Dillon took no notice. He fired twice at the light, but the jolting of the car spoilt his aim. The cop swerved a little, but kept on. Dillon flung the gun down on the seat and groped for the Thompson. “I’ll settle this punk,” he said viciously, jabbing the nose of the Thompson through the broken window.
Just as he was squeezing the trigger the cop started firing. He fired four times, and each time the bullet smacked into the back of the car.
Dillon dug the butt of the gun into his shoulder and fired back, sweeping the gun in a half-circle. He kept the barrel down. The light of the pursuing machine went out.
“I got him!” he shouted to Roxy. “Get on… he’s finished.”
He put the gun down and sank on to the seat. “I guess we’re gettin’ a little hot,” he said.
Something touched him and he jerked away. Something hot and sticky was on his hand. For a startled moment he thought he had been hurt, then he knew he couldn’t have been. He peered into the darkness.
Myra was lying back in the corner of the car.
“What is it?” he said. “You hurt?”
She gave a sudden cough.
Dillon said to Roxy, “Stop… she’s been nicked.”