“It wasn’t an accident, Paul,” he gasped, struggled to say something else and then choked blood.
Conrad lifted his head.
“Take it easy, Tom. Don’t try and talk.”
O’Brien struggled, clutching hold of Conrad’s arm.
“Ferrari… my kid…” He managed to get out, then his eyes rolled back and he slumped against Conrad.
Conrad touched the artery in his neck, shook his head and lowered him to the floor. He turned quickly as Mallory started firing.
He was in time to see three men coming along the tiled walk, bent double and running. Mallory hit one. The other two opened up with riot guns.
Conrad fired over Mallory’s ducking head and saw the second man pitch into the pool. The remaining man rushed forward, spraying lead in front of him, sending a creeping carpet of death towards the open doorway.
Conrad wriggled back, dragging Mallory with him. For a long moment of time, they huddled against the wall while slugs sang around the room.
Then more guns started up on the far side of the pool: sharp reports of revolvers, and then the yammering sound of a Thompson.