"Franz, Darren - Where The Wind Blows" - читать интересную книгу автора (Franz Darren)

"Hmm," Johnny mused, noting the pistols. "Heavy artillery. You think Snitch tipped these two off as well?"

Slat shook his head. He was just about to tell Johnny to hurry the hell up; somebody was bound to have heard the shots, when Johnny pulled out a thick white envelope from the inside pocket of the first goon's jacket.

"Hello, suckers. What've we got here?"

Johnny tore open the envelope.

It was stuffed with cash.

Both men gasped.

"The payoff money," Slat said.

Johnny smiled, and tossed Slat the money. "I think it's time we beat a hasty retreat."

They headed for the door.

The powerful beam of a flashlight cut through the darkness of the club.

Instinctively, they both hit the floor, guns out and at the ready.

"A copper," Slat said, the word spat out like a gob of phlegm.

"Let's try the back door," Johnny began, but it was already too late.

The cop was coming in.

"Go on out the back," Johnny harshly whispered. "Circle around and get the car going. I'll handle him."

With a wink and a curt nod, Johnny sidled up to the front door.

Slat moved past the bar to the back room. The door beyond was locked with a dead bolt; he shot it back with the heel of his hand.

He heard shots. Glass breaking.

"Shit," Slat swore under his breath, undecided about what to do.

He headed for the car.

If Johnny killed that cop, we'll both get the chair, he thought as he jogged up the street.

Someone nearly fell on him as he rounded the corner.

It was Johnny. He collapsed in front of Slat. Blood poured from a fresh wound in his throat.

Slat did not have time to aid his friend. He stood there, wide-eyed with disbelief, as Johnny died at his feet.

"Halt!" the cop yelled through gritted teeth. One hand was pointing a service revolver; the other was pressed against his leg, trying to staunch the flow of blood.