Numbered Account

The cough of another engine interrupted his thoughts. The car came closer, now somewhere just beyond the mountain's crest. Its engine whined, straining in second gear as it climbed the final incline.

Nick recalled seeing a car from the limousine window. It had been far below on one of the short straightaways that separated the endless series of hairpin turns. Was this that same automobile? Had its pending arrival prompted the Pasha to get the hell out of there?

Nick didn't know. But he needed someone to find him in a hurry. He didn't have gloves or an overcoat. He could survive a few hours, maybe until night. Longer than that he couldn't guarantee. His leg was already stiffening. Left without any treatment, it would freeze up and he would be incapable of moving it. He required medical attention, someone to swab out the wound and dress it with sulfa and gauze bandages. Most of all, he needed a car to go after the Pasha. He would not allow the sonuvabitch to get away.

Nick heard the screeching of the car's tires as it made its way around the last hairpin turn. The engine fired more confidently as the incline lessened. He rolled to his right so that he could place his left leg under himself. Thousands of shredded nerve endings ignited. Tears came to his eyes. And then he froze. He asked himself who else would be so foolish to come up this road in the dead of winter, braving a wild snowstorm? Was it just some adventurous tourist? Or a local so familiar with the roads that even near whiteout conditions did not daunt him? He didn't think so. Odds were it was a chase car sent by Gino Makdisi to clean up after his business partner.

Nick turned over the situation in his mind. He had to allow the driver to find him. If it was a local, he'd be safe and on his way in a few minutes. If it was a cohort of Mevlevi's, the solution might be messier. One thing was certain: he needed a car to follow Mevlevi.

Nick ran his hands over the asphalt searching for a stone or rock that he might be able to use, if necessary. The lot was scattered with loose gravel. Spotting a decent-size rock- probably a piece of granite from the underlying rock strata- he pulled himself a few feet to his left and grabbed hold of the stone. Then he scooted back to where he had fallen. He ran his hand through the puddle of blood and wiped it across his white shirt. After only a few passes, even he was sickened by the gory sight. His shirt was pasty and crimson- like his father's, the last time he had seen him.

Nick laid down on the ground as the car forded the crest of the mountain. He rested his cheek on the asphalt and focused his eyes on an iron safety pylon intermittently visible through the swirling snow. Keeping his gaze thus directed, he couldn't see what type of car it was that was approaching so slowly. Only that it was red. He tensed as the headlights brushed his eyes. He thought they flashed to bright, then returned to normal but could not be sure. The engine died, and the car came to a halt at the edge of his peripheral vision.

A door opened. Steps approached. Nick kept his eyes glued to the iron pylon. Dead man's stare. He breathed shallowly. It was hard as hell, seeing as how his heart was doing at least a hundred a minute. He was scared and powerless. He waited for a second door to open, but the sound didn't come. Whoever was standing ten feet away from him had come alone.

The steps recommenced. A shape took form in his periphery. Medium-size man. Dark clothing. Approaching cautiously. Why don't you say something? Nick asked himself. Ask me how I am, if I'm alive. He tightened his grip on the rock cupped beneath his hand. The man took another step. Now he was leaning over Nick's body. He jabbed a foot into Nick's lower back.

Definitely not a local.

Nick kept his gaze on the pylon. His eyes itched terribly, and he needed to blink. Still, no voice. The man bent down lower. Nick knew he was staring at his bloody shirt and sizing up his lifeless gaze. Any second now he'd put his hand in front of Nick's mouth and feel the warm breath, and then he'd know. The face was directly above him. Nick smelled expensive cologne. Could almost make out the features. Gray beard, closely cropped. Thick eyebrows.

Then Nick saw the hat. The man held it in his right hand, which had fallen directly in front of Nick's eyes. It was a rugged, dark green affair. A pinsel brush extended from its band.

An Austrian mountain guide's hat.

Nick snapped his head to the right and stared into the surprised face of his gentleman stalker. The man yelped. But before he could rise, Nick's hand arced through the air, delivering the stone to his cheek. The man gasped, then tumbled onto his side, unconscious. He held a snub-nosed revolver in his left hand.