Polar Shift by Clive Cussler Page B

He dug his poles in and swooped down the trail. He drove his right elbow into the man’s cheek and knocked him off balance. With knees bent and head low in a tuck, he schussed straight down the trail until he neared the bottom of the run, where the trail made a sharp turn to the right.
    The second skier must have been carrying a machine pistol under his jacket because the burp of automatic gunfire shattered the mountain stillness.
    The shots harmlessly shredded the overhead tree branches.
    A second later, Schroeder was safely out of the line of fire.
    He turned onto a narrow, double-black expert run that twisted down the side of the mountain like a corkscrew. The ski patrol had strung yellow tape and put up a sign, saying the trail was closed.
    Schroeder ducked under the tape. The trail dropped into an almost vertical run. The snow had a brownish tinge, showing that the cover was thin. The surface was broken by large patches of bare ground. Rocks that normally lay under the snow base were exposed.
    He heard gunfire behind him, and miniature fountains of mud erupted a few feet away. The shooter was at the top of the ridge, firing down.
    Schroeder slalomed between bare ground and rocks. His skis hit slush and almost ground to a stop, but there was just enough of a skim coat to allow the skis to keep sliding.
    Schroeder wove his way through a field of short moguls and got onto a steep pitch where the snow cover was adequate. He heard gunshots off to his right. His pursuer was skiing down a trail that was parallel to Schroeder’s, firing through the glade that separated them. Most of the shots hit trees. The gunman saw that he was missing his mark and went into the woods separating the two trails.
    The man’s form resembled a kangaroo on steroids, but he powered his way through the woods in leaps and bounds. Schroeder saw that the man would break out of the trees below him, where he could rake the trail with killing gunfire.
    The man fell once, and quickly got back on his skis. The delay would give Schroeder time to ski past the gunman before he broke back into the open. He’d still be an easy target. Instead, as the gunman broke from the woods on the side of the trail, Schroeder charged down on him.
    The man saw Schroeder hurtling at him and fumbled for his gun under his suit.
    Schroeder slashed with his ski pole at the man’s exposed face like a Cossack on a rampage. The blow went high and smashed the man’s goggles. He lost his balance, skiing first on one ski, then the other. The gun flew out of his hand. Weaving drunkenly, arms flailing, he pitched over the edge of the trail, where it dropped down steeply for about twenty feet into the woods.
    He ended up upside down in the snow depression around the trunk of a large fir tree. His skis were tangled in the lower branches. He struggled to get out of his bindings, but they were out of reach. He hung there helplessly. His breathing was labored.
    Schroeder sidestepped his way down the slope. He picked the Uzi out of the snow, where the man had dropped the weapon, and held it loosely in one hand.
    â€œWho are you working for?” Schroeder said.
    The man managed to push his smashed goggles onto his head. “Acme Security,” the man said, speaking with effort.
    â€œAcme?” Schroeder said with a smile.
    â€œThey’re a big outfit down in Virginia.”
    â€œYou knew who I was, you must have known why they wanted me.”
    The man shook his head.
    â€œWhat were you going to do with me?”
    â€œWe were going to deliver you to people at the bottom of the mountain. There was supposed to be a car waiting.”
    â€œYou’ve been watching me for days. You know more than you’re saying. Tell me what they said,” he said soothingly. “I give you my word I won’t kill you. See?” He flung the Uzi into the woods.
    A suspicious expression came to the man’s face, but he decided to take his chances.