"Here!" She thrust the reins into her father's hands. His jaw dropped in incomprehension, but his fists tightened on the leather straps. Irene rolled over the back of the seat and stayed low on the floor of the sleigh.
"Be careful, Irina!" Kerns shouted, knowing it was fruitless to ask what she was up to. He was correct in this assumption; Irene herself had no idea what to do next. She glanced around for inspiration, trying to imagine what Kismet would do.
The floor of the sleigh was littered with the broken remains of a pair of skis left behind from the earlier invasion by one of the daring troopers. She gathered the fragments into her arms and hurled them off the back of the sleigh. The lightweight pieces of carbon fiber didn't seem like much, but to a speeding skier any obstacle might prove hazardous, and a sudden turn to avoid such a hurdle might likewise cause a crash. Soon other pieces of detritus were scattered out behind them. Irene even sacrificed a few of their warm blankets.
The jetsam worked exactly as she had planned. The leading soldier was forced to slow and carve a wide turn around the wreckage. A piece of ski pole, all but buried in the snow, caught the left ski of the rearmost trooper, stopping it dead. The soldier flew headlong and went cartwheeling down the slope, his gear flying in every direction.
"One down," Irene muttered under her breath, unable to suppress a self-satisfied grin. The remaining skiers picked their way carefully through the debris field, impeded but only briefly. The delaying tactic had earned Kerns and Irene a few precious seconds of lead time, but in her heart, she knew more desperate measures would be necessary to guarantee their escape.
"Irina!" Kerns shouted. "Listen!"
Climbing into the front seat, she cocked her head to the side. "What?"
"It's stopped. The shooting. A moment ago, there was a long burst. I heard faint screams and a strange noise, almost like distant thunder. Whatever has happened, I fear the worst for our friend."
Irene bit her lip. Somehow, the immediacy of their plight insulated her from a physical reaction to her emotions. She dissociated from her feelings, put them in a distant corner of her mind, and focused on their flight from the commandos. If and when they reached safety, there would be time to grieve.
The pursuing soldiers had retreated to mere specks in the distance. They did not attempt to fire their weapons, yet it was clear that they were once more on the move and gaining ground.
For several long minutes the sleigh held its lead, winding through a needle's eye pass and onto a shallow grade, which cut across the face of a mountain. Kerns had coaxed the horse up to a trot, but controlling the sleigh still proved difficult. It kept veering to the right, toward the edge of the trail and a precipice overlooking a sheer drop. He had to focus all his attention on steering it. Irene, on the other hand, continued to monitor the progress of the pursuit. The three remaining soldiers had lost their advantage temporarily, unable to close the gap because of the shallow gradient. There was no sign whatsoever of the fourth, fallen skier. If he had regained his equipment and joined the chase, he was too far behind to be of consequence.
"Irina!" Kerns' voice was filled with trepidation. Irene had witnessed her father's flight from the Soviet secret police, his captivity to Grimes, and other terrifying events, but had never heard the tone of desperation that now trembled in his words. "Look ahead."
As she turned her gaze forward, she felt the sting of her father's infectious dread. At first, all she saw was the radical increase of the slope. The angle of descent changed from a mere ten percent to nearly forty-five degrees. It continued like this for only a few hundred yards however. After that, it appeared to end altogether.
"A switchback," she gasped.
Kerns nodded. "We'll never make it. We can't slow down. We have to jump."
"No." She didn't have to look back to verify her next statement. "They'll have us for sure if we do."
"We're dead if we don't."
"There's another way." Tearing her eyes away from their doomed course, she began looking for the miracle that would save them. To her surprise, she found it. "Nick had the right idea!"
"I don't understand!" Kerns shouted, his tone more insistent. "And we're running out of time."
"The horse. If we can get onto it, and cut the sleigh loose—"
He nodded, brightening at the suggestion. "Yes. It will be much easier to control the horse. And we'll be able to outrun them."
"You climb out. I'll steer until we're ready."
"No," he protested. "You should go first."
"Not a chance. You're still pretty beat up. It will be easier for me to make the jump at the last second. Go!"
Kerns handed over the reins and leaned forward onto the rigging. At that instant, Irene felt the forward shift of the decline and the subsequent increase in speed. The sleigh began pushing against the horse, causing the animal to behave skittishly. She pulled back on the straps, forcing its head up, but failed to slow their inevitable race toward the edge.
Kerns reached the hindquarters of the massive draft horse without losing his tentative grip. From there it was a simple thing to pull himself onto its broad back. Knotting his fingers in its mane, he dragged himself forward until he was leaning against its neck. The bony fingers of his right hand were white from the intensity of his grip on the coarse mop of horsehair. He cautiously leaned sideways, reaching out with his left to free the animal from its harness.
The yoke was held only by a simple pin and came away in an instant, but the harness strap was more cumbersome. The farmer who had rigged the team had knotted the leather to prevent it from slipping. Subsequently, melting snow had caused the leather to swell and stiffen, and Kerns' cold fingers seemed unable to loosen it. He cursed aloud for not having a knife in his pocket to cut it with. From as early as he could remember, he had always carried a folding knife, and had used its blade for every conceivable purpose, but his captors had taken his knife, and now in his moment of greatest need he was without it. Gritting his teeth, he attacked the knot until the leather yielded and the strap came free. Only the grip of his two hands held the horse in thrall to the sleigh. Fearful that his fingers might slip at any moment, he shouted for his daughter to join him.
His success buoyed Irene’s spirits. This was actually going to work. She knotted the reins together, bunched them into a ball, and tossed them out to her father who awkwardly pinned the bundle between his torso and the horse's neck.
Kerns could feel the harness strap sliding through his fingers. "Jump now, Irina! Quickly!"
Irene eased forward and reached out for the horse, but was suddenly pulled back. Confused, she turned and found herself staring into a pair of blue eyes. A young soldier, a mere boy, had managed to board the sleigh and had wrapped his arms around her torso, pinning her arms to her body. She felt the shift of his weight as he attempted to launch them both away from the doomed vehicle.
She heard her father cry out frantically, a single word: "No!" The strap slipped from Peter Kerns' old, cold fingers and the rigging tackle, no longer connected to anything, fell into the snow.
Irene's stomach dropped. Her mind could not keep up with what was happening, but she was aware that the sleigh had become airborne and the she and the young soldier were still its passengers. Her captor let go in a survival reflex, and both of them clawed at the air, knowing that it was already too late.