The Birthday Girl (44 page)

Several times Vincenti's snowmobile banged into low branches, starting small snowfalls which infuriated Kiseleva as he drove through them. His face and scarf were plastered with wet THE BIRTHDAY GIRL 369 slush, adding to his discomfort. He was mentally cursing Vincenti when suddenly the snowmobile ahead veered off to the right and pitched over on its side, the rubber caterpillar track whirring around uselessly. The two men were thrown off, the passenger slamming into a tree. Snow poured down in a miniature avalanche, half covering him. Vincenti lay trapped under the vehicle, his leg jammed under one of the skis.

Kiseleva braked. Vincenti was conscious but his leg was bleeding badly. The right ski had buckled. Kiseleva realised that Vincenti must have caught it on something - a concealed rock or root. Whatever had done the damage, the snowmobile clearly wasn't going anywhere. Neither was Vincenti. 'Help me,' he groaned. The engine was still racing - the throttle must have jammed. Vincenti tried to lift himself into a sitting position but the effort was too much for him and he fell back into the snow. 'Hit the engine cut-off,' he pleaded. He was bleeding from his mouth as if he'd bitten his tongue.

'No time,' Kiseleva said. He gunned the throttle and accelerated away, spraying snow over the injured man.

'We could have helped them,' Ostrovetsky shouted.

'Later,' Kiseleva yelled. 'We'll come back for them.' He smiled under his scarf as he picked his way through the trees. He was secretly pleased that Vincenti had screwed up. Now he'd get all the credit for killing Freeman and the girl.

Tim tightened his grip on the rip-line and looked down on Freeman and his daughter, who were crouching on the floor of the basket. 'Okay, get ready,' he said.

'What do we do?' Freeman asked.

'Stay just as you are while I take the balloon down. When I give you the word, slip over the side of the basket. We'll be six feet above the ground so there'll be a bit of a drop, but the snow's soft and fairly deep. You'll be fine. When we get down low we'll be in the shelter of the trees so the wind speed will drop dramatically. We'll probably be down to a walking pace.

Just remember what I said - lie still and don't move until the snowmobiles have passed.'

'Can you see them?'

'No. They're the other side of the forest somewhere. You can still hear them off in the distance. I don't know how much time we'll have so when I say go, you go.'

Freeman forced a smile. 'Ready when you are,' he said. He put his arm around Mersiha's shoulders. 'Are you okay, pumpkin?'

She nodded and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

'This is it,' the pilot said. He pulled the rip-line and almost immediately Freeman felt the balloon drop. His stomach turned over and he took deep breaths to fight the nausea.

'Six hundred feet to go,' Tim said.

Kiseleva pushed the throttle as far forward as it would go and the snowmobile leapt forward and burst out of the forest in a shower of snow and broken twigs. The balloon was only a few hundred yards away, its envelope partially deflated and falling fast. The pilot was standing up, peering over the side of the basket. Kiseleva powered the snowmobile along the treeline, his heart pounding. The pilot looked up and saw them. He let go of the line and began frantically to throw out bags of ballast, trying to stop the balloon's rapid descent. There was no sign of Freeman and the girl. Kiseleva assumed they must be sitting down in the basket, braced for the landing. He grinned and swung the snowmobile to the left, heading directly for the balloon. Behind him, he felt Ostrovetsky draw his gun from inside his jacket. The balloon's descent was visibly slowing. Now it was only fifty feet or so above the snowfield. The pilot was screaming or shouting. Kiseleva couldn't make out the words - it sounded like the roar of an animal in pain. He stopped throwing out ballast and pulled on the levers below die burners. Flames shot up into the envelope, but Kiseleva could see diat he was too late - die descent was continuing, albeit slowly.

He angled the snowmobile so diat they could get a clear shot THE BIRTHDAY GIRL 371 and Ostrovetsky let rip with his Ingram. The first burst missed the basket but hit the envelope, rippling the fabric but passing harmlessly through. 'Slow down!' Ostrovetsky shouted above the noise of the engine. Kiseleva jammed on the brake and took his thumb off the throttle and the snowmobile skidded sideways across the snow. Ostrovetsky fired again, the shots muffled by the silencer and sounding like nothing more sinister than rapid handclaps. The bullets caught the pilot in the chest and he fell backwards, his outstretched hands grabbing at the rip-line. 'Yes!' Kiseleva yelled. 'We've got them!'

Mersiha screamed as Tim staggered back against the side of the basket. His sunglasses slipped from his face and clattered on to her head. Freeman looked up in horror as wet, sticky blood trickled down the front of his daughter's jacket. Blood was pouring from Tim's throat and chest, and as he looked into his eyes he saw them glaze over, like water transforming into ice. His lifeless body pitched forward, and as he fell Freeman felt the balloon suddenly drop.

