Steven Havill - Bitter Recoil

“Listen carefully, and get this right the first time. Finn wants Channel 8’s Jet Ranger, fully fueled, with a pilot and a reporter on board. He wants it to set down immediately beside the mine shaft. We have to be able to see the blades flash, or he won’t go for it. No one else in the way. The three of us will come up. The three of us will board the chopper. Is that understood?”

After a pause, I heard Pat Tate’s voice. “Understand: Channel 8’s chopper, one pilot, one reporter. They might not agree to that.”

“Don’t waste time, Pat.” The television crew would leap at the chance to be evening news. “And nothing else. Tell everyone to keep their fingers off the damn triggers. I don’t want the girl hurt.”

“Ten four. Search and rescue wants the girl in a harness, on a rope.”

“No,” Finn said loudly.

“Look,” I said. “It’s for her own safety, Finn. Use your head. You could slip. Without a harness, there’s nothing between you and 400 feet of shaft.”

His voice regained its original composure. “If you and your men do as I say, there won’t be any slips, will there?”

“Gastner, did you copy?”

I keyed the mike. “Negative on the rope,” I said. My brain raced. There was no way a four-year-old child was going to be carried up 300 feet of rusted, slippery ladder.

“We’ll see what we can do,” Tate said, and the shaft fell silent. I shifted in the harness, trying to let some blood down my right leg.

“Finn, listen to me. Turn your light on.” To my surprise he did so, keeping the beam centered on my torso. “Are you wearing a heavy belt?”

He didn’t answer.

“Look, if you are, use this.” I turned and groped with my left hand for the small harness that the deputy had clipped to my own. “They gave me this. Put it on Daisy, and clip her to your belt. At least do that.”

“No.” He turned off the light.

“Damn it, she’ll be clipped to you. She’ll be safe that way. What can we do if she’s clipped to you? No one can make a move to grab her. And it keeps your arms free. It will be even better.”

Finn was silent, and I hoped he was weighing his options. “All right,” he said. “Throw the harness into the tunnel.” He turned on the light. I breathed a sigh or relief. For several minutes I fumbled with the carabiner before the big steel ring snapped open. I tossed the smaller of the two extra harnesses into the drift.

The beam always fastened on me, Finn made his way through the scattered junk. He stopped when the line of pump foundations separated us. I couldn’t tell if he held a weapon in his other hand. “Tell them to pull you up ten feet.”

The bastard was shrewd. I keyed the mike and repeated his order. I had no sense of moving. Rather, the entrance of the drift sank, as if the wall itself slid downward. My feet were just above the top of the tunnel mouth when the pull stopped.

“Finn, do you know how to hook up that harness? Do it properly now.” I shouted, suddenly frantic at not being able to see inside the drift.

He didn’t respond, but I heard his footfalls as he advanced and picked up the harness. I tried to picture him bending down, then straightening up, and then retreating back down the shaft. I counted eight footfalls, then lost him. There was no other time to take the gamble. I reached up and gently keyed the mike. I kept my voice a husky whisper.

“Don’t answer,” I whispered. “Give me five bites down.”

Their response was immediate. In the darkness I felt the wall slide by, felt the breath of air as the drift yawned in front of me. I’d have one chance. I stretched out my feet, my toes reaching for rock. The floor of the drift touched my left foot and I grabbed with my left hand, my teeth clenched.

I felt wood, slipped, and grabbed a rough crack in the timber. I yanked with all my strength, pulling the rope in after me. As the downward bite continued, I let my weight carry me into the drift until I was resting on my left hand and both knees. My right leg, until then sound asleep, tingled sharply with the new movement.

Above they would continue to pay out the rope, giving me three more bites of slack…about eighteen feet of line. I hoped they wouldn’t ask questions when the weight left the line. I straightened up slightly and pulled out the Colt automatic.

The murmurings of soft voices reached me. I tried to judge the distance, but the sound bounced and echoed. I recognized Daisy’s little voice, high-pitched and confused.

Finn hadn’t heard me. I kept my mouth closed, forcing my breathing quiet. My heart hammered in my ears. Slowly I shuffled forward five feet, a third of the distance to the pump foundations.

In minutes Finn would return with Daisy. I knew I’d have the time and the strength for only one try.

I edged my way toward the old pump foundation. When I thought I was close, I reared up on my knees like an old dinosaur, hand outstretched and groping.

The edge of my hand touched cold, damp concrete. With infinite care I palmed the small automatic, held it against my chest, and pushed off the safety. I took a deep breath and braced my forearm on the concrete. The darkness in front of me was a solid door.

Finn would have to use the light to walk Daisy out. I strained to hear. Nothing.

“Keep your eyes on your feet, Ruth,” he said. The voice took me completely by surprise. I crouched as low as my belly would allow. Their feet made soft shuffling sounds with an occasional tinkle as some small piece of mining detritus was kicked from their path.

The light cut the darkness over my head, darting out into the shaft. I kept my head down. My hand on the automatic was wet with sweat. The sounds stopped. Had the son of a bitch seen the rope?

“Gastner!” His voice was strong…and close. The beam of light twitched, swinging from one side to the other. “I’ve got the girl with me.”

I could hear her breathing, little chirpy breaths of raw fright. He took another step, and I watched the flashlight beam.

His voice was a soft whisper. “Stay close, Ruth.” She wasn’t linked. I gritted my teeth and slipped my index finger in the trigger guard of the Colt.

The flashlight beam was narrow and intense. He was close. Another step, you bastard, I thought. I saw the shadow of his hand behind the light, counted three, and moved.

Six feet away, the target for my automatic was just a murky figure behind the light. I saw Finn’s trick almost soon enough. The images registered just as I squeezed the trigger. The smaller of the two figures was holding the flashlight.

I pulled the shot, but too late. The little Colt coughed and spat. The bullet sang past the side of Daisy’s head, whined off the ceiling, and ricocheted down the drift.

Finn was already in motion, but he was a big target. I squeezed the trigger twice, and this time Finn yelped and spun sideways. In two staggering backward steps he crashed into the wall of the shaft.

Instinctively Daisy turned, and the beam turned with her. For a moment Finn was illuminated. He scrambled to his feet. In his right hand was my.45 automatic, and there was no silencer on the muzzle.

I pointed quickly and fired twice. Each time the little pellets struck him, he flinched and staggered back. But he didn’t go down. For a moment he stood motionless, his face looking up at the roof of the drift, as if he were lost and searching for direction from the rocks.

The little girl dropped the light. It clattered, rolled a couple of feet toward me, and lay against a length of rusted pipe. Its beam pointed back into the drift. She whimpered and sat down, a tiny, frightened ball.

I slapped the automatic down on the concrete foundation, lunged toward her, and grabbed the harness. I pulled the little girl to me. I saw motion and looked up to see Finn staggering like a drunk. He raised the.45 and held it in both hands.