In the distance a shot slammed out, followed by a stuttering rattle. A high-rate automatic, he guessed, and felt his shoulders bunch at the thought of the hail of bullets slicing through the night. It was followed by a double-tap, then silence.
Mitcheson?
Palmer edged round the doorjamb and ducked out into the yard. With this end clear, he could now check the stalls. He was barely halfway there, when he saw movement across the yard in a doorway. A tall shape came charging out of the gloom, the gleam of a pistol in his hand.
Henzigger. The American had caught him blind-sided.
Palmer threw himself flat, instinctively making himself as small a target as possible. As he did so, the gun in Henzigger’s hand flared, lighting up the yard momentarily, the sound of the shot hitting Palmer a nano-second later.
As he hit the ground, he felt a burning sensation seer its way across his back. He yelped involuntarily and rolled away in desperation. Thrusting out the pistol, he pulled the trigger three times, the shots merging like a drum roll. The yard lit up again and he heard a scream and the thump of a body falling.
The American swore, a harsh, featureless word ending in a sob.
Lying here, Palmer knew he was just as exposed as Henzigger, especially if the American had anyone backing him up. He flexed his shoulders and felt a sharp pain lancing across his back. But at least he could still move. So far, he thought wryly, so good. He checked his surroundings. The dark bulk of a stall was just inches away. Rolling over, he reached up and felt for the bolt on the door, easing it across. If he could get inside, he’d be safe.
But Henzigger had other ideas.
As Palmer pulled himself towards the door, there was a click in the dark. A light came on and he felt the muscles in his neck go rigid. He looked round.
Toby Henzigger was hanging off one of the opposing stable doors, his hand on a light switch. In his other hand was a gun.
The man looked almost demented. His clothing was dirty and ripped, and one arm was hanging down, the sleeve shredded. His shirt was soaked in blood, which was dripping from his stomach and forming a small, glossy puddle at his feet. He had a wild look in his eyes. For a man who’d just been shot, he looked livelier than he had any right to.
Palmer stayed very still. His gun was by his side but pointing the wrong way. It would take a visible effort to bring it round. If he tried, Henzigger, even in his state, would kill him without blinking.
‘Looks like you’ve lost this one, Toby,’ Palmer said, with more confidence than he felt. His voice was shaky and he felt an insane urge to giggle. His back was burning badly now, and he was beginning to feel light-headed. He tried to rationalise his situation; either he’d taken another shot without realising it and was sinking into shock, or he was just over-excited.
He wondered how Riley was getting on. He hoped she’d got out all right.
Henzigger nodded slowly. His body shuddered. He took a couple of great gulps of air and swayed a bit, but the gun in his fist didn’t waver by a millimetre. Palmer gave him full marks for cool; no denials, no threats, no claims about how he was going to get out of here and live the high life somewhere in the Caribbean. He simply stared in what could have been bewilderment or anger, but which Palmer guessed was just good old, plain disbelief.
‘Damn,’ Henzigger said at last in a breathless whisper, as if reading his mind. ‘I should have listened to Hilary. He said you were bad news. You and your girlfriend.’ He coughed and spat something onto the floor, where it lay glistening wetly in the dirt. ‘Say, as a matter of interest, she’s not butch, is she?’
Palmer shook his head, eyes on Henzigger’s gun muzzle. He knew what the American was doing: the question was meant to provoke him into an unwise move. But he wasn’t going to play. They were thirty feet apart, which was quite a distance for a pistol shot in dubious light. But it was still like staring into a black bucket, and he didn’t doubt that Henzigger knew how to shoot. One wrong flinch and that would be the end of it.
‘Yeah, well who cares, right?’ Henzigger coughed again and shook his head. ‘Are the cops coming?’
Palmer nodded once. ‘Not just ordinary cops, either.’
‘Yeah?’ Henzigger sounded genuinely interested, in spite of the rattle in his throat. Palmer thought he might be balancing on the edge of hysteria. ‘Black-hats, huh? Say, is it right they still carry truncheons over here? Hell of a way to arm cops, you ask me. If they tried that in LA, they’d get the crap beat out of them.’ He tried to laugh but it brought on a fit of coughing instead. He nearly doubled over with the effort, but the gun never wavered, and Palmer had to marvel at the other man’s control.
He heard a noise from out in the darkness. A footfall. Deliberate. If Henzigger heard it, too, he didn’t react. If it was one of the Colombians, Palmer knew he was in trouble. If not, he didn’t want to get in the way. But he might as well play for time.
‘Why did you have to do that to Hilary?’ he asked.
Henzigger shrugged. He didn’t seem to be in a hurry. ‘Shit, that was the Colombians, not me. He got in the way and let Myburghe slip away. That wasn’t supposed to happen. I woulda just given him a slap, but they had their orders. That’s how they do things back there. It’s called — what’s it in French?’
Palmer supplied the answer. ‘Pour encourager les autres.’ He’d been right. Hilary’s death had been punishment, not torture.
But Toby didn’t appear to have heard him. ‘Well, can’t stand talking here all day,’ he said suddenly. He staggered away from the stable door and stood directly beneath the light illuminating the yard, suddenly larger than life. He even had a semblance of a smile on his face. ‘Things to do, places to go.’ He was talking louder than before, and making no attempt to hide, as if bidding goodnight to a fellow drinker in a bar.
Palmer stared at him. What was he playing at?
Then he had his answer. John Mitcheson stepped into the pool of light. He looked calm and steady and dangerous and was carrying his automatic by his side. He eyed Toby carefully, assessing the potential threat.
‘Whoa,’ grunted Toby. ‘Who’ve we got here?’ He turned his head unsteadily to stare at Palmer with almost comical accusation. ‘A new boy? You been playing sneaky, Palmer. That’s not cricket.’ He turned back to Mitcheson and said, ‘What’ve you done to my vaqueros, huh?’ He waved a vague hand, like a drunk talking to a lamppost. ‘No need to answer that. Believe it or not, they were supposed to be good. Top notch. Just shows, you can’t trust anybody these days.’ His voice trailed off into a faint gargle and he spat again, then shuddered as if in revulsion.
‘Put it down,’ Mitcheson urged him quietly. ‘It’s over.’
‘Uh-uh.’ Henzigger winced, then spoke in a rush, his chest heaving. ‘Can’t do that. If the black-hats get their hands on me, they’ll lock me up for a gazillion years. And that ain’t me. I’m too keen on the open air and the wind in my face.’ He smiled softly. ‘Sorry.’
As he finished speaking, he swung the gun with an almost casual air towards Palmer and pulled the trigger.
The shot was shockingly loud. But the bullet hit the ground a long way beyond Palmer and whined off into the darkness like an angry hornet, embedding itself in a stable door and tearing off a large slice of wood.
Henzigger swore and went to pull the trigger again. Mitcheson didn’t flinch. He fired twice. Both shots took Henzigger high in the chest and slammed him backwards against the stable wall. The gun fell from his hand, and with a long sigh, the American toppled lazily forward.
He was dead before he hit the ground.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
By the time the first of Weller’s troops arrived in two blacked-out Range Rovers, the men inside scattering throughout the grounds with guns and torches, Palmer was standing with Riley at the front of the house under the porch light, hands empty and in clear view. Mitcheson had disappeared, pausing only to press the guns he and Palmer had used into the hands of Henzigger and the Colombians. When the forensics team came to match gunshot wounds with weapons on the scene, there had to be none that could not be accounted for.