Cry of the Hunter - Jack Higgins [61]
‘Do as he tells you,’ Fallon said quietly. ‘Can’t you see he’s mad? He’ll murder the lot of you if it suits him.’ He began to back slowly to the wall, his eyes cast down. He was judging the distance very carefully because lying under the table, half covered by a corner of a loose rug, was the revolver he had kicked out of Rogan’s hand earlier in the evening. In the excitement they had forgotten all about it.
His hand touched the wall behind him and Rogan said harshly, ‘That’s just right.’ He started to raise the shotgun to his shoulder and Fallon dived headfirst under the table.
Anne Murray screamed piercingly and as he clawed for the revolver, Fallon knew that he was too late. There was a confused shouting and Murphy cried, ‘Save yourself, Mr. Fallon!’ as he had done on another occasion, and jumped up on the table and threw himself at Rogan.
Rogan stepped backwards and fired one barrel. The blast caught Murphy in the stomach and chest at point blank range and he screamed and twisted in mid-air and landed heavily on the floor.
Fallon took a snap shot with the revolver as he rolled on his stomach and wood splinters flew from the door post at the side of Rogan’s head. He turned and vanished into the night.
Fallon didn’t wait for anything. There was only one thought driving through his brain. He had to kill Rogan. He went through the door like a fury and fired once at the stumbling figure of his enemy as he crossed the yard. Rogan whirled and fired the other barrel of the shotgun and Fallon dropped flat on his face, the shot whistling over his head. Rogan ran into the cow byre and Fallon, crouching low, crossed the yard, and threw himself down by the entrance.
Inside the cows were moving uneasily. There was a rattle of chains and the door at the far end swung open. Fallon cautiously peered round the door and said, ‘I’m going to kill you, Rogan, so don’t lose your nerve and come out with your hands up. Any way you come, I’m going to put a bullet through you.’
There was no reply. The cows began to trample about in their stalls and Fallon waited. The shotgun went off with a thunderous roar, and lead shot hummed through the entrance. Immediately Fallon jumped inside and dived for the nearest stall. The shotgun blasted again and he rolled and fired hastily as Rogan ducked through the entrance at the other end of the building and disappeared from sight.
Fallon scrambled to his feet and ran out of the door. He crossed the yard, his head down and the revolver ready, and turned the corner of the barn in time to catch Rogan crossing the open field towards the road. He took careful aim and fired. Rogan ignored the shot. He scrambled over the fence and started to run down the road.
Fallon ran after him. Before he had gone fifty yards he was in trouble. The old agony flared up in his side and each breath he took sent a stab of jagged pain coursing through him. The sweat poured from his brow, but he clenched his teeth and kept going. He laboured up a little hill and a fast moving cloud passed across the face of the moon and darkness descended on the road. He paused on top of the hill and crouched low, his eyes searching the darkness, and then some sixth sense caused him to drop flat on his face.
Shot whined through the air above his head as Rogan fired both barrels and the echoes of the blast reverberated from the hills. Fallon fired once in the direction of the flash and scrambled wearily to his feet. At that moment the cloud passed and the moon came into view again.
Rogan was about forty yards away and a few yards beyond him, the van was parked at the side of the road. Fallon’s hand was shaking. He took a deep breath and, resting the barrel of the pistol across his arm, took careful aim. He squeezed the trigger. Rogan seemed to trip. He turned a somersault on the ground