Death Instinct - Jed Rubenfeld [167]
“Get down!” cried Littlemore.
The gunmen didn’t have a clear shot at either Younger or Littlemore—who each had one of the smelters in front of him—but they evidently didn’t care. All three fired, ripping bullets into the bodies of the two workmen as Younger and Littlemore dove for cover. Younger overturned the heavy wood worktable and sat with his back to it. Littlemore crouched behind the furnace.
“A shoot-out,” said Younger as bullets slammed into his table and ricocheted off the blast furnace. “I’m at a shoot-out without a gun.”
Littlemore craned around the furnace and fired two shots, which kept the gunmen at bay but did nothing else. “That guy,” he said. “Was that who I thought it was?”
“Yes,” said Younger. “Tell me you have another gun.”
“Nope,” said Littlemore. Incoming bullets tore pieces from the bottom of the furnace, causing it to list slightly and to emit a dreadful steam shriek. “Any ideas, Doc? Any play we can make with Drobac?”
The massive blast furnace was held up by a three-legged base. One of these legs now gave way with a loud crack; the furnace clunked down at a crazy angle.
“Offer him reduced bail?” suggested Younger.
“Good thinking,” replied Littlemore, firing another shot at the mountain of gold.
“I don’t think it’s very safe,” Younger called out, “their shooting a lot of bullets into a blast furnace.”
“That’s helpful,” said Littlemore, reaching around the crooked furnace and firing his last two shots.
The detective now had to reload. Drobac knew it or guessed it. “Charge furnace,” he yelled.
All three gunmen came scrambling over the hillock of gold. At the same time a second leg at the base of the huge furnace collapsed, and the entire iron behemoth began to topple away from Littlemore—straight at Younger—with a fantastic screech of bending and breaking metal.
Littlemore and Younger were about to die. Younger was lying exactly where the red-hot furnace, spewing molten gold, would fall to the ground. Littlemore was reloading his revolver as three gunmen rushed at him down a mountain of gold and the furnace that had provided him with cover was toppling over.
Younger saw the manhole cover at his feet. “Shield,” he shouted, hoisting up the manhole cover and heaving it through the air before diving away as several tons of iron crashed to the dirt floor and a deadly shower of gold barely missed his legs and feet.
In a single motion, Littlemore slapped the new cartridge into his gun, caught the manhole cover, and turned to face the three gunmen just as the furnace fell completely away from him. All three gunmen fired repeatedly at Littlemore, but the manhole cover stopped their bullets, and Littlemore returned fire, killing one, then another, but not the third—Drobac—who slammed into the detective shoulder-first. Littlemore fell hard on his back with the heavy manhole cover on top of his chest, and Drobac on top of the manhole cover.
Littlemore’s arms were pinned. Drobac had a knee on the manhole cover, pressing it down on the detective while he brought his gun to Littlemore’s temple. Drobac smiled and squeezed the trigger. His gun, however, didn’t fire; he too was now out of bullets. Cursing, he threw his gun to the side. “Is all right,” he said. “I have other.”
Drobac drew a second gun from his jacket.
“Good-bye, policeman,” he said.
“Hey, Drobac,” said Younger, standing next to the collapsed furnace and kicking at the iron half-pipe sticking out from it.
Drobac turned at the sound of Younger’s voice. It’s unlikely he understood what he saw: a cast-iron half-pipe, dripping with molten gold, one end attached to the furnace, the other end swinging toward him. The pipe struck him square in the forehead. The blow would have been no more than an annoyance if liquid gold, at a temperature of two thousand degrees, had not coursed down his forehead, his nose, his cheeks, his neck. Drobac tried to scream, but what