The rip-line had become wrapped around Tim's wrist and his weight had dragged open the parachute deflation system. Hot air was flooding out of the envelope and they were only seconds away from slamming into the ground. 'Stay down!' Freeman shouted to Mersiha as he scrambled to his feet. He stood up and tried to pull the line free, but as soon as his head emerged above the side of the basket, bullets whipped through the air and he ducked. He threw himself at Mersiha, wrapping himself around her, trying to protect her as best he could. A bullet screeched off one of the propane cylinders and he flinched. The pilot's face lay awkwardly against the bottom of the basket, blood oozing from his open mouth. His backside was up in the air, his knees under his chest, as if even in death he was trying to avoid the hail of bullets.

Freeman looked up through the skirt at the bottom of the envelope, past the burners, and up through the hole at the top 372 STEPHEN LEATHER of the balloon. He could see the brilliant blue sky and, high up, a bird circling. The basket began to spin crazily. Freeman hugged Mersiha tight and closed his eyes, waiting for the end.

The wicker basket and its occupants slammed into the snow with a dull thud that Kiseleva felt as much as heard. The envelope settled around it like a feather-soft quilt. He pulled his gun out from its underarm holster and checked that the safety was off. Ostrovetsky climbed off the snowmobile, his boots sinking into the snow, covering the balloon with his Ingram. Kiseleva put a hand on his shoulder. 'No. They're mine,' he said.

Ostrovetsky was about to argue, but Kiseleva silenced him with a baleful stare. He stepped off the snowmobile and crunched towards the downed balloon. After the roar of the snowmobile and the thump of the crash-landing, the quiet was intimidating. He could hear a myriad of small sounds as he made his way through the snow. The propane burners were clicking as they cooled, the brightly coloured envelope crackled in the wind, the basket creaked, and somewhere high up in the sky a bird cried.

The closer he got to the basket, the deeper the snow. It was up to his knees, the icy cold soaking through his jeans and chilling his skin. Now that he was no longer astride the hot engine, the cold was spreading quickly through his body. He shivered. He pulled the scarf off his face and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. The basket had fallen on its side, the open end pointing away from him. He stopped and listened. There were no human sounds. No crying. No pleading. No whimpering. Kiseleva was suddenly disappointed. He waded through the snow as quickly as he could, lifting his feet high with each step and holding his hands out to the side for balance. It would be all too easy to stumble and fall, but the urge to see Freeman and the girl was overpowering and he pushed forward. He was panting, his breath a white fog around his face. He skirted around the basket, keeping his gun at the ready, his finger aching on the trigger.

He swallowed apprehensively, the desire to kill forming a hard knot in his stomach. 'Don't be dead,' he whispered. 'Please don't be dead.'

The deflated envelope was billowing in the wind and being dragged away from the basket. Kiseleva froze in his tracks as he thought he saw a movement at the edge of the basket. He held the gun with both hands, fighting the shivering that threatened to spoil his aim, but the movement wasn't repeated. Small black dots began to swim across his vision and he blinked, trying to clear his eyes. He moved crab-like across the snow, taking careful, measured sideways steps, bending at the knees to keep his centre of gravity as low as possible. He saw a head, its mouth a red slash almost hidden in a beard. The pilot.

As he moved around another face came into view. It was Freeman, his eyes closed, his head back as if he'd been punched on the chin. Kiseleva frowned. He took another step to the side, and as he moved he saw Freeman's head slump forward. Kiseleva smiled grimly. At least the father was still alive. For a while, at least. But what about the girl? He licked his lips in anticipation. She must have been right at the bottom of the basket. Another couple of steps and he'd be able to see right inside - there was nowhere to hide. It'd be like shooting fish in a barrel. He lifted his left leg up and placed his foot carefully to the side. It crunched through the crisp snow and as he transferred his weight he sank up to his knee. He leaned over and craned his neck. He caught a glimpse of black hair and pale skin and he jerked back, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He cursed himself for his stupidity. What the hell was he scared of? She was just a girl. An unarmed girl. He took another step and for the first time got a good look at her. She was lying awkwardly across her father's legs, her hair in disarray, her eyes closed. Her face was almost as white as the snow, but she was still alive - he could see her chest slowly rising and falling. Kiseleva grinned. 'Now you're mine,' he whispered. He took another step forward, wanting to get as close as possible. He wondered which one to shoot first, the girl or the father. God, it would be so much better if they were conscious. He wanted them to beg for their lives, to plead and cry.

