"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.