"You never can tell," Carter said.
Wooten swung right, entering a two-lane blacktop road running west and rising up a long, gently sloping hill. "They're still coming."
"Speed up."
The trailing car speeded up too. "They're gaining on us — fast," Wooten said. "Don't worry, I'll lose 'em!"
On a long straightaway, Wooten pulled what is known as the "bootlegger's turn" south of the Mason-Dixon line. Not slowing, he stomped the emergency brake while hauling the wheel hard left.
Tires howled as the car executed the ultimate in controlled skids, pivoting into a 180-degree turn that pointed its nose in the opposite direction.
Carter felt as if he'd left his stomach a hundred yards back. Wooten pulled the emergency brake and tromped the accelerator. The car shot forward, heading for a straight-on collision with the pursuer. Wooten leaned on the horn, adding to the confusion.
The pursuit car wheeled hard right to avoid a crash. No wonder it had overtaken them so easily, Carter thought; it was a low-slung, high-speed Porsche.
Speed was its undoing. It ran off the road, nose and headlights dipping as it plowed down a long, long embankment. A dust cloud marked its jouncing, shuddering descent.
"Punks!" Wooten crowed. "That takes care of them!"
Carter was doing some hard thinking. White Porsche — Prince Hasan — "an avid racing car enthusiast," Hawk had said.
Wooten followed the road in the opposite direction, rejoining the southern highway. They hadn't gone more than a mile when he said, "Uh-oh…"
"Something wrong?" Carter asked.
"I don't think that fancy maneuver was too good for the car. The wheel's pulling funny, over to one side. Feel it?"
"Umm." Carter pretended that he hadn't noticed Wooten surreptitiously feathering the brake pedal.
"Could be a bum tire," Wooten said with a show of concern. "I'd better pull over and take a look. We wouldn't want a blowout."
"Okay."
Slowing, Wooten left the road for its shoulder, coming to a halt in the middle of nowhere. No other cars were in sight.
Wooten sounded cheerful enough as he said. "I guess if there's a flat, yours truly is going to have to change it."
"That's why you're here."
"You're a hard man, Fletcher, but I like you."
The car stood on hard-packed earth. The boxy shapes and campfires of a small settlement showed far to the south. Carter and Wooten were the only living souls in this sprawling expanse.
They got out of the car. Wooten turned, a gun in his hand. "I got something for you, Fie…"
Wooten did a double take. Carter was not to be seen.
The Killmaster was hunkered down, using the car for cover. Wooten dropped into a combat crouch, trying to look everywhere at once.
Carter held the Luger under the car and shot Wooten in the ankle.
Wooten screamed, firing twice into empty air as he went down. Carter hopped onto the trunk, coming down on the other side where Wooten sprawled, cursing, agonized breath bubbling past clenched teeth.
Wooten was game, but before he could put his gun back into play, Carter stepped hard on the wrist of his gun-bearing hand, crushing it.
Centering Wilhelmina's snout on Wooten's forehead, Carter pried the gun from his fingers and pocketed it.
"You bastard!" Wooten groaned.
"Shhhh." Carter took nothing for granted and gave Wooten a fast but thorough frisking. The only thing it turned up in the way of weapons was a pocketknife, which Carter tossed into the darkness.
Frowning, Carter brushed off the dusty circles marring the knees of his trousers, from when he had knelt down out of sight. "Let's talk, Wooten."
Wooten's scream of obscenities was cut short by Carter's kicking his wounded leg.
"Suppose you save yourself a whole lot of unpleasantness and tell me who sent you," Carter said.
"Fuck you!"
"You want to be difficult? Fine." Holstering his Luger — Wooten was declawed — Carter went to the front of the car, tripping the button that unlocked the trunk. He went through it to see if he could turn up anything interesting that might persuade Wooten to be more forthcoming.
Jumper cables — jack — hunting rifle and a box of ammo — bottle of beer — bolt cutters — a toolbox — a can of powerful chrome-cleaning fluid. That would do it.
Carter grabbed Wooten by the collar and dragged him some paces from the car. Between groans, Wooten said, "Hey, what are you doing?"
Carter read the cleaning fluid's label by the trunk light. "Say, did you know that this stuff's highly flammable?"
"W-what? Hey, what are you doing? Don't…"
Sputtering, coughing, protecting his face with his hands, Wooten squirmed as Carter emptied the contents of the can on him, soaking him down. The stuff had a powerful alcohol smell.
"What are you doing, you maniac?"
"You've heard the expression, 'the heat is on'?" Carter said. "Well, buster, it's really going to be on you if you don't give with the answers."
"You wouldn't!"
"No? Watch me." Carter fished a pack of matches from his pocket and lit one. A sheltering ridge protected them from the wind, the small yellow flame burning steadily.
Carter flipped the match in Wooten's direction.
"Holy Christ, no!" Wooten squirmed away from where the match burned on the ground.
"Here, have another," Carter said, flipping some more his way. Wooten cried out each time a match fluttered near him. One missed his foot by a hair, his injured foot, and when he instinctively jerked it away, he screamed in pain.
"Don't, for the love of God!"
"I wonder if Howard Sale said that when they were working on him?" Carter mused.
"I don't know anything about that! I swear!"
"I'm not too fond of people who try to kill me, either."
"Wait!" Wooten panted, short of breath. "Wait. You've got it all wrong, Fletcher. I wasn't going to kill you. Just rough you up some, put you out of commission! I swear!"
"I'm not in the mood for fairy tales, Wooten." Carter set aside the matches and took out his cigarette lighter.
"Wait a minute! Give a guy a break, will you?"
"Howard Sale got a real break." Carter adjusted the wick to maximum aperture, so that when he flicked the lighter, it jetted a hissing twelve-inch tongue of yellow flame. "I don't want to set the world on fire. Just the part of it you're occupying, Wooten."
Wooten broke before the bright flame neared him. "I'll talk, I'll talk, for God's sake, stop!"
Carter flicked off the flame, keeping the lighter at the ready in case Wooten started waffling. Wooten made a pretty grim sight. Carter hated to see a grown man cry, though in this case he could live with it.
He fired questions at Wooten, not giving him the time to think up any lies. "Who're you working for?"
"You know."
"Say it."
"All right, I'm working for Hodler!"
"Now we're making progress," Carter said. "What did he tell you to do?"
"Get rid of you."
"Like you got rid of Sale?"
"I didn't have anything to do with that," Wooten said. "That was all Hodler's work. Sale was tight with the emir's people. He was snooping around, getting too close, sniffing around the club."
"The Crescent Club?" Carter said. "What goes on there?"
"That's Hodler's hangout. He's got it bad for one of the dolls there."
"A woman? Who?"
"A dancer. Sultana, she calls herself. He's nuts about her."
"You're lying," Carter said. "Hodler's not the type to let a woman get under his skin."
"This one did. Hey, what are you doing with that lighter? I swear, it's the truth! He's crazy mad in love with her — can't stay away from her. Even after Sale made him at the club, Hodler wouldn't lie low. He got rid of Sale instead."
"Who fingered Sale to him? You?"