Hood of Death

Chapter VIII

The motor of the car with one headlight roared. Doors on it slammed. Nick's fantasies were interrupted. Frontal attack too! Damned efficient. He slipped his one remaining cigarette lighter-type grenade into his left hand and cradled Wilhelmina in his right. The flanking car dipped its headlights as it churned through a brook, bobbed up and was crossing the near gravel path.

The headlight of the car beyond the wire flamed on and it accelerated toward the gap. The handlight came on again, probing at the trees. It stabbed its glow along the brushline. There was a crackle — the submachine gun rattled. Rattled again. Nick thought, He's probably firing at one of his own men in there, one of the three who came through.

"Hey… I" It ended in a gasp.

Might have got him, too. Nick slitted his eyes. His night vision was as superb as carotene and 20/15 eyesight could make it, but he could not find the other two.

Then the car hit the fence. For an instant Nick saw a dark shape forty feet in front of him as the car's light swung in his direction. He fired twice and was sure he had scored. But now the ball begins!

He shot out the headlight and squeezed lead at the car, stitching a pattern just across the lower windshield, his last shots guided by the handlight before it was switched off.

The car's engine whined and there was another rattling crash. Nick guessed that he might have winged the driver and the car had circled back into the fence.

"There he is!" the strong voice shouted. "To the right. Up and at 'em."

"C'mon." Nick pulled Jeanyee upright. "Make 'em get us on the wing."

He guided her forward to the grass and along it, away from the attackers but toward the other car which was a few yards from the tree line, about a hundred yards from them.

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."

"Yes," Villon answered. "We'll know when they're coming. At least twenty minutes in advance."

"The same way you knew I was coming up the road?"

"Yes."

The gray eyes looked right at you when Villon spoke, yet the man had tremendous reserve. His expression seemed to say, "I won't lie to you, but I'm quick to tell you if it's none of your business." Nick was suddenly very glad he had decided, when he first came up the old road, not to try and jump that Browning shotgun. Recalling Villon's work with the rifle, he was especially pleased with that decision. The least he might have gotten was a leg blown off. Nick asked, "TV scanner?"

"Nothing so complicated. Along about 1895 a railroad man came up with a device called an iron mike. Ever hear of it?"

"No."

"The first one was just a sort of carbon telephone receiver planted alongside the track. When a train went by you heard the sound and you knew where it was."

"An early bug."

"That's right Mine are improved, of course." Villon pointed to a walnut box on the wall which Nick had thought was a hi-fi speaker. "My iron mikes are much more sensitive. They transmit without wires, and they're only activated when the sound level rises, but otherwise the credit goes to that unknown telegrapher on the Connecticut River Railroad."

"How do you tell whether someone is passing on the road or the mountain trail?"

Villon opened the front of the little cabinet, exposed six indicator lights and switches. "When you hear sounds you take a look. The light tells. If more than one is lit you cut the others off for a moment, or raise the sensitivity of the receiver with a rheostat."

"Splendid." Nick took the .45 out of his belt where it was hurting his rib and put it carefully on the wide table. "Many thanks. Mind telling me who? What? Why?"

"If you'll do the same. British intelligence? Your accent isn't quite right unless you've lived in this country a long time."

"Most people don't catch that. No, not British. Do you have any Luger ammo?"

"Yes. I'll get you some in a moment. Let's just say I'm an anti-social guy who doesn't want to see people hurt and is crazy enough to butt in."

"I'd rather say you're Ulysses Lord." Nick dropped the English accent. "You had a helluva record with the 28th Division, Captain. You started as a shavetail with the old 103rd Cavalry. Wounded twice. You can still handle an M-1. You kept this hunk of property when the estates were sold, perhaps for a hunting camp. Later you rebuilt this old farm."

"Villon" put teabags in cups, added hot water. "Who are your?"

"I can't tell you, but you were close. Ill give you a number in Washington to call. They'll partly endorse me if you identify yourself carefully through the Army records office. Or you can visit them down there and you'll be reassured."

"I'm a fair judge of men. I think you're all right. But jot down that number. Here…"

Nick wrote the number that would put a caller through a screening process which — if the caller was legitimate — would eventually put him in touch with an assistant of Hawk's. "If you'll take us to my car we'll get out of your way. How much time have we got before they block the road end?"

