Why?
Then Wickson seemed to jump backwards and fell into the machine, which ate him up and then spat him out.
The sniper’s stomach churned at the horror. It was more than horror, it was revulsion, complete disbelief. But he only had a matter of moments to take in what had happened to the millionaire, because Verner suddenly came into view, stepping out from behind the cover of the crusher, brandishing the shotgun, presumably at Henry Christie.
The sniper had to settle quickly, get over what he had just witnessed, concentrate. Regulate the breathing, keep steady.
And fire.
At first Henry did not realize what had happened, and nor did Verner — but it was the latter who caught on first. It seemed like magic as the shotgun was somehow driven from his grasp by an invisible force and dumped on the floor.
Verner and Henry, for the most fleeting of moments, looked each other in the eyes, their brows furrowed, and then, just a fraction of a second before Henry, Verner put two and two together and computed the answer: he was being shot at.
Verner dived to the ground, wresting his pistol out of his waistband.
Henry saw his chance. He scrambled up the side of the crusher and jumped on to the platform on top, hoping to hell that whoever was shooting had not been sent to kill him, or that he would not be mistaken for Verner.
He ran across the width of the crusher, trying not to look down at the gnashing jaws which seemed to want more food, and dropped down the other side, literally leaping down the dozen or so feet to the floor. He landed hard, stumbled a few steps and raced towards the stable block that had survived the fire.
Verner rolled under the protection of the crusher, an expression of annoyance creasing his face.
His first thoughts were that someone had been sent to eliminate him because he was of no further use, now that the cops knew who he was. They would always be on the lookout for him and that was not good for a hit man, a profession that required a high degree of anonymity and blandness. His face would be plastered all over the country and maybe Europe and therefore his use was now limited. It was often the way with professional killers who had passed their sell-by dates. They knew too much and if they did get arrested they might talk and broker deals, so they had to be disposed of to make way for the next kid on the block. It made professional sense. That’s what his controller had hinted at when he’d made his phone call.
He laughed and hoped that the gun in his hand, the one he had acquired from a backstreet car park, worked. Henry slammed against the wall of a loose box, panting heavily, options coursing through his mind. Who the hell was up there — probably in the same spot Verner had occupied only days before?
It looked like Verner’s time had come.
But Henry was under no illusions that his own time might have come too. Whoever was up there, sniping away, was probably just as likely to pot him, he suspected. . although he hadn’t done so yet.
Henry knew he had to do two things: get himself out of here and try to get Tara and Charlotte out of the way as well. There was no quick and easy way back to the house — in cover, that was.
The direct route was out. That was just too open. The only way would be to skirt around the outside of the stables, head across the field to the old farm buildings behind the house, and use them as cover to get to the rear of the house itself.
He moved. There was no time to waste.
The sniper on the hillside seethed with frustration at himself. He could not believe he had missed Verner. The cross hairs on the sights had been bang on Verner’s head, but as he squeezed the trigger, something somewhere went ever so slightly wrong. Maybe he pulled the rifle, moved a fraction. . maybe, maybe, maybe. The fact was he had missed but at least he had managed to knock the shotgun out of Verner’s hands.
Sharp shootin’ at its very best, he thought cynically.
Next thing, Verner had rolled out of sight before he could send another bullet screaming at him and Henry Christie had cleared the crusher like some sort of athlete, although his very dicey landing was not graceful at all.
The sniper could easily have taken Henry as he ran to the stables, but he allowed him to reach his destination unscathed.
Verner was his target. He was the man he had been sent to kill, wanted to kill, was determined to kill.
Verner scrambled away from the crusher, keeping the machine between him and the sniper, and dropped into the drainage channel which ran parallel to the path all the way back to the house. It was cold and very wet in the bottom of the ditch, smelly too, reeking of rotting vegetation. Keeping low, Verner started to creep back in the direction of the house, but moving as quickly as his elbows would take him in the slush and mud, and keeping his gun out of it.
Henry pitched himself headlong into the field, using a low hedge for cover, not once daring to raise his head. The sobering thought that he might get it blasted off was good motivation to remain hunkered down. He stumbled on the uneven ground, falling forwards on to outstretched hands, which sank with a slurp into the soft, wet earth. He made it unscathed to the point where the field met the concreted yard by the dilapidated farm buildings where Wickson carried on his illicit trade in fuel laundering.
Keeping to the shadows, he rose wet and dirty from the field and ran to the gable end of the nearest building, then scuttled his way around the back of it. His intention was to skirt all the way around and re-emerge near to the back of the main house, where he knew he would be on open ground when he ran to the kitchen door. A risk he would have to take.
Charlotte Wickson had been transfixed by the spectacle of the dead man in the kitchen. It took her a long time to look away from him and back to her injured mother. Tara’s eyes opened. They were vague, bloodshot, distant. They closed again.
‘Mum. . oh, please, Mum,’ Charlotte begged.
As if by magic Tara’s eyes flipped open again. This time they were clearer, more focused. ‘Charlie,’ she wheezed.
‘Mum, we’ve got to get out of here.’
Tara put a hand on her wound. ‘I know. . Help me up.’
Charlotte supported Tara to get to her feet.
Henry had never been a particularly fast runner. He had been a rugby player in his younger years, but had succeeded in that through sheer bloody-mindedness, guts and willpower rather than through anything such as speed and agility. As he pinned himself against the old farm building, he could see that the kitchen door was at least a hundred metres away, across a wide expanse of manicured lawn and concrete patio — and that there was no other way to get to the house. He had to sprint like hell, out in the open, to get there.
He wondered where Verner had got to.
The crusher was still gnashing away near to the stable block. Presumably there was still a sniper up on the hillside. Verner was not to be seen as Henry cautiously peered out from behind the safety of the stone building.
Where was he? Still pinned down behind the crusher?
Henry doubted it. He was too resourceful to let that happen to him — which is why Henry wanted to get to the house and get the females out of there somewhere safe and sound. He knew that Verner would see Tara as unfinished business as she was a witness against him, one who needed to be eliminated, even though Henry believed that nothing she had seen would have registered with her. Verner did not leave people alive.
Henry counted to five, then launched himself out of the shadows and into the open.
The back of the house seemed to be a very long, long way away. More than his estimation. Felt like half a mile.
He felt very naked and vulnerable, exposing himself like this.
His arms pumped, fists clenched, expecting something very bad to happen to him.