Jack Sutton stood very still, hearing the slow heavy beat of his heart. He wished he could see Trace Jordan. This shadowy figure worried him. There was no personality there, only something dark, indefinite, indistinct. Never, since the beginning, had he seen this man. His partner he had killed and he had helped to pursue him and bring him to this moment but never once in all that time had he actually seen Trace Jordan. You could not look into his eyes; you could not measure the man. It disturbed Sutton but did not make him less confident. "I figure you're one of those who murdered my partner," Jordan said. Sutton wondered if Jordan could see his gun hand. It was dangling at his side but he began to inch it higher. "Sure." His voice was taunting. "I'm one of them. Fact is, it was my idea." His hand was at the bottom of the holster as he spoke. He had only to bend his elbow to grasp the butt. He bent his elbow suddenly. His hand grasped his gun butt and suddenly he was choking with the lust to kill.
