Greg Iles - The Quiet Game

Stone kneels six feet back from the door, shoulders the Winchester, and puts his right eye to the scope, as though preparing to shoot right through the door.

“Open it,” he says. “Slowly. Then get clear, fast.”

I slowly turn the handle, then stretch as far away as I can from the door and pull it halfway open.

Stone quickly adjusts his aim, then fires. The report of the rifle inside the cabin is like a detonation.

“He’s down!” shouts Stone. “Follow me!”

“Where to?”

Before he can answer, the front window of the cabin explodes inward and a bullet ricochets off the hearth. Stone whirls, draws a small automatic from his belt, and empties half a clip through the broken window.

“Move!” he yells, grabbing my arm and jerking me toward the door.

“Where?” I ask, my throat dry as sand.

“Somewhere they can’t follow!”

“Where’s that?”

“The river.”

“The river? In what?”

“You’ll see. Move your ass!”

As Stone pulls me through the back door of the cabin, something explodes behind us. We fall facedown on the snow, stunned like cattle after being hit with an electric prod, but we scramble blindly backward for the cover of the cabin wall, knowing instinctively that exposure means death.

Hunched against the side of the cabin, I scan the swollen river and its banks in the dying light. I see no way to use that flooded stream as a means of escape. Stone’s lips are moving, but I hear nothing. He turns and begins tugging at something beneath his cabin. It’s some sort of inflatable boat, a long red plastic thing, like a cross between a canoe and kayak. Seeing that I can’t hear his orders, Stone takes back the pistol he gave me, then motions for me to drag the kayak to the water, a distance of about eighty feet. He obviously means to cover me while I do this, but I’m not going to drag anything. If I have to cross that open space, I’m going to do it as fast as I can.

Dropping to my knees, I turn the kayak upside down and crawl under it, sliding it onto my back like an elongated turtle shell. Its coated fabric skin probably wouldn’t stop a pellet gun, but at least I’ll be able to run with the thing.

As I start toward the river, my Reebok-clad feet slip and crunch over the snow. The bow of the kayak bobs forward and back as I rush forward, obscuring my vision, making my gauntlet longer than it needs to be. I cringe at the stutter of an automatic weapon somewhere behind me, but the reassuring bellow of Stone’s. 45 pushes me on. At least I haven’t completely lost my hearing.

The last half of my dash to the river has the terrible dreamlike quality of pursuing a receding horizon, the shock of my feet hitting rocks under the snow the only tangible proof that I’m awake. The swiftly falling darkness is probably providing more protection than Stone’s pistol, but it can’t be long before someone sprays a clip at the fleeing kayak.

When my feet kick up the first splash, I leap forward and land in a bone-chilling current that pulls at the kayak like a giant hand. Fighting to my knees in the current, I flip the kayak upright and lie down in the shallows beside it, leaving only my head exposed. Muzzle flashes in the cabin windows punctuate the flashes below them, where Stone must be firing. There’s a brief lull, and then Stone comes charging out of the darkness toward the water, a two-bladed kayak paddle in one hand and his Winchester in the other.

He whirls and fires twice on the run, then breaks in my direction, using the white propane tank for concealment. He’s halfway to the water when another flash lights up the interior of the cabin. Stone grabs his buttocks, lurches forward, then spins and returns fire as he goes down in the snow.

I start pulling the kayak toward the bank, but the bottom shallows quickly beneath me, forcing me into an exposed position. The water feels like glacial runoff, stealing my breath, making my teeth chatter uncontrollably. But it’s better than what Stone is enduring. Every five seconds or so he lets off a. 45 round back at the cabin windows, but he can’t keep that up forever. Panic scrambles around in my chest like a crazed animal, urging me to flight. It wouldn’t take anything, just a surrender to the current. I could float downstream for fifty yards, then climb into the kayak and be on my way.

As though sensing my panic, Stone holds the paddle and rifle along the length of his body and begins rolling across the snow toward the river. The old agent looks like a kid playing a game. Bullets kick up white powder in front of him, but he doesn’t even slow down. When he is five yards away, I yell: “Th-throw me the pistol!”

The. 45 skids across the snow, but I manage to get my fingers around it before it disappears in the river. The steel feels warm compared to the water. It’s too dark to aim accurately at the cabin from here, but two more muzzle flashes obligingly appear, and I let off three shots at the afterimage on my retinas.

“Into the current!” shouts Stone.

“What about the kayak?”

“Too easy to hit! Just hang onto the rope!”

He rolls into the shallows, then hangs up on the rocks somehow. I fire twice more at the cabin, then grab his belt and drag him into the current while bullets spray water against my knees. The muzzle flashes are between the cabin and the river now. They’re coming for us.

As I grope helplessly for the kayak, Stone rises to his knees in the water, the big Winchester braced against his shoulder. He fires once, then cycles the bolt, waits three seconds, and fires again.

A fireball the size of the cabin itself explodes out of the darkness, sucking up all the air around us. I feel the pull in my lungs and sinuses as a millisecond’s image of a blazing man is seared into my brain and I tumble backward into the freezing water. The propane tank, marvels a voice in my head. One shot to pierce its skin, the second to ignite the gas…

Stone is already in the main channel of the river, trying to keep his head and the rifle above the surface. Wrapping the kayak’s bow rope tightly around my wrist, I leap into the black water where the current is strongest and give myself to it. A couple of desultory shots ring out, but they could be loose rounds in the pistols of dead men, cooking off in the inferno Stone has made of his home. The river has us in its power now, and the assassins are but a burning memory falling behind us in the dark.

“Stone? Stone!”

“Ahead of you,” comes a faint reply. “Did they hit the kayak?”

“I don’t think so.”

“It’s got three cells. Check it out.”

Since I’m hanging onto the kayak for dear life, it’s not difficult to obey Stone’s order. The strange craft seems intact, though its cells don’t seem as fully inflated as they might be. Stone’s two-bladed paddle is wedged between the seats and the starboard gunwale.

“It’s okay.”

The water here is swift and smooth. The moon and stars shine with white brilliance, reflecting off the deep water like diamonds flung onto its surface. I kick with the current, hoping to ease my fear and aloneness by overtaking Stone.

A sharp cry comes from up ahead. I’m trying to place its direction when something smashes into my ribs, knocking the wind out of me. A rock. Stone must have hit the same one.

A white hand appears in the current. I grab it and pull, then wind the bow rope tightly around the wrist. Now at least we are riding the river together, and will share the same fate.

“Thanks,” says Stone, his face a gray blur beside mine.

“Are you h-hit bad?” I ask, trying to control my voice.

“Bad enough. I don’t think it hit bone, though.”

“Shouldn’t we get in the kayak?”