Free The Ambushers by Donald Hamilton Page A

from me, although once in a while I’d drive past a windmill and water tank that would seem to indicate that this desolate-looking land was, after all, owned by somebody and used for raising something besides cactus and rattlesnakes.
    After asking all the questions I could think of down there—finding somebody to ask was the real problem—I headed back to Tucson where I stopped in a sporting goods store that had a selection of hunting rifles, some with real pretty stocks dolled up with decorative inlays and thick rubber recoil pads. Unfortunately I was spending the government’s money, and I doubted that I could prove to a cold-eyed department accountant that a fancy gun shoots better than a plain one, since I didn’t really believe it myself. As for recoil pads, there’s a theory to the effect that a lot of soft rubber between you and the gun just gives it a running start before it socks you.
    Acting like a deer hunter getting a jump on the season, I picked out a standard light Winchester M70, therefore, in the good old reliable .30-06 caliber. They had some Magnums on the rack, but I didn’t have the time or the facilities to fix up this gun like the one I’d left with Jiminez in Costa Verde. I’d have to shoot standard factory ammunition, for one thing, instead of working out a special load for the gun.
    It couldn’t be an extra-long-range, super-precision deal this time, and the lighter cartridge would shoot far enough for the accuracy I could expect, besides being easier on the shoulder. I bought several boxes in each of several bullet weights. You never know which bullet a gun is going to like best until you try it. I got a medium-priced four-power scope and had them mount it while I waited.
    Then I took my packages out to the car, which was still the old Pontiac station wagon, partially rejuvenated under the hood. With two of us on the job, two cars had been needed, and this seemed to be one of those years when the CIA or somebody had got to all the undercover dough first. Since I was in better condition to deal with mechanical emergencies than Sheila, I was driving the antique.
    I hadn’t seen her since the previous weekend. We’d met for a final briefing session under the cold eye of Dr. Tom Stern, who’d done his best to discourage the whole idea, but she hadn’t let him scare her. I looked for the Volkswagen now as I drove up to the modest tourist court that had been selected as our headquarters in Tucson. I’d been told the car was blue, but there were no fourwheeled foreign bugs of any color around. Well, it was still relatively early in the afternoon, and she should be out interviewing. Nevertheless I found myself disappointed and a little worried. I hoped she hadn’t had a relapse or anything. It’s your responsibility, Mac had said.
    She’d made a reservation for me around the corner from her unit—also around the corner from the pool, which was full of yelling kids. In that part of the country, even the crummiest hostelries have pools these days. Coronado wouldn’t know the place. I moved my stuff inside, made a routine check around the room, and lay down on the big double bed after making sure the air conditioner was working full blast. There wouldn’t be anything new to think about until I’d talked with my assistant. In the business, you learn to grab sleep when you can, so I did.
    I was awakened, presently, by a knocking on the door: three short raps followed after a pause by two more. Under certain circumstances this tells the person behind the door that it isn’t necessary to go for the firearms or depart by the window; under other circumstances, such as the present, it just means hello, it’s me. I got up, yawned, and went over to let her in.
    “Mr. Evans?” she said for the benefit of anyone who might be listening. “Mr. Evans, I’m Sheila Summerton. I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you arrived. I was conducting some interviews on the other side of town, and I didn’t think