The Kiwi Target

Peter knew he had hit him as hard as anyone could be hit on a football field.
    The moment they slammed against the ground Peter released his hold, jumped up, and kicked the gunman’s right wrist as hard as he could. He made solid contact—the man screamed and dropped his weapon. As Peter dove for it, he heard another shot and the biting zing of a bullet barely missed his ear.
    He looked up and saw another man, forty feet away, pointing a gun at him with a two-handed grip.
    As he saw the barrel held in position, he knew instantly that his life was over. He dropped down and tried again to grab the gun, hoping to last long enough to get off at least one answering round; then the sound of another shot surrounded him.
    For a second or two he felt nothing. He knew it was the anesthesia of shock—the momentary holding off of pain while the body accepts the fact that it has been traumatically injured. He grasped the gun, looked toward his killer to take aim if he could, and saw the man beginning to pitch forward. He swung his head toward the sound of the shot and saw Louise standing in the doorway with a rifle locked against her shoulder. Then he knew she had just saved his life.
    The man lying beside him jerked out a hand and grabbed for the gun. Peter was caught by surprise, but his body was fully charged and he reacted almost instantaneously. From his crouched position he kicked his opponent with maximum force in the side just below the kidney. As his shoe rammed home, at the side limit of his vision he saw Jack McHugh try to get up and then fall back again.
    The firelight was glowing brighter. A long plume of flame had curled around the corner of the ranch house and was leaping up toward the sky. He wanted to run for the extinguisher he had dropped, but he did not dare to leave the man he had felled.
    The unexpected sound of a vehicle stabbed the night as a fresh outburst of flame framed the doorway where Louise had been standing. With a racing engine a car came charging onto the far end of the lawn, its headlights fixed on the form of Jack McHugh as he lay on the ground. Silhouetted by fresh flames that had taken a sudden new spurt behind her, Louise swung her rifle to her shoulder and fired again.
    The car began to drift to the right, its headlights picking a new path. Slowly the rate of the turn increased, away from where Jack lay, until the vehicle passed him by a good fifteen feet. With its rate of turn still increasing, it almost reached the end of the lawn, where a huge old tree loomed in its way. The car hit it head on with a crashing impact. The hood flew up and back as the whole vehicle seemed to fold like an accordion. For a moment the rear end lifted of the ground, then fell back down. The engine was abruptly still. Within a few seconds there was a popping sound, a sudden acrid odor, and the whole vehicle burst into flames.
    Peter looked toward the man who had tried to kill him and saw him lying motionless on the grass. His prisoner at his feet was also still. The kick in the side could have driven most of the wind out of his body, but this was no time to take chances. Over the rising crackling of the flames that were spreading down the whole side of the house, he shouted to Louise, “Come here!”
    She heard him and came running, her rifle in her hands. When she reached him, he pointed to the man on the ground. “Hold him!”
    Louise backed up a few steps and held her rifle at the ready so that if the prisoner tried to get up, he would find himself looking straight down the barrel.
    The moment he was free, Peter ran to Jack McHugh. The big man lay on his back breathing heavily, his face tightened in pain. Peter knelt beside him and tried to make himself understood. “Take it easy, Jack—we got them. I’ll get some help.”
    He took off toward the house, where Derek and Tom, in shoes and night clothing, had a good-size hose working; Derek was directing the water at the hottest spots while Tom was digging up huge shovelfuls of turf from the lawn and throwing them at the base of the flames. As Peter ran up, Tom shouted, “Firebomb— gasoline,” while he threw another shovelful where it would be most effective.
    “Andy?” Peter asked.
    “In town.”
    Peter lowered his head, took a deep breath, and charged through the flaming doorway. He ran for the telephone, desperately hoping it would still be working. He dialed the operator; "hen she responded he used as few words as possible. “This is