Above him shards of glass were being spit into the van. There was a sickening tuck - a - tuck - a - tuck of metal against metal as bullets raked the sides of the van. The guy with the machine gun didn't know it, but he would never penetrate the interior of the van. The sides were lined with thick sheets of metal. Like a trapped animal Frank hunkered as low as he could with the pedals in the way and waited for the attack to be over. For a moment he forgot about Joe, forgot about their mission, forgot about everything except the possibility that the attacker would move in and shoot them. When the attack finally stopped Frank was first aware of the immense silence. Then he noticed that his jaw ached from gritting his teeth, that his brother was alive beside him, and that the Buick was making a getaway. He rose cautiously and peered out the driver's window. Its tires spinning on the sandy road, the Buick was in the middle of a U-turn. Frank stared, focusing on the small rectangular plate between the two taillights.
