Ghosts of Manhattan by George Mann

She seemed lost, as if the horrors she'd witnessed down there in the cellar bar had somehow caused her mind to disengage. Gabriel decided not to press the point; didn't have time to consider the implications anyway. But later-later he would get to the bottom of why these men had gone to such terrible lengths to attempt to kidnap this woman he loved. What could they possibly want with a jazz singer?
    "Celeste!"
    She started, shocked by his forcefulness.
    "Fill the gun with bullets. We're going to need it ..." He trailed off as he swung the car wide around a sharp corner, narrowly missing a pedestrian crossing the road, an old man in a gray overcoat who looked more surprised than angry as they shot off along the slick tarmac, black smoke erupting from the twin exhaust funnels at the rear.

    The other car was gaining on them, and he could see two of the mobsters leaning out of the windows, tommy guns at the ready. He needed desperately to stay out of their range.
    Celeste, woken from her momentary reverie, was now fishing around in his pocket, attempting to grab hold of the stray bullets. And then, a moment later, she was screaming.
    Gabriel, trying to keep one eye on the road, turned about in his seat to see what was happening. A man-a mobster-was in the back of the car, leaning through the gap between the front seats so that he could grapple with Celeste, attempting to wrestle the weapon out of her grip. He must have been in the vehicle all the while, lying low in the back, waiting for his opportunity to strike. Gabriel chanced a proper look. He was a big man with a bushy black moustache, and he was wearing a satisfied sneer as he twisted Celeste's wrist, causing her to cry out again in pain. To her credit, she still had a tight grip on the revolver, but the angle of the man's attack meant that it was pointing away from him, forced low, toward the dashboard.
    Gabriel had to help her. But he had to keep moving, too. If he stopped the vehicle, the others would be upon them in seconds, and if he let go of the wheel, they'd likely end up as a burning wreck in the side of a building when the car veered off course. His choices were limited.
    He glanced at Celeste. Her eyes were pleading. Keeping one hand on the wheel, he tried to hold the vehicle on a straight path as he twisted around in his seat and jabbed his right elbow back sharply into the other man's face. It connected hard, jarring the crook's neck, and the man howled in pain. Gabriel tried again, this time catching the man in the mouth and loosening a couple of teeth. Blood spattered over the seats. The man momentarily relaxed his grip on Celeste. That was all she needed. Gripping the gun, she twisted around in her seat and pulled the trigger, firing a shot into the man's chest at point-blank range.
    The mobster gave a short, burbling cry, and then, blood trickling down his chin, slumped back into the rear seat, his eyes staring unseeing at the jazz singer, his hands folded across his lap, dark liquid oozing between his fingers. The smell of cordite filled the air.
    Gabriel grasped the wheel with both hands. He was breathing hard. "Are you okay?"

    Celeste was wearing a hard expression. "I'm okay." She resumed her search for the bullets in his pocket, feeding them into the chamber of the gun. Gabriel noticed that one of her gloves was scorched with residue from firing the weapon. He glanced in the mirror again.
    "They're gaining on us!" The incident with the man in the back had slowed them down; he'd taken his attention off the road. He pushed his foot flat to the floor, heard the engine roar in protest. The streets were getting busier here, and he had to dodge out of the way of an oncoming vehicle, another car, which sounded its horn expressively to signal its driver's annoyance.
    Rat-a-tat-tat. More gunfire. Gabriel found himself ducking instinctively as the projectiles hammered home. He heard the hiss of steam venting-a bullet had clearly punctured a valve. The vehicle