He kicked the edge of the basket, gingerly with the tip of his toe at first, then harder. There was no reaction. 'Freeman,' he said. 'Freeman. Wake up.' Neither the man nor his daughter showed any reaction. There was no alternative - he was going to have to do it while they were unconscious. He aimed the gun at Freeman's head. Like fish in a barrel, he thought again. He tightened his trigger finger. That was when Mersiha opened her eyes.

The fall had knocked the wind out of Mersiha, but it wasn't as bad as she'd feared. The half-deflated envelope had contained enough hot air to restrict the downward plunge and the thick snow had absorbed much of the impact. Her father hadn't been so lucky. He'd banged his head against one of the propane tanks and was unconscious, and he didn't react when she shook his arm. Mersiha had heard only one snowmobile and she listened for a while, wondering what had happened to the other one. All she could see out of the basket was the snowfield and a strip of blue sky. She strained to hear what was going on outside. She heard a bird cry out,,and far off in the distance something that sounded like a car. Maybe someone had seen them crash. Maybe they'd be rescued. Her hopes were dashed when she heard a crunching noise, as if a bite had been taken out of a crisp apple. Someone was walking towards the balloon.

Mersiha looked around for something to use as a weapon, but there was nothing she could use against men with guns. Something rustled behind her and she flinched, then realised that it was only the balloon moving in the wind. Outside, she heard another footfall. She pinched her father's arm. He moaned but still he wouldn't wake up. Mersiha's heart began to race. She had a sudden urge to rush out of the basket, to go down fighting rather than being shot like a trapped animal. In front of her, the large stainless-steel burners clicked as they cooled. She realised how lucky they'd been that the tanks hadn't been hit. The pilot lights still flickered blue. If the propane had escaped they'd have THE BIRTHDAY GIRL 375 died in an inferno. She grimaced. Burned to death or shot - did it really matter? The end result was going to be the same. Away to the left, she heard another footfall. She focused her attention on the unseen man, turning her head slowly from side to side as she listened and tried to pinpoint his position. She imagined that she could hear his breathing, rapid and shallow.

Tim's arm was lying across her left foot and she pulled it away, but the movement caused a shifting in the balance of the basket and it squeaked. She stopped. The approaching man stopped, too. Mersiha closed her eyes and played dead. If he thought that they'd died in the fall, maybe he'd just go away. She tried to keep her breathing as still as possible.

The man started to move again. Only one man, Mersiha realised, though there had been two on each of the snowmobiles. The urge to open her eyes was almost irresistible. She could picture the man standing at the open end of the basket, a gun in his hand, watching her and waiting for the moment when he'd pull the trigger and end her life. She didn't want to die with her eyes closed, she thought. Better to see the face of her killer. Better to look into his eyes so that he'd feel her hatred and contempt. She opened her eyelids a fraction. Still there was nothing to see but the snow and the sky. Her father's head moved, slumping forward. His breathing seemed heavier and more laboured. Mersiha closed her eyes again. Another footfall. Definitely louder this time. How close would the man get, she thought? Would he try to touch them, to see if he could find a pulse, or would he just shoot them where they lay? Something rocked the basket, a light tap at first and then a hefty kick. Mersiha trembled.

When the man spoke, his voice seemed only inches away. 'Freeman,' she heard. 'Freeman, wake up.' When her father didn't reply, the man crunched through the snow, then there was silence. Mersiha opened her eyes.

The man was standing less than six feet from the open end of the basket, his gun levelled at Freeman's face. 'No!' she screamed. The gun began to swing in her direction. She cowered in the bottom of the basket, trying to push herself away from the weapon. The propane burners were between 376 STEPHEN LEATHER her and the gun but the man had only to move to the side to get a clear shot. He smiled evilly, showing yellowing teeth. His hair and eyebrows were crusted with melting ice, and he had a soaking-wet red scarf around his neck. He was shivering, either with the cold or with excitement, but the hand holding the gun was steady. The pilot lights in the burners flickered as a gust of wind blew into the wicker basket. Mersiha tore her gaze away from the man with the gun and stared at the huge burners, a frown on her face. Suddenly she realised what she had to do. She screamed as she threw herself forward, her hands clawing as she groped for the metal levers. The man took a step back, confused by her attack, as if he thought she was trying to get at him. Before he could aim his gun again, Mersiha grabbed the lever that operated the left burner. She pulled it with all her might. The propane hissed as it escaped and then roared as it ignited, sending a tongue of bright yellow flame shooting out of the basket, engulfing the man. Mersiha was so close to the burner that the heat was scorching, but she kept it full on, turning her head away and closing her eyes tight.