01 Storm Peak by John Flanagan

cocking handle wasn’t back. The last thing he wanted was to snag the trigger in his clothing and fire a ten-inch spike into his own groin. Satisfied, he had withdrawn the black metal cylinder from his parka. Holding it in his left hand, he’d reached with his right for the ski poles.
    “Thanks,” he’d said. “I’ll take those now.” He’d made sure he had a firm grip on the poles, then, with a deftness that was a little out of character with his former apparent confusion, had tucked them quickly under one thigh and out of the way.
    Powell had stared with mild curiosity at the jigger. “What you got there?” he’d asked.
    “Safety flare,” Murphy had said easily. “Always carry one in these conditions. ”
    He’d racked the cocking handle back with a heavy double click, then held the cylinder toward Powell, as if offering it to him.
    “Take a look,” he’d said.
    Powell had recoiled a little into the corner of the chair. The mouth of the so-called flare was pointing directly at him and, it appeared to him, the other man had just loaded it.
    “Don’t point that damn thing at me!” he’d said a little angrily. “Didn’t you just prime it or something?”
    Murphy had laughed easily. “Hell, no!” he’d said. “That was just the safety. I was making sure it was on! See?”
    Again, he’d thrust the cylinder toward Powell. Still a little wary, but not so angry now, Powell had leaned toward him to inspect it. As he made the movement, Murphy had suddenly thrust forward at him, ramming the end of the cylinder under his left arm and into the left side of his upper body.
    There had been a ringing metallic crack as he’d released the trigger and the razor sharp spike had shot out of the tip of the jigger. It had slashed easily through the thick clothing Powell wore, then savaged the flesh itself, sliding upward between the ribs, as Murphy had angled it, piercing the heart itself, rupturing the papillary muscle, tearing through the left ventricle and all but destroying the right atrium and aortic valve on the way out.
    Powell’s jaw had dropped open. He’d tried to scream but could only make a choked, whimpering sound as he’d felt the searing pain in his chest just before he died.
    Murphy had dragged the spike clear, hurriedly slamming the cocking handle back in a move that he’d practiced hundreds of times, in case Powell wasn’t dead.
    The shocked, rapidly glazing eyes had told him there was no need for a second strike. Casually, he’d pressed the trigger again, allowing the bloodstained spike to slam out from inside the handle. He’d leaned across and wiped the blood on the sleeve of Powell’s parka, then, making sure the firing spring was in the detached setting, he’d brought back the cocking lever again, withdrawing the spike into the handle of the jigger.
    He’d checked that there was no blood on the outside of the jigger. Powell’s outer clothing had effectively protected it from any sudden discharge. Then he’d tucked the weapon away inside his own parka once more, and closed the zipper.
    The chair shook as it clattered past a pylon and Powell sank a little deeper into the corner. Murphy winked at him, then pulled the turtleneck up again.
    “Cheer up,” he said, “you’ll be famous tomorrow. ”
     
    C live Wallace was warm and comfortable inside the hut at the top of the Storm Peak chair. He’d glanced out at the unloading ramp a few minutes ago. There was a little soft snow building up there. He guessed that in another five minutes or so, he’d have to go out and shovel some of it clear, packing down the rest with blows from the flat of the shovel. For now, however, he was content to huddle over the electric radiant heater, peering through the large windows in front of him at the nonstop sequence of chairs passing him by and heading round the bullwheel and back down the mountain again.
    “Oh, shit!”
    He said it aloud. There was no one in the hut to hear him but he said it