Red Station

FIFTY-NINE

The shot tore through the windscreen, leaving a ragged hole, and blew out Clare’s head-rest in an explosion of foam and fabric. She cried shrilly with shock but retained her grip on the wheel.

Latham.

‘Go, go!’ Harry tried to see where the shot had come from. There were two clumps of trees in front of them, and an outcropping of rocks. Both had been hidden by the bend in the road. Latham was clever; any of them would have been good firing points, invisible until it was too late to turn back. Shooting the horse and farmer merely helped finalize the set-up. But Latham would have gone for the best cover available; cover to allow him to blend in so he could wait patiently until he took his shot; surroundings that would also allow a safe evacuation afterwards. Rocks were good, but too consistent in shape and colour. They didn’t provide a camouflaged background the way trees did.

A loud clang and another bullet struck, this time ripping a hole in the bonnet and kicking off flecks of paint and a chunk of bodywork.

The clump of trees to their right was high, and well away from the road. But there didn’t appear to be any direct access that Harry could see. He dismissed it; the position was too high. From up there, the shot would have hit the seat at a sharper angle and would have killed Clare instead.

Latham was playing with them.

A loud bang followed by an explosion of glass, this time through the upper corner of the windscreen close to Harry’s head. He ducked instinctively and felt ridiculous. Too bloody late for that!

Another bullet buried itself directly into the radiator, and this time they felt the impact go all the way through the vehicle.

The engine stuttered; kicked in again as Clare stamped on the accelerator; ran for a few seconds, then died. Steam began billowing out from under the bonnet, cloaking the windscreen and clouding their view.

‘Out!’ Harry shouted, and reached for the door catch as Clare braked hard. He hit the ground running and aimed two fast shots at the clump of trees, then rolled into a depression at the side of the road. He landed in a heap, half-winded, and looked up at the sky, regaining his breath. Then he rolled over and faced forward.

The tops of the trees where the shooter was firing from were just visible, the thinner branches waving in the breeze. Unless the man was a monkey and wanted to risk climbing to the top, they were protected. But for how long?

‘Clare? Rik? You OK?’ He kept his voice low.

Two responses, both lively, and accompanied by oaths. A good sign.

He checked his gun and considered what to do. Their options didn’t look good. Either Latham would come looking to finish them off before anyone else happened along, or he’d play safe after last night’s exchange of gunfire and wait for them to show their heads.

And take them out one by one.

A shot hit the road surface ten feet to Harry’s right, kicking up chunks of gravel and tarmac. It ricocheted off into the distance like an angry hornet, mashed out of shape by the impact.

A warning shot.

Harry checked his watch. Time was running out. If they managed to slip away but missed the French flight, they might be lucky enough to get another. But Latham would be right behind them.

And right now, their only means of transport was sitting uselessly in the road, leaking fluids.

Footsteps.

Harry froze. He was coming for them.

He peered out over the rise in the ground in front of him. A tall, thin figure was walking casually along the road towards them. He wore a dark combat jacket and blue jeans, and carried an assault rifle in one hand, the barrel pointing forward. For a man who knew they were armed, he seemed absurdly relaxed and unconcerned about any possible retaliation.

Harry studied the man’s face. Felt a glimmer of recognition. Was it the man he recognized or was it the type he’d seen too often before?

Whatever. The rifle said it all.

Harry rolled sideways, aiming to reach dead ground away from the road and Latham’s direct line of sight. If he could get on his flank unseen, he’d be able to A shot rang out and kicked up earth a foot to his left.

He froze. Latham could see him; probably not completely, but enough to know when he moved.

‘Stand up!’ It was a voice accustomed to giving orders. Cold, unemotional.

Harry got to his feet, the gun concealed behind his leg.

Latham had stopped thirty yards away, the rifle barrel lifting. Too far away for a handgun, Harry thought distractedly. But easy meat for a rifle.

Latham knew it, too. He had a trace of a smile on his face.

Harry flicked his eyes sideways to see if he could spot Rik or Clare. But they were nowhere to be seen.

It was a tight situation, and not merely for them. If Latham opened fire on Harry, he’d be exposing his side for the brief seconds it took to aim and pull the trigger. It would be long enough to allow Clare and Rik to take him out and Latham would know that.

Harry watched the rifle barrel lifting towards him, and got ready to throw himself sideways. He wondered how much time Clare had put in on the combat course with a hand-gun.

Nothing like enough, if Latham was all he was supposed to be.