“The park,” Pete gasped, and wrenched open the cab door.
Hands grabbed his arms from behind and he gave a cry of terror as he looked around. Two big patrolmen had hold of him.
“Take it easy,” one of them said. “We want you, Weiner. Get his rod, Jack.”
The other cop expertly found Pete’s gun and shoved it into his hip pocket.
“We’ll take the cab,” the first cop said. “Headquarters, bud, and snap it up.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Pete caught sight of a big black car bearing down on the taxi.
“Look out!” he yelled, and wrenched himself free from the cop who was holding him. He flung himself face down on the floor of the cab as the black car swept past.
Above the noise of the traffic came the violent hammering of a machine-gun.
The cab rocked crazily under the impact of the hail of bullets. One of the cops was caught across his face by a burst from the machine-gun. His head and face
dissolved into a mess of blood and smashed bone.