'Can I what?'
'See anything. Through the windshield.'
'No,' I said, chuckling too in spite of myself. 'I had my eyes closed.'
She punched me in the arm, playfully and seriously at the same time. 'Look this time, dammit.' And then she kissed me again.
Below, I heard the sound of a vehicle laboring up the hill. Almost ten minutes had passed, so I was sure it was Guy Owens. It had to be. I pushed Rhonda away so I could peer over her shoulder and get a clear view of what was happening. Across the parking lot, the group of retirees chose that exact moment to begin dividing up into separate cars.
Guy and I had spoken briefly about what he would do. Spilling the money was an old trick, trite and cliched, but it had already worked once that afternoon, and it might work again. He planned to get out of the Isuzu, walk close enough for Monty to see it, and then let the money go tumbling all over the parking lot. We figured the diversion would give Rhonda or me or both of us time to get close to the Blazer.
But we hadn't counted on a crowd scene right there in the parking lot.
'Get moving,' I urged fervently, willing the old folks to leave.
Rhonda pulled away from me. 'Not you,' I whispered. 'Them! We can't do any shooting at all while they're still in the line of fire, understand?'
She nodded, her body tense and shaking with anticipation, but it never came to that. The crooks must have had some kind of fail-safe system, some prearranged warning code, that told the driver of the waiting Blazer that something was wrong. Long before the Isuzu crested the final ridge, and just as the Dodge Dart started for the rest area's exit, the engine of the Blazer roared to life. It lurched out of its parking place and shot off down the western side of the pass in a cloud of dust, leaving two carloads of shaken tourists staring in its wake.
There was never any question of us firing a weapon after him. It would have endangered a good half-dozen innocent bystanders.
Rhonda and I had leaped off the bench and were racing back to the Beretta as the Trooper came into sight. Frantically we waved at Owens, motioning for him to follow the fleeing Blazer. Fortunately, our desperate message got through. Without slowing down, the Trooper lunged past us and down the other side of the mountain while we were still clambering into the car and groping for seat belts.
We didn't take time to discuss strategy. It wasn't necessary. Rhonda dove for the driver's seat, and I climbed in the other side, rolling down the window as I went, preparing to fire from the vehicle if that proved necessary. The 9-mm was a far better weapon for that purpose than the. 38 would have been, and I had no doubt that I was the better shot.
After all, Rhonda Attwood's business was painting pictures. Mine was catching killers.
We knew both vehicles were ahead of us, but not because we could see them. The steep grades and blind curves limited the sight line. Occasionally we caught sight of the glint of sun on metal, but mostly what we saw were the two distinct clouds of dust that roiled up over the horizon, muddying the clear mountain air behind the fleeing vehicles.
Now, instead of the idiot light glowing, we could smell the odor of overheated brakes. The downgrade was incredibly steep, rocky and washboarded in spots, and crisscrossed by boulder-laden streams still swollen from recent rains.
Rhonda deftly picked her way through them, side-stepping the biggest rocks, avoiding the worst of the ruts. Once or twice the low under-carriage of the Beretta dragged on something, and I worried about what Alamo would have to say this time. But at least we weren't in Mexico. According to my calculations, the international border was at least a good half mile away.
We came down out of the mountains into a rolling rangeland that seemed like a mistake. It was as though we had left the red Arizona desert on the other side of the Huachucas and landed in the middle of the Great Plains. For miles before us spread a vast valley of lush green rolling hills, dissected by the narrow, rutted road meandering through it like a willful stream.
A herd of curious white-faced cattle hurried toward the road to watch us pass and see what all the excitement was about. Meanwhile, ahead of us, the two separate clouds of dust still pointed the way.
'Where the hell are we?' I demanded. 'This doesn't even look like Arizona.'
'It's the San Raphael Valley,' Rhonda answered. 'It's usually one of my favorite places, but not right now. How will we ever catch them?'
Her question was answered with terrifying immediacy. Like anxious flight controllers watching the separate blips of planes on a radar screen, our hearts sank as the blips suddenly merged, as the two clouds of dust became one that billowed skyward in an explosive eruption.
'Jesus!' I exclaimed.
'What happened?'
I knew instinctively what had happened although I couldn't have explained how. Thinking the Trooper was his only pursuer, the driver of the Blazer must have rounded a blind corner and then stopped, lying in wait until the Trooper rounded the same corner and then ramming it as it came by.
'Hurry,' I commanded. 'But don't get too close. Try to stop while we're still out of sight.'
Following directions. Rhonda slowed and stopped in the middle of the narrow, rutted road just before the crest of a small hill. We left the Beretta where it was and scurried up the bank, using a small stand of scrub oak for cover. In the basin ahead of us, the smashed Trooper lay on its side with the two upper wheels still spinning, but the attacking Blazer hadn't escaped unscathed.
It stood drunkenly on two flattened tires, steam spilling from a ruined radiator. I wondered hopefully if maybe the driver had been injured, but just then the door swung open and a giant of a man emerged. He opened the back door and reached inside, dragging out something that could have been a helpless kitten for all the ease with which he picked it up and tossed it over his shoulder.
And then he was walking in my direction, striding toward the lifeless Trooper. As he came closer, I realized with a clutch of despair that the limp form slung across his shoulder was the inert body of Michelle Owens. Behind me, I heard Rhonda's quick intake of breath, but I turned and motioned her to silence, because in the crook of his other elbow he carried another death-dealing AK-47.
'Shit!' I whispered.
'What are we going to do?' Rhonda returned.
'He's got another rifle,' I told her. 'Guy must be injured or unconscious. I'll have to try to get closer, to get within range.'
With that I started running through the trees. They were situated beside a small streambed that ran parallel to the road for about a quarter of a mile. I half expected Rhonda to follow, but when she didn't, I could hardly blame her. Why should she put her life on the line?
Monty-that had to be the giant's name-dropped Michelle on the ground and went to the disabled Trooper. He tried the back door, but it was apparently jammed. Next he looked inside. Setting his gun down so it leaned against the roof of the crippled vehicle, he clambered up onto the side. With nothing but his bare hands, he wrenched the door from its hinges. He plunged his arm down into the interior, but whatever he wanted was farther away than his outstretched arm could reach. Shaking his head in disgust, he dropped into the Trooper and momentarily disappeared.
Maybe he went to get the money, I thought, all the while dreading the bark of a gunshot that would tell me he had also had some other, more murderous purpose.
I ran then, straight out, breaking across the open field. The sheltering trees had allowed me to get even with the Trooper and go a little beyond it, so now as I cut back toward the road, I was coming from the south and slightly toward the west, the place from which he was least likely to expect an attack.
Monty and I must have heard the sound of the approaching vehicle at exactly the same time. His head popped out of the top of the Trooper like a gopher peeking out of its hole. He looked back up the road the way he had come. Just as quickly, he disappeared back inside without even glancing in my direction.
I looked to see what was coming and was astonished to see the Beretta hurtling down the rutted road toward the Isuzu. I still wasn't quite within range when he reappeared in the door of the wrecked car. As soon as I saw him the second time, I knew what was in his hand-Guy Owens' cannon-sized Colt. 45.
Cringing, I thought about how a powerful slug from the Colt would slice through the thin metal shell of the
