I flattened out, wriggled desperately to get behind the bed as more shots shook the room.
I had a sudden vision of a dark, snarling face peering at me over the top of the bed, and a vicious blue nose automatic pointing at my head, then the hand holding the gun disappeared with a crash of gunfire and reappeared again as a spongy, red mess.
It was my pal the Wop with the dirty shirt. He gave a howl, staggered to the window as Kerman rushed at him. He hit Kerman with the back of his hand, dodged past him and ran out of the door, through the other room and into the passage. More gunfire broke out; a woman screamed: a body thudded to the floor.
“Watch out!” I gasped. “There’s a gun-happy cop out there. He’ll shoot as soon as look at you.”
We stood still and waited.
But the cop wasn’t taking any chances.
“All out!” he bawled from behind the door. Even from that distance I could hear him breathing. “I’ll blast you to hell if you bring out a rod.”
“We’re coming,” I said. “Don’t excite yourself, and don’t shoot.”
We moved out of the room and into the passage with our hands in the air.
Lying in the passage was the Wop. He had a bullet-hole through the centre of his forehead.