Dick Francis - Crossfire

I noticed that he had peed himself, just as I had done the previous week in the stable, although, in my case, it hadn't been from fear. Maybe that would have to be revenge enough. I leaned down, picked up his shotgun and left him where he was, holding his face and arm, and quivering like a jelly.

I went quickly across the yard and out towards the house with the gun in one hand and my sword in the other. But the sword had now outlived its usefulness. I tossed it into the shadows at the end of the stable building and put both my hands on the gun-that was better.

I had no real plan in mind, but I knew that somehow I had to draw Jackson Warren towards me and away from my mother.

I broke open the shotgun. There was a live cartridge in each of the two chambers, but I cursed myself for not having looked for more in Peter Garraway's pockets. I could hear him behind me, calling out pitifully for Jackson, so I reckoned it was too late to go back and find them now.

So I had only two shots. I would need to make both of them count. I closed the gun once more and pushed the safety catch to off.

If I wanted to draw Jackson and Alex away from my mother, I would have to reveal my position, something that was utterly alien to any infantryman.

The headlights were still shining brightly down the back of the stables towards the muck heap, but I wasn't there anymore. I was about forty yards away, where the driveway met the turning circle near the house. I could see the car clearly from where I stood; at least I could see the headlights but from side-on.

How could I attract attention to myself?

I lifted the shotgun to my shoulder and fired one of my precious cartridges at the car. At this range the shot wouldn't penetrate the vehicle's skin, although it might just break a window. However, one thing was for sure, Alex Reece in the car would certainly know all about it.

I could hear Jackson shouting. Perhaps he had been too close to the shot for comfort. But did I care? Now they would know exactly where I was, and the car was already turning my way.

I purposely lingered a moment too long, just long enough, in fact, for the headlight beams to fall on my departing back. I weaved in the light for a split second before diving once more into the darkness down the side of the house. A shot rang out, but I was already safely protected around the corner.

I moved swiftly, grateful that I had made an extensive reconnaissance here the previous Thursday. I knew that the concrete path alongside the exterior walls ran completely around the rectangular building, the only obstacle being a small gate at one of the back corners.

In no time, I had completed the circuit and approached the front of the house again, but now I was behind the car, its headlamps still blazing towards where I had been just seconds before. In the glow I could see Jackson creeping forwards towards the corner, his gun raised to his shoulder, ready to fire.

The driver's door of the car suddenly opened, and Alex stood up next to the vehicle, facing away from me, watching Jackson intently.

I moved slowly forwards, being very careful to be as silent as possible in my basketball boots on the loose gravel. Alex would have certainly heard me if the engine of the car hadn't been left running. As it was, I was able to approach him completely undetected.

He was wearing a baggy sweatshirt and a large woolen cap.

I lifted the shotgun and placed the ends of the barrels firmly onto the bare skin visible just beneath his left ear.

"Move an inch and you will die," I said to him in my best voice-of-command. But he immediately disobeyed me and turned around. But when I saw his face I realized I'd been so wrong, the car driver wasn't Alex Reece, as I'd thought.

"Hello, Tom," said Isabella.

I was stunned. I lowered the barrels.

"But why?" I asked.

"I'm so sorry," she said in answer.

"Was it you who unlocked the gates?" I asked her.

She seemed surprised that I knew, but she nodded. "Jackson was in Gibraltar."

It had been a VW Golf that I had seen that night. Perhaps I had been subconsciously convincing myself ever since that it hadn't been Isabella's car, but it had.

"Why didn't you come and help me?"

All the misery of those three days in the stable floated into my mind.

She looked down at her feet. "Because I didn't know that you were there, not last week. I only found out tonight when I heard Peter talking about it, and how he couldn't believe you'd managed to escape." She gulped. "Jackson just phoned home on Thursday and asked me to unlock the gates."

I wanted to believe her, but then why was she driving the car here tonight? She couldn't claim now that she didn't know what was going on, not with Warren and Garraway running around with guns.

"Why are you here?" I asked. "Why are you doing this?"

She looked back up at my face and then towards Jackson. "Because I love him," she said. It was almost an apology.

I too looked at Jackson, who was still inching carefully away from me towards the corner of the house, oblivious to the fact that I was standing behind him next to the car. I suddenly wanted nothing more than to shoot him, to kill him in revenge for what his greed had done to us all. And he was not a prisoner but an armed enemy combatant. There were no Value and Standards concerns here. I lifted the gun and aimed.

"No," Isabella screamed, grabbing the barrels.

Jackson turned towards the noise, but he would have been unable to see anything, as he would be looking straight into the headlights. But he started to move back towards the car.

I threw Isabella to the ground and again raised the shotgun towards Jackson, but I hadn't bargained on Isabella's panic-driven determination. She grabbed my knees like a rugby player and pushed against the car, forcing me backwards over onto the gravel.

One of the huge disadvantages of having an artificial leg is that it seriously hampers recovery from a horizontal position, as it's impossible to bend the knee sufficiently. I rolled over on the gravel to be facedown and drew my good leg under me, but Isabella had been quicker.

She was already on her feet, and she wrenched the shotgun from my hand, stamping on my wrist for good measure.

How embarrassing, I thought, to be disarmed by a woman. Perhaps the major from the ministry had been right all along.

But Isabella didn't turn the gun on me, she simply ran away with it while I struggled to my feet, using the car door handle to pull me up.

A shot rang out. It was very close.

I turned quickly to see Jackson running towards a figure lying very still on the ground in the light from the headlights, a figure whose hat had come off, revealing long blond hair, hair that was already soaking up an ever-increasing pool of bright red blood.

In another incident of what the military euphemistically call "friendly fire," Jackson Warren had killed Isabella.

He sank down onto his knees beside her, dropping his gun onto the gravel alongside the one that Isabella had been carrying. I walked the few yards from the car and picked up both weapons. I unloaded their second barrels, placing the unfired cartridges in my pocket. There had been enough shooting for one night. In fact, there had been far too much.

Jackson turned his head slightly to see me.

"I thought it was you," he said. He made it sound like an excuse, as if shooting me would have been acceptable. He turned back and cradled his wife's lifeless head on his lap. "I'd told her to stay in the car. I saw someone running with a gun." He looked up at me again, now with tears in his eyes. "I just assumed it was you."

He should have checked.

Three weeks later, Pharmacist, this time with no green potato peel-induced tummy ache, romped up the finishing hill to win the Cheltenham Gold Cup by a neck. It was the second Kauri House Stables success of the afternoon, after Oregon had justified his favoritism to win the Triumph Hurdle. My mother positively glowed.