Devlin grinned. “And what would I be needing with a shooter, with a couple of desperate individuals like you two to look after me?”
They climbed up toward the crest of a hill, Blake choosing a low gear. There were trees along the edge of the track and a row of trees bordering the meadow, the barn beyond them.
“They’ll see us coming,” Blake said.
“Which is why I’m going to bail out on the bend and take to the trees,” Dillon told him, “so slow down for me. You take care of the confrontation, Liam, and don’t worry. A hard man, this one with all that FBI training. He’ll manage, especially with me coming in the back door.”
“Well, that’s a comforting thought,” Blake said and slowed on the bend.
Dillon opened the door and made for the ditch as Devlin closed the door behind him. The car picked up speed and Dillon hurried through the trees.
Aware of the sound of the engine as the car approached, Bell left Barry clutching Riley and went to the door, drawing his revolver.
“What is it?” Barry demanded.
“Don’t know. Black saloon car, driver and one passenger.”
“Get in the loft.” Bell did as he was told, climbing the ladder, and Barry dropped Riley to the ground and kicked him. “Stay still.” He moved behind the open door.
He heard the car stop outside and steps approaching. Devlin appeared in the doorway, Blake Johnson at his back. He paused, then came forward.
“Well, now, Dermot, you don’t look too good.”
“Watch yourself, Mr. Devlin, the bastard’s behind the door,” Riley told him.
Barry stepped out, holding his revolver. “Easy, the both of you, or I’ll blow your spines out.” He rammed the barrel into Blake’s back, patted his pockets and found the Beretta. “Would you look at that now? And what about you, Devlin?”
“Don’t be daft. Would a seventy-five-year-old man like myself be carrying a pistol?”
“Add ten years to that, you lying old bugger.”
Devlin sighed and said to Blake, “Neanderthal man come back to haunt us. He only learned to walk erect this morning.”
“I’ll do for you, you old sod.” Barry was furiously angry. “You’ve had your day. You’ve been due for the knacker’s yard for years.”
“Well, it comes to us all.” Devlin gave Riley a hand. “Up you get, Dermot. Don’t let bastards like this grind you down.”
Barry exploded in rage. “I warned you. I’ll put you on sticks.”
“And why would you want to do that, I wonder?” Sean Dillon called.
He stood just inside the other door to the barn, rain increasing in a great rush at that moment. His left hand was behind him holding the Walther against his back. With his right, he shook a cigarette from his pack, put one in his mouth, and lit it with his old Zippo.
Barry was totally thrown by the change in Dillon’s appearance. “Sean Dillon, is that you?”
“Your worst nightmare,” Dillon said.
“The loft, watch the loft, Sean,” Riley croaked.
Barry kicked him. “Take him!” he cried.
Bell stood up on the edge of the loft, gun ready, and Dillon’s hand came round in one smooth motion. He fired twice, catching Bell in the heart, the sound of the silenced weapon flat on the damp air. Bell fell headfirst.
In the same moment, as Barry raised his revolver, Liam Devlin shot him in the back with the Walther he was holding in his raincoat pocket, sending him into the ground. There was silence, only the sound of the rain on the roof.
Blake Johnson said, “My God, that was something.”
Dillon pocketed the Walther, went and stirred Bell’s body, then checked Barry. “Well, we’ve done the world a favor.” He looked at Devlin and shook his head. “You told me you weren’t carrying.”
“I know,” Devlin said. “I’m a terrible liar.” He turned to Dermot. “Are you all right?”
“My ribs don’t feel too good.”
“You’ll live. This is Mr. Johnson, an American and former FBI, so mind your manners. He and Dillon are working on the case you were involved in. You’ll go back to London with them.”
“And why would I do that?”