“We’d better get him out of here,” said Bob. “They’ll be back and we won’t be ready for them.”
Before they could turn, a harsh laugh echoed through the room and the heavy voice of Joe Hamsa lashed at them.
“You’re not going any place, boys, except where I want you to and you’ll never return from there.”
Bob started to move, but a quick command from Hamsa stopped him.
“Don’t move kid. I’ve got a machine gun on you and my finger is nervous. Turn around slowly and don’t either one of you try any gunplay.”
They started to turn slowly when Bob was amazed by a quick gesture of his uncle’s. Hidden in the heavy shadow of the little room which adjoined the larger one, he reached up and like a flash seized the revolver which was in the shoulder holster. There wasn’t even the rustle of Bob’s coat as the gun was whisked away and Bob continued to turn slowly toward Hamsa.
The man who had claimed to be a diamond salesman was standing in the doorway, a machine gun in his hands. Behind him was a man with a scar, whom Bob recognized from the descriptions obtained in Jacksonville must have been the abductor of his uncle. To the rear of these two was a slender chap, little older than Bob and with a thin face. He was in a flyer’s outfit and in his hands carried a soft leather case.
“Get their guns, Rap,” barked Hamsa, and the man with the scar came forward, his hands patting the sheriff for weapons. The gun was taken from the shoulder holster and the rifle was tossed across the room.
The man known as Rap then turned to Bob and his hands found the empty holster.
“Gun’s gone,” said Rap flatly and without expression.