stint in a Thai hellhole would finally drive some sense into him.
Malloy stopped, fatigued, his breath labored, and waited for Brunner to catch up. Their climbs followed a strict regimen. Move for an hour. Stop. Hydrate. Snack. Check equipment. Continue.
“Next pitch is yours,” he said, forcing a smile. God, he was weaker than he’d expected.
Brunner gave him a pat on the back and moved up the face. Malloy waited until the first screw was set, then followed. Below him the cable car station looked like a speck. He kicked a chunk of ice free and watched it fall, bouncing off the wall once, twice, three times before disintegrating on the rocks below. He gripped the axes tightly, the muscles in his hands aching as the face grew steeper still.
Whether Rafa was owed the money or not, Malloy could not pay him. He’d transferred the money to his own account the day Rafa resigned. Five million Swiss francs didn’t go far in today’s world, at least not the world Malloy inhabited. There was the house, the car, private schools for his daughters, an apartment for his mistress, his wife’s passion for horses, la vie équestre.
“Lo siento, amigo,” Malloy said under his breath. “That boat sailed long ago. No màs dinero.”
He remembered hiring Rafa. Tall, handsome, debonair, Rafael de Bourbon, the bright, shining face of the firm. PetroSaud sold oil leases in yet undeveloped lands deep inside the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. A billion-dollar investment promised a ten percent yield in perpetuity.
There was another side to the business. Malloy’s side. And it was even more lucrative. To the investor…and to Malloy. It was that side Rafa had foolishly threatened to expose. The Spaniard had no idea of the hornet’s nest he was disturbing.
Malloy put Rafa out of his mind and concentrated on the climb. He caught up to Brunner and, over the next hour, led several pitches, a “pitch” being one length of rope, or approximately one hundred fifty feet. The wind had picked up, snow and rime skidding across the face, making visibility difficult. Squinting, he could just make out the summit, another five hundred feet. Thank God. He didn’t think he could make it any farther. He looked down, signaling to Brunner that they were almost there.
It was then he saw the flash of red below them. A solo climber, no visible ropes, and moving fast. Malloy took off his gloves and dug in his pocket for a protein bar, one last shot of energy. When he looked back, the solo climber was nearly level with Rolf Brunner. The kids these days. It was all about speed, setting records. They took no time to enjoy themselves, to revel in nature and appreciate their surroundings.
He felt a tug on the rope. A second, sharper still. And then, hidden in the howling wind, a scream.
That kind of scream.
Malloy pulled the glasses from his face and looked down. Rolf Brunner was no longer there. The rope whipped wildly back and forth. It had been cut. And in Rolf’s place, the climber in red.
Malloy was tired and confused. Precious seconds passed before he was able to grasp the fact that, yes, it was the climber in red who had cut Brunner’s rope and pushed him off the face. And then, with terror, to register that the climber was following directly in his own path.
Malloy looked up. Five hundred feet. Less even. He struggled to put on his gloves, then freed his axes and began to climb. He didn’t bother with the rope or screws. There was no time. The climber was gaining rapidly, moving more quickly than Malloy had ever seen.
Axe. Kick. Step. Axe. Kick. Step.
His muscles screamed. His lungs burned. Why? he asked himself, knowing full well who had sent the climber. Malloy had not only betrayed Rafa. Far worse, he had betrayed the firm. His larceny had jeopardized everything.
Malloy could go no farther. Panting, he dug his crampons into the wall and cleared one of his axes, turning to meet the climber. The man drew closer. He wore no hat and, frighteningly, no gloves. Blond hair as thick as a whisk broom. Broad shoulders. Complexion the color of milk coffee. A last step. He came even, blue eyes as flat as ice, a hard face. Malloy swung his axe. The climber avoided it easily. Despite his terrific pace, his breath was even. Malloy swung again, his left foot losing its purchase. The climber caught his axe and wrenched it from his hand,