The Black Beast, XT Ford Falcon (1969)

Zayna got out carrying the two unlit petrol bombs. Conrad glanced along the street. It was deserted of all life, a canyon of shadows. He revved the motor hard in neutral--limbering up--the exhaust pipe pumped revolting oil fumes and pollutants into the night air. He pulled the gearshift into Drive and crept the car forward until the front wheels reached the gutter. The engine strained as he pushed the throttle down, and a centimetre at a time the car climbed up onto the footpath, where it stopped for breath, heaving with exertion. Zayna stood aside watching with curiosity. The black beast looked confused, half on the road, half on the footpath.

???Conrad accelerated forward and the car surged into the glass-fronted window. The supporting bricks, four rows high, fell inwards like Lego blocks, the glass shattered in huge dangerous multi-sided pieces. The Falcon smashed right into the office, tipping Number 99's desk, chair, and typewriter onto the floor in one explosion of sound. The black phone clung to its lifeline for a moment before the cord let go and it somersaulted into the office. The car's headlights lit up the interior, the sound of broken glass rumbled out into the street canyon. The engine stalled; the burglar alarm shrieked in high-pitched cries of pain. Zayna dipped the Molotov wicks into the petrol and sealed them back up. She lit both with a single match, and they burst into dangerous looking flames. Conrad was trying to restart the engine; it whined with complaint while he thumped in fury on the dashboard, cursing its conception and carburettor. Zayna was waiting impatiently for him to back out of the glass so that she could throw her fiercely burning Molotov cocktails into the office. The motor whirred on and on, the alarm wailed, hiccupping like an approaching police car. Zayna looked down the street and saw people, two, three, four, running towards them. Where had they come from? She stepped forward, pushing past the Falcon, and flung the first petrol bomb as hard as she could into the office. It struck a wooden door, bounced off and rolled along the carpet. There was no explosion. The wick continued to fizzle, the bottle lying on its side, leaking petrol along the carpet. Conrad sat in the car pumping the accelerator, twisting the ignition key, swearing and glancing at the four people running towards them, the leader only fifty metres away. Zayna loosened the cap on the second bottle. Standing in front of the whining car, she threw the bottle into the office, a flaming star. It shattered when it hit an ancient Remington typewriter standing in the back cupboard. There was an explosion of bright yellow and orange flames, a surging blast of heat rushed passed Zayna. The engine fired up, the rescuers twenty metres away. The first bottle, which had dribbled petrol along the carpet, now joined in the mini-holocaust. The carpet became a hallway of flames. Zayna opened the car door, and flung herself onto the seat as the first rescuer arrived.

???Conrad found reverse gear.