Curtis stopped and hurriedly cast aside the headphones. The sound of heavy footsteps outside warned him of impending danger. He reached for his gun, released the safety catch, and whirled about.
Men were crowding the doorway of the wireless room—men in whose throats rumbled the angry cry of a baffled wolf pack, whose eyes gleamed with the savage light of murder.
The wireless room was abruptly full of powder smoke, punctuated with gun flashes, as he sprayed bullets at the doorway. The steel door protected him; his attackers were exposed.
He saw that the crowd had given way before the figure of one man, bolder than the rest—or perhaps more desperate—pushing forward, a blazing automatic in his hand.
Curtis recognized the white, hard-lined face, the pale, cruel eyes, set under shaggy blond brows, now blazing with a wild, half-insane light—Nelson! Curtis was busy shoving in a new clip of ammunition—
A shot from Nelson's pistol went wild, shattered the lights, throwing the wireless room into almost total darkness. His second bullet seared Curtis' jaw, a burning, flesh-tearing wound. Another smashed into his shoulder—high up.
Curtis felt sick as he felt lead splintering the bone. He fired—and missed. His shoulder ached—He gritted his teeth, steadied his aim, and let Nelson have it again.
In the faint light that came in at the entrance, he saw Nelson's white face suddenly become a crimson mask. His body fell backward—outside.
Curtis dashed forward and slammed the steel door, bolting it, locking himself in. A terrible wave of nausea rose up within him. The pain of his wounded shoulder was like torturing knives turning in his flesh, grinding against the shattered bones—
He felt his fingers relax on his gun, as his knees buckled under him, and he sank to the floor.