barrel of the automatic centered steadily on the gunman's body a few inches above his shining gold belt buckle.
“You rat!” snarled Tony. “You picked the wrong dame this time.”
The two pairs of cold, hard, expressionless eyes, murderers’ eyes both, met, clashed. Then Mike's widened at something he saw in those of his employer. He was staring death in the face and he realized it. His right hand darted for his hip. But he hadn't a chance; Tony didn't dare give him a chance. Under any other conditions, Tony would have been glad to meet him on even terms, but now the great gang leader felt that he dare not take any risks. He must make sure, because of that girl in there.
In the language of their kind, Tony “let him have it.” The shots roared out. Half a dozen of them. Yet so close together that they seemed to merge into a single explosion as they reverberated down the hall. Mike's jaw dropped and he gazed stupidly at his murderer through the haze of a bluish smoke. Then he passed a trembling hand bewilderedly over his suddenly ashen face and with a gasp abruptly sagged to the floor. Half a dozen spots of red had appeared on his hitherto spotless
