The Shadow laughed as he gripped his right automatic in the bend of his left elbow. He extended his long arm and the black-gloved hand plucked the revolver from the dying hoodlum's unresisting clutch. Scowling, at the wheel of his sedan, Biff Towley spat low curses. Seven men had advanced to take The Shadow. Seven bullets had ended their attack. The man was a demon!
His work had been at close range, but never once had he faltered.
Biff nudged the man who sat beside him — the only other occupant of the sedan. Together, they clambered from the car and found protection beside the touring car. There were two men there.
"We've got to get him!" snarled Biff. "It's The Shadow!" In the badlands of Manhattan, that name would have inspired its hearers with terror. Here, with the echoes of gunshots still ringing in their ears, the utterance inspired Biff's henchmen with a new and grim incentive.
They had The Shadow within their grasp, if they could but take him. Their companions had tasted his death-dealing bullets. It was a game of vengeance, now!
The nose of the touring car was pointed at an angle toward the bullet-riddled coupe. Biff's plan was a quick and simple one.
"Close in on him!" ordered the gang leader. "Drive up to the end of the pier." The man who crouched at the wheel uttered a terse grunt. The touring car shot forward and jammed its radiator close to the side of the coupe.
"Give him the works!"
Biff Towley's command came from the side of the car. The two men raised their revolvers. Biff and his companion peered from the hood of the touring car.
From this spot, a quick attack was possible. Yet Biff hesitated. Then, as though in answer to a sharp oath that sputtered from the gang leader, a shout was raised from the road that came to the pier. Five running gangsters were arriving as the last reserve.