And then the moon came out from behind the clouds. Nick crouched and whirled toward the gap, snapped the spare magazine into Wilhelmina and peered through darkness which was suddenly not nearly as concealing. He had a few seconds. He and Jeanyee were harder to see against the forest than the attackers on the artificial skyline. The man with the handlamp foolishly turned it on. Nick noted that he carried it in his left hand, as he placed a bullet where a belt buckle should be. The man crumpled and the light spewed its rays along the ground, adding to Nick's visibility of the dozen shapes coming at him. The leader was about two hundred yards away. Nick dropped him. Thought, And Stuart wonders why I stick to Wilhelminas! Pass the ammo, Stuart, and we'll get out of this yet. But Stuart couldn't hear him.
Moonlight shooting! He missed one, got him on the second. A few more shots and it would be all over. Pistols winked at him and he heard whir-r-r-r-r again. He pushed Jeanyee along. "Run."
He pulled out a small oval globe, pressed a lever in its side and threw it at the skirmish line. A Stuart smoke bomb, quick spreading, thick concealment, but dispersed in a few short minutes. The device wooshed and for a moment they were hidden.
He ran after Jeanyee. The car had stopped at the edge of the forest. Three men tumbled out, pistols raised, dim menaces in the murk. They left the car's lights on. Guns at my back and guns in my face; Nick grimaced. And just two more cartridges in mine!
He glanced back. A man stumbled out of the gray-white mist, a dull shape. To save a bullet, Nick tossed his second and last smoke grenade and the shape was obscured. He turned toward the car. The three men were spreading out, either not interested in killing Jeanyee or saving all their fire for him. How important can you get? Nick went toward them in a crouch — two of you go with me and that's the end. I'll get close for this moonlight-carlight target work.
B-VOOM! From the forest, midway between Jeanyee and Nick and the three advancing men, a heavy weapon boomed — the full-throated roar of a rifle of decent caliber. One of the dark shapes went down. B-VOOM! B-VOOM! The other two shapes dropped to the ground. Nick could not tell if one or both were hit — the first man was screaming in pain.
"Come this way," Nick said, grabbing Jeanyee's arm from behind. The man with the rifle might be for or against, but he was the only hope in sight, which made him an automatic ally. He pulled Jeanyee into the scrub and crashed toward the firing point.
CRACK-WHAM B-VOOM! The same weapon with the muzzle blast close and pointed their way! Nick held the Luger low. CRACK-WHAM B-VOOM! Jeanyee gave a little gasp and shriek. The muzzle blast was so near it washed over them like a gust from a hurricane — but no wind could shake your eardrums like it. It was firing past them, toward the smokescreen.
"Hey," Nick called. "You want some help?"
"Well, I'll be damned," a voice answered. "Yeah. Come and save me." It was John Villon.
In a moment they were next to him. Nick said — strictly Alastair, "Many thanks, old boy. Bit sticky there. You wouldn't have any nine milly Luger ammo on you?"
"No. You out?"
"One left." A lie. You never knew.
"Here. Colt Government auto. You know it?"
"Love it." He took the heavy gun. "Shall we go?"
"Follow me."
Villon went through the trees, twisting and turning. In a few moments they came to the trail, the trees above showing an open slash against the sky, the moon a broken gold coin on its rim.
Nick said, "No time to ask you why. Will you guide us back over the mountain?"
"Sure. The dogs will find us though."
"I know. Suppose you go ahead with the girl. Ill catch you or wait for me not more than ten minutes at the old road."
"My jeep is there. But we'd better stick together. You'll only get…"
"Get going," Nick said. "You bought me some time. My turn to treat."
He ran down the trail into the meadow without waiting for an answer. They had bypassed the car in the trees, and he was on the opposite side from where its occupants had hit the ground. Judging by the quality of the men he had seen tonight, if any of them were in one piece after that rifle raking they were crawling into the trees looking for him. He ran to the car and peeked in. It was empty, its lights glaring, its motor purring.
Automatic shift. He half-mooned backwards, used low to get underway forward with full throttle — moved the lever immediately up to drive.
A man cursed and a gun blazed not fifty feet away. A slug whanged on car metal. Another pierced glass a foot from his head. He huddled down, did a double serpentine turn, crossed the gravel path and swooped down and up through the brook.
He followed the fence, reached the road and turned toward the main house. He drove a quarter-mile, cut the lights and jammed on the brakes. He jumped out and from the cornucopia of his jacket took a small tube, an inch long and hardly as thick as a pencil. He carried four of them, common incendiary fuses. He grasped the little cylinder at each end with his fingers, gave it a twist and dropped it into the gas tank. The twist broke a seal and acid flowed against a thin metal wall. The wall lasted about one minute and then the device would flare — as hot and penetrating as phosphorus.
There was a slight downgrade to the parking lot Not as much as he would have liked. He wished he had time to find a stone to hold down the accelerator, but behind him a car's lights were racing at the gate. He was going about forty when he flipped the gear selector into neutral, tilted the heavy car toward the parking lot and jumped out.
The fall shook him up, even with all the tumbling roll he could generate. He ran into the meadow, heading toward the trail out of the valley, then dropped to the ground as the headlights roared by in pursuit.
The car he abandoned had rolled between a line of parked cars for a considerable distance, scraping off front ends of assorted vehicles as it careened from side to side. The sounds were interesting. He turned on his recorder as he trotted toward the forest.
He listened for the whoosh of the gas tank explosion. You never knew about an incendiary cap in a closed tank. He had left the tank cap off, of course, and theoretically there should be enough oxygen, especially if the first blast ruptured the tank. But if a tank was chock full or especially built of solid or bulletproof metal all you got was a small fire.
Oriented by the house lights he found the trail entrance. He listened carefully, moved watchfully, but there was no sign of the three men who had been with the flanking car. He went up the mountain silently and swiftly, but not recklessly, alert for an ambush.
The tank let go with a satisfying blare — an explosion wrapped in mush. He glanced back and saw flames shooting into the sky.
"Play with that awhile," he murmured. He caught Jeanyee and John Villon just before they reached the old road on the other side of the notch.
They rode to the restored farmhouse in Villon's four-wheel-drive Jeep. He parked it out of sight in the back and they went into the kitchen. It was as exquisitely restored as the exterior, all wide counters and rich wood and gleaming copper — just the sight of it made you smell apple pie baking, imagine pails of fresh milk, and think of buxom, ruddy and rounded girls with long skirts but no underwear.
Villon put his M-l rifle between two brass hooks over the door, ran water in a kettle and said as he put it on the stove, "I suppose you'd like a bathroom, miss. Right through there. First door on left. You'll find towels. Some cosmetics in the cabinet."
"Thank you," Jeanyee said — a little weakly Nick thought — and disappeared.
Villon filled an electric percolator and plugged it in. The restoration hadn't ignored modern conveniences — the stove was gas, and in a big open pantry Nick saw a large refrigerator and an upright freezer. He said, "They'll be here. The dogs."