Pay the Devil - Jack Higgins [64]
Shaun Rogan’s voice boomed across the ground like an organ. “Only this, you dog. I’ll give you an hour to release the both of them. After that, I’ll move against you, and one thing I promise. If you’ve harmed a hair of their heads, I’ll burn Drumore House and you’ll roast in its flames.”
Sir George seemed to find difficulty in speaking, so great was his rage. “By God, you’ve threatened me for the last time, Rogan,” he cried in a cracked voice.
His hand came out of his pocket holding a pistol. As he levelled it, Dennis Rogan gave a cry of warning and, flinging himself down the steps, sent Sir George staggering into Burke and then he ran down the drive toward his father.
Before Clay could move, the guards closed in around him and he stood there helpless to prevent the tragedy that followed. The boy had covered perhaps half the distance to his father, when Sir George calmly took aim, using his left arm as a rest for the barrel, and shot him in the back.
Dennis cried out and seemed to trip, rolling over several times, and then he struggled to his feet and continued toward the trap, lurching from side to side.
As Sir George took aim again, a bullet kicked gravel from the drive into his face and several horsemen appeared from amongst the beech trees and galloped toward the house, Kevin Rogan leading. Sir George turned and stumbled up into the porch and the guards followed him. Burke came last, backing slowly up the steps, taking deliberate aim and firing until his pistol was empty.
Kevin Rogan dismounted, lifted Dennis from the ground and carried him to the trap. He laid the boy carefully across the seat beside his father, and the old man picked up the reins and, turning the horse in a circle, moved away.
The other four men on horseback kept up a fusillade of shots toward the main door, covering Kevin until he was mounted again. A moment later, he called to them and they all wheeled and galloped through the main gates and disappeared along the road to Drumore.
Clay had flung himself facedown on the floor as the shots chased them through the door and now he got to his feet slowly and looked about him. The walls were pitted with bullet holes and a great gilt-framed mirror had splintered into a thousand pieces.
One of the men sat against the far wall, a hand clutching his side, blood welling between his fingers. Clay dropped down to one knee beside him, but as he started to examine him, the man seemed to choke. There was a rattle in his throat, followed by an eruption of blood, and his head lolled to one side.
“He’s dead,” Clay announced, getting to his feet.
The guards stirred uneasily and Burke said in a calm voice, “Hold the colonel there.”
Someone prodded Clay in the ribs with the barrel of a shotgun, as Sir George advanced and examined the body of the dead man. He looked pale, but otherwise perfectly composed. “It would seem we can expect a little trouble,” he said. “How many reliable men have we available?”
“There are six of us here, including myself,” Burke told him. “And the seven you sent down to the village to impose a curfew should be back soon. We could hold the house for a month if necessary, but the cavalry should be here in three or four hours.”
“You’re quite right,” Sir George said, “And we mustn’t forget the servants. Most of them have been in my employ for years.”
“And have loathed and despised you for every moment of that time,” Clay said. “You bloody murderer. Look around you at the fear on the faces of these men. I wonder how long you’ll be able to count on them in an emergency.”
Sir George turned toward him, a glazed expression in his eyes. Slowly he wiped spittle from his mouth with the back of one hand and said in a dead voice, “Take the colonel back to his room, Burke. If he makes the slightest attempt to escape, shoot him.” He disappeared along the passage toward the conservatory, as Burke pushed Clay toward the stairs.
As they passed along the landing,