The Specialists

Twenty-four

Giordano was almost fast enough. He was squeezing the trigger as he turned, and he got off one wild shot before the guard’s pistol snapped three times. One bullet scraped his side. Another buried itself in his thigh and hurled him harshly to the ground.

Then Murdock was leaping down from the back of the truck, emptying his big automatic into the guard. Giordano felt hands lifting him, carrying him to the truck. Blood welled from his thigh. He put the palm of his hand over the wound and pressed directly on it. His brain reeled, he couldn’t concentrate.

“The girl,” he managed. “Knows me.”

Patricia was still standing stiffly in place. The braver ones were pushing their way out of the bank, staring at her, at the dead guard. Murdock raised his pistol.

“Don’t shoot her. Knows me. Helped me. Bring her.”

Murdock hesitated only for an instant. Then he darted across the sidewalk and grabbed the girl by the arm. If she had offered the slightest resistance, he would have killed her with a rabbit punch, but she let him haul her to the truck and help her in back with Giordano and the sacks of cash. Then Murdock, too, was up in the truck and they were pulling away from the curb, the tires squealing.

Giordano went blank, lost some of it.

Then he was conscious of her hand on his forehead, her voice in his ear. “You’ll be all right, Jordan. You’ll be all right”

Giordano opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

“Don’t try to talk.”

His eyes went blurry, then came into focus again. He looked at her, looked over her shoulder at Murdock, who seemed faintly amused. He opened his mouth again.

“Don’t try to talk, Jordan, darling.”

“We fucked it up,” he said, and passed out.