The Sacred Vault_ A Novel - Andy McDermott [172]
He scrambled over the drift. No emergency lights here, but there was enough illumination from the aurora for him to find the locker. He grabbed the handle—
It turned - but the door only opened an inch before banging against something. He pulled harder. It flexed, but still refused to open. ‘Shit!’ He groped in the darkness . . . and found that the floor had buckled upwards in front of the locker.
He kicked at it, trying to bend it back down, but it was too solid. A harsh light shone through the portholes - the snowmobile was almost on him. The other vehicle roared on down the slope towards the plane’s front section. Two men on each machine.
The passenger on the one approaching leaned out from behind the driver, gun raised—
Eddie dropped flat as bullets riddled the wreck. A shot clanked off the seat frame just above him. Spears of light stabbed across the cabin through each new hole in the fuselage.
If he stayed put, he was a dead man - he would be pinned inside the hull. He slithered on his belly over the piled snow as more shots punctured the plane’s skin. Emerging into the faint auroral glow, he pulled himself round the torn edge of the fuselage to take shelter behind it.
The snowmobile’s snarl dropped to an idling stutter. The gunfire also stopped. Eddie risked a peek at his attackers. If the gunner were reloading, that would give him a few seconds to take action . . .
He wasn’t reloading. He was pulling the pin from a grenade.
Eddie sprang up and ran for the rear of the wreckage as something small but heavy clanged off metal behind him—
Nina had forced herself to keep bandaging Probst’s ankle even through the sound of gunfire - but she jumped up in horror at the explosion, seeing debris showering down round the tail section.
One of the snowmobiles was still barrelling straight for her. The other had stopped further uphill; a man hopped off, the driver revving up and turning to ride after his comrades.
No sign of Eddie. Had he been inside the tail?
She didn’t have time to consider the horrible thought. A man on the nearer snowmobile opened fire. ‘Jesus!’ she gasped, ducking. Bullets kicked up snow and peppered the fuselage
The other Interpol agent yelled in fright as a round struck the forward bulkhead. He lurched upright, clambering into the open and starting to run across the ice.
‘No, wait!’ Nina shouted, but it was too late. The gunman had spotted the fleeing figure, and shouted for the driver to angle after him. Flame flashed from his gun’s muzzle as he opened fire on full auto—
The running man tumbled bloodily into the snow.
The snowmobile swerved back towards the plane, driving alongside the trench. Nina crouched beside Probst, desperately searching for an escape route, any form of defence. But the wrecked fuselage offered no protection and no hiding places, and they had no weapons—
Yes, they did. She pawed through the survival kit. The orange-painted Very pistol might not have been designed as a weapon, but it was still a gun. She opened the breech and inserted a flare, then snapped it closed.
‘You’ll never hit them with that,’ Probst warned her weakly.
‘I’m not aiming at them,’ Nina replied, jaw set. She raised her head, judging the distance to her target. Waiting for the right moment.
The gunner fired again. Shots cracked against the seats. Nina flinched, but held her position.
Waiting . . .
Now!
She pulled the trigger.
With a thump, the flare sizzled away on a trail of red-lit smoke towards her target - not the snowmobile, but the severed wing, and the ruptured auxiliary fuel tank inside it . . .
And fell short.
She had overestimated the projectile’s power, not aiming high enough. The flare landed, sending up a plume of steam as the intense heat melted the snow. Nina ducked, fumbling for a second flare, but she knew