"deathhastwohands" - читать интересную книгу автора (Blackmon Robert C)

of Wilma Trent's blond head. Moran's mouth went dry and brassy.

"You've got me," he said grimly. He took his foot off the brake pedal, but did not press
down on the gas. The speedometer needle clung at eighty. "Now what?"

"Go on until I tell you to slow down." Rayburn held the gun against Wilma Trent's head.
Moran could see his face in the mirror, drawn and white. "There's a side road about two or
three miles ahead. Turn the sedan into that side road and go until I tell you to stop, then--"
Rayburn stopped talking. Moran saw him lick his lips in the mirror.

"You can't get away with killing Miss Trent and me, Rayburn," Moran said steadily. His right
foot eased up on the gas pedal, and the speedometer needle dropped away from eighty, crept
backward toward seventy.

"I can!" Rayburn almost screamed the words. "No one saw you two come out of the alley and
get in my car. No one saw us at the Eagle Hotel. The two gunmen were from out of town. They
can't talk, now. They're dead. Just the three of us know, I--Slow down. The side road's just a
short distance ahead, to the left. If you try anything, I'll shoot the girl, then you!"

Moran eased up on the gas pedal and the speedometer needle dropped to fifty. He was
frowning, staring at the light-washed pavement. His mind was racing.

"Slower!" Rayburn commanded shrilly. "The side road's about a hundred yards ahead."


Moran glanced at Wilma Trent from the corner of his eye. The girl, apparently, was still obliv-
ious of what was happening. She huddled slackly on the front seat, her hands over her face.
Rayburn's gun muzzle was almost touching the top of her head. Moran's lips tightened.

Abruptly, he took his right foot off the gas pedal and jammed it down on the brake, with
all of his solid weight behind it. The sedan's speed checked suddenly and the car went into a
dry skid with a tortured howl of tires!

Jerked forward by the sudden braking, Wilma Trent tumbled off the front seat. Her head
struck the dash a glancing blow and she fell to the front floor boards. She was screaming as
she fell.

Even while she was falling, Rayburn fired. The slug went inches over her head and smashed
a round, web-rimmed hole in the windshield. Momentum slammed Rayburn into the back of the front
seat, hard. He yelled and fired again, wildly. The slug clanged into the metal top of the sedan.

Moran, shoving himself up out of the front seat with his right foot on the brake, twisted
around as far as he could and tried to hit Rayburn in the face with his left fist. The position
was awkward and he missed; but his knuckles drove into Rayburn's right shoulder, knocked him
sprawling in the rear compartment. The violent movement jerked Moran's foot off the brake, and
he slipped down in the front seat. His foot hit the gas pedal.

Bucking under the sudden braking, the sedan leaped forward as the motor started roaring.
Driverless, the car headed for the ditch on the left side of the road. Its speed seemed to
double for each foot it traveled.