right into him,” Owens said. “I don’t mind, if you don’t, you understand that? If you want to bear down on top of him it’s perfectly okay with me, but you’ve got to understand that we’re just giving him a larger and larger area—”
“I don’t give a damn,” Wulff said. It was almost as if the role-reversal was now complete; he had to explain his conduct to Owens, he had to justify himself to the man who only a few days before had been his captive, a man who had been hired to kill him. “Shut the fuck up,” Wulff said and waved the pistol at Owens. Owens gave him a single look of astonishment and then his eyes blinked shut in something like an ecstasy of concentration moving inward, seeing animals stalk behind the panes of his eyes, then he floored the accelerator and the Fleetwood was bearing down at ten to fifteen miles an hour in reverse, the fastest it could go in the low gear. Wulff perilously balanced himself on the seat, aiming for a good shot. He still could not see the man.
But even if he could not see him he could see the source of the fire. Another shot came through, this one a little high, smashing into the ceiling, scattering dust over him as he ducked. Owens grunted something, but his concentration did not lapse. He kept his foot on the floor and they had now closed to within a hundred yards of the Bonneville. “Son of a bitch,” Owens said, “son of a bitch, where is it coming from? Where is the bastard?”
“I don’t know,” Wulff said. “I don’t know where he is. That’s what we’re trying to find out.” He saw a scurry of movement, just a little twitch of shadows near the left front bumper of the Bonneville. It might have been the man moving, but then again it might only have been some reaction to his passage; the sun, off-angle, was casting shadows in a peculiar way counter to movement, and Wulff desperately tried to bring back the training he had had in combat sighting. They were still closing, and Wulff realized that the situation was cutting both ways. They were coming closer all the time, and at a certain point the assassin would no longer be able to find cover; but in exactly the same way they were losing their own cover, that distance which granted them some measure of safety.
Owens must have had the same thought. He was moving the car clamped down into the seat now, his forehead buried against his crossed arms, his eyes closed, his frame hunched over in anticipation of the killing shot. Yet to his credit—Wulff had to give the man credit, he was no fool, everything that he had said to Wulff about his training was the truth—he had not given any ground whatsoever. The only way they were going to get Owens out of that seat was to shoot him out, preferably with a howitzer and at close range, the man was not going to give. But the assassin was not going to give either. Another shot came through and Wulff twitched in reaction, taking cover deeply. Then, as if unconnected, he heard Owens’ dull scream, and then the car was thrashing, bucking out of control.
His processes had been so slowed by the shock of this, he had been so funneled into concentration upon the assassin, that for an instant Wulff reacted stupidly, trying to make some connection between the shot, the scream, and the wild slewing of the car. Then, as Owens collapsed from the wheel, pinning him with his weight, the feeling of blood coursing down Wulff’s body, Wulff understood what had happened and fell all the way to the panels of the floor, guiding himself to fall away from Owens, trying to find some stability. He could not move to stop the car, could not yank Owens’s dead foot away from the accelerator because he was pinned in by the weight and could not lose the time to try and strain. Owens’ bubbling death-sounds were moving high in his throat, sounding like a flute now.
“I’m sorry,” Wulff said, not that it made any difference now—it was another man dead, that was all, forget it,
“I don’t give a damn,” Wulff said. It was almost as if the role-reversal was now complete; he had to explain his conduct to Owens, he had to justify himself to the man who only a few days before had been his captive, a man who had been hired to kill him. “Shut the fuck up,” Wulff said and waved the pistol at Owens. Owens gave him a single look of astonishment and then his eyes blinked shut in something like an ecstasy of concentration moving inward, seeing animals stalk behind the panes of his eyes, then he floored the accelerator and the Fleetwood was bearing down at ten to fifteen miles an hour in reverse, the fastest it could go in the low gear. Wulff perilously balanced himself on the seat, aiming for a good shot. He still could not see the man.
But even if he could not see him he could see the source of the fire. Another shot came through, this one a little high, smashing into the ceiling, scattering dust over him as he ducked. Owens grunted something, but his concentration did not lapse. He kept his foot on the floor and they had now closed to within a hundred yards of the Bonneville. “Son of a bitch,” Owens said, “son of a bitch, where is it coming from? Where is the bastard?”
“I don’t know,” Wulff said. “I don’t know where he is. That’s what we’re trying to find out.” He saw a scurry of movement, just a little twitch of shadows near the left front bumper of the Bonneville. It might have been the man moving, but then again it might only have been some reaction to his passage; the sun, off-angle, was casting shadows in a peculiar way counter to movement, and Wulff desperately tried to bring back the training he had had in combat sighting. They were still closing, and Wulff realized that the situation was cutting both ways. They were coming closer all the time, and at a certain point the assassin would no longer be able to find cover; but in exactly the same way they were losing their own cover, that distance which granted them some measure of safety.
Owens must have had the same thought. He was moving the car clamped down into the seat now, his forehead buried against his crossed arms, his eyes closed, his frame hunched over in anticipation of the killing shot. Yet to his credit—Wulff had to give the man credit, he was no fool, everything that he had said to Wulff about his training was the truth—he had not given any ground whatsoever. The only way they were going to get Owens out of that seat was to shoot him out, preferably with a howitzer and at close range, the man was not going to give. But the assassin was not going to give either. Another shot came through and Wulff twitched in reaction, taking cover deeply. Then, as if unconnected, he heard Owens’ dull scream, and then the car was thrashing, bucking out of control.
His processes had been so slowed by the shock of this, he had been so funneled into concentration upon the assassin, that for an instant Wulff reacted stupidly, trying to make some connection between the shot, the scream, and the wild slewing of the car. Then, as Owens collapsed from the wheel, pinning him with his weight, the feeling of blood coursing down Wulff’s body, Wulff understood what had happened and fell all the way to the panels of the floor, guiding himself to fall away from Owens, trying to find some stability. He could not move to stop the car, could not yank Owens’s dead foot away from the accelerator because he was pinned in by the weight and could not lose the time to try and strain. Owens’ bubbling death-sounds were moving high in his throat, sounding like a flute now.
“I’m sorry,” Wulff said, not that it made any difference now—it was another man dead, that was all, forget it,
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