They reached the end of the farm track and stopped. The road was empty in both directions, save for an ancient tractor towing a trailer loaded with wood. A curtain of dust hung in the air, legacy of the earlier truck convoys.
Clare was driving again, while Harry and Rik concentrated on the terrain around them. He’d told them to keep an eye out for high ground with trees or large outcroppings of rock — anywhere a gunman might position himself. It would be where Latham was waiting.
‘You think it was him?’ said Rik. ‘Killed Mace, I mean.’
‘Yes.’ He’d never be able to prove it, but he was sure Latham was responsible. He considered Fitzgerald’s warning about Clare, but dismissed her as the killer. She wouldn’t have been able to accomplish it in the time frame available. Anyway, Fitz had said bad. Bad in his book would have meant untrustworthy.
Latham, on the other hand, was something else.
Mace would have made an easy target; predictable, slow-moving and unlikely to have been sober, he wouldn’t have seen the danger coming. Or maybe hadn’t cared. ‘He’s doing what he’s good at: clearing up the evidence.’
And now he was out here, looking for the rest of them.
‘How do we reduce the odds?’ Clare asked. It was the first time she had spoken since leaving the barn. She seemed to have gotten rid of her earlier irritation, settling instead for a plan to survive.
‘We stop here and wait.’ Harry pointed to a section of clear ground coming up, just off the road. The ruts in the earth and a scattering of litter showed that it was in regular use as a pull-in for other vehicles. He took out a map and checked their position.
Clare stopped the car. ‘What exactly are we waiting for?’
‘That lot.’ Harry jerked a thumb over his shoulder. A line of dots was approaching a mile away. Another military convoy, kicking up a swirl of dust behind them.
He’d noticed them earlier. They were moving fast and hadn’t taken long to catch up. Wherever they were going must be important. He hoped it was the airport.
‘With a bit of luck,’ he said, ‘they’re going our way.’
‘We tag along behind?’ said Clare. She looked unsure.
‘Not behind. Wait until you see a gap, then get in among them.’
‘Hey, neat,’ said Rik. ‘If Latham can’t get a bead on us, he can’t shoot.’
‘Maybe.’ Harry looked at Clare. ‘Just make sure we’re nowhere near a fuel or ammo truck.’
At that, Rik’s face fell.
Harry didn’t mention what might happen if Latham decided to take them out regardless of the risk. They would have the cover of the trucks to keep them from a direct confrontation, but amid the noise and dust of the convoy, a rifle shot from five hundred yards away wouldn’t even register — apart from the person it hit.
The thought made his forehead itch.
The first truck drew level and pounded by, the driver and his mate leaning over to stare down at them. Five seconds later another one roared past. Both were full of troops in camouflage combats, automatic rifles held between their knees. The ones nearest the tailgate grinned and made faces when they saw Clare. Ten seconds later came another truck, this one heavily-laden and double-wheeled, the ground vibrating under its weight. Fifteen seconds and a fuel tanker, another ten and a box-shape communications truck with a fold-down antennae array. The noise was deafening and the smell of diesel fuel hung in the air like a cloak, seeping into the Toyota. The convoy was travelling fast and efficiently, plainly part of a battle group with full supplies.
‘It’s too tight,’ said Clare, her voice cracking above the din. She was blipping the throttle, handbrake off and ready to go. ‘If I mistime it, we’ll get crushed.’
‘You’ll do it.’ Harry kept his voice calm and checked his wing mirror. The biggest gaps were between the fuel and ammo trucks; nobody wanted to be close to them if they blew. The end of the convoy was in sight, with another half-dozen vehicles to go. If they missed their chance, they were on their own.
Exposed.
Suddenly Clare floored the pedal. The Toyota’s engine howled as she spun the wheel and pulled on to the road right on the tail of a water tanker spraying a fine mist in the air from a bad seal. Seconds later their rear-view mirror was filled with the radiator of the truck behind, bouncing wildly over the surface of the road as it bore down on them with its lights full on. In spite of the proximity, the driver leaned on his horn at the uninvited intrusion and kept coming.
‘Bastard! Back off!’ muttered Clare, fighting to control the wheel. She flicked on the wipers to counter the water spraying across the windscreen. With no view to speak of around the tanker’s fat, swaying rear end, and not enough room to go round it, she was having to drive blind and trust the convoy didn’t stop without warning.
‘Ease back gradually,’ advised Harry. ‘He won’t argue.’
She did so, gradually fighting to regain some space between them and the tanker. It was a risky undertaking but Harry was gambling on the driver behind not wanting to cause a pile-up. The manoeuvre worked; the driver suddenly gave up and dropped back, giving them room.
Clare dropped her window and gave a friendly wave. The other driver didn’t respond at first, then he grinned and waved back.
Ten minutes later the convoy came to a fork in the road. The trucks in front were all bearing right, heading towards high ground.
The hills.
‘Which way?’ said Clare. ‘Left? It must be left.’
Harry checked the map. Damn. She was right. If they stayed with the cover of the convoy, they would end up in the hills, miles from the airport and with no obvious way back other than down this same road. If there were other routes, this map didn’t include them.
The road to the left looked very empty.
‘Left or right — come on!’
‘Left,’ he confirmed, and held on as she swung the wheel and shot out from the line of trucks. She let the Toyota run on for a hundred yards to make sure they were clear, then halted at the side of the road. The rest of the convoy roared on by, horns tooting and men weaving at this minor break in their day, leaving behind a heavy cloud of dust settling on the damp windscreen.
At Harry’s insistence, they checked their weapons and took a drink. He estimated from the map that they had just over ten miles to go before they reached the main airport road. From that point, the perimeter fence would be in sight, as would the army patrolling its length.
But that ten miles consisted mostly of deserted countryside through low hills and wooded areas. Ripe terrain for an ambush.
‘Let’s go,’ he said, and wound down the window, signalling for the others to do the same. Closed windows gave a false sense of invulnerability and flying splinters from a gunshot would only add to their problems.
The first three miles took them along a looping, dusty switchback, mostly single-track with poor verges and a scattering of straggly bushes on either side. Nowhere looked good for an ambush. An occasional farm showed far back in the fields, but they saw nobody, passed no other vehicles. It was like being on the moon.
‘Shit!’ They were rounding a gradual curve with a dip in the road when Clare swore and stamped hard on the brakes, the rear of the car fishtailing wildly.
A white horse was lying in the road, the broken arms of a hay cart half under its body. Nearby lay the crumpled form of an elderly man, eyes turned sightlessly at the sky.
‘Keep going!’ Harry shouted, hand braced against the dashboard. There was a widening pool of blood beneath the man’s head and the horse had a bright a smear of red down its muzzle.
‘But he might be alive!’ Clare protested. She lifted her foot off the pedal and the car began to slow.
As it did so, the first bullet struck.
FIFTY-NINE
The shot tore through the windscreen, leaving a ragged hole, and blew out Clare’s head-rest in an explosion of foam and fabric. She cried shrilly with shock but retained her grip on the wheel.