fast, his steps unbalanced as one hand steadies the wooden mask on his face and the other holds the Taylor Made five iron he borrowed from the old couple.
Schumacher is just ten metres away, but he’s on the motorcycle and its engine is running.
Seven metres away.
The motorcycle’s rear tyre spins on the slick grass—then grips and launches the bike forward.
Three metres away.
Schumacher is getting away.
After all this he’s bloody getting away!
Billy dives, swings the five iron —
Wham. It slams into the spokes of the motorcycle’s rear wheel —
The club snaps with a whip-crack and the bike wobbles, keels over and disappears from view. Billy thump-skids across a grassy knoll.
Where did it go?
Billy scrambles to his feet and looks over the edge of the knoll into a kidney-shaped bunker. Schumacher lies in the sand with his left leg caught beneath the motorcycle.
I have you now.
Billy doesn’t hesitate. He leaps into the bunker and lands beside the tangle of man and machine. The mask rubs on his nose but he doesn’t care. This is almost too easy.
Almost.
Schumacher swings an arm and releases a handful of sand straight at Billy’s devil mask and through the eyeholes. Momentarily blinded, Billy pushes a hand under the mask, furiously rubs away the grit.
He clears it as Schumacher pushes the bike off his leg, draws a pistol from a calf holster and swing it towards the Australian —
Thwump. Billy kicks the weapon so hard he’s surprised it doesn’t sever the other man’s hand from his wrist. The gun rockets over the top of the bunker and disappears.
Schumacher scrambles to his feet, legs pumping hard to find purchase in the sand. Billy lunges for him—and misses, watches him clamber out of the bunker and sprint towards, he is sure, that pistol. The Australian wrenches himself to his feet, finds the edge of the bunker and runs after him.
~ * ~
Who the hell is this guy? Why did he attack me? And what’s the deal with that mask?
None of that actually matters. Schumacher just needs to find the gun, shoot him and be done with it. He has a Swiss Army knife in his pocket as a fallback but the pistol is what he needs. He sprints up a slight incline, reaches the top and looks for the weapon.
‘Damn.’ There’s a small lake in front of him. Actually it’s a water hazard, but it may as well be an ocean as far as finding his pistol is concerned. It could be anywhere in the water —
There it is. Fifteen metres away, on the grass at the very edge of the waterline. He sprints towards it, ten metres, five metres away, bends to pick it up —
Crunch. Jesus H! It feels like he’s been hit by a train. He gets a hand on the weapon but it’s immediately knocked free as he’s driven into the water hazard by the masked man.
He swings his left elbow at the guy. Unfortunately his funny bone connects with a sharp edge of the mask and he instantly feels seasick. Then his head is dragged under the surface and the cool water on his face snaps him out of it.
~ * ~
If he can’t swim then why, exactly, did Billy decide to tackle this guy into a large body of water of unknown depth? He can only put it down to being overzealous.
Schumacher twists out of his grip and slips away. Bugger. Billy’s furious, but it doesn’t last long. It’s immediately replaced by survival instinct. He thrashes his arms and legs, hopes that will keep him afloat. It doesn’t. He sinks like a stone and wishes he’d spent one fewer days driving at the racetrack and one actual day learning to swim.
His head goes under.
This is it, baby, this is it.
He’s not going to solve the case on the first day, he’s going to drown while failing to solve it —
His feet touch the muddy bottom. He pulls his body upright and stands. The water barely reaches his waist.
What the hell?
He turns, sees
Schumacher is just ten metres away, but he’s on the motorcycle and its engine is running.
Seven metres away.
The motorcycle’s rear tyre spins on the slick grass—then grips and launches the bike forward.
Three metres away.
Schumacher is getting away.
After all this he’s bloody getting away!
Billy dives, swings the five iron —
Wham. It slams into the spokes of the motorcycle’s rear wheel —
The club snaps with a whip-crack and the bike wobbles, keels over and disappears from view. Billy thump-skids across a grassy knoll.
Where did it go?
Billy scrambles to his feet and looks over the edge of the knoll into a kidney-shaped bunker. Schumacher lies in the sand with his left leg caught beneath the motorcycle.
I have you now.
Billy doesn’t hesitate. He leaps into the bunker and lands beside the tangle of man and machine. The mask rubs on his nose but he doesn’t care. This is almost too easy.
Almost.
Schumacher swings an arm and releases a handful of sand straight at Billy’s devil mask and through the eyeholes. Momentarily blinded, Billy pushes a hand under the mask, furiously rubs away the grit.
He clears it as Schumacher pushes the bike off his leg, draws a pistol from a calf holster and swing it towards the Australian —
Thwump. Billy kicks the weapon so hard he’s surprised it doesn’t sever the other man’s hand from his wrist. The gun rockets over the top of the bunker and disappears.
Schumacher scrambles to his feet, legs pumping hard to find purchase in the sand. Billy lunges for him—and misses, watches him clamber out of the bunker and sprint towards, he is sure, that pistol. The Australian wrenches himself to his feet, finds the edge of the bunker and runs after him.
~ * ~
Who the hell is this guy? Why did he attack me? And what’s the deal with that mask?
None of that actually matters. Schumacher just needs to find the gun, shoot him and be done with it. He has a Swiss Army knife in his pocket as a fallback but the pistol is what he needs. He sprints up a slight incline, reaches the top and looks for the weapon.
‘Damn.’ There’s a small lake in front of him. Actually it’s a water hazard, but it may as well be an ocean as far as finding his pistol is concerned. It could be anywhere in the water —
There it is. Fifteen metres away, on the grass at the very edge of the waterline. He sprints towards it, ten metres, five metres away, bends to pick it up —
Crunch. Jesus H! It feels like he’s been hit by a train. He gets a hand on the weapon but it’s immediately knocked free as he’s driven into the water hazard by the masked man.
He swings his left elbow at the guy. Unfortunately his funny bone connects with a sharp edge of the mask and he instantly feels seasick. Then his head is dragged under the surface and the cool water on his face snaps him out of it.
~ * ~
If he can’t swim then why, exactly, did Billy decide to tackle this guy into a large body of water of unknown depth? He can only put it down to being overzealous.
Schumacher twists out of his grip and slips away. Bugger. Billy’s furious, but it doesn’t last long. It’s immediately replaced by survival instinct. He thrashes his arms and legs, hopes that will keep him afloat. It doesn’t. He sinks like a stone and wishes he’d spent one fewer days driving at the racetrack and one actual day learning to swim.
His head goes under.
This is it, baby, this is it.
He’s not going to solve the case on the first day, he’s going to drown while failing to solve it —
His feet touch the muddy bottom. He pulls his body upright and stands. The water barely reaches his waist.
What the hell?
He turns, sees
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