Stephen Leather - The birthday girl

Kiseleva remembered Vincenti's warning and kept the throttle full on as he raced across the virgin snow. If the snowmobile sank into the deep drifts they'd never be able to dig it out.

Every bone in his body ached, and it required a constant effort to keep the vehicle on course. He'd lost all feeling in his right thumb and his eyes were watering. It felt as if he'd been on the machine for an eternity. He couldn't remember a time when his body hadn't been racked by pain and his ears assaulted by the never-ending drone of the engine between his legs.

Over to his left, the balloon was still descending. Kiseleva looked over his shoulder to see where Vincenti was. The other snowmobile was gaining quickly, now racing on a course parallel to his. He crouched forward over the handlebars to cut down the wind resistance and to give his eyes a respite from the wind.

Ice was crusting on his eyelashes and he blinked, trying to clear them. The skis hit a snowdrift and the snowmobile pitched up and then slammed down, knocking the breath from his body.

Instinctively he throttled back, but immediately the skis began to sink. He forced the throttle forward and leant back, and the snowmobile powered forward once more. The sound of Vincenti's machine grew louder and he realised that he was about to be overtaken. He cursed. He didn't want to be beaten to the kill. Not after all he'd been through. He could think of only one way he'd be able to get to the balloon before Vincenti – he'd have to go through the trees instead of around them. He kept looking anxiously to his left, searching for a way into the forest.

Vincenti drew level. He nodded over at Kiseleva. There was something condescending about the gesture, Kiseleva thought, and he turned away to concentrate on the treeline.

Vincenti pulled away with no apparent effort. Kiseleva couldn't work out how the man managed to get the extra speed from his snowmobile. He had his own throttle pushed as far forward as it would go, yet he was clearly falling behind. He cursed, rocking backwards and forwards as if that would coax extra speed from the vehicle. Suddenly Vincenti veered towards the trees and Kiseleva realised that they'd both had the same idea.

Vincenti had seen a gap in the pines which appeared to be the start of a narrow trail. The snowmobile shot into the forest like a rabbit disappearing into its burrow. Kiseleva yanked hard on the handlebars and followed him.

The trail Vincenti was following was peppered with hoof prints, obviously well used by deer and elk. The snow was light and fluffy and considerably less deep than it had been out in the open. Both snowmobiles had to slow down because the trail twisted and turned and in places it seemed to vanish completely.

Kiseleva followed closely as Vincenti navigated through the maze of snow-laden trees. He hoped that they'd made the right decision. From the ground there was no way of knowing how deep the forest was, or if the trail actually led anywhere. For all they knew, they could be pursuing a dead end. The snowmobile bucked from side to side on the uneven trail, like a small boat riding out a storm. Kiseleva's arms felt as if they were being torn from their sockets. Ahead, Vincenti slowed and stood up, peering through the trees for the best way to go. His passenger pointed off to the right but Vincenti shook his head. Kiseleva could see why – heading to the right would take them further away from the balloon. He took his thumb off the throttle and the snowmobile slithered to a halt. 'What's wrong?' Ostrovetsky shouted behind him.

'We're waiting for Vincenti to make up his mind.'

Vincenti turned to look at them. He shrugged theatrically, clearly unable to decide which way to go. On all sides the pines seemed to have closed ranks. Kiseleva gestured to the left. That was the only way to go. Vincenti rolled his snowmobile forward, still standing to get a better look ahead. Kiseleva followed, gunning his engine impatiently, the snowmobile lurching forward like a bull preparing to charge a matador. Vincenti managed to negotiate a way through the packed pines, frequently squeezing through gaps so narrow that the handlebars scraped the reddish bark. Kiseleva fumed. They were barely managing a walking pace. 'Come on!' he screamed. 'Get a fucking move on!'

Whether Vincenti heard him above the noise of the engines or not, he sat down and accelerated. The trees seemed to have thinned, and while the trail had petered out there was still considerably more room to manoeuvre and he made full use of it. 'About time,' Kiseleva growled to himself. The pines began to flash by as he opened up the throttle. They were still managing only thirty miles an hour, but the nearness of the trees gave the illusion of greater speed. They passed in a blur, often only inches away from the skis.

Several times Vincenti's snowmobile banged into low branches, starting small snowfalls which infuriated Kiseleva as he drove through them. His face and scarf were plastered with wet slush, adding to his discomfort. He was mentally cursing Vincenti when suddenly the snowmobile ahead veered off to the right and pitched over on its side, the rubber caterpillar track whirring around uselessly. The two men were thrown off, the passenger slamming into a tree. Snow poured down in a miniature avalanche, half covering him. Vincenti lay trapped under the vehicle, his leg jammed under one of the skis.

Kiseleva braked. Vincenti was conscious but his leg was bleeding badly. The right ski had buckled. Kiseleva realised that Vincenti must have caught it on something – a concealed rock or root. Whatever had done the damage, the snowmobile clearly wasn't going anywhere. Neither was Vincenti. 'Help me,' he groaned. The engine was still racing – the throttle must have jammed. Vincenti tried to lift himself into a sitting position but the effort was too much for him and he fell back into the snow.

'Hit the engine cut-off,' he pleaded. He was bleeding from his mouth as if he'd bitten his tongue.

'No time,' Kiseleva said. He gunned the throttle and accelerated away, spraying snow over the injured man.

'We could have helped them,' Ostrovetsky shouted.

'Later,' Kiseleva yelled. 'We'll come back for them.' He smiled under his scarf as he picked his way through the trees.

He was secretly pleased that Vincenti had screwed up. Now he'd get all the credit for killing Freeman and the girl.

Tim tightened his grip on the rip-line and looked down on Freeman and his daughter, who were crouching on the floor of the basket. 'Okay, get ready,' he said.

'What do we do?' Freeman asked.

'Stay just as you are while I take the balloon down. When I give you the word, slip over the side of the basket. We'll be six feet above the ground so there'll be a bit of a drop, but the snow's soft and fairly deep. You'll be fine. When we get down low we'll be in the shelter of the trees so the wind speed will drop dramatically. We'll probably be down to a walking pace.

Just remember what I said – lie still and don't move until the snowmobiles have passed.'

'Can you see them?'

'No. They're the other side of the forest somewhere. You can still hear them off in the distance. I don't know how much time we'll have so when I say go, you go.'

Freeman forced a smile. 'Ready when you are,' he said. He put his arm around Mersiha's shoulders. 'Are you okay, pumpkin?'

She nodded and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

'This is it,' the pilot said. He pulled the rip-line and almost immediately Freeman felt the balloon drop. His stomach turned over and he took deep breaths to fight the nausea.

'Six hundred feet to go,' Tim said.

Kiseleva pushed the throttle as far forward as it would go and the snowmobile leapt forward and burst out of the forest in a shower of snow and broken twigs. The balloon was only a few hundred yards away, its envelope partially deflated and falling fast. The pilot was standing up, peering over the side of the basket.