Shit!
The range had been too far, the shimmering heat deceiving. But — dammit all to hell! — they were forcing him to take chances. And all because someone, somewhere wanted to give some big-shot's ego a hickey!
He stood up from his ridge-crest blind and began to slide down the precipitous drop to his buggy parked below, his rifle held high.
Fuck it all! He'd have to get over there.
Finish the job…
Paul was racing along a trail running along the foothills, paralleling the dry lake. The little scout pitched and bucked over the rugged path. His thoughts were awhirl. Someone was out to kill Tom. Who?
A flash memory shot through his mind. Of a time before — when he had raced to Tom's aid. When, together, they had been lying supine on the ground. When all around them the air had been hideous with the staccato clangor of enemy fire. He had read the prayer in the eyes of his companion. He'd known it had been there in his own.
He knew it was there now.
He was headed for the canyon that he calculated would take him to the row of hills from where the shots had come. He prayed there'd be a road going in — or a trail the scout could negotiate.
Almost there…
The scout hurtled along the trail. Ahead he could see a dirt road leading into the foothills.
Suddenly a dune buggy came shooting out of the ravine. The driver spotted Paul's scout. At once he veered sharply away and careened off the trail, racing out onto the flat, cracked bed of the dry lake.
Paul was startled. He knew instantly and with absolute certainty who the man was. The rifleman from the hills! The killer who had shot Tom! Immediately he raced in pursuit. His powerful little vehicle flew across the hard, arid surface of the dry lake. He was gaining on the buggy ahead of him.
Hayden watched the pursuing Air Force vehicle in his rear-view mirror. Dammit! Another couple of minutes and he'd have been out of the area. Even as he had the thought, he knew it was invalid. He had obviously been spotted. Had he headed for his wounded target, he'd have run into a horde of eager fly-boys. Perhaps what had happened was for the best. This way he had only one adversary to contend with. One man.
He should not be too difficult to eliminate…
Paul kept the accelerator pressed against the floor-
board. He was within a couple of hundred feet of the fleeing dune buggy. And he was gaining rapidly. He glanced at the speedometer. Close to seventy.
Suddenly he saw the vehicle ahead of him slow to a halt, raising a cloud of fine, powdery dust. As quickly as it happened, he registered the actions of the driver of the buggy. The man leaned into the back of the buggy. When he straightened up, he had a rifle in his hands. Without breaking the momentum of his motion, he brought it up into firing position — aimed straight at Paul.
The bullet shattered the windshield on the passenger side of the scout. The report ripped the distant silence, washing in waves out over the empty expanse. Even as the glass splinters showered the scout, Paul made his decision. The next one would very likely hit its mark.
In the split moment it took for the marksman in the buggy to resight and squeeze off a second round, Paul acted.
He wrenched the steering wheel sharply to one side. The little scout reacted instantly, turning sideways in a violent skid that shot billows of powder dust into the air, completely obscuring him. At once he backed off behind the cloud of dust. He gunned his scout and roared straight for the protective dust screen.
He shot through it and emerged on the other side headed at full speed directly for the dune buggy halted ahead of him…
Hayden saw him roaring down on him. There was time to squeeze off one more round. It was the last. It went wild. He had no time to reload… and the scout came hurtling on.
He threw the rifle into the back of the buggy and stomped on the accelerator.
The buggy shot forward and sped across the lake.
Hayden sat hunched over the wheel. He knew he could not outspeed the damned Air Force scout, but he might be able to outmaneuver it, reach an area where the rugged buggy would leave the scout behind.
He glanced into the mirror.
The scout was closing in…
Paul urged the last ounce of speed from the scout. He was close enough to make out the driver of the buggy. The man's long hair whipped wildly in the wind. His face looked tense and hard. Paul's anger spurred him on. This was the man who wanted to kill Tom.
He hated him.
He was only feet behind the buggy. How the hell could he stop him? By ramming him? Perhaps he could make the bastard lose control.
He steered his scout a touch to the left and came up on the driver’ side of the buggy. The man threw him a cold-eyed glance. The two vehicles were racing side by side across the cracked expanse of the dry lake.
Now!
With a short jerk on the steering wheel Paul crashed his scout into the side of the buggy. The vehicle lurched violently and fishtailed, on the verge of going out of control. Paul, too, fought the wheel of his own vehicle barely avoiding turning over. He swore. Ramming the bastard was not the way. It was equally dangerous for himself. The little buggy was too damned sturdy.
There was another way.
Again he urged his scout forward until once more the two vehicles were careening along side by side, metal grating against metal. This time Paul was on the passenger side of the buggy.
He was just about to act when the buggy driver turned away and raced off at an angle.
Paul roared after him. He felt coldly confident. He'd get the bastard. Tense with the imminence of violent action, he clutched the wheel. He knew the buggy could not elude him.
Once again he brought his scout up at the side of the buggy — touching, scraping. He more sensed than saw the driver getting ready to veer away.
Now!
Without warning Paul rose in his seat and leaped from the scout into the buggy next to him. He landed awkwardly. He struggled to keep his balance. Startled, Hayden fought to keep his vehicle under control. The driverless scout continued its wild ride for a moment, then turned sideways, rolled over — bouncing into the air again and again in a spray of dust, to explode in a gigantic ball of fire.
Hayden fought to steer clear of the fire blast. In the same instant, clinging to the buggy, Paul kicked across him. With one leg he stomped down on the brake.
Taken unprepared, Hayden rammed his head against the windshield. Paul grabbed the wheel and yanked it vehemently around. The buggy turned sharply, lifting two wheels off the ground, and Hayden was flung from the careening vehicle.
His scream of terror was cut short as he hit the ground. Limbs flailing grotesquely, he tumbled violently across the hard surface — to a final, dead stop.
Paul brought the buggy to a halt. He turned it around and headed back toward the still figure of the man sprawled in a twisted heap of broken bones on the dry lake bed.
He was dead.
From the foothills two scouts came racing toward him, raising long plumes of dust behind them. They came to a stop and Ward jumped from one of them. He ran up to Paul.
“We lost them, Paul,” he panted. “When we got there — they were gone.”
Paul felt a surge of relief. “He's alive,” he said.
“He's alive.”
Paul's relief suddenly turned to misgiving. “Alive,” he said bleakly, “but for how long?” He gazed desolately toward the foothills. “They slipped through our lines.”
He scowled at the broken body lying on the sun-baked ground. At least the outside threat to Tom was now eliminated, he thought.