Stephen Leather - The birthday girl

Kiseleva powered the snowmobile along the treeline, his heart pounding. The pilot looked up and saw them. He let go of the line and began frantically to throw out bags of ballast, trying to stop the balloon's rapid descent. There was no sign of Freeman and the girl. Kiseleva assumed they must be sitting down in the basket, braced for the landing. He grinned and swung the snowmobile to the left, heading directly for the balloon. Behind him, he felt Ostrovetsky draw his gun from inside his jacket. The balloon's descent was visibly slowing. Now it was only fifty feet or so above the snowfield. The pilot was screaming or shouting.

Kiseleva couldn't make out the words – it sounded like the roar of an animal in pain. He stopped throwing out ballast and pulled on the levers below die burners. Flames shot up into the envelope, but Kiseleva could see diat he was too late – die descent was continuing, albeit slowly.

He angled the snowmobile so diat they could get a clear shot and Ostrovetsky let rip with his Ingram. The first burst missed the basket but hit the envelope, rippling the fabric but passing harmlessly through. 'Slow down!' Ostrovetsky shouted above the noise of the engine. Kiseleva jammed on the brake and took his thumb off the throttle and the snowmobile skidded sideways across the snow. Ostrovetsky fired again, the shots muffled by the silencer and sounding like nothing more sinister than rapid handclaps. The bullets caught the pilot in the chest and he fell backwards, his outstretched hands grabbing at the rip-line.

'Yes!' Kiseleva yelled. 'We've got them!'

Mersiha screamed as Tim staggered back against the side of the basket. His sunglasses slipped from his face and clattered on to her head. Freeman looked up in horror as wet, sticky blood trickled down the front of his daughter's jacket. Blood was pouring from Tim's throat and chest, and as he looked into his eyes he saw them glaze over, like water transforming into ice.

His lifeless body pitched forward, and as he fell Freeman felt the balloon suddenly drop.

The rip-line had become wrapped around Tim's wrist and his weight had dragged open the parachute deflation system. Hot air was flooding out of the envelope and they were only seconds away from slamming into the ground. 'Stay down!' Freeman shouted to Mersiha as he scrambled to his feet. He stood up and tried to pull the line free, but as soon as his head emerged above the side of the basket, bullets whipped through the air and he ducked. He threw himself at Mersiha, wrapping himself around her, trying to protect her as best he could. A bullet screeched off one of the propane cylinders and he flinched. The pilot's face lay awkwardly against the bottom of the basket, blood oozing from his open mouth. His backside was up in the air, his knees under his chest, as if even in death he was trying to avoid the hail of bullets.

Freeman looked up through the skirt at the bottom of the envelope, past the burners, and up through the hole at the top of the balloon. He could see the brilliant blue sky and, high up, a bird circling. The basket began to spin crazily. Freeman hugged Mersiha tight and closed his eyes, waiting for the end.

The wicker basket and its occupants slammed into the snow with a dull thud that Kiseleva felt as much as heard. The envelope settled around it like a feather-soft quilt. He pulled his gun out from its underarm holster and checked that the safety was off.

Ostrovetsky climbed off the snowmobile, his boots sinking into the snow, covering the balloon with his Ingram. Kiseleva put a hand on his shoulder. 'No. They're mine,' he said.

Ostrovetsky was about to argue, but Kiseleva silenced him with a baleful stare. He stepped off the snowmobile and crunched towards the downed balloon. After the roar of the snowmobile and the thump of the crash-landing, the quiet was intimidating. He could hear a myriad of small sounds as he made his way through the snow. The propane burners were clicking as they cooled, the brightly coloured envelope crackled in the wind, the basket creaked, and somewhere high up in the sky a bird cried.

The closer he got to the basket, the deeper the snow. It was up to his knees, the icy cold soaking through his jeans and chilling his skin. Now that he was no longer astride the hot engine, the cold was spreading quickly through his body. He shivered. He pulled the scarf off his face and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. The basket had fallen on its side, the open end pointing away from him. He stopped and listened. There were no human sounds. No crying. No pleading. No whimpering. Kiseleva was suddenly disappointed. He waded through the snow as quickly as he could, lifting his feet high with each step and holding his hands out to the side for balance. It would be all too easy to stumble and fall, but the urge to see Freeman and the girl was overpowering and he pushed forward. He was panting, his breath a white fog around his face. He skirted around the basket, keeping his gun at the ready, his finger aching on the trigger.

He swallowed apprehensively, the desire to kill forming a hard knot in his stomach. 'Don't be dead,' he whispered. 'Please don't be dead.'

The deflated envelope was billowing in the wind and being dragged away from the basket. Kiseleva froze in his tracks as he thought he saw a movement at the edge of the basket.

He held the gun with both hands, fighting the shivering that threatened to spoil his aim, but the movement wasn't repeated.

Small black dots began to swim across his vision and he blinked, trying to clear his eyes. He moved crab-like across the snow, taking careful, measured sideways steps, bending at the knees to keep his centre of gravity as low as possible. He saw a head, its mouth a red slash almost hidden in a beard. The pilot.

As he moved around another face came into view. It was Freeman, his eyes closed, his head back as if he'd been punched on the chin. Kiseleva frowned. He took another step to the side, and as he moved he saw Freeman's head slump forward.

Kiseleva smiled grimly. At least the father was still alive. For a while, at least. But what about the girl? He licked his lips in anticipation. She must have been right at the bottom of the basket. Another couple of steps and he'd be able to see right inside – there was nowhere to hide. It'd be like shooting fish in a barrel. He lifted his left leg up and placed his foot carefully to the side. It crunched through the crisp snow and as he transferred his weight he sank up to his knee. He leaned over and craned his neck. He caught a glimpse of black hair and pale skin and he jerked back, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He cursed himself for his stupidity. What the hell was he scared of? She was just a girl. An unarmed girl. He took another step and for the first time got a good look at her. She was lying awkwardly across her father's legs, her hair in disarray, her eyes closed. Her face was almost as white as the snow, but she was still alive – he could see her chest slowly rising and falling. Kiseleva grinned.

'Now you're mine,' he whispered. He took another step forward, wanting to get as close as possible. He wondered which one to shoot first, the girl or the father. God, it would be so much better if they were conscious. He wanted them to beg for their lives, to plead and cry.

He kicked the edge of the basket, gingerly with the tip of his toe at first, then harder. There was no reaction. 'Freeman,' he said. 'Freeman. Wake up.' Neither the man nor his daughter showed any reaction. There was no alternative – he was going to have to do it while they were unconscious. He aimed the gun at Freeman's head. Like fish in a barrel, he thought again. He tightened his trigger finger. That was when Mersiha opened her eyes.

The fall had knocked the wind out of Mersiha, but it wasn't as bad as she'd feared. The half-deflated envelope had contained enough hot air to restrict the downward plunge and the thick snow had absorbed much of the impact. Her father hadn't been so lucky. He'd banged his head against one of the propane tanks and was unconscious, and he didn't react when she shook his arm. Mersiha had heard only one snowmobile and she listened for a while, wondering what had happened to the other one. All she could see out of the basket was the snowfield and a strip of blue sky. She strained to hear what was going on outside. She heard a bird cry out,,and far off in the distance something that sounded like a car. Maybe someone had seen them crash. Maybe they'd be rescued. Her hopes were dashed when she heard a crunching noise, as if a bite had been taken out of a crisp apple.