Nick crawled forward, saw nothing. The other one must have gained the building's side. You could wait — or you could move. Nick moved as swiftly and quietly as he could. He flopped over the next rim, on the side the burp gunner had been heading for. As he had guessed — nothing. He scuttled to the rear edge of the roof, put Wilhelmina over at the same time as his head. The scarred black ground was empty.
Move! By now his man would be creeping along the wall, perhaps turning that back corner. He went to the forward angle and peeped over. He had guessed wrong.
When Bloch had seen the shape of the head on the roof and the sputtering grenade had spun toward him and Krol he had propelled himself forward. The right tactic; get away, get under, and get in — if you can't drop with your helmet toward the bomb. The blast had been surprisingly powerful, even at eighty feet. It had shaken him to the roots of his teeth.
Instead of going along the wall he had squatted at its center, watching left-right-up. Left-right-up. He was looking up when Nick looked over — for a moment each man looked into a face he would never forget.
Bloch had a Mauser balanced in his right hand and he was good with it, but he was still slightly stunned, and even if he were not, the outcome could not have been in doubt. Nick fired with the instantaneous reflexes of an athlete and the skill of the tens of thousands of rounds, burned slow-fire, rapid-fire, and in every position including hanging over roofs. He picked the pinpoint on Bloch's upturned nose where the slug would land, and the nine-millimeter slug missed it by a quarter-inch. It opened up the back of his head.
Even against the impact, Bloch fell forward, as a man usually will, and Nick saw the gaping wound. It was an unpleasant sight. He dropped from the roof and ran around the corner of the building — cautiously — to find Krol slobbering but reaching for his weapon. Nick ran forward and picked it up. Krol stared up at him, his mouth working, blood drooling from the corner of his mouth and one eye.
"Who are you?" Nick asked. Sometimes they will talk under shock. Krol didn't.
Nick searched him swiftly, finding no other weapon. An alligator-skin wallet had nothing in it but money. He went swiftly back to the dead man. He had only a driver's permit issued to John Blake. Nick said to the cadaver, "You don't look like a John Blake."
Carrying the Mauser and the burp gun he went to the truck. It appeared to have escaped damage from the blast He opened the hood and unsnapped the distributor cap and put it in his pocket In the back he found another burp gun and a metal box with eight magazines and at least two hundred extra rounds. He took two magazines, wondering why there wasn't more armament Judas was known for his love of superior firepower.
He put the guns on the rear floor of the Volvo and rolled down the hill. He had to call twice before the girls appeared at the window. "We heard shots," Booty said in a high-pitched voice. She swallowed and lowered her tones. "Are you all right?"
"Sure." He helped them out. "Our friends in the little truck won't bother us anymore. Let's get out of here before the big one comes."
Janet Olson had a small scratch on one hand from a sliver of glass. "Keep that clean till we get something to put on it," Nick ordered. "You can catch all kinds of things around here."
A droning babble in the sky drew his attention. From the southeast, the way they had come, a helicopter appeared, following the road like an exploring bee. Nick thought, Oh no! Not that — and fifty miles from nowhere with these girls!
The whirly spotted them, flew over, and went on to hover near the truck standing silently on the plateau. "Let's go!" Nick said.
As they reached the main road the big truck nosed out of the defile at the end of the valley. Nick could imagine the two-way radio conversation as the helicopter described the scene, settling to peer at "John Blake's" body. As soon as they decided...
Nick raced the Volvo away toward the northeast They had decided. At long range the truck fired at them. It sounded like a fifty-caliber, but probably was a European heavy.
With a sigh of relief Nick twisted the Volvo into the turns leading up the escarpment The big track had shown no speed — just firepower.
On the other hand, the eggbeater up there gave them all the speed they'd ever need!
Chapter Eight
The Volvo whipped up the turns to the top of the first mountain like a mouse in a maze with food at the end. They passed a tour caravan of four vehicles on the way. Nick hoped the sight of them would cool the lads in the helicopter temporarily, especially if they carried gunship armament. It was a small two-place bird of French make, but good modern weapons don't weigh much.
At the top of the grade the road wound near the edge of a cliff with a lookout parking area. It was empty. Nick drove near the edge. The truck was grinding doggedly up the hills, just passing the tour cars. To Nick's astonishment the helicopter was vanishing toward the east.
He considered the possibilities. They needed fuel; they were going to get a distributor cap to get the truck and body away from there; they would circle and set up a roadblock ahead of him, boxing him between it and the big truck. Or all these reasons? One thing sure, he was up against Judas now. He had taken on a whole organization.
The girls were regaining their composure and that meant questions. He answered them as much as he thought best as he drove swiftly toward the western exit of the giant forest preserve. Please — let there be no construction blocks on the way!
"Do you think the whole country is in trouble?" Janet asked. "I mean, like Vietnam and all those African countries? A real revolution?"
"The country is in trouble" Nick replied, "but I think we tangled with our special dose. Maybe bandits. Maybe revolutionists. Maybe they know your folks have money and want to kidnap you."
"Hah!" Booty snorted and looked at him skeptically, but she didn't butt in.
"Give us your ideas," Nick said sweetly.
"I'm not sure. But when a tour escort carries a gun and maybe that was a bomb you had back there we heard — well!"
"Almost as bad as if one of your girls carried money or messages to the rebels, eh?"
Booty shut up.
Ruth Crossman said calmly, "I think it's wonderfully exciting."
Nick drove for over an hour. They passed Zimpa Pan and Suntichi Mountain and Tshonba Dam. Cars and microbuses passed them now and then, but Nick knew that unless he met an army or police patrol, he should keep civilians out of this mess. And if he met the wrong patrol, and they were politically or financially with the THB mob, that could be fatal. There was another problem — Judas was prone to outfit small detachments in the uniforms of the local authorities. He had once set up an entire Brazilian police post for a robbery caper that was smoothly successful. Nick didn't see himself walking into the arms of any armed squad without plenty of preliminary identification check.
The road wound upward, leaving behind the weird, half-barren, half-jungle valleys of the preserve and they climbed to the ridge that carried the railroad and highway between Bulawayo and Victoria Falls. Nick stopped at a filling station in a small settlement, pulling the Volvo under the ramada-like roof over the petrol pump.
Several white men were glumly watching the road. They looked nervous.
The girls went into the building and the tall, sunburned attendant murmured to Nick, "Are you heading back to Main Camp?"
"Yes," Nick replied. He was puzzled by the confidential manner of the usually open and hearty Rhodesians.