The car had already passed through the stop sign at the top of the hill and was racing toward the north, toward Reston, toward Sikorski. McAllister jammed the accelerator to the floor and they shot up the ramp, fishtailing a little as they hit an icy spot on the roadway. There was no other traffic so McAllister didn’t even bother slowing down for the stop sign, swinging wide through the intersection, almost losing the back end again. He had to force himself to slow down. To go off the road now would eliminate any possibility of catching up with the two assassins ahead of them.
“Are you certain it’s the same two men?” McAllister asked. The Ford had already topped the next rise and had disappeared beyond. The side road up to Sikorski’s cabin was barely a half a mile beyond.
“No, I didn’t get that good a look at them as they passed us. But it’s the same car. New Jersey license plates.”
He glanced at her. She had taken out a small gun from her purse.
It was another.32 automatic. “They’re on their way to Sikorski’s.”
“To kill him,” Stephanie said. “Just like they killed Doug.”
“These two are Americans. We both heard them that night on the sailboat.“Stephanie looked at him. “If you wanted to kill someone, and make it appear as if the Russians had done it, what would you do?” McAllister nodded. “The question is, where the hell are they getting their information?”
“From inside Langley. From Highnote.”
“We’ll see,” McAllister said grimly. They came over the rise and raced down the long hill, the town of Reston in the distance. The Thunderbird was nowhere in sight. The road led straight into the distance. The only place the car could have turned off that quickly was the road back up through Sunset Hills. What few lingering doubts McAllister had had, evaporated with the certainty. One by one someone was eliminating everyone he’d had contact with since his release from the Lubyanka.
Everyone, that is, except for Robert Highnote. They reached the secondary road and turned off. Sikorski’s driveway was a couple of miles farther into the hills. The snow that had fallen last night blanketed the trees and brush. The small community of Sunset Hills was to their right; he turned left and drove another mile, finally slowing and stopping at the dirt road.
One set of tire tracks led up the road, none came back. No one had been in or out since the last snowfall. Only the Thunderbird had come this way.
McAllister started up the dirt track, the trees closing in around them. A few hundred yards up, he stopped again and shut off the engine. The road was very narrow just here, the embankments on either side very high, impossible to drive up over. Whatever happened now, the Thunderbird would not be able to get back to the main road this way.
“Hide yourself in the woods,” McAllister said. “If they come back this way open fire on them, and then get the hell out.”
“I’m coming with you,” Stephanie said.
“You’ll do as I say, goddamnit,” McAllister snapped. “If something happens to me I want you to get to Kingman and tell him everything…. I mean everything. At least you’d have a chance.”
Stephanie’s eyes were wide, but she nodded in agreement. They got out of the car. For a second she hesitated, but then she climbed up over the dirt embankment where the road had beencut through the side of the hill, and disappeared into the thick woods.
McAllister started toward the cabin. The snow was soft and slushy, and within ten yards his feet were soaked. He took out the P38, switching the safety off.
The Thunderbird was parked just at the edge of the clearing that led down to the cabin. Crouching low he hurried up behind it, keeping it between himself and the house. No one was around. The cabin seemed deserted. There were no sounds or movements.
From where he hid behind the big car he could see two sets of footprints leading down the clearing where they split up, one set going left, the other right. They’d circled the cabin, coming up on it from both sides. Sikorski’s pickup truck was back in its carport, but no tracks other than the footprints led across the clearing. Nothing had moved in or out since the snow. It was that one fact that was bothersome to McAllister just now.
He moved around to the driver’s side of the car. The window was open, the keys dangled from the ignition. He reached inside, took the keys and pocketed them.
Now, he thought grimly, the odds had been evened up somewhat. Whatever happened, they wouldn’t be getting out of here so easily. They would have to stay and fight.
A man in a dark bombardier jacket came around from behind the cabin. McAllister ducked farther back behind the car, certain that he hadn’t been spotted yet. The man’s attention was toward the cabin itself.
The front door opened and the second man, dressed in a dark overcoat, unbuttoned, came out. He was stuffing his gun inside his coat. The man in the bombardier jacket said something to him, and he shook his head. McAllister could hear the voices, but not the words.
They had expected to find Sikorski at home, but evidently the old man had left with someone before the snow had finished falling. Now they would be coming back up to their car.
McAllister eased back behind the Thunderbird and then scrambled up into the woods, moving from tree to tree until he was well hiddenyet barely fifteen feet from the car. He could hear the two of them talking now, their voices much closer as they came up the hill. He still couldn’t quite make out the words, but it sounded like English.
The one in the bombardier jacket came into view first on the driver’s side of the car. McAllister steadied his pistol with both hands against the hole of the tree, waiting for the second one to appear.
“Sonofabitch,” bombardier jacket swore, spinning away from the open window, his hand reaching for his gun. The second man had just come into view on the other side of the car, he looked up in alarm.
“Somebody’s got the fuckin’ keys,” bombardier jacket swore. “Hold it right there,” McAllister shouted.
Bombardier jacket had his gun out and was diving to the left. The other man was dropping down behind the car.
McAllister squeezed off a shot, the gun bucking in his hand, the bullet smacking into the driver’s side door a half a foot behind the man in the bombardier jacket, who snapped off a shot as he fell, the bullet hitting the tree inches from McAllister’s face.
McAllister fired again, this time catching the man in the throat, his head snapping back against the car’s front fender, a horrible gurgling scream coming from him as he tore at the jagged wound, blood pumping out all over the snow.
These were Americans, not Russians! He had not wanted this! Not this kind of a confrontation!
It took the man nearly a full minute to die, and then the woods were silent again, only a very slight breeze rustling the tree branches.
McAllister stood sideways to the tree, his heart hammering, his stomach heaving. The other man had not moved from behind the big car. For the moment it was an impasse.
“We didn’t kill him,” the man said, his accent New York or New Jersey. “We found him that way, I swear to God. I don’t know what happened. I don’t know who did it….” The words were almost hysterical, but the tone was too measured.
Janos dead? If these two hadn’t killed him, who had? “I gotta have a guarantee. I’m not going to get myself shot like Nick.” The voice had moved to the rear of the car. McAllister leaned forward slightly so that he could just see around the tree. The man in the bombardier jacket lay in the snow in a big puddle of his own blood.
“Throw out your gun, no one will hurt you,” McAllister called. “He’s a mess in there,” the man said. “In the back.”
“I said throw out your gun.”
The man popped up over the back of the trunk lid and fired twice, both shots coming within inches of McAllister, who ducked back behind the tree. Whoever they were, they were both good shots, professionals.