Chris Ewan Dead Line (epub)

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.One he was prepared to cling to as desperately as he gripped the abrasive limestone cliff face as he skidded and slid his way down.But when he finally reached the bottom, when his boots sank deep into the fine sand and coarse pebble drifts, the last of his hope seeped away along with his energy.There was nobody waiting for him.There wasn’t anything to be found.There was just the beach.Just the scorched sand and the glowing pebbles and the towering, scraped rock on either side of him and the twisted pines and the sea and the relentless, blazing sun.Trent doubled over, the Ruger nibbling at his spine.He sucked in the dry, cooked air.He thought of the punishing walk back up the cliff and the long, hot tramp to the car that lay ahead.He straightened and placed his hands on his hips and cursed as he scanned the ridge high above him.Perhaps they were watching him? Perhaps there would be a signal of some kind?But no, the rocky spurs were unmoving.He closed his eyes against the screaming white glare and panted weakly and fumbled at the pocket of his shirt.He removed his mobile and flipped it open to an inane electronic chime.For a moment, he asked himself if it would be dangerous to call Girard? Perhaps he was in pursuit of a member of the gang? But what good would waiting do?He shielded the display against the sun with his hand.And right then, just as his thumb hovered above the CALL button, he heard the faint insect whine of an outboard motor.A rubber dinghy swept into view at the mouth of the inlet, prow raised, white water frothing around the rear.There were two figures on board.One guy was ducked low at the back, holding onto the tiller.Another guy was standing at the front, one foot raised and propped on the grey rubber rim.Both men wore green army surplus jackets, black ski masks and black gloves.The boat skimmed closer, racing in from the darker, deeper waters towards the spearmint green shallows.It swooped around in a curve, the guy at the back cutting the revs until the craft drifted to rest two hundred metres out from the shore, rocking on its own wash.He let go of the tiller and lifted an assault rifle from his lap.He wedged the stock into his shoulder and propped his elbow on his thigh and sighted through the scope, lens winking in the glare.Trent dropped his phone to the sand.He reached his hand behind his back, fingers seeking the Ruger.He stood sideways on, the revolver clenched tight.He waited.He didn’t want to prompt the man to shoot.He had no cover and his chances of hitting the men on the boat were bad.The craft tilted and swayed.The guy at the back maintained his steady aim.The guy on the front spread his legs wide, feet planted securely.His back was straight, arms folded across his chest, as if he was carefully and calmly evaluating the situation.Sunlight flared off the water all around the boat.It glinted off the rifle scope.Trent’s eyes watered and blurred.But still he stared on.Watching.Waiting.In his head, he rehearsed the moves he’d need to make to whip the Ruger out.How he’d drop to one knee on the sand.Squeeze off as many rounds as he could, as fast as he could.He was still thinking through the mechanics of it all when the guy at the front uncrossed his arms and bent down into the hull.He lifted something for Trent to see, holding it in both hands above his head.The holdall.Trent recognised it right away.It was no fake.It bulged with the three million in cash.The guy’s arms shook under its weight.He set it back down, then straightened and looked at Trent.He shook his head.He did it slowly, like an exaggerated signal.His shoulders slumped and he showed Trent his gloved palms as if he was disappointed by something.Dismayed, possibly.Then he swivelled to his left and raised an arm and pointed a gloved finger back towards the entrance of the inlet, high towards a sloping ridge some forty feet above the deep blue waters at the mouth of the cove.There was a patch of greenery there.A few trees.And there were two men emerging from behind a boulder.One of them was wearing a green army jacket and a balaclava.He was holding an assault rifle in gloved hands and he was using it to prod the other man in the back.The second guy was stumbling towards the cliff edge.The nylon of his blue windbreaker gleamed in the sun.Girard.Trent started forwards, then stopped.The ridge was perhaps five hundred metres away.There was no easy way to get there from below.Limestone towered above him.He’d have to scramble back up the path, head around the rear of the inlet and find his way out to the spit of rock.It could take him an hour.Maybe more.And the hostile guy was way beyond the range of the revolver.Trent watched.He couldn’t look away.He saw Girard shoved towards the edge.Saw him windmill his arms.Then the guy with the rifle grabbed him by the shoulder and hauled him round until he was facing up to him, his back to the sea, his heels on the precipice.There was a curving curtain of rock beneath him.It concealed the drop from Trent’s view [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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