Free The Silencers by Donald Hamilton Page B

protection. If we start to go and I give the word, you dive for the floor and cover your face with your arms. Got it?”
    She had turned pale. “If we start to... What do you mean?”
    I said patiently, “Look, glamor girl, we’ll cross a pass, San Agustin Pass, elevation damn close to six thousand feet.” I pointed. “It’s up there somewhere, but you can’t see it for the clouds. Beyond, there’s a nice stretch of mountain road heading into the other valley, with quite a steep drop-off on the outside, the side we’ll be on going down. It’ll probably be snowing pretty heavily up there. There’ll be fog by the looks of it. The visibility will be real lousy, so a gent with criminal intentions won’t have to worry much about witnesses. We’re carrying something somebody’s supposed to want, remember? Looking at it one way, this is a very encouraging sign, that they’re taking such an interest in us already.”
    “But—”
    “That lad behind us has a big, heavy, powerful car,” I said. “If he’s got orders to do something about this old pickup of mine, something that looks accidental, say, so he’ll have a chance to search the bodies—up there’s where he’ll probably make his play.”
    “You mean—” Her voice was strained. “You mean he’ll try to run us off the road up there?”
    I glanced at her and saw something that surprised me—she had freckles. It was completely out of character, but there they were, a faint dusting of color across the bridge of her nose.
    I said, “Your freckles show when you’re scared, Gail. It’s kind of cute...”
    As murder attempts go, it was kind of pitiful. The Olds was in sight behind us during the long grind up the pass until the murk got too thick to see anything. I turned on my lights to make things easy for him. We topped out at just under six thousand feet and started down through the clouds on the other side. He waited until the road emerged on the open flank of the mountain. Then he came roaring out of the snow and mist behind us and swung over to give us the nudge that would send us off the edge—blasting away with his horn to terrify us, I suppose, or to make us stop and get out of the car with our hands up.
    I hit the brakes and my tire chains took hold at once. With nothing but rubber to stop him, he was past before he could connect, skidding badly. I saw his face looking at us. The glass was blurred with condensed moisture, but I recognized the sallow face and thin black mustache of the M.C. of the Club Chihuahua.
    I threw a fast downshift into second gear and fed power to the rear wheels. The chains found traction in the new direction, and the old truck lurched forward, digging out hard downhill. For a moment, the touch, as we call it in the business, looked possible. He was right in position ahead, now in a bad slide to the left, having over-corrected his first wild skid. The whole flank of the big car was open and vulnerable. If I could only gain enough relative speed before the impact, it ought to slew him around broadside in front of me and also swing the truck around to the right just about the proper amount. I was ready then to slam the lever into that stump-pulling reserve low-gear that comes with a heavy-duty truck transmission and bulldoze him right off the edge.
    “Down,” I said, without turning my head. “Hit the basement. Cover your face.”
    I mean, there was bound to be a bump, and there was even a possibility that we’d go over with him if I miscalculated. Then the little man got off his brake. Only a flat-lander would have braked so hard in the first place, coming down a slick mountain road without chains. The glowing taillights went out, and the big sedan, wheels no longer locked, straightened out and surged ahead, presenting me with nothing but a massive chrome bumper to shoot at.
    Hitting him there was useless, even if I could catch up with him—I’d just be shoving him down the road ahead of me. So I eased up on the