The Hunt

63

Jaeger topped a small rise, and the scene that opened before him looked as good as he could have hoped for. A flattish plain stretched ahead, wind-scoured so that his tracks would show no trace. It was wide open, and dotted here and there with exposed rocky outcrops.

He skied ahead and chose a small, snow-sculpted heap of boulders that protruded from the whiteness, dropping behind it and kicking off his skis. He drew his P228, chambered a round, and settled the barrel on the topmost surface of the rock. Like this, prone on his belly and mostly in cover, he would be practically invisible to his pursuer as he topped the rise.

Maybe one hundred feet would then separate the two of them. It was doable.

As he calmed his breathing in preparation for what was coming, he reminded himself of the P228’s accuracy. No other pistol came close.

Sure, the stopping power of the 9mm round was less than the heavier .45-calibre pistols. But Jaeger’s P228 was loaded with hollow-point ammo, which was available in certain SF and espionage circles. A hollow-point round did pretty much what it said on the tin. The tip of the bullet was hollowed out, so that when it hit, it tore itself apart, causing maximum lethality.

At twenty-five yards – so about the same kind of distance he now had to engage at – he’d reliably achieve a grouping of less than three inches on the ranges.

But this was a different situation altogether. The negative impact of acute stress, physical exhaustion and raw fear would play havoc on anyone’s aim. All he could do was try to calm his breathing, settle his nerves and relax into the shot.

A head appeared above the ridgeline. Jaeger waited for the torso to follow. He needed as large a mass as possible to aim for. The eyes of his pursuer scanned the way ahead. He must have noticed that it was devoid of his prey.

Moments later, he had dropped flat on the snow.

Jaeger cursed.

This guy was good.

He figured he’d recognised the gait, too, if not the features. He could have sworn it was Vladimir Ustanov, a man with whom he had crossed swords more than once. Narov had told him about the sighting in Dubai, and now here was Ustanov, hunting him across the Tibetan snowfields.

During their previous showdown, in the Amazon, Ustanov had proved to be an utterly single-minded operator and a cold-blooded murderer. He’d captured one of Jaeger’s expedition members – Leticia Santos, a Brazilian and one of Jaeger’s favourites – and tortured her horrifically.

When Jaeger had gone in to rescue her, it had brought him face to face with Ustanov. And now here they were again, second time around.

Jaeger kept his aim firm. He just needed Ustanov to make one mistake; to show himself. The distant figure kicked off his skis. He must know that Jaeger had gone to ground, which meant it was Type 79 sub-machine gun versus P228 pistol.

Jaeger reckoned he had one advantage. He was certain that Ustanov had hit the deck without unslinging his weapon. When he moved to do so, Jaeger could take his chance.

He steeled himself to take the shot, knowing he’d probably only get the one opportunity, for once he fired, his position would be revealed.

He waited.

An eerie silence settled over the freezing mountainside that had already claimed several lives.

The cold seeped into Jaeger’s underside, but he knew that the slightest movement could spell death. He kept his hands firm on his pistol, his aim on where his adversary had gone to ground unwavering. As he kept scanning the terrain, he could just make out what he figured was the shadow of the man’s torso.

At last he saw Ustanov make his move. He rolled slowly in the snow, sliding the machine gun around on its sling until he was lying on his back with the weapon resting on his stomach. He rolled over once more, back onto his front, and now he had the Type 79 held firmly in his hands.

Slick. The guy sure was a smooth operator.

Jaeger waited for his chance. It came in the two seconds it took for Ustanov to raise himself onto his elbows to swing the Type 79 into the aim. Before he could squeeze off any rounds, Jaeger fired.

The 3.9 inch barrel of the P228 was scored with six rifling grooves, forming a spiral that spun the bullet as it left the weapon, the action lending it accuracy. The pistol barely gave a kick as Jaeger let rip.

He kept his eyes glued to his sights. The hollow-point bullet ripped into the metal of Ustanov’s machine gun, throwing off shards of shrapnel, the power of the impact tearing the weapon out of his hands.

Jaeger heard the man scream and instantly broke cover. He would have a matter of seconds at most.

Surprise. Aggression. Speed.

Jaeger sprinted forward, urging his tired legs to power across the hard snow. He could see Ustanov scrabbling about to get his hands on his weapon. He found it and brought it to his shoulder, and for an instant Jaeger could see the bloodied mess of his adversary’s face.

But he couldn’t close the distance in time.

As Ustanov steadied his aim, Jaeger could taste bile in his mouth.

He knew that he was about to die.