Before the astonished gangsters could realize what had occurred, Monk had produced two businesslike automatics. The guns appeared in his hands as if by magic. He drew them in a fraction of a split-second, and both of the guns were leveled toward Nick Savoli.
“Move your hand one inch,” threatened Thurman, “and you get all that is in these!”
Nick Savoli’s fingers trembled on the verge of his jacket pocket.
Monk Thurman stepped backward a few paces. His sharp, keen eyes were alert as they turned in different directions. He observed every gangster who was before him, and each man knew that a single motion would mean death.
“Double-crossers,” said Monk. “You, Savoli. You, Borrango. You, McGinnis. The three of you. Your game didn’t work, did it?”
He centered his gaze on Machine-gun McGinnis, who was seated beside Brodie, the chauffeur.
“You, at least, made up for it,” he said. “You mowed down Larrigan, didn’t you?”
“Sure I did,” retorted McGinnis proudly.
“You’ve mowed down a lot of people, haven’t you?”
“Sure.”