THE LONE STRUGGLE
★
All thoughts of escaping in the car vanished from Bob’s mind on the
echoes of the shot, which meant that his uncle had been discovered, that
he was a target for gunfire from the guns of their pursuers.
The young federal agent swung about in his tracks and started back down
the street, stumbling over the piles of debris as he raced forward,
forgetful now of any danger to himself and thinking only of his chance to
help his uncle protect the precious paper which was in his possession.
From the vicinity of the stalled taxi cab guns were barking steadily now
and Bob paused.
The scarlet flashes marked the night and the sharp reports from the guns
rang back and forth between the high-walled street. Bob counted three
guns in action, all directed toward a darker mass near the far end of the
street.
Then another gun joined in the fusillade, this time from what apparently
was a pile of debris and from its heavy roar Bob knew that it was his
uncle’s automatic.
Merritt Hughes, who had made his way cautiously toward the far end of the
street, had been discovered just before he could make a final break to
safety. After the first shot from the guns of his pursuers, he had taken
refuge behind a pile of bricks and concrete slabs, where he was ready to
make a determined resistance.
If he could stand off the attack for several minutes, a swarm of police,
attracted by the gunfire, would descend upon them. But the men in the
street were shooting carefully and spreading out, attempting to encircle
him and force his surrender. They were moving rapidly, dodging so quickly
that it was almost impossible to single them out in the shadows or to
flip an accurate shot at them.
His ammunition was confined to the one clip in his gun and a spare clip
in his coat pocket. It wouldn’t last long in an encounter with three
gunmen and every shot must be made to count.
A close shot, which struck a slab of concrete, threw a fine cloud of dust
into his eyes and blinded him for the moment. He wondered about Bob and
whether he had been able to make his escape. If he hadn’t before this,
now surely, with all of the firing, he would be able to escape from the
street. Perhaps he would even be able to lead the rescuing police which
he felt sure would come soon.
But Bob, at the other end of the street, had his own ideas about the
police and the need for a hasty rescue.
He paused in his mad dash down the block. Unarmed, he would be no match
for the gunmen who were attempting to surround his uncle and obtain the
paper.
A new plan formed in Bob’s mind and he turned determinedly and headed for
the car. It was a large and powerful sedan with a motor under its hood
that equalled the power of a hundred and twenty horses.
There was no one in the car and Bob slid into the driver’s seat. The
doors were unusually high and heavy and he guessed that the car was
bullet proof.
Bob reached for the headlight switch, then thought better of it, and
meshed the gears into low. He tramped on the throttle and the motor
roared into action. With a lurch the heavy car plunged off the pavement
and into the street which was undergoing repairs.
Bob would have liked to have used the headlights for they would have
revealed the menace of hidden mounds of dirt and bricks and other
construction materials, but to have switched them on would have made the
car too easy a target for the gunmen.
Looking ahead, Bob saw the flashes of gunfire cease, as though the men
who had been pulling the triggers were surprised and alarmed at the
approach of the car.
Then there was a spurt of flame and something smacked hard against the
windshield. He saw the glass shatter, but it did not break, and it gave
him new confidence in the knowledge that the car was protected against
bullets.
Now there were more flashes of crimson ahead of him and bullets spanked
against the car. The glass of a headlight shattered into a thousand bits.
The big machine rammed into a pile of bricks and stalled. They were only
half way down the block and Bob reversed quickly and backed the car away.
With a sharp flip of the wheel he skirted the obstruction and once more
roared ahead, the car gaining speed as it went along in second gear.
The roar of the motor was so loud that it drowned out the explosions of
the guns.
Bob, watching for some sign of his uncle, thought he saw a form flit
toward the side of the street, but he couldn’t be sure.
The car bounced in and out of a ditch, the wheels spinning frantically
and finally gaining enough traction to send it ahead once more.
The windshield, which had been struck four times, was a maze of shattered
glass, and Bob could see only dimly the light which marked the end of the
street. It was impossible to discern anything ahead of him and he turned
on the headlights. It didn’t matter much now, for the car was too large a
target to miss.
But the lights failed to come on. Some bullet had probably clipped the
wires, and Bob, his hands wrapped around the steering wheel, hung on
grimly as the big car bounced along the uneven street.
There was a jarring crash and the big car, its wheels still spinning
futilely, came to a stop. Bob was knocked against the steering wheel and
his head reeled from the shock.
Dimly he heard someone jerk open the door and he tried to rally his
dulled senses and put up a resistance, but a rough hand reached him and
seized him by the shoulders. He was conscious that a light blazed
suddenly in his face.
“It’s the kid!” cried the heavy voice. “I’ll search him. Get the other
guy!”
Bob was jerked from the car and dropped to the ground. Once more the
flashlight blazed, this time shielded behind a pile of bricks, and heavy
hands went through his pockets.
As his head cleared, Bob realized his situation. Resistance right now to
the search might give his uncle a few more precious minutes and Bob
suddenly doubled up his knees and aimed a heavy kick at the man who was
bending over him.
The maneuver caught the other unaware, and he stumbled back against the
pile of bricks. The flashlight, dropping to the ground, went out.
“Give me a hand, over here! The kid’s busted my flashlight,” called the
man Bob had kicked.
Then it felt as though a ton of beef had suddenly been dropped on him for
the man who had captured him was trying to make sure that Bob would not
squirm away from him. Just to make sure, he fell heavily on the young
federal agent and Bob cried out in pain as the breath was forced from his
lungs.
From the distance came the shrill siren of a police car.
“Hurry it up, over there,” a voice called. “We’ve got to make a break out
of here.”
“Did you get the other guy?” demanded the man who was almost smothering
Bob.
“Not yet.”
On the echo of those words there came a shot and a cry.
“We’ve got him!”
Bob attempted to throw off his assailant, but a thousand stars seemed to
descend upon him, police sirens mixed in with roaring motors and blazing
guns and in spite of his efforts he dropped into a jumbled sleep.