He was off in the next second, hurtling past the open front of the barn without alerting those inside. He couldn’t immediately see the man on the far side of the barn. Mist danced where the man had passed seconds earlier and Ramm followed the swirling patterns along the side wall. Seconds later he caught sight of a darker blur through the uniform grey, and he again held the pitchfork like a pike man at the ready as he stalked forward.
The man was moving slowly; alert to any egress to the barn, totally unaware that death was stealing in on him. Never the coward, but always ruthless, Ramm gave the man no warning. He slammed the tines of the pitchfork under the man’s ribcage, digging deep for the liver. The man cried out, but Ramm forced one palm over his mouth, cutting off the screech of agony. When the man didn’t die quickly enough, Ramm dropped the fork, grabbed both hands round the man’s head and wrenched it savagely. The man dropped stone dead to the earth. Ramm took his club, and retrieved his fork. His weapons cache was building.
From within the barn came the sound of voices raised now in question. The snarling of the dogs, the whinnying of the horses, didn’t help make things clear, but Ramm realised that the man’s death hadn’t been silent enough. Time for stealth was over: now it was time for balls and fury. He reversed route to the front of the barn, holding his fork in one hand, a cudgel the other. His night vision had sharpened somewhat and he could see further within the dim recess of the barn. The tractor stood out now against the dark and beyond it he could see the raised hayloft. The Dobermans had all scaled the ladder. They milled about up in the loft, unsure of what to do or where to go. Ramm grinned: the dogs could climb up; let’s see the fuckers climb down again.
He ran into the barn.
The Bishop’s men heard him coming. They swung around, two bringing up clubs, the last man swinging up the huge cleaver.
Ramm didn’t pause at their show of power. At a run he hurled his cudgel left-handed, and it struck the cleaver man in the chest, but with little harm. Nevertheless, the man reacted as many did when struck: he turned away, checking himself for wounds. It was the advantage Ramm needed. He speared at the club-wielder on the right, and the man’s response was to bat at the metal tines in desperation. Ramm twisted the fork in his grip, spinning the head of the fork so that it snared the club between two prongs. Ramm snatched the fork down, stripping the weapon from the man’s hand. Ramm immediately backhanded the fork, striking the man across the face. The tines tore furrows in his cheek and the man stumbled away holding his wounded face.
The second club-wielder swung at Ramm’s head.
Ramm dipped low, even as he snatched the second club from his belt. He swiped it in an arc that apexed at the man’s leading knee. The corresponding crack was as loud as gunshot in a confined space. The man cried out as he buckled. Ramm swung the fork and jammed the tines into his gut. He bore in with his weight, pinning the man to the floor. The wound to the gut wasn’t fatal. But the strike of Ramm’s club to the man’s skull was.
Above the arena of battle the dogs bayed. Ramm ignored them.
The man with the cleaver was still in the fight, as was the one with the torn face. Ramm went for the weakened man first. He relinquished the fork, electing instead to strike a blurring flurry of blows to the man’s arms and legs. A final whack struck the man directly between the eyes and he fell like the proverbial felled ox.
Ramm twisted marginally.
The cleaver whistled by Ramm’s gut.
Ramm took a half step forward just as the cleaver man came at him again with a backhand swipe. Ramm blocked the man’s wrist with his club, and snapped a kick at his inner thigh. His boot found the bundle of nerves midway down the thigh like a jab from a cattle prod. The man’s leg twisted outward, both knees losing their elasticity. Ramm twisted the club over the top of the man’s extended wrist, then caught the short end in his other palm and levered down on the wood. The cleaver was trapped with its blunt edge over Ramm’s forearm, the man’s wrist caught in a solid vice. Both forces worked against each other so that there was only one result. The man’s wrist snapped. Involuntarily the fingers spasmed and the cleaver fell to the dirt. Ramm didn’t release the club: he continued to exert downward pressure even as he backpedalled. The man was forced face first into the dirt. Ramm finally released his wristlock hold, hopped in and raised a heel high. He stamped down on the nape of the downed man’s neck and knew that he wouldn’t be getting up again.
Five men were down, dead or dying. Ramm stepped back and sucked in a large inhalation. Then he allowed a flicker of satisfaction.
He wished to be tested.
Well, it seemed he’d passed muster.
No. Not true.
Adrian Cannon had paid him to bring home his daughter, Shelly. Ramm hadn’t succeeded yet. So the biggest test was yet to come.
Now that The Bishop believed Ramm dead, or still running for his life, it offered him a huge advantage.
He looked up at the three Dobermans on the platform overhead. They all stared back at him. The lead dog whined, pawed once at the edge of the loft.
Ramm eyed the Alpha dog, and the dog looked back, one of its eyes still watering. Ramm winked, said, ‘Stay, boy!’ and was pleased to see the dog sit. The other two obeyed the first one’s lead. They recognised the new top dog in the barn. Ramm turned away from the dogs, checking out the other animals in the barn.
It was time to show the bastard the error of his ways. Ramm was going back to the fight and he’d get there much quicker by horseback.
Two nights ago…
Adrian Cannon made himself at home on Ramm’s settee. He crossed his heels and folded his hands in his lap as he peered up in admiration at the man once coined ‘The Battering Ramm”.
‘You said something about an unfounded rumour?’ Ramm looked down at Cannon.
‘Some people were sure that you had retired, that you had gone soft. I hope you can forgive my uncouth attempt at testing your prowess?’
‘I could have killed those fools,’ Ramm said.
‘Then why didn’t you? They came armed with guns.’
‘But with no intention of using them,’ Ramm pointed out. ‘Killers don’t want witnesses to their crime. Either they would have waited until the pizza guy had left, or they would have killed him as he went down the steps before turning their guns on me. When I watched them let Gampie go unharmed I knew they didn’t have the balls to shoot. So it would have been unfair of me to hurt them too badly.’
‘Yet you gave them both something to remember you by,’ Cannon laughed. ‘The use of a hot pizza as an improvised weapon was inspired!’
‘It was a waste of good food,’ Ramm corrected, yet he couldn’t hide a twitch of humour that danced at the corner of his mouth.
‘Never mind that. I thought it was an ingenious use of an innocuous item. If you accept the task I have on offer, your skills and quick wits might come in useful.’
‘OK. So what have you in mind?’
Just then Bitsy Horton exited the bathroom. She stepped in all her voluptuous glory into the open door of the bedroom in full view of both men. Unlike Ramm she didn’t have a towel to cover her modesty. Ramm watched Cannon’s eyes widen marginally, and whatever had been on the playboy’s mind before had been momentarily kicked loose.