Poseidon's Ransom

Chapter Twelve

The exertion of dragging the four bodies into the back room had Washington wheezing heavily. His face and body were new, but his heart was not, and he had to sit down until the dizziness abated and his breath steadied.

Back in the big room, he went to his bag and removed the Glock. He dropped the weapon’s magazine and checked the ammunition. There was a cold breeze coming in through the front door now. The sun had disappeared, and the Welsh weather had reverted to type, with a fine drizzle chilling the air. He looked at the gun then moved to the staircase. On the first floor landing he cocked the weapon, slipping a round into the chamber with a metallic click. He took the balaclava from his pocket and pulled it over his already sweating head.

Mr and Mrs Pike stood in the centre of the room. The old man held his wife close. ‘Do it quickly please,’ he said.

Washington raised the gun and said, ‘I don’t want to hurt you. And if you behave you’ll be on your way home very soon.’

Tears of relief ran down the old lady’s face as her husband held her tightly.

‘Let’s go,’ said the American. He waved the gun towards the landing, then handed the keys to the old man. ‘Unlock the other doors please, George.’

The man did as instructed but continued to hold on to his trembling wife’s hand. Lady Grainger and her daughter came out. The daughter screamed when she saw the masked gunman.

‘Shut up,’ shouted Washington, ‘No one’s gonna get hurt if you do as you’re told.’

The old man unlocked the next door and Kathy Dowling and her two young sons emerged.

George Pike smiled weakly. ‘It’s all right. I think we could be going home.’

‘Okay. Everybody downstairs, please,’ said the American, ‘but no funny business. This could still go wrong for you all.’

Lady Olivia Grainger put her arm around the shoulder of her sobbing daughter and walked down the stairs. Kathy Dowling and her boys were next, slowly followed by the Pikes.

In the big room Washington said, ‘Okay. Everyone outside.’

The group huddled together as the drizzle soaked into their clothes.

‘Into the barn,’ said the American, as he waved the gun towards the ramshackle building a few yards away.

Kathy Dowling pulled open the old doors, the hinges creaking eerily.

‘Everyone inside,’ said Washington. He turned to the old man and said, ‘The van. Keys are in the ignition. Go!’

No one moved. ‘Get the hell outta here before I change my mind,’ shouted the American.

George Pike helped his wife into the cab and then climbed in after her. The others all quickly piled into the rear and pulled the door closed. Pike started up the engine and eased the vehicle forward. As he slowly passed the American, he wound down the window and said, ‘Thank you.’

The masked man lowered the gun and nodded, then pointed to the road at the edge of the farmyard. ‘That way. It’s about eleven miles to the village.’

Washington waited until the van was on its way down the hill, then slipped the gun into his waistband. He pulled off the uncomfortable balaclava and ran his hands though his hair and over his face. The rain had stopped, and a hint of sun was beginning to show through the breaking cloud. A swift movement in the sky caught his peripheral vision, and then there it was. The peregrine was back. He watched it swoop for a few seconds, and then he turned and went back into the barn. He picked up two heavy cans of petrol and humped them back into the house. He left one in the big room and took the other into the rear communications room. He stood for a moment looking at his former henchmen, then opened the can and poured the fuel over the bodies, being careful not to get any on himself. He spread the rest of the can around the backroom and threw the empty container in the corner.

The second can was carefully spread around the big room, with a trail leading towards the open door. The rank pungent smell made him gag, but the fresh air soon settled the feeling of nausea. He moved a few yards away from the door then took out a Zippo lighter. He could see the van weaving down the hill, over a mile away. The old man was driving carefully, as the road twisted and turned down the incline.

He flicked the lighter and the small yellow flame fluttered in the breeze. He threw the Zippo through the open door and quickly stepped back as the fuel caught and the flames appeared with a whoosh.

He watched for a few more seconds as the fire took hold, then quickly returned to the barn. In the corner was a large tarpaulin, which he carefully removed to reveal a powerful Yamaha motorcycle. He pushed the bike out, took the helmet from the handlebars and pulled it over his head. The bike fired up at the first press of the starter and the engine growled as he turned the throttle. The house was well ablaze now and the flames had totally engulfed the ground floor. The wooden floors and ceilings would go up like matchwood. There’d be nothing left except a blackened, solid stone carcass.

As he turned the bike towards the fields, the falcon flew overhead, then swooped a few yards away from him. Washington could clearly see its bright eyes as the elegant creature snared its prey. He waited until the bird flew off, then gunned the engine and headed across the fields.

At the bottom of the hill, George Pike brought the van to a stop and looked back at the thick pall of black smoke, rising into the evening sky like the plume from a rumbling volcano.