Dick Francis - Crossfire

Then there was a shot, and another.

Shotgun pellets peppered my back, stinging my neck and shoulders, but the rucksack took most of them. The shooter was too far away for the shot to inflict much damage, but he would get closer, especially as my dear mother was so slow.

We reached the passageway door, and I swung it open, pushing her through it ahead of me, both of us nearly falling over the blue plastic drum.

"Mum, please," I said loudly to her. "Go through the passage and out the back. Then hide."

But she wouldn't let go of my arm. She was simply too frightened to move. Conditioning young men not to freeze under fire was a common problem in the army, and one that wasn't always solved, so I could hardly blame my mother for doing so now.

Another shot rang out, and some of the wood of the door splintered behind us. That was a bit closer, I thought-far too close, in fact. The shooter had now closed to within killing range. Maybe I'd been wrong about them wanting the million dollars returned before they'd kill me. Another shot tore into the wooden roof above our heads.

"Come on," I said to my mother as calmly as I could. "Let's get out of here."

I firmly removed her hand from my arm and then held it in mine as I almost dragged her down the passageway and out into the space behind. I could hear shouts from the stable yard as someone was directing his troops around the end of the building to find us. However, the man who was doing the shouting stayed where he was, in the yard. He obviously didn't fancy walking into the dark passageway, in case I was in there waiting for him.

I pulled my mother around behind the muck heap. There was a tall, narrow space between the rear retaining wall of the heap and a hay barn beyond.

"Get in there," I said quietly, in my best voice-of-command. "And lie facedown."

She didn't like it, I could tell by the way she kicked at the wet ground, but she couldn't protest, as the tape was still over her mouth. She hesitated.

"Mum," I said. "Please. Otherwise, we will die."

There was just enough light from the stars for me to see the fear in her eyes. Still she clung to me, so I eased up the corner of the tape over her mouth and peeled it away.

"Mum," I said again. "Please do it now." I kissed her softly on the forehead, but then I firmly pushed her away from me and into the gap.

"Oh God," she whispered in despair. "Help me."

"It's all right," I said, trying to reassure her. "Just lie down here for a while and it will all be fine."

She obviously didn't want to, but she didn't say so. She knelt down in the gap and then lay flat on to her tummy, as I'd asked. I pulled some of the old straw down off the muck heap and covered her as best I could. It probably didn't smell too good, but so what? Fear didn't smell great, either.

I left her there and went back to the end of the passageway. Whoever had been shooting had still not come through, but I could see that the car was being driven around the end of the stable buildings so that its lights were about to shine down the back, straight towards where I was standing.

I stepped again into the passageway.

The car's headlights were both a help and a hindrance. They helped in showing me the position of at least one of my enemies, but at the same time, their brightness destroyed my night vision.

Consequently, the passageway appeared darker than ever, but from my previous visits, I could visualize the location of every obstruction on the floor, and I easily stepped silently around them. I pressed my eyes up against the gaps between the door slats and looked out once more into the stable yard beyond.

There was plenty of light from the still-maneuvering car for me to see clearly. Jackson Warren was standing in the center of the yard, talking with Peter Garraway. They were each holding a shotgun in a manner that suggested that they both knew how to use them. What was it that Isabella had said? "The Garraways always come over for the end of the pheasant-shooting season-Peter is a great shot."

I think I'd have rather not known that, not right now.

As I could see Warren and Garraway in the stable yard, it must be Alex Reece who was driving the car.

"You go round the back," Jackson was saying to Garraway."Flush him out. I'll stay here in case he comes through."

I could tell from his body language that Peter Garraway really didn't like taking orders. I also suspected that he didn't much fancy "going round the back" either, good shot or not. "Why don't I wait here and you go round the back?" he replied.

"Oh, for God's sake," said Jackson, clearly annoyed. "All right. But keep your eyes fixed on that door and, if he appears, shoot him. But try to hit him in the legs."

That was slightly encouraging, I thought, but the notion of being captured alive was not. I had already experienced their brand of hospitality in these stables, and I had no desire to do so again.

Jackson Warren walked off towards the car, leaving a nervous-looking Peter Garraway standing alone in the stable yard.

Yet another Sun Tzu quote floated into my head. "In war, the way is to avoid what is strong and to strike at what is weak."

Peter Garraway was weak. I could tell by the way he kept looking towards the car and in the direction that Jackson had gone in the hope of being relieved, rather than towards the door to the passageway, as he'd been told. He obviously didn't like being left there alone. And shooting pheasants was one thing, but shooting a person would be quite another matter.

Reece had finally managed to get the car around behind the stables, and I could see the glow of its lights at the back end of the passageway. That was not good, I thought, as my position was becoming outflanked and I would soon find myself liable to attack from opposite directions.

I looked at my watch. It was only five-seventeen. Just twelve minutes had elapsed since Ian had sounded the car horn, but it felt like so much longer, and there would still be another hour of darkness.

I took another quick glimpse through the slats at Peter Garraway in the stable yard. He was resting his double-barreled shotgun in the crook of his right arm, as someone might do while waiting for the beaters to drive pheasants into the air from a game crop. It was not the way a soldier would hold a weapon-and it was not ready for immediate action.

I threw open the passageway door and ran right at him with my sword held straight out in front of me, the point aimed directly at his face, like a cavalry officer but without the horse.

He was quite quick in raising his gun but nowhere near quick enough. I was on him so fast, and as he swung the barrels up, I struck his right arm, the point of my sword tearing through both his coat and the flesh beneath. In the same motion, I hit him full on the nose with the sword's nickel-plated hand guard. He immediately went sprawling straight down onto the concrete floor, dropping the gun and clutching at his bleeding face with both hands.

I stood over him with my sword raised high, like a matador about to deliver the coup de grace. Garraway, meanwhile, curled himself into a ball with his arms up around his head, whimpering and shaking like a scolded puppy.

I aimed at his heart, and my arm began to fall.

"What are you doing?" I suddenly asked myself out loud, stopping the rapidly descending blade when it was just inches from his chest.

Values and Standards of the British Army, paragraph sixteen, states that soldiers must treat all human beings with respect, especially the victims of conflict, such as the dead, the wounded, prisoners and civilians. All soldiers must act within the law. "Soldiering," it says, "is about duty: so soldiers should be ready to uphold the rights of others before claiming their own."

Killing Peter Garraway like this would certainly not be within the law, and would definitely be a breach of his rights as my unarmed and wounded prisoner. I would simply be taking revenge for the pain and suffering that he had inflicted on me.