I grabbed it, and swung it hard, hitting him in the left shoulder. I threw myself at him again, and he dropped the rifle. When he was half a meter away, I yelled and launched myself at him with the ski poles thrust forward, but he deflected them with the rifle. A man in black wearing a black face mask, his rifle held lightly in his right hand, slipped carefully forward, scanning to the left and to the right. I heard steps crunching toward me in the snow and ducked behind a tree. On the other hand, I hadn’t expected to have to channel the Fourth Mountain Brigade that morning. I wish my gear wasn’t burgundy, I thought. Stepping carefully into the woods, bent almost double, I advanced with a ski pole in each hand. I ripped off my goggles and kicked out of the bindings. Somebody was shooting at me? I bent as far down as I could and snowplowed to the side of the run, stopping just before I got to the trees. Halfway down the piste, something buzzed past my face. As I gathered speed I laughed aloud at the awesome feel of the wind in my face, the best antidote to my time in the Algerian desert I could think of. The view was spectacular! Snowy hills covered with pine trees stretched away and away. I was among the few early birds on the slopes we were hoping to avoid the rush of celebrities modeling their designer ski togs. Is there life after the CIA? I wondered as I stamped my foot into the bindings of first one ski and then the other.
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