Borg said: “We ain’t got time to jim it up — besides, they got a flock of cars.” He reached in front of Kells, shook Granquist, shouted: “Let’s go.”
She looked up blankly, then mechanically took her left arm from around Kells and grasped the wheel. She let the clutch in and the big coupe slid away from the curb.
“Duck down Gardner.” Borg snapped on the dashlight, pulled Kells’ overcoat and suit coat off his shoulder, ripped his shirt open and looked at the wound on the outer muscle of his left arm. “Crease,” he said. Then he glanced through the rear window, went on: “Turn right, here — no — the next one. This one’s full of holes.”
Granquist was bent over the wheel, staring intently through the dripping windshield. She jerked her head at Kells, asked: “Why’s he coughing blood?” She spoke in a small, harsh, breathless voice.
Borg shrugged, went on examining Kells. He glanced again through the rear window, said: “Here they come — give it everything.”
They swung around a corner and the car leaped ahead, the engine throbbed, thundered. When Borg looked back again the headlights that marked the pursuing car were almost three blocks behind them.
He had bent Kells forward, was examining his back. He said: “He’s bleeding like a stuck pig from a little hole in his back. Wha’ d’ya suppose done that?”
Kells straightened suddenly, sat up, struggled into his coat. He looked at Granquist, smiled faintly and put up one hand and rubbed it down his face. He said: “I guess I passed out — where we going?”
“Doctor’s.”
Kells said: “Don’t be silly. We’re going north — fast.” He started coughing again, took out a handkerchief and held it to his mouth.