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surged back again, darker than ever, the wind lashing spots of rain onto his unprotected head. He could no longer see the intruder, but he knew he was there. Instinctively Slade was circling, taking a course that would bring him up to that wall. He would follow it along, come up behind the man, and then. . . Slade never got round to working out what he would do when he closed in on the other. He was still ten yards from the furthermost end of the wall when a crushing weight descended on his back, throwing him onto the cracked paving slabs, powerful arms pinioning his own, his face grazed by the rough surface. Temporarily dazed, he tasted blood, and then his reflexes took over. His assailant was large and powerful, pulling Slade's arms behind his back, kneeling on his legs, Strength like that could snap a man's neck once the arms were pinioned, freeing the initial hold and and leaving a hand spare for the coup de grace. Slade relaxed every nerve in his body, a deliberate feint. His attacker grunted in surprise, leaning forward. It was at that moment that Mark Slade tensed and powered backwards, using every muscle above the waist, his head catapulting upwards. A sharp crack as bone met bone, the crushing of a nose, the relaxing of the hold, and a sharp cry of pain. Slade scrambled to his knees, rolling over again as a wild blow caught him on the shoulder. As he fell he kicked out, and had the satisfaction of feeling the toe of a sneaker sink deeply into a fleshy area within that patch of darkest shadow. The other fell back and lay still. Slade dropped into a crouch as heavy footsteps came towards him. The man by the wall was coming to the aid of his colleague. 'Get the bastard!' A nasal croak from the one on the ground who was now struggling up into a sitting position. Then Slade remembered his gun. His hand dropped to his hip-pocket, closed over the serrated butt, and for a brief second he did not know whether he was capable of drawing a gun on another man. A stab of flame showed in the darkness. A slug whined viciously a foot or so to the right of his body, followed almost immediately by a crashing report. Heavier than a " Probably a " 380. 45. Slade pulled his pistol clear of the pocket in one fast coordinated movement, Page 45 ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html thumb pushing forward the safety catch, finger squeezing the trigger. Two reports, almost instantaneous, both men firing wildly, blindly; angrily. Another bullet sang its heavy message of death above his head. The gunman had fired at the answering flash. Slade held his fire. It would have been all too easy to shoot the man on the ground, but the ex-driver would probably have paid the supreme penalty a split second later. He waited, not moving. 'Where are you, Fred?' 'Ere. The bleeder's broke me nose.' 'Keep still. I'll get him.' Slade was tempted to shoot in the direction of the second thug's voice but he could not be sure whether the man was standing up or crouching. He would not get a second chance. A bullet would answer the flash of his gun if he missed. He waited. Lights came on in the house at the rear of the two attackers, silhouetting them plainly, easy targets from where Mark Slade crouched. And they could not see him. He raised his pistol, supporting his right wrist with his left hand, taking a bead, holding his breath. Pistol practice in the Forces had never been as easy as this. Squeeze. He chickened out of the second pressure. He let his breath out in a gush, and lowered his weapon. Murder wasn't his line. He couldn't do it. Both men were on their feet now, glancing in the direction of the house where people were appearing in the lighted doorway. Slade recognised Clyde, with Fogg and Wagstaffe close behind him. Lee was peering over their shoulders. Only Steve Kilby was missing. The workshop door was pulled back, too, and Frank Wylie was standing in the open, shielding his eyes in an effort to see what was happening. Clyde was running forward, the others following. Slade brought up his gun again, and he knew full well that if either of the silhouetted gunmen attempted to shoot, he would gun them down. He would murder to prevent murder. 'Come on, Fred, don't let's 'ang around.' The larger of the two was clasping his hands to his face as he broke into an ungainly run after the other. Slade stood watching until the night had swallowed them up, the wind and driving rain masking all sounds of their retreat. He slipped his gun back into his pocket. Maybe he could have stopped them, but only by either shooting them down or else risking a gun battle in which stray bullets would rake the surrounding area. And Lee Hammerton was amongst the advancing party. 'What's happening?' John Clyde came to a halt only a couple of yards from Slade, head thrust forward, cautious, apprehensive. 'Couple of guys tried to shoot me.' Slade walked towards the others. 'They missed.' 'Are you all right, Mark?' Lee rushed forward, pushing ahead of her manager. 'Right enough.' Slade wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and tasted blood again. They've gone, and there's no point in trying to follow them. Anway, we're all getting soaked so let's go back inside. There'll be nothing more doing out here tonight.' 'Where's Kilby?' Mark Slade asked as Lee bathed his grazed face in the bathroom. 'He went into town earlier.' She found some sticking plaster and taped a strip over a cut on the bridge of his nose. As she worked she told him of her meeting in the woods with her ex-lover. 'He hates my guts.' Slade winced at the stinging sensation of TCP lotion. 'But that doesn't excuse his absence. His job is in the workshop with Wylie, twenty-four hours a day if necessary. Fogg and Wagstaffe, too.' 'They'll knuckle down to it,' Lee said. 'Just let this little rebellion blow Page 46 ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html itself out. I don't want to antagonise them further. Anyway, what d'you reckon those thugs had in mind tonight?' 'Well, they were heading for the sheds. And they were armed. One can only conclude that it was a full-scale onslaught to put us out of business.' 'And they were most certainly outsiders.' Lee cut another strip of adhesive plaster. They were,' Slade admitted. 'A couple of tame gorillas obeying orders. But who sent 'em? It's the guys behind it I want. Lee. Those two have been sent packing, but I'll warrant there are plenty more where they came from. We can't afford to relax for one minute. One consolation, at least the enemy is tangible.' Lee Hammerton did not reply. For her the night hid a thousand inexplicable terrors which it was impossible to explain to Mark Slade. CHAPTER EIGHT SLADE WAS in town shortly after nine o'clock on the following morning. He parked Lee Hammerton's Alfa Romeo close to the busy shopping precinct, and then set about purchasing his various needs without delay. He did not like being away from the Hammerton estate. Subconsciously he experienced a feeling of guilt over his absence. Logically, he had to admit to himself, there was little chance of their enemies attempting anything in broad daylight. Yet, it was the unknown factor which worried him, the feeling that they had a spy, a saboteur, in their midst. There was always the possibility, also, that there were two separate forces working against them. They were not even certain that the nocturnal gunmen had been sent by Seamark Cruises. It was a strong possibility, but there was no proof. The most worrying of all recent happenings, as far as Slade was concerned, was the overnight removal of the tracking from the wrecked Chevy Camaro. Either it was a deliberate attempt to kill him by a member of the Hammerton team, and most of them held a personal grudge against him, or else it was a diabolically clever and daring plot by a rival team, Seamark Cruises heading the list of suspects. A third alternative was a combination of the two, a saboteur in the pay of the opposition who worked with Hammerton and [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ] |
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