avy, high-speed chunks of streamlined copper-coated
lead leaped from the muzzle of the gun and slammed into the driver of
the Buick without wasting any time. The Buick slewed across the
highway.

The two shots fired by the man in the back seat went past Malone's
head with a _whizz_, missing both him and Boyd by a margin too narrow
to think about.

But those were the last shots. The only difference between the FBI and
the Enemy seemed to be determination and practice.

The Buick spun into a flat sideskid, swiveled on its wheels and
slammed into the ditch at the side of the road, turning over and over,
making a horrible noise, as it broke up.

Boyd slowed the car again, just as there was a sudden blast of fire.
The Buick had burst into flame and was spitting heat and smoke and
fire in all directions. Malone sent one more bullet after it in a last
flurry of action--saving his last one for possible later emergencies.

Boyd jammed on the brakes and the Lincoln came to a screaming halt. In
silence he and Malone watched the burning Buick roll over and over
into the desert beyond the shoulder.

"My God," Boyd said. "My ears!"

Malone understood at once. The blast from his own still-smoking .44
had roared past Boyd's head during the gun battle. No wonder the man's
ears hurt. It was a wonder he wasn't altogether deaf.

But Boyd shook off the pain and brought out his own .44 as he stepped
out of the car. Malone followed him, his gun trained.

From the rear, Her Majesty said: "It's safe to rise now, isn't it?"

"You ought to know," Malone said. "You can tell if they're still
alive."

There was silence while Queen Elizabeth frowned for a moment in
concentration. A look of pain crossed her face, and then, as her
expression smoothed again, she said: "The traitors are dead. All
except one, and he's--" She paused. "He's dying," she finished. "He
can't hurt you."

There was no need for further battle. Malone reholstered his .44 and
turned to Boyd. "Tom, call the State Police," he said. "Get 'em down
here fast."

He waited while Boyd climbed back under the wheel and began punching
buttons on the dashboard. Then Malone went toward the burning Buick.

He tried to drag the men out, but it wasn't any use. The first two, in
the front seat, had the kind of holes in them people talked about
throwing elephants through. Head and chest had been hit.

Malone couldn't get close enough to the fiercely blazing automobile to
make eve