Brad Thor - The Lions Of Lucerne

The animals converged on him almost at once as he tore across the territory they were so vigorously trying to defend. When he got to the far rail and placed his hands on top, ready to vault over, he felt something tear through the upper part of his left arm. He was sure one of the goats had gotten him with its horns, but looking back, he saw it wasn’t that at all.

The commotion from the goats had caught the attention of the lone shooter, who’d raced toward the paddock and was able to get off one silenced round before Scot got over the fence. It connected with Scot’s arm, tearing through the windbreaker, as well as the clothes and flesh beneath. Harvath could already feel the warm spread of blood running down his arm. He didn’t want to give the guy a chance at a second shot.

With only his right arm for support, Harvath vaulted the fence and rolled when he hit the ground on the other side, wincing from the pain. He ran alongside a decaying shed that looked as if it were three hundred years old and then headed to where he could see crowds of people on a more populated thoroughfare.

He heard the muffled spits being fired from behind as the bullets tore up everything around him. Scot ran faster.

Hitting the thoroughfare, he ran across it and saw that he was parallel with a café that must have been popular with skiers, because there were rows and rows of skis and poles resting on racks outside. Quickly, he grabbed a pair that were entangled with ski poles and headed for an alley about twenty feet down.

The alley actually passed beneath an old chalet and therefore was relatively dark compared with the bright sunshine outside. As he hurriedly unlocked the skis, Scot glanced out the far end of the passageway and could see the peak of the Schilthorn off in the distance.

His back flat up against the wall, he looked at his left arm and saw that it was completely covered in blood. The blood had even run down to his hand. There was nothing he could do about it now.

Bottom of the ninth, bases loaded… Harvath wrapped both of his hands around one of the skis as tight as he could, the tip resting against the wall above his right shoulder. Time seemed to creep at a snail’s pace. Where is he? He had to have seen me come this way.

His left arm was killing him, and holding it in this position wasn’t doing it any good. He didn’t know how much longer he could keep it up.

Then, he heard footsteps from the other side of the wall. Careful…wait for it.

The gun preceded the shooter through the entrance to the passageway. Scot fought against every impulse in his body that told him to swing and run. Wait, he told himself, not yet.

Whoever the shooter was, he seemed to sense Harvath was near and chose his steps very carefully. It almost appeared as if he weren’t moving at all, but he was. Scot could now see the hand, wrist, and forearm of the gunman. Soon.

The upper arm appeared, then the shoulders, a torso…Now! Swinging with all of his might, Harvath nailed the gunman square in the chest with the ski, and the man went down, dropping his gun. He went for it, but Scot kicked him hard in the ribs. The man grunted, and instead of clutching his side where he’d been kicked, he rolled quickly to his right and grabbed for Scot’s leg. The shooter brought his feet quickly around behind him, ready to jump up, and then there was a flash of something in the man’s hand…a knife.

That was the last straw. Harvath’s anger raged. He didn’t know what the hell was going on, but he’d had enough and he certainly wasn’t going to grapple with one bad arm and try to fight this guy for the knife.

The man pointed his knife at Harvath.

“You know what? I really, really don’t like it when people point things at me,” said Harvath.

The man froze for a moment, confused that Scot would address him, rather than attack, but the confusion was only temporary.

“If it’s not a gun, then it’s a knife. Here’s the deal. I’m not playing around anymore.”

Just as Scot finished, the man lunged and slashed at him with the blade. Harvath turned in time and grabbed one of the ski poles from where it rested against the wall. As the man attacked again, Scot faked left, then spun around hard to his right and plunged the pole deep into the man’s chest. The knife fell from his hand, and in seconds, blood gurgled out of his mouth, painting his jacket a deep crimson.

“It looks like you got my point,” said Scot as he let go of the pole.

The man, still on his knees, fell forward, but only a foot before the bottom of the pole hit the ground and he was propped up like a human pup tent. Not wasting a moment more, Harvath went for the man’s pistol.

A blanket of fire erupted in front of him as bullets ricocheted off the cobblestones of the passageway. The gunman must have radioed his position to his two colleagues. There was no telling how far away they were. The bullets were close enough, and that was all that mattered. Harvath ducked and rolled toward the opposite entrance. Snaking around the outer wall of the chalet, he jumped to his feet and ran.

The first thing Harvath needed to do was to stop his bleeding. The next was to get the hell out of Dodge…Wengen…whatever.

The village was situated on what the Swiss call the Wengen sun terrace: a long westward-facing plateau that got fabulous sun in the afternoon. That was definitely the case today.

Quickly and carefully, Harvath picked his way from chalet to chalet, trying to stay concealed as best as was possible in the blazing sunshine. He made a makeshift pressure bandage from his windbreaker so he wouldn’t leave a trail of blood for the remaining two gunmen to follow.

Seven chalets later, Harvath came upon a restaurant that was blaring techno music. This was definitely a snowboarder hangout. Scot scanned the crowd of young faces, hoping to find his little blond girlfriend with the nose ring and her friends. They would be perfect cover, but they were nowhere to be seen. Scot needed to come up with another plan.

Snowboarding was an interesting sport in that it offered a high probability for wipeouts. And, wiping out in the strong sunshine meant that the snow you picked up melted quickly and even the most waterproof of snowboarding outfits got wet.

A leafless tree on the side of the restaurant had become the snowboarders communal coat rack. Why these kids never took them inside or out onto the terraces with them to dry out was beyond him, but right now Harvath was grateful for it. He found a drab brown-and-gray coat that looked as though it would fit and chose a good-sized black helmet from the pile so neatly arranged at the base of the tree. A couple of people would be very angry to find their gear had been stolen, but at least Harvath might have a better chance at survival. Walking away from the restaurant, he also grabbed the last snowboard in the line leaning against the wall.

He put the jacket on and found there was a pair of goggles in the pocket, which he put on along with the helmet. Quickly, he made his way toward the Männlichen gondola. The pain in his arm was almost unbearable. He didn’t think he had any arterial damage, but he needed to get a better look at the wound. If he wasn’t careful, he could risk bleeding to death. Spotting a busy pizzeria, he ducked inside and went downstairs to the men’s room.

Taking off the coat, he saw the windbreaker pressure bandage was stained with blood. Untying the knotted sleeves, Scot braced himself for a gush of blood. The bullet had nailed him pretty good, but it hadn’t penetrated an artery. A fraction more to one side and he would have been in real trouble. He checked the injury over thoroughly and realized it was a serious grazing wound and would definitely need stitches, but that should take care of it.