough to just manage to swerve out from behind the unlit panel-truck. Its airhorn bellowed with fury, but it roared on, its eight double tyres covering Packer with a freezing spray. Its headlamps had given Packer a glimpse of Ryderbeit, now halfway between the Fiat and a point level with the panel-truck, moving, belly flat in the mud, with the rhythm of a snake. At the same time, Packer had made out the silhouette of a shelving buttress ahead, probably a duct leading down into the ditch.
For a moment a deep black quiet closed round them; then the darkness was sliced by two more glares of light — stationary this time — and, without looking up over the edge of the ditch, Packer knew that they came from the panel-truck. Both beams were centred on the Fiat.
There was a short pause. Packer pulled himself along on his elbows, until he was a safe distance from the double beam, then took another quick look over the edge. A big squat man was moving forward along the lakeside, shoulders hunched, holding something against his stomach. He made no sound.
He passed level with where Packer was lying and came within a few yards of the Fiat; paused, then ducked across the road. Packer lowered his head and heard a couple of loud popping noises and a tinkle of glass as the truck’s headlamps went out. Packer had forgotten all about Ryderbeit’s little ‘lady’s gun’.
He was already out of the ditch, still with a clear impression in his mind of where the man had been standing. He lifted one foot and took a step forward, resting his heavy ski boot down as gently as though he were walking on glass. He still could not see the man, but he could sense him. He could feel that tense bulk of bone and flesh standing a few feet away, gripping his gun with both hands and wondering what to do. In a second he would decide: deprived of the light, he’d either take cover behind the Fiat, or more likely make a dash back to the truck.
In that second, Packer moved. He lunged forward with his arms flung out, fingers rigid, and heard a shuffle in the dark as his elbow collided with something solid and padded. He turned, measuring the distance by instinct, then kicked out his right boot with all his force, feeling the man’s shins collapse under him.
There was a howl and the leather-clad body crashed against him. The next moment Packer was holding the man up, and could smell the garlic on his gasping breath, together with a thick honey-scented hair oil. His left hand reached down for the gun; but the man had remembered it too, and brought it up with a painful smack against Packer’s wrist.
Packer chopped his right hand down on the man’s forearm and jabbed his knee up into his groin. Both blows connected, though the man’s heavy coat protected him from the worst injury. Packer kicked him again, quickly, on both shins, then, applying all the strength in his frozen hands, he wrenched down the man’s wrist. But the man did not let go. He was immensely strong. The gun was pointing harmlessly at the road, when there was the sound of another car behind them. A moment later the shape of his opponent began to form out of the darkness.
Packer calculated that he had perhaps three clear seconds in which to disengage himself from this indecent embrace in the middle of the road, as well as to neutralize the gun. The headlamps were growing brighter and the noise of the approaching car drowned the man’s short heavy breathing. Packer tightened his left hand round the gun wrist, kicked again, savagely at the kneecap, and squeezed off the man’s scream by locking his right hand round the side of his neck and pressing his thumb down.
The car was 100 yards away and the man was beginning to squirm, giving out a high-pitched rasping sound, like a rusty ratchet. In the glow from behind, Packer could see the saliva bubbling at the edges of his clenched lips.
He squeezed harder, feeling the stiff rubbery artery flattening under the pressure; then something heavy hit the side of his boot and clattered on to the road. Still without letting go of the man’s wrist or neck, Packer kicked the gun into the ditch. As he did so, the man collapsed.
Packer was hauling his dead weight to the side of the road when the car reached them. It had slowed down and the driver had opened his window. ‘II y a un accident?’ he called.
‘Rien de sérieux,’ Packer replied. He smiled and imitated the motion of drinking.
The man in the car smiled back, rolled up his window, and drove on.
Packer bundled the gunman’s inert body face-down into the ditch,
