Emile C. Tepperman

Rumors said that the gang Ieaders of a dozen large cities had been bludgeoned into joining the Army of Death – controlled by a men calling himself the General.

He stumbled forward, and a last burst escaped from the machine-gun. One shot nicked Johnny Kerrigan along the ribs, another caught him in the thigh. Then the rest of the hail swept down lower and riddled Russ Kimber, where he cowered on the floor.

Johnny Kerrigan was sent staggering sideways against the wall. He steadied his revolver against his elbow, and emptied it into the doorway, where a second man had appeared. This one dropped, and a third stepped into his place, also with a machine-gun. He raised it.

Johnny Kerrigan’s gun was empty. He could not retreat, because of his injured leg. He could not charge, either. He shrugged.

“Okay, mug,” he said. “I can take it!”

 * * * 

Tepperman was one of the high-output pulp author of the 1930s, able to deliver readable, action-packed fiction stories like clockwork, securing his place in the hall of fame of pulp writers.

Leonard Wells

Yabot

F.B.I. Suicide Squad

The F.B.I. Suicide Squad Reports for Death

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