Wrath of God
Page 20
Nachita helped me roll the Mercedes silently backwards out of the ruined casa where we had left it, then I climbed behind the wheel, the Thompson ready on the passenger seat beside me. The roar of that magnificent engine nearly tore the place apart as I put my foot down hard and took her up the narrow street to the plaza.
Tomas de la Plata, a hand on Victoria’s arm, was crossing towards the church, his men walking behind, leading the horses. I braked to a halt, stayed that way long enough to see the shock of recognition in his face, then reversed. They had already started shooting as I took the Mercedes back into the narrow street. The windscreen shattered and I ducked instinctively, swerving enough to demolish one end of an adobe wall.
It slowed me a little which was what I wanted anyway. The hounds were in full cry now and I kept on going, head down, bullets thudding into the bodywork of the Mercedes and then I was out of the village and into the open again.
I swung the wheel from side to side to make her swerve, then drove the Mercedes clear over the edge of the trail.
She went down the slope like a thunderbolt, tearing a path through the mesquite and brushwood and I grabbed the Thompson and got out while the going was good. The Mercedes bounced, turned over twice and tore into a clump of pinon, finally coming to rest upside down.
I lay in the brush hugging the ground and the Thompson and waited. A few moments later they appeared on the trail above, Tomas de la Plata and his men, one of them holding on to Victoria. They paused on the edge looking at the Mercedes, then de la Plata said something and started down with four of them, leaving Victoria and the man who was holding her.
Nachita appeared behind them as if out of thin air. Whatever was done, was done silently for the man went down without a cry and Nachita pulled Victoria back out of sight.
Which was all I had been waiting for. There was a crashing in the brushwood as de la Plata and his men approached and it was now or never for they were almost on me.
They emerged into a clear patch in a long straggling line and I stood up and started to fire, intending to take the five of them in one clean sweep. The first two went over like skittles and then the round drum magazine jammed.
It was de la Plata who fired in return, drawing from that shoulder holster of his with incredible speed like a snake striking, the bullet catching me just above the right breast, knocking me back into the brush.
As I hit the ground, I drew the Enfield, fired twice very fast to keep the heads down and allowed myself to slide down through the brush as fast as possible.
I fetched up in a thicket and paused long enough to examine my wound. The force of the shot had been considerable owing to the short range and the bullet had passed straight through, exiting under the right shoulder blade. The exit hole was smaller than I had anticipated which meant, in all probability, that his revolver was of .38 calibre.
I spat into my hand and produced no blood which was encouraging, but the sounds of movement in the brush above were not. I got out of the thicket quickly and started to work my way up the slope again, following a diagonal course to the right which would bring me back to the trail.
Someone caught sight of me soon enough, there was a cry and then another, three or four shots. A last mad scramble and I went over the edge of the trail, lungs bursting, to find one of them bearing down on me from the left like a steam engine.
I fired wildly twice without taking aim for I had no choice in the matter, tripped and went headlong, crying out as the pain surged through me. The man running in did not fire, preferring to get close. It was the death of him for I shot him in the heart, the heavy bullet lifting him off his feet and back over the edge of the trail.
There was one round left in the Enfield and no time to reload. As de la Plata and his surviving companions appeared from the brush, I turned and ran for my life into the village.
They fired continuously, but thanks to that mad chase through the brush, the scramble up the slope, nobody’s aim was anything to boast about. I put my head down and kept running, hoping to make it to the church, hoping that Nachita might take a hand in the game in spite of what I had said.
I had almost reached the fountain when I was hit again. The right leg this time, only a crease, but enough to bring me down.
When I rolled over, de la Plata’s companion was some distance in front of him, a young man, full of his strength and running well. There was no time for fancy shooting. I simply aimed at his middle and pulled the trigger, was on my feet and scrambling for the church door as he went down.
He was like some creature in a nightmare that is impossible to shake off. I made it to the door, a bullet chipping the wall. When I glanced over my shoulder he was already past the fountain and running very fast, a pistol in each hand.
I staggered through the cool darkness inside, not daring to stop, fumbling for spare cartridges in my pocket. I managed to get two into the chamber awkwardly, dropping a few in the process because my right shoulder and arm were burning like all the fires of hell now and the fingers weren’t working very well.
