Ferrell's body jerked upright, and the muscles in his face stood out tautly.
"The hell you say!"
"Truth—ask O'Toole."
Blake's voice died. His eyes turned to slits. The coach door had opened quickly and a man had stepped inside. He was dressed from head to foot in skin-tight black leather. His eyes were covered with a flashing, silvery mask. Blake's gaze was on the small, ugly electro-gun in the bandit's hand.
"A visitor," Blake said laconically. At the same time he pushed his feet far back under the chair and braced them, like bent springs.
The masked man crouched at the waist and the gun whipped around, covering the few passengers in the car.
"Stand up—all of you." He spoke harshly and with deadly precision. "On your feet, and make it fast."
Blake waited. A low monotone of voices protested, died out to a whisper of fear, and the passengers, including Ferrell stood with arms raised.
The electro gun came around slowly toward Blake.
"Up on your corns," the bandit spat at him. His eyes were black, diamond slits in the silver mask.