Mouthpiece by L. Ron Hubbard Page B

went down, crying out.
    Carbonelli brought up a glittering gun. Bill kicked it
away and waded in. His fists sought Carbonelli’s chest. They rocked the
hard-faced bandit like a sledgehammer rocks a thin stake. Years of battling a
fighting wheel had given Bill Milan such muscles.
    Carbonelli backed up. His fists were futile, useless
things. His eyes were no longer hard. They were lit with a fear of physical
pain.
    Milan followed him up. The bank
was at Carbonelli’s heels, muddy and slick. The rain battered their faces,
blinded them. Milan tensed himself for one last haymaker .
    With dismaying abruptness, his weak leg caved in. Bill
tottered to one side, off his balance, fighting to hold himself erect. He swore
through gritted teeth.
    Carbonelli’s eyes lighted with savage fire. He shot out
his foot and smashed at Milan’s shoulder. Bill slipped and thudded into the
oozing mud. An instant later Carbonelli dropped on him. Krone rolled over and
caught Bill’s legs, holding them with both arms as a football player grabs a
tackling dummy. Carbonelli’s fists spattered against Milan’s unprotected
features.
    â€œOkay,” rattled Krone. “Okay. He’ll drive now.”
    â€œYou bet he’ll drive,” agreed Carbonelli. “And when we
get to the end of the road we’ll fix it so he’ll never leave a clue as to what
finished him.” He smiled, a thin, evil twitch of his blackish lips. “If we put
him out of the way so he can’t be identified, we won’t leave any trail and the
first report will stand. Get me?”
    â€œYeah. But for God’s sake, get going. The bulls’ll be
here in about two seconds.”
    Carbonelli kicked Bill Milan awake. He dragged him to
the top of the bank and made Bill stand up. “You’re going to drive us,” stated
Carbonelli, “and no more monkey business.”
    Bill’s face tightened. His blue eyes were watchful.
“Okay with me.”
    They climbed into the cab. Bill started the engine and
shot the truck into gear. It rumbled forward, one wheel off the pavement. Its
stiff springs let the body jolt. Bill threw out the clutch.
    â€œI think I got a flat,” he said.
    Carbonelli growled, “Get out there and see, Krone.”
    â€œTo hell with you!” snapped Krone. “I ain’t going back
into that rain again. Not for anything. Let him go. He ain’t got the guts to
try to take a powder on us.”
    Bill climbed down gingerly because of his leg. He knew
that the truck ran that way naturally, but the two bandits didn’t know it. They
were used to easy passenger cars. He made his way around to the back, then
limped up to the front. There he boosted himself up to the seat and slammed the
door.
    â€œI was wrong,” he stated.
    â€œYeah, a stall, huh?” Carbonelli lifted his retrieved
gun. “Get going and get going fast. I hear a squad car coming.”
    The Fiat rocketed away. The motor
yammered and the tires howled over the wet asphalt. The last of the street
lights disappeared with the white city limit sign.

    Carbonelli kicked Bill Milan awake. He dragged him to the top
of the bank and made Bill stand up. “You’re going to drive us,”
stated Carbonelli, “and no more monkey business.”
    B ill’s rugged face was etched by the slanted panel light. His
hatless head was buffeted by the wind which blasted into his window. His strong
hands handled the heavy wheel as though it were made of light paper. The
speedometer went up to sixty and stopped. Beyond that it did not register.
    â€œWant me to run without lights?” he asked.
    â€œWhat you trying to do?” rasped Krone. “Get us picked
up?”
    â€œNo—I was just trying to be helpful, that’s all.”
    â€œI’ll bet!” snapped Krone from the far side of the cab.
“You’re hoping some bicycle bull will spot us. If one does, and you don’t act
right,