He put his foot on the brake.
A bullet came smacking through the window and gashed open his forehead.
It wasn’t the first time Evans had been shot at. But it was his closest call. The sharpshooter had allowed for his speed. But Evans had just put on the brakes, or there would have been a neat little tunnel in his skull.
For an instant, Evans felt as if his veins had been opened and ice water pumped in. Then a Luger pistol was out of his armpit holster and guttering blades of flames.
The shot had come from a corner of the nice little brown brick cottage. With his hand which did not hold the Luger, Evans put the car spotlight on the house. He saw nothing but the fistfuls of brick fragments his bullets knocked off the walls.
He got a flashlight out of the car door and ran for the house,
