Once again, the F.B.I.'s elite manhunt trio confronts the underworld. Battling through treacherous paths, they're resolute to dismantle the empire of a malevolent crime-czar, who has mercilessly declared death upon all G-men, offering lucrative rewards for their lifeless bodies. It's a perilous journey of valor, vengeance, and vendetta, where every step could be their last, but justice is an unyielding pursuit. "Boss! This is Pim," he said. "I was watching outside of Powers' place like you told me. Kerrigan and Murdoch and Klaw came, with the Roche dame, like you figured. Klaw went in alone. They got Roche out, and they got the evidence, too. Kerrigan and Murdoch is taking the eleven o'clock train to Washington, and Klaw is gonna take Roche and his wife up to their house." At the other end of that telephone line, a tall thin man listened carefully to every word. At the end of the report he said softly, "All right, Pim. I didn't expect that Powers would be able to take those three hellions. Now I'll use my own plan. Did Powers get away?" "Yes, Boss. I guess he's gone to the other hideout." "Very well," said the other man. "Go there at once. Tell him to take every available man he has up to Riverdale where Roche lives. I'll meet him there, and bring more men of my own. We must have everything set before Klaw gets up there!" "But what about Kerrigan and Murdoch, Boss? They'll be on the way to Washington with the evidence—" "No they won't, Pim—not when I've got this thing arranged. Pim, this is going to be the Suicide Squad's last mile!" * * * 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. More information on https://fbi-suicide-squad.com

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.