"It's a twenty-five-mile circle over narrow roads. We've got some time."

"Will you be all right?"

"They know me — and they know enough to leave me alone. They don't know I helped you."

"They'll guess."

"To hell with them."

Jeanyee came into the kitchen, her features repaired and composed. Nick resumed his accent. "Did you two introduce yourselves? We were so busy out there…"

"We chatted coming over the hill," Villon said dryly. He handed them cups of tea. From the walnut speaker came a scries of lazy thuds. Villon fussed with the switches. "Deer. You get so you can tell all the animals after awhile."

Nick noted that Jeanyee not only had her composure back, she wore a stiff expression he did not like. She had had time to think — he wondered how close to the truth her conclusions were. Nick asked, "How are your feet? Most girls aren't used to traveling in just stockings. Tender?"

"I'm not the delicate type." She tried to put it casually, but resentful fires glowed in the black eyes. "You've gotten me into a terrible mess."

"You might say that. Most of us blame others for our difficulties. But it seems to me that you found your way into a mess — entirely without my help."

"Baumann's son you said? I think…"

The wall speaker bugled the rousing music of a hound's baying. Another joined him. They seemed to advance into the room. Villon held up one hand and turned down the volume with the other. Feet thudded. They heard a man grunt and gasp, another breathing hard like a long distance runner. The sounds grew louder then died away — like a march past in a movie. "There they come," Villon declared. "Four or five men and three or four dogs, I'd say."

Nick nodded agreement "Those weren't Dobermans."

"They've got Rhodesian Ridgebacks and German Sheppherds too. The Ridgebacks can track like bloodhounds and attack like tigers. Marvelous breed."

"I'm sure," Nick said dourly. "I can hardly wait."

"What is this?" Jeanyee exclaimed.

"A listening device," Nick explained. "Mr. Villon has microphones planted on the approaches. Like TV scanners without the video. They just listen. Marvelous device, really."

Villon drained his teacup and put it neatly in the sink. "I don't think you really plan to wait for them." He left the room for a moment and returned with a box of nine millimeter parabellum cartridges. Nick refilled Wilhelmina's clip, put another twenty or so in his pocket.

He pushed in the clip, raised the action with his thumb and forefinger and watched a cartridge travel up to the chamber. He put the gun back in the harness. It rode under his arm as comfortable as an old shoe. "You're right. Let's go."

Villon drove them in the Jeep to the turnout where Nick had left the rented car. Nick paused after he climbed out of the Jeep. "You're going back to the house?"

"Yes. Don't tell me to wash out the teacups and put them away. I will."

"Watch yourself. That bunch is not to be fooled with. They may take your M-1 and match the slugs."

"They won't."

"I think you ought to take off for awhile. They'll be hot."

"I'm in these mountains because I won't do what other people think I should."

"Heard from Martha lately?"

It was a chance test. Nick was surprised by the direct hit. Villon swallowed, scowled and said, "Good luck." He rammed the Jeep back into some brush, turned it and was gone.

Nick tooled the rented car swiftly down the old road. When he reached the highway he turned left, away from the direction of the Lord property. He had memorized the map of the area and used a circle route toward the airport. On top of a rise he stopped, strung out the little antenna wire of his transceiver and called the two AXEmen in the dry cleaner's truck. He disregarded FCC requirements. "Plunger calling B office. Plunger calling B office. Come in."

Barney Manoon's voice came almost at once, loud and clear. "B office. Go ahead."

"I'm out. See any action?"

"Plenty. Five cars in the last hour."

"Operation complete. Get out unless you have other orders. Tell the bird. You'll use a phone before I will."

"No other orders here. Need us?"

"No. Go home."

"O.K. Finish."

"Finish and out."

Nick climbed back into the car. Barney Manoon and Bill Rohde would return the truck to the AXE office in Pittsburgh and fly to Washington. They were good men. They probably had not just parked the truck near the entrance of the estate, but concealed it and set up an observation point in the woods. Which was — Bill told him later — just what they did.

He headed for the airport. Jeanyee said, "All right, Jerry, you can drop the English accent. And where do you think you are taking me and what the hell is this?"