Gurney wasn’t feeling so good himself. He scrambled over the grille The two watched him with wide eyes. They were scared to death.
Gurney went through the drawers, piling the notes on the counter. Dillon stood watchful, holding the Thompson ready. He said, “Get the safe open.” He looked hard at the teller.
Gurney grabbed the teller’s arm. “Get it open!” he snarled, pushing the .45 into his ribs. “Get goin’, you sonofabitch.”
The teller staggered across to the vault, his knees buckling. Gurney could see the sweat running down behind his ears into his collar. The teller pulled open the door. It wasn’t even locked. He tried to say something, but he was so scared he couldn’t get his tongue working.
Gurney grabbed the money, done up in neat packets. There wasn’t a lot, but he took everything he could see. He left the coin. Then he ran back to the counter and shoved all the money into a small flour-sack he’d brought with him. He vaulted over the grille again.
Dillon said, “Get goin’.” He stood by the door until Gurney was out, then he began to back out. “Don’t start anythin’,” he snarled at the lanky guy. “This typewriter’ll cut you to hell.”
He turned and ran. Myra was already rolling the car. As he sprang on the running-board the Cadillac shot forward with a jerk that nearly threw him loose.
The car lurched with screaming tyres as she pulled into the centre of the road. Dillon tossed the Tommy into the back seat and clung to the running-board, trying to get in. “Gimme a hand, you bastard!” he yelled at Gurney.
Gurney grabbed Dillon’s arm, pulling him forward. Another lurch tossed Dillon head first into the car. He scrambled to his knees, swearing savagely.
Myra gritted her teeth. At the back of her mind she had hoped to lose Dillon. She had not consciously tried to ditch him, but now he was safe she knew that she had tried to shake him.