Durant’s instincts kicked in from the war. He sought cover, dodging behind a telephone pole, and pulled the Luger from his waistband. The two gunmen fired almost simultaneously, one shot nicking the telephone pole and the other whistling past his ear. He crouched, arm extended at shoulder level, and caught the sights in the reflection from the streetlight. He ripped off three quick shots.
The first shattered the car’s windshield. The second plucked at the sleeve of the man by the passenger door. The man by the rear door grunted with surprise, a starburst of blood covering his shirt front from the third slug. He lurched sideways, his legs collapsing, and slumped face-down on the curb. The driver shouted a curse.
The other man jumped on the running board as the Buick roared away. Durant rose from behind the telephone pole, glancing at the dead hoodlum, and decided to make tracks. The cops, given the opportunity, would charge him with murder.