Cyro by Maxwell Grant & Walter Gibson

Author:Maxwell Grant & Walter Gibson [Grant, Maxwell & Gibson, Walter]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Espionage, Fiction, Thrillers
ISBN: 9781608770823
Amazon: 1608770826
Publisher: Street & Smith
Published: 1934-12-15T08:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER XIII. BALKED KILLERS

"STEP on it!" came The Shadow's firm command. "Speed to the city limits. Then pull to the side of the road."

The frightened taxi driver needed no further urge. Though quivering, he obeyed as his terror magnified. Tramping accelerator to the floor he shot his machine forward at full speed, anxious only to do the bidding of this being who would brook no dallying.

As the cab whirled forward, the car near the Club Caprice shot out with immediate speed. Hoarse cries came from its occupants. They knew that their quarry had spotted their presence. Madly they took up the chase of the lurching cab. But they could not equal the pace of the maddened driver up ahead.

"Over" - The Shadow's command came from the rear of the cab as his automatic pressed the driver's neck. "Pull over and stop. Stop hard."

Cold steel of the gun's muzzle spurred the driver to prompt response. He had doubled the distance between his cab and the car behind. The halt that he made was terrific. He jammed the brake and banked the cab upon a mound of dirt at the side of the road.

"Out," ordered The Shadow. "Run for cover!"

The driver dived from the wheel and scrambled over the low bank at the side of the road, never glancing behind him. At the same instant, The Shadow yanked open the door and leaped against the bank.

His left hand clutched the lapels of his full-dress coat, pressing them so they hid the whiteness of collar, shirt and tie. As his right shoulder struck the bank, The Shadow spun about. Half rolling, half leaping, he whirled back, away from the stalled taxi.

He was a mass of spinning blackness in the shroud of night. The Shadow was unseen despite the glare of approaching lights. The attire of Lamont Cranston was serving him as well as any cloak. In four swift seconds, he had hurled himself from a spot of pressing danger.

FROM the pursuing automobile came flashes of flame, accompanied by the roar of revolvers. Bullets ripped the rear of the halted cab. Slugs crashed windows as the big machine approached. An open touring car, its sides offered opportunity for the marksman in it.

Opportunity lay elsewhere, also. Ending his spin against the banked side of the road, The Shadow stopped with automatic levelled. He pressed the trigger as the touring car arrived. Not once; but often.

The kicking automatic sent fierce jabs of flame. With every spurt, The Shadow's arm was swinging, following the car that had come to deluge the cab with leaden hail. Screamed oaths shrieked through the air as the driver applied the brakes. The touring car spun roundabout, a dozen yards beyond the cab.

Rising, The Shadow swung himself up the embankment; the action took no more than one swift leap. Dropping flat, he aimed to deal with desperadoes should they require more. The touring car was straight across the road. Lights from an approaching automobile showed toppled figures dangling above its doors.

One unscathed marksman had seen The Shadow's shots.

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