Read Narrow Escape (A Spider Shepherd short story) for Free Online Page B

he said.
    ‘You said to search him for weapons, not maps,’ the man said, his injured tone heightening his nasal Derry accent. ‘I patted him down, so I did, and he was clean.’
    He moved towards Shepherd. ‘Put your hands on your head.’ As Shepherd did as he was told, the man ripped his shirt open and pulled out the silk map. He spread it on the table and the four men crowded around, peering at it, and keeping only half an eye on Shepherd. There would be no better chance. He hunched his shoulders and let his head sink back onto his chest, offering the least threatening posture possible to them, waited a second and then launched himself. His first target was the leader, and he crumpled as Shepherd’s savage kick caught him in the balls. The man’s pistol flew out of his hands and skittered away across the floor, but Shepherd was already dropping the next man with a punch to the throat.
    He head-butted the third man and felt the man’s nose splinter. He shoved him into the fourth man and sprinted for the door.
    He burst outside. He already knew his escape route. There was no point in trying to outrun his pursuers across the quarry floor and up the access road. His only possible route was the one where they would not be able to follow: straight up the cliff face. He sprinted and scrambled up the sloping mound of rockfall and quarry waste at its foot, dodging from side to side as he heard the sound of running feet across the quarry floor behind him, hoping to throw off their aim if - when - they fired at him.
    He reached the face of the cliff and began to climb, swarming up hand over hand, using as hand-holds the marks of picks and drills left by the quarrymen. The first shots rang out, ricocheting from the rock around him. One bullet struck the cliff so close to him that rock splinters needled his face, but he forced himself to ignore it, focusing only on the next handhold as he carried on climbing up the face of the cliff.
    He knew that every foot of height he could gain swung the odds further in his favour. Even in the most skilled hands, the killing range of a pistol was remarkably short - about twenty yards maximum - and it took SAS troopers weeks and thousands of rounds on Close Quarter Battle training before they could guarantee to drop a target with a double-tap at that range. He was certain that the Provos would have had nothing like the same amount of practice, and neither they nor their weapons would be anywhere near as accurate. Just the same, all it would take would be one lucky shot, to send him tumbling back down the cliff to his death. He buried the thought, swinging himself onto a narrow rock-ledge.  A ribbon of light had now appeared at the top of the cliff as the line of the sunrise began to inch down it. He heard more shooting from below him, but this time punctuating the ragged staccato fire of the Provos, there was a rhythmic sound like a double clap of hands in a confined space. He glanced down. A fifth figure had appeared in the quarry, behind the Provos. Two of them were already sprawled in the dirt and as the survivors turned to face the threat, firing as they did so, the rhythmic double-taps sounded twice more. Their shots went wide of the target, but both of them in turn were hurled backwards by the impacts, their arms thrown wide as they crashed to the ground with dark stains already spreading across their chests.
    ‘Unless you’re enjoying the exercise, you might want to come down again now!’
    Shepherd recognised the voice at once. He scrambled back down the cliff, picked his way past the four bodies at the foot of the cliff, and stood facing The Bosun. ‘I don’t know whether to hug you or punch you,’ Shepherd said.
    ‘I can live without both of those options,’ said The Bosun, grinning.
    ‘How long have you been here?’
    ‘Almost as long as you. Just keeping an eye on you. We found the agent you should have met in the woods, and we’ve been watching this lot since they