Peter Stewart half limped, half dragged himself inside, his pistol held out in front of him and an expression of rage, pain and confusion on his face. He dragged himself through the glass and debris, his leg bleeding through the material and clearly misshapen under his torn snowsuit. His aim was remarkably steady, though. And the other man knew it.
King could feel the barrel against his neck, but he could also sense the indecision, a shakiness to the woman’s grip. He tested it, moved a little to his right. The woman followed, but King guessed it was, so she could see more and get a better idea of what was happening.
“Got yourself a Mexican stand-off,” King said. He was no more confident - a three-gun stand-off meant someone would generally die – but now the man had a fair idea of the pecking order. It wasn’t looking good for him.
The man did not respond, but he pressed the barrel of the assault rifle against Caroline’s skull for good measure. She flinched, the weapon so hard against her that she could no longer see King, her gaze instead pushed towards Stewart.
Stewart smiled. He chanced another step. The man seemed to tighten his finger on the trigger and Stewart stepped all the way in, his pistol no more than a foot from the man’s ear. He looked over at King and said, “Well, this is a wee little mess you’re in, Alex,” he paused. “Just like old times.” His eyes flicked down to Caroline momentarily. “Sorry, lassie, but I’m not here for you…” He fired the pistol and the shot went through the man’s neck, punching out vertebrae and spinal cord. He fired again, not aimed, merely the follow-up to his double tap and put the bullet through the man’s head as he fell to the floor. His finger still on the trigger, but no reflex followed as the weapon clattered to the floor. Caroline fell forwards, turned a shoulder to break her fall and started to scrabble for the rifle.
King moved to his right and was flailing his right arm to sweep the gun away, but she was quick and fired two shots before her gun arm was knocked away. She glared at King defiantly, but he lunged forwards, striking her in the throat with outstretched rigid fingers. He caught hold of her throat and tore backwards, struck his own hand with his other fist to jolt the force downwards. There was no blood, but he had ruptured her windpipe and she dropped the pistol and clutched her throat in reflex. She stared at him in horror, making sense of what had happened, and what was to come. She knew she was dying, her face already changing colour as she found it impossible to breathe. King picked up the silenced 9mm MP-443 pistol and aimed at her. She held a hand in front of her, eyes pleading. King thought of the manager, the two tethered Russians who had met their end in the closet and shot her through the palm of her hand. The bullet carried on through her forehead and she fell backwards. He turned around and looked over at Caroline, who was getting unsteadily to her feet. She was looking down at Stewart but turned slowly and stared at back King.
“Alex…” she said.
Stewart was on his back. Both bullets had hit him in the chest and he was bleeding badly from one, his breath rattling and wheezing from the other. King bent down. He could see a lung was gone, the aorta had been clipped by the other. He had seconds remaining rather than minutes.
“You came back…” King said, bending down and kneeling next to him. He took the man’s hand in his own. Both wore gloves, but King could feel the man’s grip weakening by the second. “Why?”
Stewart rasped, “Because I let you down once…” He struggled to put his other hand around the back of King’s neck and pulled him near. He whispered something as he exhaled but he did not inhale again. He was gone.
74
The worst of the storm had passed, but as King weaved the snowmobile through the debris left in its wake, he couldn’t help but to marvel at the sheer power of nature.
They had gathered up the weapons, shared out the ammunition and helped themselves to supplies from the kitchen. Ramsay’s wound was superficial – he had cracked his head on the floor in the shockwave of the grenade - and Caroline had made a cold compress for him, joking whether she could find any ice. Huss had been loaded onto the caterpillar truck, his leg bandaged, and a similar compress given to him for the journey. They would take the truck down the winding track and take one of the SUVs they had travelled up in. The truck was fitted with a snowplough and would lead the way, all the way, if needed back to Kitilla. King would return to the hotel and take the other SUV, meeting them in Kitilla the next morning. It was as good a plan as they could hatch, but news of his separate mission had been a surprise to all but Marnie, who under King’s instruction, had arranged it through Director Amherst.
King wound the snowmobile around another fallen tree, following the GPS on the instrument panel. It was a simple route - North.
Natalia held on tightly. The acceleration from the machine was savage and as King increased the power after every obstruction lying in their path, inertia forced them both
