Eva had changed her path to catch up with Curtis, and the two of them scrambled frantically for the cover of some small rocks and boulders. The helicopter had turned and was coming in fast and low, straight toward Quinn, since Johnson and Eva were now crouched down and out of sight. The rifle burst to life again, and a series of what looked like fountains of snow erupted straight up out of the ground, as bullets swept in a line toward Quinn. Just as the line of fire was about to rip him in half, he leapt up and sideways, landing hard in the snow, on his already injured shoulder. He swore, rolled, and sprinted in the other direction, back toward their camp. The helicopter banked sharply, and came at Quinn again. This time as the line of fire raked near to Quinn, he leapt into the air and performed an excellent back flip, landing in the snow on his stomach. The bullets grazed by close enough for him to smell the scorched air in their trail. He was getting tired and knew he had to do something about the shooter first.
As the helicopter raced skyward to perform another twisting banking maneuver, Quinn sprinted for all he was worth toward the frozen river, and dove head first into a slide across the ice. When he hit the other bank, he scooped up a rock the size of a melon, rolled, got to his feet, and stood perfectly still on the ice with an angry, defiant look on his face. The rock, held slightly behind his thigh, was concealed from the view of the approaching helicopter.
Quinn made no move and the approaching helicopter slowed. He could see the shooter replacing the curved magazine on the rifle, and chambering the first round. The helicopter slowed to a crawl, hovering over the frozen river, and turning broadside toward Quinn, so the open cargo door faced him head-on. The Chinese rifleman just looked slightly puzzled. Quinn didn’t move. He just breathed in slowly, readying himself for the task ahead. Curtis and Eva looked on in frightened silence from their hiding place.
“What the hell is he doing?” Curtis asked.
When it happened, it was like a slow motion scene from a fast-paced Hong Kong action movie. Curtis could swear that both Quinn and the Chinese shooter moved in perfect unison like gun-fighters in the Old West. The shooter had switched to single-fire, leveled the rifle and fired a round in one fluid motion. Quinn sprung into the air horizontally, and launched his rock with his injured right arm. The bullet grazed Quinn’s shoulder as he was in mid-leap. The plastic sack of snow and ice sprayed outwards away from Quinn’s body, as did a small arcing spurt of blood. About a fraction of a second later, the rock smashed into the shooter’s face, which burst in a geyser of twinkling maroon droplets. The man’s body pitched forward, rifle and all, plunged downwards, crashed through the frozen surface of the river just a couple of feet below the helicopter, and disappeared from view completely. Quinn crashed into a crumpled heap in the snow on the bank, and Curtis came rushing toward him. Eva remained behind and watched as the confused helicopter pilot suddenly banked the craft hard and raced away from the scene. At first, it looked as if the man would completely retreat, but then the vehicle turned again, and launched forward as if fired from a large slingshot, only this time it was coming in at a steep bank, as if the pilot hoped to slice Quinn and Johnson to pieces with the rotor blades.
“Un-imaginative fuck,” Quinn shouted. Curtis, who had just arrived as Quinn was getting to his feet, chuckled as he had been thinking the same thing when he saw the pilot dip the blades and launch his new action-movie-inspired attack. The men both dove in opposite directions into the snow to escape the roaring blades, as the craft shot over them.
“Nice move with the AK. Now what?” Curtis yelled over the roar or the attacking chopper, as they stumbled to their feet in preparation for the next pass.
“Keep him guessing.”
Quinn sprinted away from Curtis, and the pilot now found he had to choose a target. He went for Johnson. As soon as Quinn saw, he shifted the direction of his run, back toward Johnson, and the helicopter bearing down on him. Johnson dove laterally into the snow and Quinn came into the pilot’s view long enough to catch the pilot’s eye. The chopper shifted direction wildly. Quinn sprinted again, and then dove to his right into a deep snowdrift as Johnson was again coming into the pilot’s view. The tactic was working. The pilot couldn’t decide who to chase and was getting frustrated. Finally, he decided on Quinn and stuck with him. Quinn knew it wouldn’t take long. The dance between the slicing blades and the running man continued, and Johnson took advantage of his own brief respite to run toward the shredded campsite. He grabbed a climbing rope with an aluminum carabiner attached to it and began swinging it overhead like a lasso. He really didn’t expect it to work, but thought: What the hell?