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“If we don’t skid off the icy cobblestones in the dark and run into a tree.”
“Oh ye of little faith!”
—
Five minutes later, Cronley said, “It looks like someone else has discovered your private autobahn. How are you going to get around that truck?”
“With superior driving skill,” Winters replied.
—
Two minutes later, Winters said, “Now the sonofabitch is stopping. What the hell!”
“Tom, I don’t like this!” Cronley said.
He turned in the seat and saw a car, a small Audi convertible, headlights off, was coming up behind them.
The truck stopped, forcing Winters to slam on the brakes. The Horch skidded into the rear of the truck.
The Audi pulled up behind the Horch and stopped. A man got quickly out of the passenger seat and raised a shoulder weapon.
“Watch it, Tom!” Cronley cried, as he pulled the latch on his door and then rolled out of the car.
There was a burst of submachine gun fire and then another as Cronley, now lying on his side, fumbled through his trench coat and Ike jacket to get at his pistol.
He finally found it, rolled onto his stomach, flipped off the safety, and holding the .45 in both hands, found the man standing
next to the Audi and fired three times.
The man disappeared in the darkness.
Cronley could not tell if he had hit him or not. He took aim at the windshield of the small sports car and emptied his magazine at it. Then he fumbled again through the layers of clothing until he found the spare magazine in his holster.
He heard the sound of the truck driving off as he fed the magazine into his pistol.
Now there was silence.
“Tom?” he called.
“Under the car. You all right? Did you get him?”
“I don’t know. Stay where you are!”
Cronley crawled to the rear of the Horch.
Now he could see by the right front wheel of the Audi, a man’s booted feet. After a moment’s thought, he fired at them. There came a muffled scream. Cronley raised his head and looked at the Audi’s windshield. There were four bullet holes in it, but he couldn’t see the driver.
“Jim?” Winters called.
“I think I got both of the bastards. Stay where you are.”
He crawled to the man down by the wheel. The man was moaning in pain. Cronley could now see the weapon, and recognized it as a Maschinenpistole 40. He jumped forward until he could grasp the barrel, and pulled it to him.
Then, holding the .45 in both hands, he slowly got to his feet and, stepping around the man on the ground, looked into the Audi.
A man—a very young man—wearing a hooded jacket was lying across the seat with his head in a pool of blood and brain tissue that was leaking from a bullet hole in his forehead.
Jesus Christ, he’s even younger than Casey.
