Chapter XXIII

SNAP AIM SCORES
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Before Bob could reach for his own gun, the little man had whipped a snub-nosed automatic from a shoulder holster under his left shoulder and his eyes gleamed in the dim street light.

“How nice of you to tell me you were federals; saved me a lot of trouble. Smart guys, aren’t you? Well, get going toward that car on the other side and don’t make any bad steps.”

A cold rage gripped Bob. They had fallen into a neat trap and probably would soon be as helpless as his uncle, who had been kidnaped earlier in the evening. In the meantime, the smugglers would have ample time to run in a large sum of gems. Since they were willing to take the desperate chance of abducting three federal men, the amount must be tremendous.

Condon Adams started to set down his traveling bag, but a sharp command from the little man stopped him.

“Carry that bag and carry it carefully,” he snapped. “You guys are going for a long boat ride.”

They walked rapidly across the street. In fact, Bob was in a hurry to reach the car. For some reason they had not been searched and if he could get inside the sedan he might be able to slip the revolver out of his shoulder holster. Condon Adams lagged a little; perhaps suspecting what was in Bob’s mind.

The door of the sedan opened as they neared and Bob saw a man slouched at the wheel. There was no one else in the car and Bob stepped into the sedan, his muscles tense and his nerves cold.

“Stop!” the command was quiet but deadly and Bob halted halfway to the seat.

“Back up and back up slow; I’m taking no chances on gunplay.”

The driver of the car sat up quickly.

“Ain’t you searched them, Benny?” he asked.

“Shut up,” snapped the man on the pavement and Bob, stepping back gingerly now, caught a glimpse of the man with the gun. There was just a chance of success for a desperate play and he took the chance.

The gun in the shoulder holster was unfamiliar as was the holster, but Bob was half hidden by the darkness of the interior of the sedan. His right hand, moving like a flash, grasped the butt of the gun. Without attempting to pull it from the holster, Bob simply elevated the muzzle and pulled the trigger.

He fired by instinct as much as anything and a flash of flame stabbed the night. On the echo of the shot came a sharp cry and the man on the pavement leaped backward, his own gun replying.

Bob fired again and through the haze of smoke and the acrid smell of burning cloth saw the little man tumbling. The driver of the car swung toward Bob, but before he could get into the scrap, Bob jerked the gun from its holster and clubbed him over the head with the barrel. It was a savage blow, but he was dealing with men who knew no mercy themselves. The driver slumped forward in his seat and Bob, gun in hand, leaped from the car.

Condon Adams, who had been able to draw his own weapon, was leaning over the man on the street.

“Great work, Bob. I thought they were going to get away with this for a while.”

“Is he hurt badly?” asked Bob.

“Well, I don’t think he’s going to be doing any more mischief for a good long time. Your first one caught his right shoulder and the second one took his left leg—that’s what I’d call disabling a gangster.”

“It was spot shooting. I didn’t have time to aim,” explained Bob.

“Then I hope I’m not the target when you really aim,” said the older federal agent.