Doc Savage: The Secret of Satan's Spine (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage Book 15) by Kenneth Robeson, Lester Dent, Will Murray Page B
Tags: action and adventure
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pushed in hard. “Is that right, Mayfair? Do you gobble your grub?”
The polish that Raymond Lee—if that was indeed his name—had displayed earlier in the morning had now been rubbed off. He looked to be a rough sort, and he talked as tough as a dock walloper. He no longer wore his Southern gentleman’s whites.
“We sail in a few hours,” he bit out. “We need to get him out of the way.”
As if he had not heard that, Monk asked, “I gather you’re not really Davey’s father after all.”
“Gather what you want, squat and stupid,” returned the smoky-haired man. “It won’t matter to you anymore. Nothing will.”
“Is that the way of it?” returned Monk.
“That’s how she lies,” said the man, sounding like a seaman of some sort.
“What do we do with him, Diamond?” asked one of the gunmen.
“March this lump of hair down to the basement, and empty your guns into him, Weedy.”
Monk said abruptly, “Let’s not be hasty.”
Diamond returned in a brutal voice, “We should have done it this way in the first place!”
Behind him, two voices said out of joint, “March!”
Gun muzzles urged the hairy chemist in the direction of a door that evidently led into the basement.
Monk immediately became stubborn. “I ain’t goin’ down there. And you can’t make me.”
Raymond Lee, who was evidently going by the name of Diamond, laid cold amber eyes upon Monk Mayfair and remarked, “It’s not a big bother to shoot you on the spot and carry your corpse down.”
Whereupon the man who had lifted Monk Mayfair’s supermachine pistol, offered, “I took this off him. It’s supposed to fire trick bullets. I read that in a fancy magazine.”
Diamond grabbed the pistol, examined it with curiosity, and said, “Now that you mention it, Weedy, I read the same thing in the tabloids.”
Lifting the pistol, he trained the muzzle on Monk’s chest, and pulled the trigger.
A great many strange things began happening all at once, altering the picture as definitely as if an earthquake, a hurricane and a stray tornado had decided to converge upon one spot.
Chapter VI
FLOP
SOMETHING CYCLONIC EMERGED from the basement, slamming through the door with the juggernaut force of a Sherman tank.
The thing that made such an unexpected appearance moved so rapidly that it could not be clearly tracked with the eyes, especially after it began flinging gunmen around as if they were department store mannequins.
As one of the gunmen later expressed it, “It was all metal and wide as a truck.”
This was an exaggeration, of course. But such was the impact of the hurricane force that stormed the men in the room that they could be forgiven for thinking a squad of commandos had burst out of the basement.
In actual fact, it was only one man.
But that man was Doc Savage. This explained much.
The bronze giant had charged up and out of the basement, seized the man named Diamond, and flung him away, simultaneously harvesting the supermachine pistol that he had been fiddling with, and tossing it in Monk’s direction.
The pistol was designed to defeat use by anyone not familiar with its intricate series of safety catches. It was unlikely the man would have gotten the weapon to discharge. The violence was purely Doc Savage’s doing, hence its hurricane qualities.
Doc Savage next seized Monk by the shoulders, spun him off in the direction of Diamond, doing this so rapidly that the two gunmen who had impaled Monk’s shoulder blades with their pistol muzzles did not understand what happened until a colossus of bronze was suddenly towering over them, moving like a ricocheting thunderbolt.
The gunmen reacted instinctively. They squeezed their triggers, and a pair of .38-caliber slugs struck the bronze man in the chest, driving him backward.
Meanwhile, Monk Mayfair had the supermachine pistol firmly in hand and was scrambling to his feet. He tried to lay his gunsight on one gunman, but Doc Savage’s backpedaling form
The polish that Raymond Lee—if that was indeed his name—had displayed earlier in the morning had now been rubbed off. He looked to be a rough sort, and he talked as tough as a dock walloper. He no longer wore his Southern gentleman’s whites.
“We sail in a few hours,” he bit out. “We need to get him out of the way.”
As if he had not heard that, Monk asked, “I gather you’re not really Davey’s father after all.”
“Gather what you want, squat and stupid,” returned the smoky-haired man. “It won’t matter to you anymore. Nothing will.”
“Is that the way of it?” returned Monk.
“That’s how she lies,” said the man, sounding like a seaman of some sort.
“What do we do with him, Diamond?” asked one of the gunmen.
“March this lump of hair down to the basement, and empty your guns into him, Weedy.”
Monk said abruptly, “Let’s not be hasty.”
Diamond returned in a brutal voice, “We should have done it this way in the first place!”
Behind him, two voices said out of joint, “March!”
Gun muzzles urged the hairy chemist in the direction of a door that evidently led into the basement.
Monk immediately became stubborn. “I ain’t goin’ down there. And you can’t make me.”
Raymond Lee, who was evidently going by the name of Diamond, laid cold amber eyes upon Monk Mayfair and remarked, “It’s not a big bother to shoot you on the spot and carry your corpse down.”
Whereupon the man who had lifted Monk Mayfair’s supermachine pistol, offered, “I took this off him. It’s supposed to fire trick bullets. I read that in a fancy magazine.”
Diamond grabbed the pistol, examined it with curiosity, and said, “Now that you mention it, Weedy, I read the same thing in the tabloids.”
Lifting the pistol, he trained the muzzle on Monk’s chest, and pulled the trigger.
A great many strange things began happening all at once, altering the picture as definitely as if an earthquake, a hurricane and a stray tornado had decided to converge upon one spot.
Chapter VI
FLOP
SOMETHING CYCLONIC EMERGED from the basement, slamming through the door with the juggernaut force of a Sherman tank.
The thing that made such an unexpected appearance moved so rapidly that it could not be clearly tracked with the eyes, especially after it began flinging gunmen around as if they were department store mannequins.
As one of the gunmen later expressed it, “It was all metal and wide as a truck.”
This was an exaggeration, of course. But such was the impact of the hurricane force that stormed the men in the room that they could be forgiven for thinking a squad of commandos had burst out of the basement.
In actual fact, it was only one man.
But that man was Doc Savage. This explained much.
The bronze giant had charged up and out of the basement, seized the man named Diamond, and flung him away, simultaneously harvesting the supermachine pistol that he had been fiddling with, and tossing it in Monk’s direction.
The pistol was designed to defeat use by anyone not familiar with its intricate series of safety catches. It was unlikely the man would have gotten the weapon to discharge. The violence was purely Doc Savage’s doing, hence its hurricane qualities.
Doc Savage next seized Monk by the shoulders, spun him off in the direction of Diamond, doing this so rapidly that the two gunmen who had impaled Monk’s shoulder blades with their pistol muzzles did not understand what happened until a colossus of bronze was suddenly towering over them, moving like a ricocheting thunderbolt.
The gunmen reacted instinctively. They squeezed their triggers, and a pair of .38-caliber slugs struck the bronze man in the chest, driving him backward.
Meanwhile, Monk Mayfair had the supermachine pistol firmly in hand and was scrambling to his feet. He tried to lay his gunsight on one gunman, but Doc Savage’s backpedaling form
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