The other guy broke in, “Where’s the punk who came in with you?”
That startled the Jew, who had forgotten about Dillon. He jerked out a gun quickly.
Myra screamed, “Give it to them!” and flung herself flat.
Dillon squeezed on the trigger and the Thompson roared. He held the muzzle high. The stream of lead caught the two like a whip-lash across their faces. Dillon gave them just a short burst, but it was enough.
The Jew stood for a moment, his hands groping out before him. The front of his face had disappeared, leaving just a horrible spongy mess on his shoulders. Myra caught her breath and turned her head quickly.
The Jew fell near her. His body twitched and jerked. The other guy curled up in a corner, the top of his head blown off.
Dillon came down the stairs like a cat. He stood looking at the two incuriously. “You all right?” he called to Myra. She got to her feet, keeping her eyes away from the two. Her face was pale, but her eyes glittered with suppressed rage.
“I rang an’ rang,” she said, keeping her voice low. “An’ that yellow rat inside didn’t come. Those two might have killed me but for you.”
Dillon straightened a little. He went over and beat on the door with the butt of the Thompson. He made a lot of noise. “Open up!” he shouted. “The war’s over.”
The door opened an inch or two, and the face of a terrified woman peered at him. She was dressed in an orange wrap, which she clutched tightly to her. Dillon could see her figure sharply outlined beneath the silk. Behind her, his face twitching with terror, stood Hurst. He was holding a heavy gun in his hand. His hair was standing stiffly and his complexion was a dirty muddy colour.