Stephen Leather - The birthday girl

Tim showed her how to read the remaining two instruments: the variometer, which measured the rate of ascent or descent, and the thermistor, which gave the temperature of the air at the top of the balloon. As a general rule, he explained, if ever it got below one hundred degrees, the balloon would start to descend.

'So it's just like a plane, really?' Mersiha said.

'Sort of, except unlike a plane we can't choose where we go. We have to go with the wind. And those guys down there know that.'

'Have you got a radio?' Freeman asked.

Tim shrugged. 'Sure, but it's back there with the ground crew.' He went quiet, turning his back on Mersiha and Freeman, his hands gripping the edge of the basket so tightly that Mersiha could see his knuckles whiten. She didn't know what to say.

There weren't any words that would make it any easier for him.

She looked at her father. He shrugged.

'Why did they do it?' Tim asked quietly.

'It's complicated,' Freeman said.

'They killed my friends,' Tim said as he turned around. 'They killed my friends and all you can say is that it's complicated.'

His voice rose and for a moment Mersiha feared that he was becoming hysterical.

'I'm sorry,' she said. The balloon had started to drift down and so Tim turned on both burners, giving it a six-second blast of heat. The downward drift stopped and the balloon rose, the variometer showing a climb-rate of fifty feet per minute. 'They think I killed a member of their gang,' Mersiha said.

Tim's mouth dropped open. 'They think you did what?' He shook his head. 'Really?'

Mersiha nodded.

'And did you?'

'Like I said, it's complicated,' Freeman interrupted.

'Are you running from the cops?' Freeman shook his head.

'Because if we get out of this, I'm going straight to the cops.'

Tim operated the burners again, keeping the balloon in a steady climb.

'Tim, we'll be right there with you,' Freeman said.

Tim ran a hand through his thick beard. The facial hair and impenetrable sunglasses made it difficult to judge his age.

Mersiha thought he could be anywhere between twenty-five and forty years old. 'They're gonna follow us until we land, aren't they?' he asked.

Mersiha nodded. 'I'm afraid so.'

'And they're gonna kill me, too?'

'It looks that way,' Freeman said. 'They don't seem to be over-worried about innocent bystanders.'

Katherine sighed with relief as she drove down the track and saw the Cherokee parked in front of the cabin. 'Thank God, they're home,' she said. She tooted the horn. 'Thank you, God.

Thank you.'

She climbed out of her car, expecting to see Tony and Mersiha come dashing out of the cabin. The door remained resolutely closed. It was still early. Maybe they are still asleep, she thought.

She yawned and stretched. Her whole body ached and she was bone tired. She climbed the steps to the deck and knocked on the door. There was no answer. She turned the handle. The door squeaked on its hinges. 'Tony!' she called. 'Mersiha! It's me!'

It was only as she stepped inside that she remembered that Tony had hired a Ford Bronco, not a Jeep.

The snowmobile bucked and kicked between Kiseleva's legs as if it had a life of its own. It was a hundred times worse than the horse, and unlike with a living animal there was nothing he could do to return the pain. The wind tore at his face making his eyes water, and every time the front of the machine dipped down, snow was thrown up over the windshield. He was cold, wet and as mad as hell. He squinted up at the balloon. It seemed closer, but it was hard to tell. The snowmobile's left ski hit a rock and he almost lost his grip. He jammed his feet under the metal foot-rests, and used them for leverage to keep himself on the seat.

'Fuck you!' he yelled up at the balloon. 'Fuck you, and fuck the blonde bitch, too!'

He was operating the throttle with his right thumb, which felt as if it was about to drop off. He shifted his grip and tried to use his palm to keep the throttle in the full-on position, but that made it harder to steer. Ostrovetsky was holding him tight around the waist. Both men had put their guns away. The balloon was way too high and the snowmobile was throwing them around so much they couldn't have hit an elephant at point-blank range. He took a quick look at the fuel gauge. It was over three-quarters full.

He had no idea how fast the snowmobiles used up fuel, but the ground crew must have assumed there'd be more than enough to track the balloon throughout its flight.

Kiseleva was looking forward to catching up with Freeman and the girl. He wanted to see their faces as he fired. Maybe he'd do it slowly so that he could hear them scream. A bullet in the leg first.

Then an arm. Then the stomach. It took a long time to die if you were shot in the guts. He'd once pumped a slug into the stomach of a Jamaican drug dealer in Brooklyn and stood over him for almost an hour, listening to him beg for his life and watching him die. It was the first kill he'd really enjoyed. The girl would be a first, though. He'd never killed a girl before. He wondered how he'd feel shooting her. He smiled as he wrenched the handlebars to the left, hauling the snowmobile around a clump of pines. The other snowmobile was a hundred yards ahead of him and he pushed the throttle harder, not wanting to get too far behind.

The last thing Kiseleva wanted was to be beaten to the kill.

His ears had already gone numb with the cold and he was gradually losing the feeling in his lips. He ducked his head down behind the small windshield, trying to avoid the chilling wind, but that meant he couldn't see where he was going. He hit a drift, hard, and banged his chin on the handlebars. He cursed and sat up. Blood dripped down his chin but he couldn't take his hands off the controls to wipe it away. 'Fuck the bitch,' he screamed into the wind. The Freeman girl wouldn't be the last woman he'd kill.

As soon as he got the chance he'd settle the score with the blonde whore. She had no right to treat him the way she did. Just because she opened her legs for Utsyev didn't mean that she could talk to him like that. He'd pick his time carefully, he'd wait until she was alone, he'd take her somewhere where they wouldn't be disturbed, where he'd have all the time in the world. He'd make her beg before she died. Maybe he'd even screw her first. Yeah, that'd be a real kick. Shoot her in the stomach and then screw her. See how she liked that. Kiseleva gripped the seat with his knees and the vibrations of the engine shivered through his groin.

The two snowmobiles far below made buzzing noises like trapped wasps. Tim leaned over the side of the basket. 'Can you see them?' he asked.

'Over there, to the right,' Freeman said, pointing. 'They just went behind that big rock.'

'We're not going to give those guys the slip,' Tim said. He pulled on the burner lever and sent flames roaring into the balloon. 'How high do you think they can shoot those guns?'

'Difficult to say. But they're machine pistols – they're not accurate beyond about a hundred feet.'

'That's something,' Tim said.

'How long can we stay up?' Mersiha asked.

'Until we run out of propane. The problem is, we were only planning a short flight to test the envelope.' He gestured at the three metal cylinders. 'One of them is empty.'

'How long?' she repeated.

'Three hours, tops.'

'What happens then?' she asked.

'Then we go down,' Freeman said.

Tim shook his head. 'We won't be up for three hours,' he said.

'What do you mean?' Freeman asked, frowning.

Tim gestured with his thumb at a mountain range in the distance. 'There's nothing but forest over that ridge. It's just trees and rocks and more trees. They'd rip the balloon apart if we landed there. Us too.'