Hostage for a Hood

Every minute she had was borrowed, and every second ticked off the time for murder.

Joyce was driving along the deserted avenue.

Just ahead on a side street, Cribbins checked the second hand of his watch for the last time.

He swung the heavy Cadillac around the corner. He had a rendezvous with an armored car and a quarter of a million dollars; he had a tommy gun to make sure it all went off smoothly.

Everything was timed, everything was planned down to the most insignificant detail — except for Joyce Sherwood and her eight-year-old Chevy, which crashed deep into the side, of Cribbins' stolen car.

That's how they met—the housewife and the hoods. And terror took over!