Free The Silencers by Donald Hamilton Page A

dispose of your country’s enemy at the risk of your life, or you’re a cheap female Judas sending a man you know to his death to save your own skin. Take your choice.”
    Her head came around sharply. “Damn you! You didn’t have to say that!”
    “Don’t be a fool,” I said. “Of course I had to say it. It’s what he’ll say if he gets a chance, isn’t it?”
    She hesitated then drew a long breath. “Yes, but you’ve got such a lousy, brutal way of putting things, darling.” She glanced aside and spoke in an even voice. “I suppose you know you’re on the wrong road. This highway leads to Las Cruces. We’re supposed to be heading for Alamogordo, on the way to Carrizozo, aren’t we?”
    I said, “Yes, but I thought I’d take that fellow behind us for a little scenic ride, first. His persistence certainly deserves some kind of a reward.”
    It took her a moment to catch the meaning of what I’d said; then she started to swing around in her seat.
    “No, don’t look back,” I said. “Use the mirror.”
    She turned to an outside mirror. The truck sported two, one on each side, since visibility through the canopy was limited. She had to lean forward to get the proper angle. “The gray Olds sedan,” I said, “two cars back.”
    She licked her lips. “You mean... somebody is following us?”
    “Tailing is the technical word,” I said. “Yes, somebody’s tailing us. He picked us up right around the corner from the hotel. How’s your geography, Gail?”
    “I don’t know... This road goes on up the Rio Grande Valley, doesn’t it?”
    “That’s right,” I said. “And the road we want goes up the Tularosa Valley on the other side of those mountains coming up on the right. For the moment, of course, we don’t know anybody’s behind us. We’re just plugging northward innocently...”
    “But shouldn’t we find a phone and call Mr. Macdonald before we’re too far out in the country?”
    I thought of what Mac would say if one of his people called up in a sweat merely because somebody, mysterious and menacing, was trailing along behind.
    “He’s on his way back to Washington, if his plane ever got off,” I said. “We’re kind of supposed to take care of ourselves. Besides, I’d like to find out what instructions the gent back there is carrying.”
    I looked around. We were well out of El Paso now, traveling across a flat country flecked with snow that looked wet and gray in the bad light. The mountains to our right rose up into the low clouds. The higher visible slopes were solidly white; it was coming down more heavily up there.
    I said, “In Las Cruces, some fifty miles ahead, if he hasn’t made a move by then, I’ll stop to have the tank filled and the tire chains put on. Let’s hope our friend is a good Texan. If he is, he’ll have a childlike faith in his snow tires and an abiding distaste for chains. When I lived in Santa Fe, farther north in New Mexico, we used to lose more Texans off the road to the nearby ski run. Even the cops couldn’t make them put chains on.” I glanced at the mirror. The gray Oldsmobile had dropped back a little now that we were on the open highway, but it was still coming right along. I said, “Leaving Las Cruces, I’ll suddenly discover that we’ve got company. I’ll put on speed, pathetically trying to outrun that guy’s three hundred horsepower with this old relic. Failing, I’ll swing abruptly to the east and head over the pass towards White Sands and Alamogordo and the road we really want. Have you done any sports car driving, Gail? Do you know what it means to hit the cellar?”
    “Well, I’ve ridden in them, of course, and driven a few, but they’re mostly so dreadfully uncomfortable and impractical—”
    “Sure,” I said. It was no time for an argument on that subject. I pointed to the worn rubber mat under our feet. “Well, there’s your storm cellar. I want you to have your coat buttoned and your hood up; that’ll give you some