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 even a try for the men in the back seat. * * * * * He was sitting quietly on the edge of the rear seat when the Nevada Highway Patrol cars drove up next to them. Barbara Wilson had stopped screaming, but she was still sobbing on Malone's shoulder. "It's all right," he told her, feeling ineffectual. "I never saw anybody killed before," she said. "It's all right," Malone said. "Nothing's going to hurt you. I'll protect you." He wondered if he meant it, and found, to his surprise, that he did. Barbara Wilson sniffled and looked up at him. "Mr. Malone--" "Ken," he said. "I'm sorry," she said. "Ken--I'm so afraid. I saw the hole in one of the men's heads, when you fired--it was--"