He was suddenly aware of pain in his temple and discovered that he was bleeding
and that his T-shirt was drenched with blood. Scalp wounds never stop bleeding, he
thought before he again concentrated on his position. One shot could just have
been an accident, but two meant that somebody was trying to kill him. He had no
way of knowing if the marksman was waiting for him to reappear.
He tried to be calm, think rationally. The choice was to wait or to get the hell out. If
the marksman was still there, the latter alternative was assuredly not a good idea. If
he waited where he was, the marksman would calmly walk up to the Fortress, find
him, and shoot him at close range.
He (or she?) can’t know if I’ve gone to the right or left. Rifle, maybe a moose rifle.
Probably with telescopic sights. Which would mean that the marksman would have
a limited field of vision if he was looking for Mikael through the sights.
If you’re in a tight spot—take the initiative. Better than waiting. He watched and
listened for sounds for two minutes; then he clambered out of the battery and
raced down the slope as fast as he could.
He was halfway down the slope as a third shot was fired, but he only heard a vague
smack behind him. He threw himself flat through the curtain of brush and rolled
through a sea of stinging nettles. Then he was on his feet and moving away from
the direction of the fire, crouching, running, stopping every fifty yards, listening. He
heard a branch crack somewhere between him and the Fortress. He dropped to his
stomach.
Crawl using your elbows was another of Captain Adolfsson’s favourite expressions.
Blomkvist covered the next 150 yards on his knees and toes and elbows through
the undergrowth. He pushed aside twigs and branches. Twice he heard sudden
cracks in the thicket behind him. The first seemed to be very close, maybe twenty
paces to the right. He froze, lay perfectly still. After a while he cautiously raised his
head and looked around, but he could see no-one. He lay still for a long time, his
nerves on full alert, ready to flee or possibly make a desperate counterattack if the
enemy came at him. The next crack was from farther away. Then silence.
He knows I’m here. Has he taken up a position somewhere, waiting for me to start
moving, or has he retreated?
Blomkvist kept crawling through the undergrowth until he reached the
Östergården’s fence.