A Heartbeat Away - Michael Palmer [119]
Then, through the corner of his eye, he saw the stampede suddenly shift direction. The herd was pounding away from the spot where he and the dead bull lay, and racing toward the fence. They were also, he suddenly realized, headed in the direction of the man who had been firing at them.
Over the exploding hooves he heard the chatter of submachine gun fire resume. Then, as the last of the animals sped past him, he thought he heard the man scream.
With difficulty, he rose and lurched toward the barn. His feet and the muscles in his legs were on fire. Fatigued, breathless, and freezing, he had no chance to recover when he slipped on a patch of ice. He slid facefirst across the frozen ground, gashing his face and sending blood cascading down his cheek. Cursing, he managed to regain his footing, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to do so.
The scene before him was grim.
Ten bison lay dead or dying on the frozen ground. The remaining animals had stopped running and formed something of a wall between him and his pursuer. Griff peered into the darkness, but could not locate the man. Then, through an opening in the herd, he spotted him, lying facedown. The gloom made it difficult to sort out whether he was dead or alive, or whether he still had his weapon, but in seconds, both questions were answered.
In ponderous, agonizing slow motion, the assassin worked his way to his feet. Even through the distance and the darkness he looked battered and broken. His left arm dangled uselessly at his side. When he took a step toward the barn, he was dragging his right leg. Still he remained upright, stumbling forward a step at a time. Griff could almost see the determination on his face. He could also see the powerful submachine gun dangling from his right hand.
The angle down to the darkened farmhouse was cut off. The barn, built on a broad, flat table of land, was Griff’s only chance. The structure was quite large and seemed to be well maintained. On either side, like the towers of a medieval castle, stood steel grain silos, each at least three stories high.
Gasping, Griff made his way toward the two large front doors. If they were locked or chained, he was dead.
From behind him came the chatter of gunfire. Several bullets snapped into the barn. He was ten feet from the double doors when his heart sank. There was a heavy chain across them, in addition to a plank of wood.
Death was closing in.
Griff hunched down as best he could and zigzagged toward the corner of the barn. Blood was flowing from his cheek as he ducked around the corner. There was a door. The smooth knob, some sort of bone or plastic, was unyielding. Any moment now it would be over.
With a burst of adrenaline that took him completely by surprise, Griff rammed his shoulder against the weathered wood. The door burst open. He cried out as pain exploded from his mid-chest and his momentum carried him stumbling into the interior of the barn. Dim light through a long row of windows was the only illumination. Surrounding him were stacks of hay bales extending to the back wall, and forming, in places, natural staircases ten to twenty-five feet high. He could hide behind the bales or …
Griff’s pursuer tripped against the doorjamb, giving him a few precious seconds of warning. His respirations filled the barn. Reacting more than reasoning, Griff carefully made his way up one of the tallest of the hay staircases. Halfway to the top his fortune took a turn.
A long-handled, four-pronged pitchfork was wedged in one of the bales.
Griff slid the tool out and used it as support to ascend to the top. The giant’s labored breathing seemed to obscure the sound of his movement.
“You stupid fool,” the man shouted into the darkness. “You think you can stop me?” He sent a short hail of bullets into the roof. “Nothing can stop me! I saw some blood by the door. You hurt bad? If you’re not, you will be. I’m going to shoot to maim you, not to kill you. Then I’m going to use the knife I used on your friend