"onebullet" - читать интересную книгу автора (Daniels Norman A)

"Nice stuff, Jerry. You came in time. Just tail that buggy. They're after Pickering and we'll be
after. them. And watch it--that's Renard in the bus we're trailing,"

The driver gave a nod of assent, hunched over the wheel and held onto the trail doggedly. It took
them out of the city, along a State highway and into a farming area, Gallagher relaxed, examined
the gun he had borrowed from Pickering aud saw that it was ready for action. Being a small weapon
his big hand could close completely around it.

Suddenly the car containing the crooks gained speed. They had selected a quiet, straight stretch
of road to go into action. The car roared closer and closer to Pickering's racing sedan. The driver
was an expert. He suddenly turned the wheel to the left. Pickering, to avoid a crash, turned also.
His car ran off the highway and into the soft shoulder. It rocked wildly for a moment and then
stopped. Pickering climbed out, his hands high in the air.

"O.K.," Gallagher told his cab driver. "You've been decent about everything, Jerry, but there's no
use sticking your head into trouble like this. I'll get out here."

The driver turned around and pulled up his cap. A gun was centered on Gallagher's chest. The driver
smiled crookedly--and he certainly wasn't Jerry.

"You'll get out all right, copper," he snarled. "We figured you might be laying low, waiting for us
to contact Pickering. We been watching you, too, and knew the guy who owns this hack was a pal of
yours. When we saw it parked around the corner from Pickering's, we guessed the rest of it."

"If you've hurt Jerry--" Gallagher leaned forward, straining against his better instincts which
told him that to act now would be foolish.

"What he got," the gunman announced, "is a little tap on the wrist compared to the way Renard will
handle you. Get out and keep your mitts high, or I'll spill you all over the road."

Gallagher shrugged in despair and obeyed. He was marched up to the big car in which Pickering sat,
stiffly erect, his face the color of chalk. He was trying to talk, but his jaw trembled too much to
make his words audible. Gallagher saw Renard, a short, wiry killer with a narrow hatchet face and
black eyes that were slitted in hatred.

"Hold the copper just like that while I frisk him," Renard snapped.

He stepped up to Gallagher and rapidly searched him. "So you don't pack a rod no more," he laughed.
"Too bad, copper, but you won't need one where you're going anyway. Get into the bus, and if you
say one word to that shyster mouthpiece, I'll drill both of you."

Gallagher got into the car, squeezing his bulk against the slender frame of the attorney. There was
silent, hopeless pleading in Pickering's eyes. Two of Renard's men were busily engaged in searching
Pickering's car. One of them discovered that the back seat moved forward on hinges. He gave a shout
of elation and pulled out two Gladstone bags. They were tossed into the gunmen's car. Renard got in
beside the driver, knelt on the front seat and kept Gallagher and Pickering covered. Another thug
held a gun against Gallagher's ribs. The rest of the mob got into Pickering's car, and they headed
back toward the city.