The other whipped up his gun. "I've come too far to quit now," he clipped tightly. "If you're too much of a fool or a coward to go along, then that's your bad luck. I'll handle things a different way." His lips twisted. "Back up against the wall!"
For the fraction of a second, Horning hesitated. But the gun in his alter ego's hand stayed steady.
Horning backed away.
"Maybe this way is better, after all," his counterpart said. "Maybe I should have planned it like this from the start."
New lines of strain slashed his lean, sardonic face. The deep-set eyes took on a light almost of madness.
Then—lightning fast; without warning—he pivoted. The pistol in his hand made flat, clicking sounds. There was no report, no muzzle flare.
Three times he fired—straight at the limp form of his bound, drugged wife.
Dust leaped from the plastic wrapper as the slugs smashed home. The woman's body jerked convulsively.
Horning gave a hoarse cry and leaped forward.
His counterpart jumped aside. He hit Horning hard on the back of the neck with the pistol.