Detonator

I stayed in the crouch and sca

I reached for a roll of tape, shoved it over my forearm, and crept past the workbench and the troughs. I didn’t have time for my eyes to adjust to the darkness, but I immediately felt safer in it. As long as I didn’t collide with anything noisy, it was the best protection I had.

I heard movement again at the back, to my half-right.

And voices.

Fuck.

With my brain not yet firing on all cylinders, getting to grips with one body was never going to be easy. Sorting out two – and without being pinged – was pretty much out of the question. That was where the Sphinx came in. I somehow knew I didn’t kill real people. I also knew that when you’re staring down a muzzle and it’s a new experience you tend to do exactly what you’re told.

Then I heard a slap and a gasp and a giggle, and some of the grunting I’d caught earlier made more sense. This lad hadn’t just been rearranging the furniture.

The giggles and gasps were coming from the far corner of the barn, but I followed the line of the wall rather than heading across the middle of the floor. The sounds got louder as I drew nearer. They were coming from a storage room, whose door wasn’t quite closed. I eased it the last couple of centimetres into its frame and quietly fastened both bolts. They were big old-fashioned cast-iron rods, and wouldn’t go anywhere in a hurry.

Whatever, I reckoned it would be a while before the lad inside got his dungarees back on, and with any luck he’d then assume that his mate was taking the piss by shutting him and his girlfriend in. Who knew? I was just pleased I didn’t have to give him the good news with the weapon, after all, and risk compromising myself. I tucked it back under my jacket and, keeping to the shadows, began to retrace my route.

My next priorities were to help myself to a pair of bungee cords off the storage shelf, then to push the ATV to the bridge before firing it up. The couple I’d locked up were already making quite a bit of noise of their own, and an extra bit of distance would help to draw less attention to mine.

As I skirted the largest of the feeding troughs I sensed movement in the darkness behind me and to my right.

I turned, but wasn’t quick enough to see whoever smashed me across the back with the world’s biggest lump of wood.

7

The roll of gaffer tape flew off my arm and skittered across the deck as I dropped to my hands and knees, fighting for breath. I toppled forward, hoping the lip of the trough would get between me and the next blow.

My kidneys felt like they’d been belted with a railway sleeper and my lungs weren’t too happy either, but by the time I hit the ground I’d got some air into them and pulled up the front of my jacket to clear the pistol grip. I stayed face down for a moment, curling my body to take the pain and free the weapon. My right hand went into autopilot and whipped it out of my belt as I rotated to face whoever had taken me down.

All I could see above me was a mass of dungarees and wellington boot. My head spun as the Sphinx swung up and into the aim, almost as if it had a mind of its own. A chunky moulded rubber sole, caked in cow shit, steamed towards me and co

I rolled and turned, then scrabbled after it. The boots were crunching in the same direction, a metre in front of me. My only option was to try to climb aboard him, try to control him before he reached the weapon. Fighting to maintain my focus, I threw my hands around his legs to slow him or bring him down. He kicked me away with one but I managed to hang on to the other.

I was a dead weight, clamped to his ankle like a ball and chain, but he was a very big lad. He took another couple of paces, dragging my body with him, and started to bend down. I glimpsed a giant paw brush the concrete ahead of me. There was nothing I could do to stop him.

I let go of his leg and made a grab for his forearm as the pistol grip disappeared into his right hand. I put every ounce of strength into trying to stop the business end of it pointing my way. It wasn’t enough. His grip was like a vice. Slowly but surely, the muzzle came round towards me.

I grabbed the barrel. He grunted as he struggled to shake me off. His knuckles turned white as his right fist tightened around the grip. His left banged down on the top of my skull, then pounded against the back of my neck. I felt something dribble down my right temple.

I jerked and twisted, and somehow managed to dodge the full weight of his blows. Then I felt the cold gunmetal pressed against my cheek and went very still indeed.

From this angle, there was a chance the round would go straight through my oral cavity, just fucking up some of my teeth, gum and upper jaw before it exited.

If I carried on jerking around, I might dislodge the muzzle, but I might also end up with a 9-mill ripping a hole in my brain.

Everything went into slow-mo.

I could hear him clear his throat.

I could smell the garlic on his breath.

I could feel the sweat dripping off his palm and ru

I could almost feel his finger squeeze the trigger.

If this was where the story ended, then fuck it: that had always been part of the deal.

The hammer reached its tipping point and rocketed the firing pin towards the round’s percussion cap.

But instead of losing a big chunk of my face, I heard the unmistakable sound of the dead man’s click.

Every second I was alive after that was a bonus.

Reaching up, I grabbed two clumps of damp and greasy hair and wrenched his face down hard on to the top of my skull. He tried to resist, so I ca

It bought me enough time to struggle to my feet but not to aim my first kick. It didn’t matter. Finesse wasn’t the order of the day. Anything to slow him down. I went for his centre mass for starters, then moved on up. I didn’t want to permanently damage him. On the other hand, I wasn’t messing about. I needed to stop him thinking, and doing anything I didn’t want him to do.

He stayed on his feet, but started to droop.

I got a couple of blows into the side of his head and that was enough to make him come out with the white flag. He dropped like a sack of shit.

The locked door at the back of the barn was taking a hammering from the inside. The first carrot-cruncher sounded very concerned. He shouted, ‘Claude,’ once or twice, then hollered a stream of profanities. It didn’t take a UN interpreter to help me catch his drift. Fucking let me out of here, you bastard …

I didn’t mind. Nobody was going to hear. And as long as he was shouting, he wasn’t on a mobile phone to the police.

Claude wasn’t going anywhere fast. I let him lie where he’d fallen while I reclaimed the gaffer tape and the pistol from beside a pallet loaded with fence posts. The pistol went into my waistband.

Claude stirred when I got back alongside him. Maybe he’d heard the rasp as I pulled a length of tape off the roll. Maybe the door banging and his mate yelling had forced its way into the depths of his consciousness. Whatever, I had to kick into him a couple more times. I didn’t know if I was hurting him and I didn’t care. I needed him to be in no doubt that I was the top dog round here at the moment, so I could secure him. That boy could pack a punch, and if he regained control there was no telling what he might do.