Illya Kuryakin crouched in the back of the truck, his rifle steadied on the cab-side, his gray eyes steady and cold. He could just make out figures in that perspex cab up there. He fired, and the helicopter seemed to stagger in mid-air and go sliding away, around and over the castle grounds. He followed it grimly in his sights, saw somebody laboring to stand and throw something. He fired again, and saw the man fall back.
Then the bucketing machine erupted in a great sheet of red fire and flames, the explosion blasting down into their ears. Shedding burning debris, it fell swiftly, struck the edge of the castle roof, and there was another explosion, twice as violent as the first. And then another, and a blazing ball of wreckage drifted off the edge and fell away out of sight. For a moment they all were stunned and silent. Then Sarah let out a shriek.
“The stables! They’ll catch fire! The horses!” And she leaped down from the truck and ran heedlessly through the gate and away, heading for the far end where the fiery wreck had fallen.
“No use calling her back!” Kuryakin said. “We’ll just have to make covering fire.” He sprang to the wall, aiming and triggering as fast as he could, sending a hail of lead at those threatening windows. Solo came up with the bazooka again and lobbed a bomb into the upper floors. Haycraft, on the roof of the black car, added his fire to Kuryakin’s. All at once the big arched door swung darkly open and a stick appeared, with a grubby white handkerchief on the end of it. The gunfire stopped. Kuryakin peered, caught a stir of movement from the edge of the roof up there, cringed as a bullet sent stone dust into his face, and snapped a shot in reply. He saw Schichi rear up and hang a moment, then fall in a whirl of limp arms and legs, to lie quite still. The stick waved to and fro.
“All right!” Solo shouted. “Come on out!” He and Kuryakin dropped and ran around to the gate as a dismal file of battered defenders came out into the dawn. Kuryakin glanced away to where Sarah had disappeared.
“I’d better go after her, Napoleon. You can manage here, and she’s bound to run into some kind of trouble on her own.”
He ran off hurriedly, around the curve of the wall and into the twisting fingers of smoke. He saw her darting and ducking, trying to catch and free a heavy door, and coughing as the smoke caught at her breathing. The leaning roof was well alight and he heard the horses inside screaming in terror. Dropping his rifle, he put a hand over his face and dashed in, caught the hasp, jerked it free and pulled the door back. She ducked back with him as half a dozen panic-stricken horses galloped madly out.
“There’s one more!” she cried. “Molly! Molly!” He heard the squeal from inside, drew a deep breath and darted in among the choking fumes to find a bay mare all saddled up and ready, but unable to break free. The reins were looped and knotted through a ring-bolt. He jerked them free and drew aside as the mare tossed her head and galloped out.
“Just in time,” he said, coughing, as he got out into the open and heard the roof of the stable come down with a crash and shower of sparks. “Looks as if somebody had that one all ready for a fast getaway.”
“I wonder who it could have been,” she cried as they ran back towards the forecourt and a scene of confusion. Haycraft stood just inside the gate with a rifle leveled while Solo took charge of the prisoners.
He had just snapped a lightweight pair of handcuffs on Foden and Bridget, linking them together, when one of the scared horses took fright at the smoking bomb crater in the gateway and wheeled with a flurry of hooves. Faden saw a desperate chance, and took it. Yanking Bridget cruelly almost off her feet, he threw an arm over the prancing horse and swung himself up on its back. She screamed as she was dragged several feet. Haycraft swore, aimed his rifle, but couldn’t get a shot for the other horses milling around. Solo spun and was knocked sprawling by Molly. Foden growled something they couldn’t hear, made a mighty effort and hoisted Bridget up behind him, dug his heels into the horse and went galloping off through the gate.
Kuryakin ran up swiftly, to see Solo snatch at Molly’s loose reins and go up into the seat.
“Gimme your rifle, Illya!” he called. “They won’t get far!”
“Bring her back alive if you can, Napoleon. She’s almost as valuable as the old man himself!”
“I’ll see what I can do!” Solo promised, snatching the rifle and letting Molly have his heels. After a headshake and kick or two she got the idea, threw up her head and started to run. It took him a moment or two to get back the feel of being in the saddle again, but once he had settled he was in a mood to enjoy it. The mare had a sweetly powerful action, and she could travel, too, once she set her mind to it.
“Easy, girl!” he murmured, balancing the rifle across his lap. “No need to run ourselves into the ground just yet. Let’s just see what they plan to do first, shall we? Foden is going to have to do something pretty soon. He can’t outrun us with a double load.”
The pair ahead had broken out now onto a wide rolling stretch of green that offered no obstacles and no cover. Solo rode with a wary eye. He had a score to settle with Foden, and he had no reason to feel affection for Bridget, but he didn’t want to shoot an innocent horse. The light was very good now, the sun pushing up over the hills ahead of them in a blaze of golden glory. The soft green underfoot now was too even and smooth to be natural. Solo stared and realized that he was riding over a golf course.
“I hope the greens committee wont be too upset about all this,” he muttered, and ducked as there came the snap of a pistol-shot from ahead, and then another and the sighing wail of a bullet going by. Unless he has the luck of the devil, he thought, Foden hasn’t a prayer of hitting me, with a pistol, at this range, and from the saddle. He must be crazy. The only thing he’s likely to do is scare his mount. And it looks like that’s just what the fool has done!
For the galloping horse ahead suddenly threw up its head with a wild squeal and went away at a furious run, heading straight for a low hill. Solo put heels to Molly and she responded at once. Again there came the snap-snap of futile shots. He saw Foden raising his free hand to beat the struggling horse over the head in fury as it thundered up the hill.
“You can’t keep that up for long,” Solo muttered, and tensed as he put the mare into the first slopes. The riders ahead were black silhouettes against the sunrise, the horse plunging and slowing—and then stopping, right on the crest. Solo slid down swiftly and rested his rifle across the saddle to take a very careful aim as that horse up there swung sideways. He fired, saw Foden jerk rigidly and then fall, and Bridget with him. He went up on Molly urgently, and put her at the slope as fast as she could make it.
The runaway horse stood still, head down and blowing, as he came up to it and stared down the other side. He was just in time to see tangled bodies roll over, bumping and jolting the last few feet, to plunge into a smooth green surface that seemed to splash as they hit.
“Hell!” he gasped, realizing what it was. In a flash he was down from the mare and shedding his coat. Frantically he unwound a hundred-foot length of nylon cord from about his waist, snagging the loop of one end over the mare’s girth-strap. Like Kuryakin, he had come prepared for just about anything, but his anticipations hadn’t included a bog.
Tugging on plastic gloves, he went over the edge and down the steep slope in a mad scramble, paying out the line as he dropped, glancing frantically over his shoulder from time to time, seeing those two inert figures slowly disappearing from sight. Foden—surely he had hit Foden? Then why was Bridget also so dreadfully still and lifeless? He couldn’t have shot both of them! Wild surmises filled his mind as he hopped and slid madly down.
The bottom came close now. Foden was completely under. Bridget lay on top of him, only her head and one shoulder still visible. He let himself dangle, wrapped a twist of the cord around one leg, craned perilously down to stretch out a hand and grab, catching at her shoulder, twisting his fingers into the fabric of her dress, heaving hard. He felt stitches parting, but she came up fractionally. He heaved harder, the fine cord biting into his other hand. She came up more. And more.