Ruzhyo pulled his car into the barn and shut the door behind it. The place was dusty and smelled of dry hay, wool, and something like hot candle wax. Farm smells, bringing with them quick lances of memory from his days with Anna. He checked out the exits. There were two more at ground level besides the one he'd pulled the car into, and two openings on the upper level, with hoists and ropes and pulleys dangling from them. Peel was a professional; he would pull his car in and get out in such a way as to allow somebody hiding in the barn a clear shot at his followers when they left their car. Probably in front of the smaller door on the building's southeast side, he figured.
Ruzhyo checked the magazine in the Firestar, making certain that a round was chambered. He cocked the hammer and put the safety back on. There might not be any shooting at all; if it became necessary, he had eight shots, and seven more rounds in a second magazine, if he had to reload. No semi auto was jam-proof, but he had adjusted the magazines and polished the feed ramp, and the bullet ogive was clean and rounded enough so there shouldn't be a problem. After firing a few rounds when he'd gotten the piece, he had hand-cycled a hundred cartridges through the action without a misfeed. At this range, if he had to shoot, he'd only need a few to work, and the first one was already there.
He heard the sound of an approaching engine, easily discerned in the quiet pastures. He took another deep breath and let it out, stretched his neck, and rolled his shoulders. He was ready. He would follow Peel's lead.
Peel pulled his car onto the hard-packed dirt next to the barn and circled to his left to force the following car to pull in between him and the building. He stopped, loosened his pistol in its holster, and alighted from his car. He kept the door open and stood partially covered by it. He didn't see Ruzhyo, but he had noticed the fresh tire prints leading to the barn, so he knew the man was in there. If it was him, Peel would set up behind that door right across from his car, and he bet that the ex-Spetsnaz shooter was already there. He felt a lot better having an old pro watching his arse.
The Neon pulled off the road and right into perfect position. The car stopped in a light cloud of dust, and as the reddish gray powder settled, two men got out. They wore windbreakers, and they had the moves of somebody carrying firearms, which they certainly had hidden under their jackets. But they didn't look like coppers, at least not civilian ones. One was a medium-tall brunette, the other a shorter, stockier man with mouse-brown hair cropped short. Were they military? Or Intelligence? What the bloody hell?
"Good afternoon, gentlemen. May I help you with something?"
Mouse-brown said, "Major Peel. We wonder if you would come along with us, sir." Not a question.
"If you'll explain who you are and what you want, maybe we can keep this civilized."
"We didn't come to answer questions. We'll send somebody for your car. You'll be riding with us."
"I shouldn't think I'd want to do that," he said.
"Then we must insist," Medium-tall said. "Please step over here, sir. And keep your hands in plain sight."
"Insist all you want. I'm minding my own business, and I don't believe it is any of yours."
The two exchanged glances, and without speaking, split up and drifted away from each other. This was standard procedure if you were facing a man you considered armed and dangerous. Even if he was very fast on the draw, he would have to swing his weapon from one to another with two opponents, and the farther apart they were, the harder that would be — especially if both opponents were prepared to shoot back. They still had not pulled their own weapons, and that was to his advantage.
"Let's not make this difficult, Major," Mouse-brown said.
"Gentlemen, I advise you to stand still and keep your hands away from your weapons."
Medium-tall grinned and said, "Begging your pardon, Major, but either one of us is ten years younger and ten years faster than you. You don't really think you're good enough to take us both?"
"Maybe. Maybe not. It would be more risky if I were alone."
Mouse-brown said, "There's no one else in your car, Peel. How stupid do you think we are?"
"Fairly stupid, I should say. Why do you think I stopped here, sonny? At this particular quiet spot in the country?"
Mouse-brown paused in his sideways drift and shot his partner a quick glance.
"He's having us on," Medium-tall said. "A bluff."
"You think so?" Peel said. He smiled. "You've been behind me since we left London. You think I didn't know that? I've had plenty of time to have a colleague arrive here. You seem like decent lads. Tell me who sent you and what you know, and perhaps you get to walk out of this. Otherwise…" he gave them a broad, theatrical shrug.
"Forget it," Medium-tall said. "We weren't born bloody yesterday!"
Peel raised his voice. "Mr. Ruzhyo! Are you there?"
The barn door swung up with a creak of rusted hinges and Ruzhyo appeared in the doorway, though he did not step out from his cover. "I am here," he said. He held the silvery pistol in both hands, pointed at Medium-tall.
The two men started, surprised.
Men who had been under the gun, under fire, would have known they didn't have a chance. You could be faster than Billy the Bloody Kid from the holster but that wouldn't be nearly quick enough to outdraw a gun already aimed at you.
The two panicked and went for their guns.
Ruzhyo had Medium-tall, so Mouse-brown was Peel's. But before he could clear his weapon, Ruzhyo fired—pow! pow! pow! the tiniest hesitation, then pow! pow! pow! again. Six rounds at maybe five meters, and it was so quick it sounded like two bursts of fully automatic submachine gun fire. Damn, he was fast!
Medium-tall and Mouse-brown went down like sick-led wheat.
"Shit!" Peel yelled. He finished his draw and hurried toward the downed men. Both were wearing body armor under their jackets, he could see that as he got close. The vests had stopped two rounds each, just as they were supposed to. But the armor had not stopped the rest of Ruzhyo's Mozambique drilclass="underline" two to the chest and one to the head. Both men had been shot between the eyes, and they were effectively dead before they hit the ground. Peel had never seen the drill performed better, not even in practice, much less in a hot scenario. Ruzhyo was a master shooter.
"Damn, how am I supposed to find out anything if you don't leave one alive to question?"
Ruzhyo gave him a Slavic shrug. He popped the magazine from the pistol, let it fall to the ground, reloaded the handgun with a second magazine from his pocket, then bent to pick up the fallen magazine. When he straightened, he reached up with one hand and pried a silicone ear plug from one ear, then the other, and dropped those into his pocket along with the nearly empty magazine.
Good God. Ruzhyo was so cool as to think about bloody ear protection before he had calmly blasted two armed men as neat and quick as you could possibly please. The man must have ice water in his veins.
Well, there was not any help for it now. Best find out who these two were, if he could. Peel fished in Medium-tall's pocket until he found a wallet. He opened it, then stared at the ID card behind the clear plastic window. "Oh, Lord! These blokes are MI-6! We've just killed two of his majesty's SIS agents!"
Ruzhyo shrugged again, scanning the countryside for witnesses.
Aside from the sheep, who seemed unaffected by the gunshots, there weren't any prying eyes.
Peel shook his head. "Come on, help me move the bodies," Peel said. "We've only got a few minutes before they are missed."
They were in the crapper now, weren't they?