He stood there, hands negligently in the pockets of his raincoat, and Angus turned to face him. He bent down to pick up a shovel. ‘You little squirt, I’m going to split your skull.’
‘Something I picked up from the IRA,’ Cussane said. ‘A special punishment for special bastards like you.’
The Stechkin came out of his pocket, there was a dull thud and a bullet splintered Angus Mungo’s right kneecap. He screamed, fell back against the petrol motor and rolled over, clutching at his knee with both hands, blood pumping between his fingers. Hector Mungo gave a terrible cry of fear, turned and ran headlong for the side door, arms up in a futile gesture of protection. He burst through and disappeared.
Cussane ignored Angus and pulled Morag to her feet. Are you all right?’
She turned and looked down at Angus, rage and humiliation on her face. ‘No thanks to him.’
He took her arm and they went out and crossed the yard to the kitchen door. As the girl opened it, Harry Fox called, ‘Hold it right there, Cussane!’ and moved from behind the parked van.
Cussane recognized the voice instantly, sent the girl staggering through the door, turned and fired, all in one smooth motion. Fox fell back against the van, the gun jumping from his hand. In the same moment, Devlin came round the corner and fired twice. The first bullet ripped Cussane’s left sleeve, the second caught him in the shoulder, spinning him round. He went through the kitchen door headfirst, kicked it closed behind him, turned and rammed home the bolt.
‘You’re hit!’ Morag cried.
He shoved her ahead of him. ‘Never mind that! Let’s get out of here!’ He pushed her up the stairs towards the bedroom. ‘You take the bag,’ he urged her, and ran across to the open door and peered out.
The van, with Fox and Devlin, was just round the corner. He put a finger to his lips, nodding to Morag, and went down the stone staircase quietly, the girl following. At the bottom, he led the way round to the back garden, ducked behind the wall and started along the track through the bracken that led to the head of Glendhu.
zzo
Devlin opened Fox’s shirt and examined the wound just below the breast on the left. Fox’s breathing was bad, his eyes full of pain. ‘You were right,’ he whispered. ‘He’s good.’
‘Take it easy,’ Devlin said. ‘I’ve called in Trent and Brodie.’
He could already hear the Ford approaching. Fox said, ‘Is he still in the house?’
‘I doubt it.’
Fox sighed.-‘We cocked it, Liam. There’ll be hell to pay over this. We had him and he got away.’
‘A bad habit he has,’ Devlin said again, and the Ford entered the farmyard and skidded to a halt.
Cussane sat sideways in the passenger seat of the jeep, feet on the ground. He was stripped to the waist. There wasn’t a great deal of blood, just the ugly puckered lips of the wound. He knew that was a bad sign, but there was no point in telling her that. She carefully poured sulfa powder on the wound from his small medical kit and affixed one of the field service dressing packs under his instructions.
‘How do you feel?’ she asked anxiously.
‘Fine.’ Which was a lie, for now that the initial shock was wearing off, he was in considerable pain. He found one of the morphine ampoules. They were of the kind used on the battlefield. He gave himself an injection and the pain started to ease quite quickly.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘Now pass me a clean shirt. There should still be one left.’
She helped him on with it and then his jacket and raincoat. ‘You’ll be needing a doctor.’
‘Oh, sure,’ he said. ‘Please help me. I’ve got a bullet in the shoulder. The first thing he’d reach for would be a telephone.’
Then what do we do? They’ll really start hunting you now. All the roads covered.’
‘I know,’ he said. ‘Let’s have a look at the map.’ After a while, he said, ‘The Solway Firth between us and England. Only one main route through to Carlisle via Dumfries and Annan. Not much road to plug.’