Matthew Dunn - Slingshot

Within seconds, he was out of the forest. Now he was exposed. And while he was sure the police had been trying to capture him alive, he wondered what orders they’d been given if it looked likely he was going to escape. Keeping his movements erratic, he pumped his legs as fast as he could, despite every intake of air causing pain in his lungs, his muscles screaming in agony from his exertions and the blows he’d received.

The summit was fifteen yards away. He changed direction again just before a burst of gunfire raced through the air where he’d been a split second before. Clearly, the cops were not going to risk him escaping and were now shooting to kill.

Spinning around, he saw three officers running out of the tree line. Using the Vityaz’s telescopic sight, he took aim and put two rounds into one of the cop’s legs. The man crumpled to the ground, screaming; his colleagues looked panicked and dived for cover. Will turned, ran, reached the summit, changed direction, and started moving along it faster. The ground was flat here and the snow much thinner and more compacted. He looked into the valley. One of the trucks was moving along the distant track in the same direction he was headed; those cops and dogs that he could see in the forest were also paralleling his route. Moving out of sight of the valley, his only thought now was to cover the two miles to his bike quicker than the men pursuing him.

One hundred yards ahead of him, two dogs clambered onto the summit, their breath steaming in the icy air as they looked around, trying to find their quarry. One of them barked; both locked eyes on Will and raced toward him. He barely slowed as he raised his gun and put four-round bursts into each of them. Within seconds, he was jumping over their dead bodies.

More snow started to fall, and the light was beginning to fade. Will knew the police would do everything they could to capture him before nightfall-he hadn’t seen any of them carrying night-vision equipment, and German shepherd dogs were poor trackers in the dark.

He covered one mile, felt exhausted, and could feel that he was starting to slow down, though he thought that he was probably still moving more quickly than the cops in the valley basin. But the truck worried him. No doubt it was already at the end of the valley, stationary, waiting to receive updates on Will’s location.

Deciding he had to risk another glance into the valley, he moved left while maintaining his speed. Now he was visible to anyone in the valley who was looking in his direction. At least three people were, because sustained bursts of gunfire came from three different locations in the valley below. Will darted right and out of sight. The rounds had been wide of their mark; he was beyond the submachine guns’ accurate range. But he knew that he had to fight every physical instinct to further slow down, as his brief look into the valley had shown him that the police were still moving in force through the forest and that the truck was waiting ahead of him at the end of the track on the opposite side of the valley.

His head throbbing, he started counting each pace, reckoning that he’d reach his bike at the approximate count of fifteen hundred. Strong winds began to drive the snowfall toward him. He narrowed his eyes to try to avoid becoming disoriented by the white specks and had to work even harder to maintain his pace.

He reached a count of five hundred.

The taste of blood was in his mouth.

One thousand.

Every muscle in his body felt like it was being torn apart.

Twelve hundred.

He could see his bike on the high ground at the head of the valley.

Thirteen hundred.

He stumbled, nearly fell, knew that at any moment his legs would simply stop functioning.

Fourteen hundred.

He couldn’t count anymore. Or run. His breathing loud, his hair matted with sweat and snow, his face screwed up in pain, he staggered forward until he was standing by the bike. Two hundred yards away, on lower ground and moving closer to him, was the truck. No doubt it was full of cops. In the forest, some of the police on foot had switched on the tactical flashlights attached to their submachine guns. Light was fading, but they were getting nearer. Tossing his gun away, he tried to lift the heavy bike. He got it off the ground a few inches before his oxygen-starved muscles gave up and the machine crashed back to the ground. Dogs barked. Someone in the forest shouted orders. Will knew that the police could see him; in a matter of seconds they would be in range to shoot him. He sucked in air, ignored the fact that his heart was pumping so fast he thought it could fail, gripped the handlebars, and moaned loudly as he tried again to haul the bike upright.

At least two dogs were now continuously barking and seemed to be drawing closer; no doubt they’d been unleashed. He leaned back, his teeth gritted, trying to use his body weight to raise the machine. The bike lifted a few more inches. His back was in agony, felt like it was burning. Gunfire. Most were off target, but one round struck the bike’s seat and ricocheted through the air close to his head. He knew that if he dropped the bike now he’d have no chance of escape, so he screamed, pulled back with every remaining bit of strength, thought that he was going to lose consciousness, got the bike upright, immediately swung a leg over it, and sat on the machine, his breathing rapid. More shouting; the dogs had to be very close now.

He tried to kick-start the bike. Nothing happened.

He tried again; the engine still didn’t engage.

Bullets struck the ground inches from the bike’s front tire.

He raised his body, then thrust down to add weight to the kick-start.

Still nothing.

The truck stopped, just one hundred yards away. Men jumped out of the back.

He stood again. The act sent bolts of pain through his legs and arms. He breathed in and thrust down.

The engine engaged. He immediately revved the throttle, lurched forward as the bike’s gears engaged, and pulled the throttle fully back. From the forest and the truck came multiple sustained bursts of gunfire.

But he was out of the cops’ line of sight, speeding over rough ground away from the valley. He gripped the machine tightly as he drove it over mounds, jumped through air, thudded to the ground, and maintained its traction on the snow.

There was no more gunfire. The police would be running back to the truck to pursue him in the vehicle. And they’d be summoning quicker patrol cars to the area to block his escape. But he wouldn’t be using the roads. For sixty minutes, he drove across farmland, along tracks and open fields, through woods and larger forests, only turning on his lights when he needed to.

He pulled into Arman’s junkyard, turned off the ignition, and lowered the bike’s stand. The trailer’s interior was illuminated. Arman emerged holding a flashlight. Will got off the bike and staggered over to the Russian, then his knees buckled.

Arman grabbed him and held him upright. “Are you injured?”

Will couldn’t answer. Couldn’t think. Fatigue had overwhelmed him.

The former tank commander gripped him tightly, limping as he guided Will toward his home.

Joanna lifted the instrument case out of the large packing box, placed it on Will’s dining table, and called out, “Be a darling and put the kettle on.”

“Right you are, my dear.” Robert was in the kitchen, washing breakfast dishes. Next to him, leaning against a cupboard, was his shotgun.

Joanna opened the case. Inside was an old German lute. She whispered, “Beautiful,” as she ran a finger along its strings. “Can’t have you hidden away.” She looked around, trying to decide where to put it, and settled on placing it on a shelf next to a framed photograph of a teenage Will playing viola in his school orchestra.