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china hongyang group,hong yang, the manufacturer of fuel dispenser fueling dispenser gas pump oil pump petrol pump china hongyang group fuel dispenser fueling dispenser gas pump oil pump petrol pump china hongyang group fuel dispenser fueling dispenser gas pump oil pump petrol pump hongyang fuel dispensersd keep on driving till I tell you to stop.” Sam waited till the way was clear, then turned onto Redondo Beach. He had a pretty good idea where Gordon would have him go. Western ran all the way down to the Palos Verdes peninsula, where there were plenty of wide open spaces without any houses close by. Kids drove down to P.V. to find privacy to park; he wouldn’t have been surprised if Jonathan and Karen had done that a time or two, or maybe more than a time or two. Palos Verdes offered privacy for murder, too. Coming up was Normandie. The next big street after it was Western. Yeager swung into the left lane as he drove west on Redondo Beach. He was nearing the light at Redondo Beach and Normandie when it went from green to yellow to red. Cars on Normandie started going through the intersection. Sam slowed as if he were going to stop at the light, then stamped on the gas for all he was worth. Gordon only had time for the beginning of a startled squawk before the Buick broadsided a Chevy station wagon. It had been a good many years since Sam’s last traffic accident. He’d never caused—he’d never imagined causing—one on purpose. As they always did in pileups, things happened very fast and seemed to happen very slowly. Collision. Noise—incredible racket of smashing glass and crumpling metal. Yeager jerked forward. His seat belt caught him before he could spear himself on the steering wheel or go headfirst through the windshield. Gordon wasn’t wearing a seat belt. Sam had counted on that. Straha’s driver hadn’t been sitting directly behind him. He’d been more in the middle of the back seat. At the impact, he too was hurled forward, half over the top of the front seat. The pistol flew out of his hand. Sam had counted on that, too—he’d hoped for it, anyway. With the reflexes that had let him play a pretty fair left field once upon a time, he snatched it up from the floorboard and hit Gordon in the head with it, as hard as he could. Then he got back his own .45 from Gordon’s belt. All that happened as quickly as he could do it. He hadn’t had time to think about it. He couldn’t remember thinking anything since deciding to run the light at Normandie, any more than he’d done any thinking while chasing down a long fly ball in the alley in left-center. Thinking was for afterwards. Afterwards, however much against the odds, seemed to have arrived. Time returned to its normal flow. Sam suddenly noticed blaring horns and squealing brakes as other drivers somehow missed adding to the accident. The first thing that ran through his mind was, It wasn’t an accident. I meant to do it. The next thought made a lot more sense: I’d better get the hell out of here before the car catches on fire. When he tried to open the door, it wouldn’t. He twisted in his seat and kicked at it. At the same time, somebody outside yanked at it for all he was worth. It did open then, with a scream of tortured metal. “You son of a bitch!” roared the man outside, a stocky, swarthy fellow whose ancestors had come from Mexico if he hadn’t. “You stupid motherfucking son of a bitch! You trying to get me killed? You trying to get yourself killed?” He must have been driving the other car. Sam was proud he’d managed such a brilliant deduction. “No, I was trying to keep from getting killed,” he answered—literal truth. He realized he sounded mushy. There on top of the dashboard, quite undamaged, sat his upper plate. He reached out with his left hand and stuffed it into his mouth. “Man, I oughta beat the living shit outta you, and—” The man standing in the intersection suddenly noticed the pistol in Yeager’s right hand. His eyes went enormously wide. He stopped roaring and started backing away. That let Sam get out of the car. One look at the stove-in front end told him he’d never drive the Buick again. He shrugged. He’d have the chance to drive some other car one day. Almost as an afterthought, he dragged Gordon out of the wreckage. Gordon’s head thumped on the asphalt, but Sam wasn’t about to lose any sleep over that. A couple of other cars had stopped. Their drivers jumped out to lend a hand. But nobody seemed eager to come very close to Yeager, not with one pistol in his hand and another on his belt. “Don’t do nothin’ crazy, mister,” a tall, skinny blond guy said. “I don’t intend to,” Yeager said—he’d already been crazy enough to last a lifetime, and to prolong one. “I’m just waiting for the cops to get here.” He didn’t have to wait long. Siren howling, red lights flashing, a squad car raced up Normandie and stopped in the intersection, which was already a lot more crowded than it needed to be. Two of Gardena’s finest got out and looked things over. “Okay,” said one of them, a burly fellow with black hair and very blue eyes. “What the hell happened here?” As far as Sam could see, that was pretty obvious. He sighed with relief for a different reason, though—he’d met the policeman before. “Hello, Clyde,” he said. “How are you tonight?” The Mexican man who’d been driving the station wagon let out a wail of anguish. His car was wrecked—and it was totaled, bent into an L—and the guy who’d rammed him knew the cop by his first name? Clyde needed a couple of seconds to pull Sam out of his mental card file, but he did. “Lieutenant Colonel Yeager!” he exclaimed. “What the hell happened here?” This time, he asked it in an altogether different tone of voice. Briefly, as if making an oral report, Yeager told him what had happened. “Yeah, and that’s all a bunch of bullshit, too,” Gordon said from the street. Sam jumped. He hadn’t noticed Straha’s driver coming to. Gordon went on, “This guy kidnapped me, dragged me off the street. He was babbling about ransom money.” Sam handed Clyde both pistols. “You’ll probably find both our prints on both of them. You want to know where I was going when I left home, call my wife and son. You can check with the formalwear place, too—it’s right down the street here.” “Whaddaya think?” the other cop asked Clyde. “Yeager here, he’s had some nasty stuff happen to him that nobody ever got a handle on—nobody this side of the FBI, anyhow,” Clyde said slowly. “You ask me, this looks like more of the same.” He bent down and put handcuffs on Gordon. “You’re under arrest. Suspicion of kidnapping.” Then he pointed at Sam. “But you’re coming down to the station, too, till we find out whose story checks out better.” “What about me?” cried the man who’d been driving the station wagon. Nobody paid any attention to him. “Sure, I’ll come,” Sam said. “But please do call my wife, wi China exporters,suppliers,manufacturers,factory of Fuel Dispenser,Manual/Auto Nozzle,Hose Swivle,Breakaway,Foot Valve,Nozzle Holder,Dispenser Filter,Flowmeter,Pump Unit,Vane Pump,Electric Motor,Manholes,Check valve,Shut-off valve,Adaptor,Auto Nozzle,Fueling dispenser,Fueling Nozzle,Petrol Pump,Petrol dispenser,onecopytwocopythreecopyisme

Hongyang Group CO.,LTD
ADD: NO.3,Gaoxiang Road, Gaoxiang Industrial Zone,
Ouhai District,Wenzhou City,China
TEL: 0086 577 88097339
FAX: 0086 577 88097280
P.C.: 325006

Web: www.chinahongyang.com

Contact person:
Mr. Wells Chen
General Manager
E-mail:wells@chinahongyang.com
TEL:0086 577 88097339
FAX:0086 577 88097280