Kill Switch (9780062135285) by Grant James; Blackwood Rollins Page A

downhill, taking Tucker and a swath of snow with it.
    Avalanche.
    Tucker pushed Kane aside, knowing the shepherd would try to latch on to him again. “E VADE !” he hissed.
    The order countermanded Kane’s instinct to protect him. The shepherd hesitated only a moment before leaping sideways and back into the shelter of the tree line.
    Tucker knew he was in trouble. The sliding mass of snow was bulldozing over him, propelling him faster and faster down the slope. With the rucksack preventing him from rolling over, Tucker paddled his arms and legs, trying to mount the snow wave, to ride its tumult, but it was no use. Doing his best to survive, he drove one elbow into the ground, leaning into it. He spun on his belly until he was aimed headfirst down the slope, still on his belly.
    Fifty yards away, the river loomed. The surface was black and motionless. With any luck, it was frozen over. If not, he was doomed.
    Tucker’s mind raced.
    Where was Kane? Where was Felice?
    No doubt she’d heard the miniavalanche—­but was he visible within the snowy surge? He got his answer. Ahead and to his right, an orange flare spat in the night, coming from a clump of scrub bushes near the waterline.
    A muzzle flash.
    If nothing else, his headlong plunge had made Felice miss her first shot. The second would be closer. The third would be dead-­on. Tucker reached back, freed the P22 from his pocket with a struggle, and pointed it toward the site of that flash.
    He felt a sting at his neck.
    Grazed by a bullet.
    Ignoring the pain, he squeezed the trigger twice, wild potshots, but maybe enough to discourage the sniper.
    Then he hit the river’s berm and launched into the air. His heart lurched into his throat. A heartbeat later, he belly-­flopped onto the ice, bounced once, then found himself rolling, flat-­spinning across the river’s surface. He slammed into a clump of trees jutting from the ice and came to an abrupt, agonizing stop.
    Gasping for air, he rolled onto his side and fought the urge to curl into a painful ball.
    He swept his arms across the ice, searching for his pistol. It had been knocked from his cold fingers as he struck the river.
    Where—­?
    Then he spotted it. The P22 lay a few feet away in a tangle of dead branches. He reached toward it.
    A chunk of ice exploded at his fingertips, shards stinging his face. The gunshot sounded like the muffled snap of a branch. She was using a noise suppressor.
    â€œNot another inch!” Felice Nilsson called from somewhere to his right.
    He craned his neck and spotted her. She was forty feet away, kneeling at the river’s edge, the rifle tucked to her shoulder. At this range, she could put a bullet in his ear.
    Instead, she shifted her rifle ever so slightly, from a kill shot to something that would maim and hurt. The moon, reflecting off the ice, cast the scene in stark contrast.
    â€œTell me where you were scheduled to meet Bukolov,” she demanded.
    In answer, Tucker slowly lifted his hand from the ice.
    â€œCareful!” she barked. “I’ll take it off. Don’t doubt it for a moment.”
    â€œI don’t,” Tucker replied, raising his palm, as if pleading for her to be calm, but instead he pointed one finger at her.
    â€œWhat are you—­?”
    Tucker rotated his hand, fingers pointing toward the ice.
    â€œGood-­bye, Felice,” he said through chattering teeth.
    From out of the forest behind her, Kane burst forth.
    A moment ago, Tucker had noted the shepherd’s furtive approach, a mere shift of shadows lit by the reflected moonlight. Kane obeyed Tucker’s signal, a simple one.
    Attack.
    Kane races across the gap, bunching his haunches at the last moment.
    He has followed the trail of the woman, catching her scent in the woods , picking it out of the spoor of deer and rabbit. He recognizes it from the train, remembers the hatred in her voice. Next came the muffled shots of the rifle