F.B.I. Suicide Squad Series

One for all, and all for one—even in death—was the fighting creed of the three wildest, gun-swinging law aces of the F.B.I.! For years there have been rumors around Washington that the F.B.I. has a Suicide Squad—a group of men who have no regular duties, but who wait for the one inevitable assignment from which there will be no return. People have wondered just what kind of men comprise this Suicide Squad—and why. Six months ago there had been five of them. Two months ago there were four. Now there were only three—Kerrigan and Murdoch and Klaw. 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.

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.

The name of Dunstan Vardis had become almost legendary in the underworld since his escape from prison five years ago. In some secret and mysterious way he had developed a sure-fire method of hiding wanted criminals. Every killer in the underworld came to Dunstan Vardis for protection. “Just a minute, Mr. Klaw!” a photographer begged. “Stand still for a second, will you?” The man raised a bulky camera to his eye and sighted through the periscope. He had his finger on the lever to click it down. Before he could do so, Stephen Klaw took his right hand from his pocket. There was an automatic in it. Without wasting a fraction of an inch of motion, Klaw fired from the hip. The shot echoed and re-echoed like thunder in the vaulted train-shed. The slug smashed square into the camera, driving through the box and embedding itself in the photographer’s skull.  * * *  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.