The target was getting closer. He could still make him out quite clearly against the golden rock and sand of the eroded hill.
Suddenly he froze.
“Are you all right, sir?” a voice behind him inquired.
He whirled around.
A few feet away stood a Park Ranger, his pleasant young face contemplating the man lying prostrate on the ground.
“Is everything all right?” he repeated his question.
“Can I be of help?”
He stood up. He brushed himself off — more for something to do than for the sake of cleanliness. With a pang of alarm he realized that the Ranger stood squarely between him and his rifle.
“No,” he said. “No, thank you. I–I was just admiring the mountains in the sunset.”
The Ranger nodded. “It can be quite spectacular,” he agreed. He looked toward the rifle leaning against the rock. “I see you have a gun with you,” he said. “Hunting is strictly forbidden within the confines of the National Park. Firearms are not allowed.”
“I–I didn't intend to shoot anything — eh, Officer,” he said. Perhaps pretending to be a bumbling tourist would buy him time, he thought. “I — well, I just get a kick out of sighting in on a wild burro — or something.” He grinned sheepishly. “It — eh, it isn't even loaded.” He made a move toward the rifle.
The Ranger stopped him. “That's all right, sir,” he said. “I'll take it.” He picked up the gun. He worked the bolt. A round jumped from the breach and plopped down on the sand.
Neither man utttered a word. The Ranger bent down and picked up the bullet. He glanced at it and put it in his pocket.
“Perhaps you'd better come with me, sir,” he suggested calmly.
“Where to?”
“Ranger Headquarters. I think it would be better if the Chief had a word with you.” He motioned him down the hill.
The situation was intolerable. His mind raced. Under the circumstances he could not possibly allow himself to be taken in. He glanced at the Ranger making his way down the slippery incline a few feet behind him.
The man would have to die.
His mind worked at peak capacity. On the narrow, one-way dirt road below he could see his own vehicle where he'd left it on the shoulder — and the Ranger pick-up pulled up behind it. He knew what he had to do.
Suddenly he lost his footing on the loose rocks and pebbles. He tumbled head over heels down the slope. Painfully he sat up. He tried to regain his feet — and fell back with an oath of agony. He put his hands on his left knee just above his heavy boot and rubbed it gently.
The Ranger was at his side. “Are you badly hurt?” he asked, concerned.
“It's my knee,” he groaned. “I–I hope it's just twisted.”
As the Ranger bent down to look at it, he exploded into action. With all his power he jabbed the sharply pointed knife, drawn from his boot, up into the Ranger's chest — twisting it viciously as it penetrated the rib cage.
With only a hoarse gasp of air expelled by the violent blow, the Ranger collapsed across his legs — his body twitching in the throes of death. He could feel the warm blood gush out over his loins in oily, sweet wetness.
He rolled out from under the dead man. He thought fast. He had been trained to do just that.
Quickly he emptied his pockets and took off his blood-soaked slacks. He pulled the pants from the dead Ranger and put them on himself, emptying out their contents on his own discarded clothing. He looked around. A short distance away there was a small fissure under an overhanging rock — just big enough to hold a man. He picked up the body and carried it over. He stuffed it into the crack. He returned for his bloody slacks, rolled them up with the Ranger's belongings and pushed them in after him.
He had a sudden thought. He pulled the slacks out again and fumbled for the man's wallet. He opened it. Twenty-two bucks. No big haul, but it would get him a new pair of slacks. He glanced at the man's ID card. Adams. He stuffed everything back under the rock and concealed the opening with stones. It would be some time before the man was found. Unless someone with a good nose happened by.
He ran toward the vehicles. He stopped and looked at the bright red spot on the ground. He began to kick sand over it, but stopped at once. The disturbed ground would be more of a giveaway than simply leaving the bloodstain. Tomorrow's sun would bake it to a blackish, unrecognizable blot. He picked up his rifle and put it in his vehicle. He ran to the Ranger pick-up and rummaged around in the back of it. He brought out a short length of sturdy rope and hitched the two vehicles together, bumper to bumper.
Carefully, slowly, he began to tow the Ranger vehicle away from the area…
It was dark when he finally stopped in a steep-walled canyon several miles away.
He unhitched the Ranger truck. Once again he searched through it. He came up with a jack and a large, rusty nail. He threw the jack into his car and walked back to the pick-up. Carefully he placed the nail in front of the rear right tire, leaning against it, its tip resting against the rubber.
He climbed into the vehicle and eased it forward.
The nail was driven into the tire. It was already beginning to go flat as he dismounted.
He got into his own vehicle. For a moment he sat quietly, collecting his thoughts.
He had taken a chance killing the Ranger; the man would be missed. But he'd had no choice. He had made the right decision. He went over every move he'd made. He was satisfied he'd covered his tracks as completely as possible. Of course, the Ranger force might get even more officious than they already were; make things a little more difficult for him. And for his teammate.
He knew there had to be another agent on the case. It was standard. But he had no idea who it was. Only the L.A. control would know. Proper security procedure, of course. It could be anybody. Using any cover. Only one person in Death Valley it could not be, he thought wryly: Major Tom Darby.
He had a sudden thought. Wouldn't it be ironic if the man he'd killed had been his counterpart?
He wouldn't know. In the opinion of the big-shots, he had no need to know.
Was it carrying secrecy too far? He realized the reasoning behind it. It made sense. If the mission was important enough, the idea was not to entrust it to one agent only — and at the same time not put all your agents in one basket. If one was caught, he could not give the other one away. The mission was not totally aborted. And the chance of the two men “eliminating” each other was next to nil.
But it was a funny idea! If that crazy spy-spoof TV show Get Smart! was still in production, he might submit it.
His eyes fell upon the box of artist's materials on the seat beside him. He rather liked his cover. An artist could be anywhere, any time — no questions asked. He was actually quite good at it. He had been instructed to use his talent in creating his cover as a sleeper agent. He had been assured that he would be taken care of, and he did sell — enough to be comfortable. Sometimes he was astonished at some of the big-name customers who bought his work. He couldn't help wondering if they did so by choice or by instruction.
He started his buggy. He drove away. He cursed under his breath. He had missed his first chance.
There would be another…
9
Darkness had come again. Tom was getting used to it. When he looked up, everything was black with many, many bright little pinpoint holes. It reminded him of the moving cave in which he had taken refuge from the fury of the blazing disk above. It had been covered by a thick,