straight up the hill, closing fast, like a too-eager marathon runner who
had forgotten to change into his running shorts and shoes.
The yellowish dust gave the illusion of marbled solidity as it whirled
through veined patterns of shade and sunshine.
But in spite of the dust and in spite of the thirty yards that separated
Ben from the oncoming man, he could see the gun in the guy’s hand. He
could also see the silencer, which startled him.
No police or federal agents used silencers. And Eric’s business
partners had opened up with a submachine gun in the heart of Palm
Springs, so it was unlikely they would suddenly turn discreet.
Then, only a fraction of a second after Ben saw the silencer, he got a
good look at the grinning face of the oncoming man, and he was
simultaneously astonished, confused, and afraid. Anson Sharp. It had
been sixteen years since he had seen Anson Sharp in Nam, back in 72.
Yet he had no doubt about the man’s identity. Time had changed Sharp,
but not much. During the spring and summer of 72, Ben had expected the
big bastard to shoot him in the back or hire some Saigon hoodlum to do
it-Sharp had been capable of anything-but Ben had been very careful, had
not given Sharp the slightest opportunity. Now here was Sharp again, as
if he’d stepped through a time warp.
What the hell had brought him here now, more than a decade and a half
later? Ben had the crazy notion that Sharp had been looking for him all
this time, anxious to settle the score, and just happened to track him
down now, in the midst of all these other troubles. But of course that
was unlikely-impossible-so somehow Sharp must be involved with the
Wildcard mess.
Less than twenty yards away, Sharp took a shooter’s spreadlegged stance
on the road below and opened fire with the pistol. With a whap and a
wet crackle of gummy safety glass, a slug punched through the windshield
one foot to the right of Ben’s face.
Throwing the car into reverse, he twisted around in his seat to see the
road behind. Steering with one hand, he drove backward up the dirt lane
as fast as he dared. He heard another bullet ricochet off the car, and
it sounded very close. Then he was around the turn and out of Sharp’s
sight.
He reversed all the way to the cabin before he stopped.
There he shifted the Ford into neutral, left the engine running, and
engaged the handbrake, which was the only thing holding the car on the
slope. He got out and quickly put the shotgun and the Combat Magnum on
the dirt to one side. Leaning back in through the open door, he gripped
the release lever for the handbrake and looked down the hill.
Two hundred yards below, the Chevy sedan came around the bend, moving
fast, and started up toward him. They slowed when they saw him, but
they did not stop, and he dared to wait a couple of seconds longer
before he popped the handbrake and stepped back.
Succumbing to gravity, the Ford rolled down the lane, which was so
narrow that the Chevy could not pull entirely out of the way. The Ford
encountered a small bump, jolted over it, and veered toward one drainage
ditch. For a moment Ben thought the car was going to run harmlessly off
to the side, but it stuttered over other ruts that turned it back on
course.
The driver of the Chevy stopped, began to reverse, but the Ford was
picking up a lot of speed and was bearing down too fast to be avoided.
The Ford hit another bump and angled somewhat toward the left again, so
at the last second the Chevy swung hard to the right in an evasive
maneuver, almost dropping into the ditch. Nevertheless, the two
vehicles collided with a clang and crunch of metal, though the impact
wasn’t as direct or as devastating as Ben had hoped. The right front
fender of the Ford hit the right front fender of the Chevy, then the
Ford slid sideways to the left, as if it might come around a hundred and