Shadowfires

moving south until he felt
that he was just below the rear end of their Chevrolet. Edging up to
the top of the slope again, he found that he had estimated the
distance perfectly: The rear bumper of their sedan was inches from
his face.
    Sharp's window was open-standard government cars seldom boasted air-conditioning-and Ben knew he had to make the final approach in absolute silence. If Sharp heard anything suspicious and looked out his window, or if he even glanced at his side-view mirror, he would see Ben scurrying behind the Chevy.
    A convenient noise, just loud enough to provide cover, would be
welcome, and Ben wished the wind would pick up a bit. A good strong
gust, shaking the trees, would mask his-
    Better yet, the sound of a car engine rose, approaching from the
north, from behind the sedan. Ben waited tensely, and a gray Pontiac
Firebird appeared from that direction. As the Firebird drew nearer,
the sound of rock music grew louder: a couple of kids on a pleasure
ride, windows open, cassette player blaring, Bruce Springsteen
singing enthusiastically about love and cars and foundry workers.
Perfect.
    Just as the supercharged Firebird was passing the Chevy, when the
noise of engine and Springsteen were loudest, and when Sharp's attention was almost certainly turned in a direction exactly opposite that of his side-view mirror, Ben scrambled quickly over the top of the embankment and crept behind the sedan. He stayed low, under their back window, so he would not be seen in the rearview mirror if the other DSA agent checked the road behind.
    As the Firebird and Springsteen faded, Ben duck-walked to the left
rear corner of the Chevy, took a deep breath, leaped to his feet, and
pumped a round from the shotgun into the back tire on that side. The
blast shattered the still mountain air with such power that it scared
Ben even though he knew it was coming, and both men inside cried out
in alarm. One of them shouted, “Stay down!” The car sagged toward the
driver's side. His hands stinging from the recoil of the first shot, Ben fired again, strictly to scare them this time, putting the load low over the top of the car, just low enough so some of the shot skipped across the roof, which to those inside must have sounded like pellets impacting in the interior. Both men were down on the front seat, trying to stay out of the line of fire, a position which also made it impossible for them either to see Ben or to shoot at him.
    He fired another round into the dirt shoulder as he ran, paused to
blow out the front tire on the driver's side, causing the car to sag further in that direction. He pumped one more load into the same tire solely for dramatic effect-the thunderous crash of the shotgun had unnerved even him, so it must have paralyzed Sharp and the other guy-then glanced at the windshield to be sure both of his adversaries were still below the line of fire. He saw no sign of them, and he put his sixth and final shot through the glass, confident that he would not seriously hurt either man but would scare them badly enough to ensure that they would continue to hug the car seat for another half minute or so.
    Even as the shotgun pellets were lodging in the back seat of the
Chevy and the safety glass was still falling out into the front seat,
Ben took three running steps, dropped flat to the ground, and pulled
himself under the Dodge station wagon. When they got the courage to
lift their heads, they would figure he had run into the woods on one
side of the road or the other, where he was reloading and waiting to
make another pass at them when they showed themselves. They would
never expect to find him lying prostrate on the ground beneath the
very next car in line.
    His lungs tried to draw breath in great noisy gulps, but he forced
himself to breathe slowly, easily, rhythmically, quietly.
    He wanted to rub his hands and arms, which stung from firing the
shotgun so rapidly and from such unusual positions. But he rubbed
nothing, just endured, knowing the stinging and numbness would
subside unattended.
    After a while, he heard them talking back there, and then he heard
a door open.
    “Damn it, Peake, come on!” Sharp said.
    Footsteps.
    Ben turned his head to the right, looking out from beneath the
station wagon. He saw Sharp's black Freeman wing tips appear beside the car. Ben owned a pair just like them. These were scuffed, and several spiky burrs clung to the laces.
    On the left, no shoes