Double Jeopardy by William Bernhardt Page B

holding the light, and at least one other man standing beside him. Each had his right hand extended. Travis assumed they were holding guns.
    One of the men spoke. “If you hand over that piece of paper, Byrne, it’s just possible you’ll live to see the sunrise.”
    “What, this ?” He held out the paper. “I don’t want this. What the hell is it?” Travis stared into the blinding light. “Who are you?”
    There was no answer.
    “Moroconi,” Travis spat, “what’s going on?”
    Travis saw Moroconi ease back into the truck.
    “Stay right where you are,” a second voice shouted. After a moment’s hesitation, the voice added: “Police.”
    Police? Travis could understand why they might come after Moroconi. But this was hardly standard police procedure, unless a lot had changed since he left the force.
    Moroconi gunned his engine. Travis whirled around. My God, what was he doing?
    The first voice returned. “One more move and we start shooting!”
    Moroconi leaned out the driver’s-side window. Travis’s heart sank when he saw Moroconi leveling a gun. Moroconi fired, and a nanosecond later, the bright light went out. Travis heard glass smash and clatter onto the sidewalk.
    Moroconi threw the truck into first gear. Gunfire erupted almost immediately. Travis shoved the paper into his pocket and dove away from the truck. The hell with attorney-client loyalty; he was getting out of the line of fire.
    Travis rolled back onto his feet and surveyed the action. Whatever else he might say about Moroconi, he couldn’t accuse him of being gutless. Instead of trying to escape, he was careening straight toward the shadow men on the sidewalk, who continued to fire off shot after shot. One of them hit the windshield, shattering it into a million pieces. Moroconi kept on coming.
    At the last possible moment the men leaped away. The man on the right got clear of the truck; the other one didn’t. He screamed, his terror-stricken face transfixed in the headlights. The truck crushed the man against the red brick wall of the Butcher Shop. The impact was loud and sickening, a horrifying crunch of metal and flesh. Travis wondered if Moroconi had killed himself as well.
    He didn’t have to wonder long. The truck jerked into reverse. It separated noisily from the brick wall and did an about-face in the cul-de-sac.
    Travis rose to his feet and saw the remaining shadow man do the same. He was groping around on the pavement—must have lost his gun.
    Suddenly Moroconi swerved around and aimed the truck at the gunman. The man plunged into the darkness, making a beeline for a narrow alley between buildings. Moroconi couldn’t possibly follow him. He reversed the truck and headed back toward the sidewalk café he had trashed on his way in.
    Just as Travis thought the worst might be over, he heard the unmistakable sound of a bullet whistling by not more than a foot from his head. Guess the man located his gun, Travis thought; he must be firing from within the alley. And Travis was a sitting duck.
    In the split second during which Moroconi’s truck approached, Travis realized it was his last chance to elude the gunman. He could hardly outrun him, and recent events had indicated he wasn’t likely to overpower him in hand-to-hand combat either. He watched the truck carefully, concentrating on its speed, its direction. As the truck swerved around him Travis jumped onto the back bumper and clutched the tailgate for dear life.
    Moroconi blasted through the café again. Naturally, he was too stupid to follow the path he’d cleared before. He had to annihilate more tables and chairs, making the ride good and rocky. Travis glanced back and saw the gunman run to the center of the cul-de-sac. The gunshots sounded like distant claps of thunder. They weren’t even close. It was too dark, and the truck was moving too quickly.
    Moroconi took a sharp curve, flinging Travis sideways against the tailgate. He held on desperately, gripping the back of