There was a fiery dedication in the little man's eyes. “This will be my victory, not my defeat!”
There were sounds now, coming from the other rooms—the garages. Some shouts and scuffling. Faintly, Larry Woolford could hear Steve Hackett's voice.
He was staring at the Professor, his eyes narrower.
The Professor was on his feet. He said in defiant triumph, “You think that you'll win prestige and honor as a result of tracking the Movement down, don't you, Mr. Woolford? Well, let me tell you, you won't! In six months from now, Mr. Woolford, you'll be a laughingstock.”
That did it.
Larry said, “You're under arrest. Turn around with your back to me.”
The Professor snorted his contempt, turned his back and held up his hands, obviously expecting to be searched.
In a fluid motion, Larry Woolford drew his gun and fired twice. The other with no more than a grunt of surprise and pain, stumbled forward to his knees and then to the floor, his arms and legs akimbo.
The door broke open and Steve Hackett, gun in hand, burst in.
“Woolford!” he barked. “What's up?”