“Look out!” Pete screamed, and shoving the cop with all his strength gained enough room to lie fiat.
The cop, as brave and as stupid as a charging rhino, started firing at the car as it swept past. The answering burst of fire from the concealed machine-gun was devastating. The cop seemed to fly to pieces as the whip lash of bullets tore open his chest and flung him back on to Pete.
The car braked and pulled up. Goetz and Conforti spilled out of the car, their
faces glistening with sweat, their mouths wide open with soundless yelling.
They had been told to get Pete at all costs, and they were carrying out orders.
Somewhere in the porch of the shop, under the dead cop and the heap of smashed glass, was Pete, and they knew it.
Conforti held the Thompson. Goetz had a gun in each hand.
Conforti started spraying the porch with bullets as he ran towards it.
Pete saw the line of bullets hammering into the sidewalk, spraying chips of concrete, and advancing like a carpet of death towards him.
He pulled the dead cop over him, held on to his belt, feeling the dead cop’s blood dripping on his face, and he shut his eyes.