I have nothing else to say to him. As a veteran hit man for the largest crime organization in Chicago, I never hesitate or play games with those I intend to kill. In my mind, he’s already dead. I pull the trigger.
Nothing happens.
“Fuck.” I pull the weapon back to my chest and check to make sure there’s a bullet in the chamber. There is, but there’s also a lot of ice and rock around the barrel. I knock it against my chest a couple of times to dislodge whatever is causing the malfunction. Some of the ice falls away, but it still won’t fire.
“Run out of ammo?”
“No.” I don’t know why I even bother to answer him. “Jammed. Probably from the ice or a rock or something.”
Just as I say it, I see a chip of rock that is likely causing the problem. I try to use one finger to pry the fragment out, but it’s jammed tight. With my gloved hand, I can barely hold the weapon. There’s no way I can dislodge the rock even if I take off my glove. I only have one hand available. If I take the glove off, I might not be able to get it on again, and that would be worse than the lack of firepower.
“Motherfucker.” I clench my teeth and smack the Beretta against the ice beside me. Nothing seems to work; the rock stays firmly lodged.
“Having a problem?” I can hear laughter in his voice, but I don’t find anything terribly amusing.
“A bit,” I admit. I pull the gun up close to my face, wondering if I can get a grip on the rock with my teeth, but it’s in too deep.
“Something I can help you with?” Stark asks.
You can die on your own, I think but don’t say anything aloud. I take in a long breath and let it out slowly as I look around and consider my options. My lack of mobility is the biggest issue, and I don’t see a solution to it. There’s nothing around me to use as a digging tool, and with only one arm available, I won’t be able to dig effectively anyway.
I rotate the weapon in my hand, grasping the barrel tightly. I don’t have enough reach for a bludgeoning to be horribly effective, but it’s the only option. I pull back my arm and slam the butt end of the Beretta against the back of Stark’s head.
“Ow! Motherfucker!”
It isn’t a good hit, and I try again a couple of times before Stark manages to grab my hand and scuffle for the gun. I keep my grip as best I can, but when he slams my hand against a rock, I lose my hold and the weapon tumbles out of sight.
“Fuck,” I mutter.
“Why didn’t you just fucking shoot me?”
“Still jammed,” I tell him.
“I thought you were a fucking gun expert,” Stark replies. “You telling me you can’t unjam a gun?”
“Not with one hand.” My words are a mistake, and I realize it almost immediately. I’ve just given away my weakness.
Stark shuffles around enough that he is able to turn and appraise my situation. I meet his eyes for the first time, and his expression is hopeful. He lets out a short laugh.
“Well, you’re fucked,” he states.
I can’t argue with the sentiment. I need to stop giving him information. Anything I tell him can be used against me. Even my expression could tell him how bad off I am.
What difference does it make now?
I’m completely without weapons. In a bare-fisted fight, Stark would certainly beat me. I’m stuck in ice and rock, and I can barely feel my left arm. I’m immobilized; the temperature is well below deathly cold, and I have zero chance of digging my way out. Stark, on the other hand, appears much more hopeful. He pushes more ice and snow out from around him, clearing his shoulders and part of his chest.
I’m completely screwed.
I lay my head against my shoulder, trying to keep my exposed skin off the ice. As I close my eyes, I realize how easy giving up can be. It’s tempting. No, it’s beyond tempting. It’s downright appealing.
Stark is going to free himself, and then he is going to use whatever is handy to beat me to death—probably just his fists. I won’t be able to do anything to stop him. That thought pisses me off. If I’m going to die, I’d at least rather be able to fight back to the end. This way will suck.
I open my eyes and look down the edge of the cliff where something catches my eye. There’s a layer of rock lined up in the ice, surrounding a darker shape. As I squint, I realize the dark shape is actually Stark’s leg. I look up at his face and at the angle of his body. His leg is badly broken, possibly crushed. It’s also lodged against one rock at a tight angle. Even with Stark’s strength, he’s not going to be able to pull his leg out.
He’s as trapped as I am.
The thought offers me only a little comfort. At least I won’t be helplessly beaten to death. Instead, we will both die of exposure, and there will be no winner in this tournament. Rinaldo Moretti, Joseph Franks, and the other tournament organizers might not even find us, considering the cameras and GPS locators are buried in the avalanche.