Free The Devil's Breath by David Gilman Page A

Berating himself served no purpose. !Koga pointed ahead. “Animal path.”
    Where? Max could see no sign of anything. Then a slender line that broke the edges of the scrub caught his eye. It was no different from back home, when the Dartmoor ponies moved across the land. Over the years the animals’ nomadic journeys squashed any growing thing underfoot and created a scar through the heather.
    Max gripped the steering wheel and yanked hard. The Land Rover took the ground well. They rocked and rolled, their shoulders banging against the door frames, but the old vehicle clambered up the stone-laden slope like a mountain goat. Max looked back. The men in the pickup had sorted themselves out and the 4×4’s defiant wheelspin told Max that they were coming for him again. Max had a good lead, at least four hundred meters, but he was losing sight of the game-path that guided him. !Koga gestured, his hand curving, showing Max the twisting route.
    The boulders were small, about the size of three footballs in a carrying net, but their edges were jagged. They could hear them scraping underneath. Then it felt as if someonewas throwing stones at them, a clattering dull thud against the sides, like hailstones on a roof. But microseconds after the imagined pebbles stung the Land Rover, the flat crack of the AK-47s chased the bullets. Canvas ripped, jerrycans spilled their precious cargo and the throat-catching stench of diesel filled the cab. The burlap water bag hanging on the outside of the door exploded as one of the bullets narrowly missed Max.
    The gunmen had stopped. The Land Rover had a higher ground clearance, so the pickup could not follow. Those men knew this was not the place to be stranded—without a radio and with one man dead, they were already at a disadvantage. To risk damaging their vehicle beyond repair was a risk too far. All Max had to do now was get across the ridge, so temptingly close, which would put them out of sight and range. And then keep going.
    The men were aiming badly, failing to consider the rising ground in front of them, so their shots fell short. With a surge of acceleration Max pushed the Land Rover over the top and out of harm’s way.
    Except that in that last, crucial moment, they suddenly jolted to a dead stop. !Koga was off-balance—he was looking back, watching the men. His head whipped forward and cracked against the dashboard and he groaned, slumping forward. Max floored the accelerator, but all he could hear was the screaming engine. They were wedged, straddling a broad, flat boulder, and the wheels could find no purchase.
    Max checked !Koga. He was unconscious. Max had to get the Land Rover free. He piled out of the cab, scrambled ontothe canvas roof and started to rock the vehicle backwards—pushing his weight down, trying to give the back wheels some grip. The gunmen were still a long way down the hill, but their firing had stopped—because the 4×4 driver was clambering upwards towards Max, a pistol in one hand and a hunting knife in the other. This was personal. The man stumbled, cursing his clumsiness and the pain as his shoulder slammed into a boulder. But rage powered him on, his eyes fixed on Max. His prey.
    Max was defenseless, the man less than ten meters away now, and Max could hear him grunting with exertion and see the sheen of sweat on his face. The man’s gun hand hung limply at his side—he had caught it a punishing blow on the rock—but the knife he wielded would be enough to do the job. The man slashed at Max’s feet and the tough canvas slit as if it were tissue paper.
    The driver’s injured arm stopped him from coming aboard, but there was no way Max could keep his own balance on such a flimsy roof. He needed a weapon. The radio aerial! It was in a podlike bracket on the rear bulkhead. The man slashed again and spittle shot from his lips as he snarled in frustration, but Max jumped over the cab, found his footing on the spare wheel that was locked on the bonnet and