“He is.”
“That’s the way I hear it. So let’s look at the map before it gets too dark. Here’s where we are now.” He pointed out the spot with a thick, scarred thumb. “We start cross country after dark to about here, doesn’t show on the map but that’s their detector screen. Go in on foot after that and they can’t tell us from elk or deer. Not that they care. Only start looking after someone breaks out. No one up until now has been fool enough to want to break in. We use snowshoes. We want to use these fancy skis of yours?”
“Yes, they’re the best for me.
“Good enough. We’ll bring the man out in a ski basket so we can make time. Back to the track, back to the road, run the track into a lake, and we go home and no one the wiser.”
“Aren’t you forgetting something?”
“Never!” He slapped Jan on the back, a friendly blow that sent him staggering. “Right along here there are a number of paths where the skiers cross the road. Even if it’s not snowing they’ll never be able to follow your track — they go every which way from here. You and your friend break west then and you’ll have at least eight, ten hours of darkness to stay ahead of anyone looking for you. Not that they will, probably won’t think of it. They’ll look for someone going to ground, or going north or south by train or road. This is a new way out and a smart one too. You’ll get through, though there will be mobile patrols around when you get over near Loch Naver.”
“We’ll look out for them.”
“That’s the spirit.” Brackley squinted up at the darkening sky, then took up the second pack and pair of skies. “Time to go.
Jan was thoroughly chilled through now, standing in the patch of pine trees by the road, as the dark afternoon thickened into night. Invisible snowflakes melted on his face and he moved stiffly when Brackley pulled him forward at the sight of twin headlights coming slowly along the road. A dark vehicle stopped and a door swung open above them, ready hands pulled them inside.
“Lads, this is Bill,” Brackley said, and there was a murmur of greeting from the unseen men. His elbow dug Jan painfully in the ribs, to draw his attention. “This is a snowtrack. He nicked it from the foresters. Can’t do it too often because they get right annoyed and turn the whole county over. They’ll be annoyed again in the spring when they find it sunk in the lake. Had to do it this time. For speed.”
There was a heater on in the body of the vehicle and Jan thawed out a bit. Brackley produced a torch and held it while Jan took off his boots, massaging some life back into his icy feet, then put on high socks and the special cross-country shoes. He was still tying the laces when they lurched to a stop.
They seemed to know just what to do without being told, since no orders were issued. The men piled out of the track into waist high snow, quickly strapping their feet into the round bear-paw snowshoes. The first two men were already away, towing the mountain rescue stretcher on its skis. There was white official lettering stenciled on it, also undoubtedly stolen. Jan strapped on his skis and kicked off quickly after them through the trees, wondering how they could find their way in the snow-filled darkness.
“Hold it,” Brackley said, stopping so suddenly that Jan almost ran into him. “This is as far as you go. Take this and wait here.” He pressed the bulk of an FM transceiver into Jan’s hands. “If anyone comes by and sees the cut wire, don’t let them see you. Get back into the trees. Press this button and tell us on the radio so we can come back a different way. Then get further back into the woods and we’ll use the radio to find you.”
There were some sharp metallic clicks as the barbed wire strands were cut, then silence. Jan was alone.
Very much alone. The snow had stopped but the night was still dark, the moon concealed by thick cloud. The posts and barbed wire vanished away into the darkness on both sides; their presence was marked by the cleared strip of land. Jan slid away to the shelter of the trees, moving back and forth there to keep warm, checking the glowing digits on his watch. A half an hour and still nothing. He wondered how far they had to go, how long it would all take.
By the time a slow hour had dragged by his nerves were tightened to the snapping point. At one point he jumped with shock, almost falling as dark shapes moved out of the trees toward him. Deer. Far more frightened than he was once they caught his scent. After almost ninety minutes more dark shapes appeared, and he almost thumbed on his radio, before he recognized the stretcher being towed behind them.
“Went just wonderful,” Brackley said hoarsely, panting for air. They had all been running. “Didn’t need the guns, used the knives and did away with a half-dozen of the bastards. Got your friend here all right, though they’ve knocked him about a bit. Here, take the rope and pull the litter, my lads are fair bushed.”
Jan grabbed the rope and passed it over his shoulder, tying it to his belt, then leaned his weight into it. The stretcher moved easily on its skis and he broke into a steady, loping run that quickly caught up and passed the others on their snowshoes. He had to slow then to stay behind Brackley who was leading the way. Short minutes later they were back in the snowtrack and passing the stretcher in over the tailgate. The fuel cell fired with a muffled roar and they started forward even as the last of the men were climbing aboard.
“We have a half an hour at least, maybe an hour,” Brackley said, drinking deep from the water bottle, then passing it along. “All the guards at the detention cells are dead — the roof will blow off that place when they’re discovered.”
“But they got other things to think about,” one of the men broke in; there were murmurs of agreement at that.
“We set fire to some of the warehouses,” Brackley said. “That will keep the bastards distracted for a bit.”
“Would someone be so kind as to unstrap me?” the man in the stretcher said.
A light flashed on and Jan undid the straps that held Uri secure. He looked young, perhaps still in his twenties, with black hair and deepset dark eyes.
“Can anyone tell me what happens next?” he asked.
“You’re going with me,” Jan said. “Do you know how to ski?”
“Not on snow, but I water ski.”
“That’s very good. We won’t be doing downhill skiing, but cross country. I have the clothes here that you will need.”
“Sounds like fun,” Uri said, sitting up, shivering. He was dressed only in a thin gray prison uniform. “I’ll sit on the bench if someone will give me a hand”
“Why?” Jan asked, struck by a sudden cold sensation of fear.
“Bunch of bastards back there,” Uri said, dropping to the bench. “Thought I wasn’t talking fast enough, even when they got an Italian translator in. They used some encouragement to speed me up.”
He lifted his foot from the tangled blankets. It was dark with dried blood. Jan leaned close with the light and saw that all of the man’s toenails had been ripped out. How was he to walk — much less ski — with feet like this?
“I don’t know if it helps,” Brackley said. “But the people who did this, they’re all dead.”
“It doesn’t help the feet but it cheers me a great deal. Thank you.”
“And we’ll take care of the feet too. There was always a chance something like this might happen.” Brackley struggled a flat metal container out from under his clothing and opened it. He took out a disposable syringe and broke off the safety tip. “People who gave me this said one shot would kill pain for up to six hours. No side effects but very habit forming.” He slapped it against Uri’s thigh, the sharp needle penetrating the thin fabric, the drug slowly injected by the pressurized gas capsule. “There are nine more of them here.” He passed them over.