He was inside and shooting, uncertain in the light. Like a fool I fired back, giving myself away, turned and stumbled into the shadows as he replied.
I fell across a flight of stone steps and scrambled up them desperately. They turned a corner, the inner wall of the bell tower and light flooded down through a great jagged hole. I emerged on the roof and paused briefly to get my bearings. A bullet whined into the air through the opening. I fired down into the darkness twice in reply and the second time, the hammer clicked on nothing.
I was finished and I knew it. Little Emmet Keogh at the end of things at last for he came up the steps without hesitation. I turned and went staggering along the roof to nowhere and when I reached the ultimate edge, there was no parapet, only a long fall down to the ravine below or the plaza on the other side.
When I turned, he was standing perhaps ten yards away, chest heaving, face very pale, a pistol in one hand only now. And in the end, he made the worst kind of mistake. Instead of shooting me out of hand, he had to talk.
‘Who sent you, Keogh?’
His reply was a single shot that echoed across the roof tops sending the ravens wheeling up in dark, frightened circles. De la Plata cried out and spun round, the pistol jumping from his hand into the plaza.
Nachita was standing by the fountain, the Winchester at his shoulder, Victoria crouched beside him. She cried my name suddenly and the echo mingled with the hoarse calling of the ravens.
As I swung round, de la Plata flung himself at me blindly, blood on his mouth, hands reaching out to destroy. I simply moved to one side and he blundered over the edge into the plaza.
He was lying face-down on the cobbles when I looked, Nachita kneeling beside him. Nachita rose, glanced up at me, then turned and followed Victoria who was running for the church door.
The ravens descended to the tower again, black against a sky the colour of brass and the sun died behind the peaks. I was tired and the Enfield empty in my left hand was still a weight to carry. A fine dramatic gesture to toss it away once and for all, far out into space over the ravine, but that would not have been the sensible way. Not little Emmet Keogh of the left hand’s way. This was a bad place to be and night falling.
I sat down, spilled the handful of cartridges on the ground beside me and slowly and with great difficulty because of my wounded shoulder, started to reload.
About the Author
Jack Higgins lived in Belfast till the age of twelve. Leaving school at fifteen, he spent three years with the Royal Horse Guards, serving on the East German border during the Cold War. His subsequent employment included occupations as diverse as circus roustabout, truck driver, clerk and, after taking an honours degree in sociology and social psychology, teacher and university lecturer.
The Eagle Has Landed turned him into an international bestselling author, and his novels have since sold over 250 million copies and have been translated into sixty languages. In addition to The Eagle Has La
nded, ten of them have been made into successful films. His recent bestselling novels include, Bad Company, Dark Justice, Without Mercy, The Killing Ground, Rough Justice, The Wolf at the Door and The Judas Gate.
In 1995 Jack Higgins was awarded an honorary doctorate by Leeds Metropolitan University. He is a fellow of the Royal Society of Arts and an expert scuba diver and marks-man. He lives on Jersey.
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Other Books by Jack Higgins
The Valhalla Exchange
To Catch a King
Dillinger
The Run to Morning
The Eagle Has Landed
A Prayer for the Dying
The Last Place God Made
Day of Judgement
Solo
Luciano’s Luck
Touch the Devil
Exocet
Confessional
Night of the Fox
A Season in Hell
Memoirs of a Dance-Hall Romeo
Cold Harbour
The Eagle Has Flown
Eye of the Storm
Thunder Point
On Dangerous Ground
Sheba
Angel of Death
Drink with the Devil
Year of the Tiger
The President’s Daughter
Flight of Eagles
The White House Connection
Pay the Devil
Day of Reckoning
Edge of Danger
The Keys of Hell
Midnight Runner
Bad Company
A Fine Night for Dying
Dark Justice
Toll for the Brave
Without Mercy
East of Desolation
The Killing Ground
Rough Justice
A Darker Place
The Wolf at the Door
The Judas Gate
Copyright
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Harper
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First published in Great Britain by Macmillan and Co. 1971
THE WRATH OF GOD. Copyright © James Graham 1971. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Jack Higgins asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN: 978-0-00-727424-6
EPub Edition © JULY 2011 ISBN: 978-0-00-729058-1
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