David Gilman - Ice Claw

No sooner had the biker been pinned than a whisper of air came out of the darkness. Max spun, raised the leather shield-a knife thudded into it.

The German’s voice cried out a command from the pit of darkness below: “We need him alive!”

But the pounding of more feet told Max that kids don’t always do what they’re told by adults, no matter how much they’re being paid. The first figures moved into the light. He could see the knives in their hands now, the moonlight glinting on dull metal. Max was defenseless except for the shield. They would soon get through that. He turned to run, but a twang and a shuddering impact into the wall stopped him dead in his tracks. An arrow had pierced the half-light just in front of the attackers. Max looked up. Sayid stood awkwardly against the balustrade, a short African hunting bow in his hands-and let another arrow fly down the stairwell. It thudded into one of the silently screaming gargoyles’ heads. The bikers faltered, holding back, keeping themselves out of sight. Max seized his chance.

In a few strides he was at Sayid’s side. “That’s all the arrows there were,” Sayid said, trembling with the effort, fear and excitement.

Max was already bundling him back towards the chateau’s main bedroom. He had done enough to stop the savages for a few moments.

“You saved my neck there, Sayid.”

Sayid smiled. “I did?”

“Yeah. Though another couple of centimeters closer and it would have gone through my neck.”

“I’ve never fired a bow before,” Sayid said as Max shoved the door closed behind them.

“I’d never have guessed,” Max said through gritted teeth as he pushed a big piece of antique blackwood furniture across the door. It took all his strength to shift it, but the fear of who was coming up the stairs helped his efforts.

“There’s no reply from Bobby’s phone,” Sayid said.

“Then we’ll make it up as we go along,” Max said, but he wasn’t smiling. They were in real trouble now without any backup.

Satisfied the piece would keep anyone from forcing the door for a while, he took his bearings. Could they hide here? Heavy furniture, cabinets and tables supported by legs of twisted wood; a leopard skin on the polished floor. Latticed windows, a chaise longue, a boxed bed, the wooden sides almost touching the ground. There was nowhere they could conceal themselves and not be found in seconds. Heavy blue curtains draped the bed and windows; a door led to a dressing room. It was almost pitch-black in there.

Grunts and shouts came from the other side of the bedroom door. They were pushing hard. The furniture shifted a few centimeters.

Max gripped the lip of a big table and heaved it in place. That would buy precious minutes. All those curtains! They had to be of some help. Max snatched at the corded tiebacks, his eye catching the benevolent stare of Antoine d’Abbadie and his wife, Virginie, their gold-framed portraits gazing down above the black marble fireplace. Max felt a twinge of guilt for the ugly stench of brutality he had brought into the eccentric man’s home. The concerted effort of that brutality, banging and shouting behind the door, that was trying to reach Max and Sayid.

“Sayid!”

Max nodded towards the small dressing room. Sayid hesitated-they’d be found if they hid in there! But Max was already tying all the cords together, making a rope. Sayid knew Max would have a reason for his command, and he did not want to face the violence that threatened them outside the door. He did as he was told.

Once in the small room Sayid saw there were doors leading to a balcony behind the room’s heavy curtains. Max was ahead of the game-he’d already seen the terrace on the chateau’s plans. Sayid opened the doors while Max feverishly pressed his palms across the small room’s paneled walls. He found the latch he was searching for. A click. A narrow door creaked open, revealing a passage: a slender tunnel of blackness leading into the body of the building.

“Servants’ corridor,” Max said quickly. “Right. Get ready.”

Max joined Sayid outside, drawing the curtains and shutting the doors behind him-the German and the bikers might waste valuable seconds before they realized there was a balcony.

Sayid’s mouth was dry. His voice croaked in a worried whisper, “Ready for what?”

Max dropped a meter of the homemade rope over the edge and coaxed Sayid forward. “Dead easy,” he said. “All you have to do is clamber over the balcony, put your good foot into this loop and I lower you down. Smell that sea air? That’s freedom.”

Some of the curtain tiebacks were broad swathes of strong material and Max had fashioned a loop with one of them at the end of the cord. He smiled. “No rush. Take your time,” he said with a comforting, though false, calmness.

A huge thump against the door convinced Sayid to clamber over the balcony. Knuckles white with tension, he nodded. Crutches gripped in one hand, the other holding the rope, he eased his good foot into the sling.

Max took the cord across his back and braced his legs for Sayid’s weight. “Step off gently. There-got you,” he whispered.

The cord bit into Max’s back, but he lengthened the rope half a meter at a time, then allowed his legs to walk forward slowly towards the balustrade, taking the strain in his thigh muscles. Sayid was still a couple of meters off the ground. The cord was too short! Max leaned his body across the balcony’s rail to try and give Sayid the extra length that his own body provided. The rope burned into his back, and it felt as though the skin on his hands would tear from his bones. Sweat ran off him, and the railing pressed against his bruised rib. He had to let go, he couldn’t hold on any longer. Sayid would smash his leg. He’d failed.

But then the weight disappeared. Max opened his eyes. Sayid was on the ground, looking up, waving. Max hauled the rope back up, looped it through the balcony’s uprights and lowered himself down. Once on the ground, he yanked the rope free and tossed it into the shadows. Even if their pursuers saw the balcony, they wouldn’t see Max and Sayid’s means of escape. That should convince them to waste time exploring the servants’ corridor.

Max immediately urged Sayid into the shadows of the tree line. “Look out for anyone coming, especially the German’s wife. I bet she’s out here with their car.”

All they had to do now was escape. How long did they have before their attackers heaved the door upstairs open and realized the boys had escaped? Max took Sayid’s weight, helping the boy to move quickly towards the trees. They reached the front of the chateau. Half a dozen motorbikes stood tilted on their stands. Was Sharkface here? He couldn’t be. If he were he’d have led the battle on the staircase.

Max looked out into the moving shadows. Spiderwebs of light teased the bare branches. One patch of darkness was blacker than the rest. On the left of the drive the Germans’ car sat unmoving-and facing the gates. Tucked well in, so the driver could see if the old Frenchman returned.

Max put his mouth next to Sayid’s ear. “There’s no sign of Bobby. We’re on our own. Get into those trees over there on the right. See the car? Stay on its blind side and keep out of sight. Meet me at the entrance gates.”

Sayid hesitated.

“I’ll be right behind you,” Max assured him, then turned and ran for the chateau’s front doors. He had to buy them time.

Max barely made it to the Frenchman’s office before he heard the German’s shouting: “Find them! Find them! Search every room!”

He scanned the small, tidy office. Turn things around; make a disadvantage work for you. You’re in trouble-think. C’mon! He grabbed a pair of desk scissors, he’d need those. Then, opening the alarm box’s front panel, he saw the row of unlit lights and the master switch. How long did he have once he activated the alarm? He tried to remember what the Frenchman had done. He’d walked out of his office, closed the door behind him and then gone out of the front door. How long? The Frenchman was slow. Max saw him in his mind’s eye. And counted. Close the office door, one … two seconds. Turn, three … four. Three, maybe four steps to the front door, five … six. Open the door, seven … Pull on his hat and coat, eight … nine … ten … eleven …