Page 5 of Ground Truth

The trees came up fast. He leaned into a broad turn, raced into a gap, and unclipped his boots. Flint prepared to run the rest of the distance.

He’d entered the trees close to where he’d hid the microlight, but he couldn’t see it. He had no choice. He flicked the flashlight on, swept the area, and clicked it off as fast as possible.

The tiny craft was twenty feet away to his left. Which was okay.

But the snowmobiles had seen the light. He heard them maneuvering as they rounded the trees. Which was not okay.

Not even remotely.

He collected the microlight and continued downhill. He’d exit on the downslope to help gain speed.

Shots sounded above him along with noises of breaking branches. The security team had dismounted the snowmobiles. Their determined approach meant they would be taking no prisoners.

A branch to his left cracked. They’d lost his trail. Away from the château’s infrared lights, their night-vision equipment wasn’t as good as before. He’d caught a break.

Flint exited the trees, pulled back on a spar that spread the microlight’s wings, and switched on the electric engine.

Nothing happened.

He staggered while digging in his pocket for the key. He found it and wedged it into the slot.

The single-bladed propellor buzzed to life and threatened to pull the craft from his hands.

Flint stumbled forward, slipping his arms through a safety harness, and ran down the slope. He felt the craft gaining lift and pushed off with both feet.

The craft dipped, bringing his feet back to the ground.

He ran a few more paces and finally, he was airborne.

Shots sounded behind him. The microlight’s engine was very quiet but not silent. Flint and the microlight were silhouetted against the sky. Pursuers would have a good view of him now.

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Chapter 4

Flint moved his weight forward, keeping the microlight’s nose down to make the most of gravity’s assistance to gain more speed down the slope. His eyes watered in the icy blast.

He angled right, toward Naters.

The security team stopped shooting. Flint turned back to look but could not see them in the dark.

They’d likely be calling the police, perhaps expecting him to land and take a car. He grinned in the arctic air. They’d be disappointed.

The microlight gained altitude and Flint found his goggles. His watch showed 9:33. He had twelve minutes. He was making good time. So far.

The lights below provided a good navigational reference. Moving at sixty miles an hour, he spotted his target just five minutes later. He saw the twin arched entrances at the base of a mountain. The Simplon Tunnel.

In operation for well over a hundred years, the tunnel linked Switzerland to Italy by train in an almost straight line through the Alps.

A train set off from the station in Brig. He saw the light from a long line of slowly moving windows. Flint checked his watch. Right on time.

The SBB, the Swiss rail service, kept its reputation for timeliness intact.

Flint vectored ahead of the train as it gained speed. His plan was foolish and dangerous, but there were no other options. He’d looked.

He had a small window of opportunity. Not three strikes, like baseball. Only one chance.

The train passed out of the town at no more than fifty miles an hour. He was ahead of it, but he knew it would soon pass under him.

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