Panic!

Vollyer pushed him away savagely and swung the binoculars up. At first he could not see anything but blurred images through the lens, and he thought: I can see, I can see, my eyes are all right and I can see, clear up now, you bastards, clear up so I can see! He blinked frantically, and the blur lessened and there was substance, there were shapes; he tried to swallow into a constricted throat, fighting the double vision that would not completely dissipate, moving the glasses in a wide are, west to east, along the top of the rise—

They were there, Lennox and the girl, standing there at the crest and looking down to the other side, just standing there, five hundred yards away.

Vollyer jerked the glasses down, and the Remington scope-handgun was in his right hand. He began to run up the slope. Di Parma hesitated and then ran after him, reaching his side. “Harry, what is it, did you see them?” but even as he said the words, Di Parma was looking up at the crest of the rise and the two figures standing there, looking at them for a brief instant before they jumped forward to disappear on the other side. He had been carrying his jacket, and he fumbled the .38 out of the pocket, flung the garment down; his lips pulled away from his teeth, and the fingers of his huge hand were spasmodic on the sweating metal of the belly-gun.

They ran diagonally across the slope, toward the spot where Lennox and the girl had been standing. Vollyer gagged on each breath, running on legs that were like jagged edges of bone, and sweat poured acid agony into his eyes. He fell once and Di Parma slowed automatically and pulled him to his feet, and then they were at the crest and looking beyond and Lennox and the girl were almost to the bottom of the slope on that side, running to the west. Vollyer pawed away sweat, pawed away some of the shimmering blur, but he was still too far away for an accurate shot, he had to get closer, a little closer, and he plunged downward with Di Parma at his heels, slipping, sliding wildly on the incline, moving in a diagonal again to cut off the targets at the bottom.

Vollyer became aware, through the stinging obscurity of his vision, that there was some kind of road or cart track down there—that was what they were running for and they were looking at that, only that, they did not know that he and Di Parma were up here behind them and that was all the edge he needed, the game was definitely over now, no mistake now. The gap was closing, closing, two hundred yards, less, near enough, one bullet for Lennox and one for the girl, and he skidded to his knees on the slope halfway down, bracing himself, washing away sweat with the palm of his free hand, bringing the Remington up into the crook of his arm and sighting with the scope. Two of Lennox and two of the woman, oh you goddamn bastard eyes, blink, blink, concentrate, clear up, there now, there, finger closing on the trigger, steady, steady—

The first shot.

Pause.

And amid rolling vibrations of sound that filled the yellow-gold morning like distant thunder, the second shot ...

Five

With the window rolled down, and the cruiser’s speed held to a crawl, Brackeen heard clearly the deep, hollow reports and knew immediately what they were.

Reflexively, his foot bore down on the accelerator and the patrol car responded with instant power, rear tires spewing dust and pebbles. He clung grimly to the wheel, body tensed, eyes probing the flaming distance, trying to see beyond the line of rocks just ahead. The shots had come from somewhere on their far side, somewhere close, and he knew with the intuitive sixth sense of a born cop that it was not a kid potting at jackrabbits or quail, or one of the local settlers target-practicing at an early hour; he knew that this was it, that this was the showdown, that the waiting had come to an abrupt end and there would be no need for the helicopters any longer, no need for Lydell and his search party, knew that he would find all of them—Lennox and Jana Hennessey, dead or alive now, and the professional sluggers—waiting for him just a few seconds away ...

Brackeen remembered the bullet he had found in the dashboard of the wrecked yellow Triumph, too badly mutilated for accurate identification but obviously of a high caliber; remembered, too, the dead body of Perrins/Lassiter and the six bullet holes within a five-inch radius on the upper torso, testimony to a deadly marksmanship. One man, possibly both, with a high-velocity weapon of some kind and more than likely the smaller handguns they had used on the hit, revolvers or automatics ... automatics ... automatics ...