The plane was really near now. But as I flung myself over the wall I saw Rankin kneeling, rifle to shoulder. The range was down to point-blank; there was nothing I could do.
The plane's engine drowned the sound of the shot, but I knew Rankin had fired-and hit his target.
"Rankin! You bloody murdering bastard!"
But my words were swamped by a tearing crash as the plane hit the side of the mountain...
"His story-telling has a drive that is compulsive."
Scotsman
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