Without clear comprehension of what was happening, Sofia heard shouts from the other car, now at a standstill, and an oddly syncopated popping. The window in the door on Victor’s side rang like a cracked bell, shivered, and fell inward, clashing. With a growl of rage, Victor bent forward and levelled an arm through the opening. From his hand truncated tongues of orange flame, half a dozen of them, stabbed the gloom to an accompaniment of as many short and savage barks.
Then the chains at last bit through to a purchase, the car scrambled to the crown of the road and lunged precipitately away; and the lights of the other dropped astern in the space of a rest between heartbeats.
Sitting back, Victor turned on the dome light again, and extracting an empty magazine clip from the butt of his automatic pistol, replaced it with another, loaded.
From this occupation he looked up with lips curling in contempt of Sofia’s terror.
“Your friends,” he observed, “were a thought behindhand, eh? When you come to know me better, my dear, you’ll find they invariably are—with me.”
Aftermath of fright made her tongue inarticulate; and Victor’s sneer took on a colour of mean amusement.
“Something on your mind?”
She twisted her hands together till the laced fingers hurt.
“Wha-what are you go-going to do with me?”
“Make good use of you, dear child,” he laughed: “be sure of that!”