the gun from its holster, he held it in his lap. The enemy was out there in the night. But why wasnât the sniper shooting again, from his wooded rise, as Isherwood sat here behind the wheel, pondering?
Because the man didnât have a clear shot, of course ⦠and because he fully expected Isherwood, not realizing that he was dealing with anything except a blow-out, to exit the car and inspect the damage, presenting himself as an easy target in the headlights.
In battle
, Eisenhowerâs voice said,
high ground counts for everything.
After another moment, Isherwood reached for the latch, his hand remarkably steady.
Opening the driverâs-side door, he slipped out of the car, staying low, avoiding the pooling headlights. He ran toward the treeline. No rifle fired. He slipped into dense woods, where the fragrances of pinesap and rosemary hung thick. He moved with surprising dexterity for a man so many years removed from active operations; not blundering, avoiding the worst of the crackling twigs and snapping branches. Some deep-seated instinct had come into play â the same instinct which had allowed him to sneak up behind the Nazi boy, on that long-ago night, with such cruel efficacy â placing his feet for him.
He climbed the hill in a straight line from the place where the car had stopped. He would find the high ground, like Chamberlain at Gettysburg, Philip II at Chaeronea, the Taborite at Ho Å ice. At worst, a stalemate would be attained. At best, he would find a chance to turn the tables on his unwitting enemy â¦
Up he went, beneath a moon one shade less than full.
Â
Minutes kept passing, with no figure appearing in the headlights.
Hart took the scope from his eye at last. He wiped at his mouth with his handkerchief, hard enough to draw blood. Had the man left the car, under cover of darkness, and slipped away?
The more Hart considered, the more likely this seemed. So he should go down and find the man and finish it now, before another car happened by and complicated matters. Yes; that was what he should do.
Still he hesitated. Here on the rise with the high ground and the rifle, he retained every advantage. Walking downhill with the pistol, however, he opened himself to the possibility of a firefight. The will-oâ-the-wisp, his father had said, tempted travelers from safe paths. The gypsy fortune-teller whispered ruefully in his ear:
You see here, how the ominous line crosses the lifeline
â a short life, this one; a pity.
Another minute passed. Still the driver did not show himself. Shaking his head, Hart finally stood, slinging the M1903A4 Springfield rifle over his shoulder. Reluctantly, he unholstered his Browning 9mm. He checked the load, thirteen Parabellum rounds nestled inside a detachable box magazine. For a last moment, before striking off, he thought wistfully about his Buick, parked a half-mile distant. It was not too late to choose another place, another time.
But he had already failed the senator twice.
Setting his feet carefully, he started down the hill.
The forest around him rustled secretly. Branches shivered as animals fled his approach. Quiet gathered again in his wake. The night sky glistened in a thousand subtle overlays. Near the mountain tops, the stars faded to blue.
Before leaving the protective reef of forest and stepping onto the road, he took out the handkerchief and compulsively touched his mouth one last time. With renewed determination, then, he cleared all extraneous thoughts from his mind. At this moment there was only hunter and prey. If the man was still inside the car, Hart would get the drop on him. If not, the situation must be resolved now, before a passing vehicle interfered.
Raising the Browning straight-armed, he moved swiftly toward the Studebaker from behind, through the smells of spilled oil and scorched rubber.
The car was empty.
The door hung ajar; a small parcel sat on the passenger seat, still in its wrapping from
Because the man didnât have a clear shot, of course ⦠and because he fully expected Isherwood, not realizing that he was dealing with anything except a blow-out, to exit the car and inspect the damage, presenting himself as an easy target in the headlights.
In battle
, Eisenhowerâs voice said,
high ground counts for everything.
After another moment, Isherwood reached for the latch, his hand remarkably steady.
Opening the driverâs-side door, he slipped out of the car, staying low, avoiding the pooling headlights. He ran toward the treeline. No rifle fired. He slipped into dense woods, where the fragrances of pinesap and rosemary hung thick. He moved with surprising dexterity for a man so many years removed from active operations; not blundering, avoiding the worst of the crackling twigs and snapping branches. Some deep-seated instinct had come into play â the same instinct which had allowed him to sneak up behind the Nazi boy, on that long-ago night, with such cruel efficacy â placing his feet for him.
He climbed the hill in a straight line from the place where the car had stopped. He would find the high ground, like Chamberlain at Gettysburg, Philip II at Chaeronea, the Taborite at Ho Å ice. At worst, a stalemate would be attained. At best, he would find a chance to turn the tables on his unwitting enemy â¦
Up he went, beneath a moon one shade less than full.
Â
Minutes kept passing, with no figure appearing in the headlights.
Hart took the scope from his eye at last. He wiped at his mouth with his handkerchief, hard enough to draw blood. Had the man left the car, under cover of darkness, and slipped away?
The more Hart considered, the more likely this seemed. So he should go down and find the man and finish it now, before another car happened by and complicated matters. Yes; that was what he should do.
Still he hesitated. Here on the rise with the high ground and the rifle, he retained every advantage. Walking downhill with the pistol, however, he opened himself to the possibility of a firefight. The will-oâ-the-wisp, his father had said, tempted travelers from safe paths. The gypsy fortune-teller whispered ruefully in his ear:
You see here, how the ominous line crosses the lifeline
â a short life, this one; a pity.
Another minute passed. Still the driver did not show himself. Shaking his head, Hart finally stood, slinging the M1903A4 Springfield rifle over his shoulder. Reluctantly, he unholstered his Browning 9mm. He checked the load, thirteen Parabellum rounds nestled inside a detachable box magazine. For a last moment, before striking off, he thought wistfully about his Buick, parked a half-mile distant. It was not too late to choose another place, another time.
But he had already failed the senator twice.
Setting his feet carefully, he started down the hill.
The forest around him rustled secretly. Branches shivered as animals fled his approach. Quiet gathered again in his wake. The night sky glistened in a thousand subtle overlays. Near the mountain tops, the stars faded to blue.
Before leaving the protective reef of forest and stepping onto the road, he took out the handkerchief and compulsively touched his mouth one last time. With renewed determination, then, he cleared all extraneous thoughts from his mind. At this moment there was only hunter and prey. If the man was still inside the car, Hart would get the drop on him. If not, the situation must be resolved now, before a passing vehicle interfered.
Raising the Browning straight-armed, he moved swiftly toward the Studebaker from behind, through the smells of spilled oil and scorched rubber.
The car was empty.
The door hung ajar; a small parcel sat on the passenger seat, still in its wrapping from
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