Enough artillery opened up to slaughter an army. Slugs hummed and buzzed. One of them nicked my sleeve. I dropped into the street faster than a lizard.
A cop from across the street took a pot-shot at me as I zigzagged along the sidewalk. I took a pot-shot at him. He fell on his knees, clasping his wrist. He yelled blue murder.
I got into my stride. Maybe I did touch the ground twice in my sprint for a friendly archway, but I doubt it. The archway led to a big house that loomed white above high white walls, capped with red tiles that reflected the moonlight.
Bullets skipped by me, struck sparks from the road. I reached the archway, ducked under cover. I was breathing like an old man with asthma, sweat ran down my face. Keeping close to the protecting wall, I looked into the street. Men moved, darted for cover, edging nearer to me. The street was lousy with cops.
I drew a bead on one of them. The slug passed through his hat, and he fell down, half-dead with fright.
I ducked back as soon as I’d fired. Three choppers opened up, and for the next three minutes death hung in the air. I let them blaze away, sneaked backwards, took the bend of the wall, and did another sprint. I was over another wall into another garden before they had made up their
minds that it’d be safe to advance,
I was getting tired of this cat-and-mouse business. Instead of climbing the next wall I turned towards the house. It was a big one with a wide verandah overlooking the garden. No lights showed.
I kicked in a window, entered a room that smelt of cigar smoke and perfume. I crossed the room, opened the door and stepped into a passage.
There was a man and a woman in the passage, standing against the partition wall, out of the way of flying glass and slugs.