Adrian Magson - No Tears for the Lost

‘Lead the way, Hawkeye,’ he called. He hoped Mitcheson would have the sense to keep his head down when the shit hit the fan. With his past record and his previous involvement in Colombia, the last thing Mitcheson needed was to be found in the middle of a drugs scam originating from the same corner of the world. ‘I’ll take the stable,’ he added. ‘You watch the trees.’ He waited for an acknowledgment, but there was silence. ‘Hello?’

Palmer swore softly and slid outside. Everything was quiet, save for a soft breeze ruffling the foliage in the trees. An owl hooted somewhere and a night creature gave a high-pitched squeak. Without all the shooting it could almost have been a normal evening.

He made his way across the lawns to the stable block. Being out in the open set all his alarm bells screaming, but there was no alternative. Going round via the trees would be noisier and take too long. And Henzigger wasn’t going to wait forever. He also had help, which gave the American a considerable edge when it came to hunting in the dark.

He reached the corner of the stalls and paused. If he’d been in Henzigger’s shoes, he would have been waiting outside, knowing there were others out here who had to make the first approach. But as he’d said to Riley, Henzigger wasn’t rational.

A sound came from a stall halfway along the opposite block. Nobody showed themselves, so he slipped back and round to the rear of the accommodation block and found an open window into one of the rooms. It was a tight fit, but he took a deep breath and hoisted himself onto the ledge. He slid through and waited to see if someone would come and investigate. Nobody did.

As short as the corridor was between the room and the anteroom where David Hilary had died, it was the longest walk of Palmer’s life. He stepped carefully along the cold floor, checking each room was clear. Each tiny sound he made seemed magnified a hundred times. Every step of the way he expected Henzigger or one of his men to appear. His shoes crunched on minute dirt particles as he emerged into the anteroom, and he felt his stomach lock tight at the idea that he might be walking into a trap.

It was too dark to see if the anteroom had been cleaned. He could smell the sickly aroma of blood overlaying the sharp tang of chemicals, and guessed the forensic teams hadn’t yet finished. This was confirmed when he saw the fluttering outline of plastic crime scene tape stretched across the open doorway.

He peered through the gap between the door and the jamb. It gave him a narrow view out across the yard. If Henzigger’s men weren’t in here, they must be out there somewhere. And being very patient.

He checked his watch. There wasn’t much time left. Any minute now, a helicopter would be dropping armed men behind the trees. Anyone moving would be spotted through image intensifiers. No doubt they would have been alerted about the shooting, and in spite of their rules of engagement, Palmer didn’t place too much reliance on first warnings. In a hot fire-zone, anyone with a weapon would be classified as the enemy and taken out.

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.