Free The Emperor of Death by G. Wayman Jones

Hesterberg. He had too many allies in the building for that. If the crazy Red had not recognized him so much the better.
    Cokey would know him only as a stool of O’Neal’s. If he could get out of this room with Havens before the alarm was given, they could chance a run for it.
    Still keeping everyone in the room within range of his automatic, Van backed slowly toward the door. Havens was staring at each person in the room blankly and in turn. Van smiled faintly as his best friend ran his eyes over the face of the Dope without recognizing him.
    “What’s this mean?” said Havens suddenly. “Who are you men? Where am I?”
    Thus far Van had not spoken a word. Now he answered the other’s question.
    “You’re in a den of cutthroats,” he said quietly. “So am I. Let’s try to get out.”
    Hesterberg laughed unpleasantly. “Listen,” he said. “No stranger can get out of here without trouble. Now, what the hell do you want?”
    The Dope grinned, and for a moment an intelligence that was alien to a snow addict gleamed in his eyes.
    “I want to get out principally,” he said. “And I’m taking him with me.”
    He indicated Havens, who still sat with a blank expression on his face, not quite oriented to his environment yet.
    “Put that gun away,” said Hesterberg," or you’ll never get out of here alive."
    He walked slowly toward Van, holding him with his eyes. Slowly his hand crept toward his hip pocket.
    “Don’t do it,” said Van. “Stand back. All of you stand away from that door.”
    His voice rang with purposeful command. They obeyed. Van jerked his head toward Havens.
    “Come on, you. Stand up. Get over by the door. When I tell you, open that door and run like hell.”
    Havens did as he was told. Though he by no means understood how he had come here, who these people were, he realized that he could not go far wrong with a man who wanted to get him out of this room which seemed to hold him captive. He stood with his back to the door, his hand on the knob.
    “Now,” said Van coldly, “we’re leaving. I’d advise you not to follow too quickly, or else I shoot from the stairway on the way down. Give us a full minute. It’ll be much safer for you if you do.”
    He turned to the still slightly bewildered Havens.
    “All right,” he shouted. “Now!”
    The door swung open. Two flying figures raced through it. It slammed behind them. As they gained the stair head, Van heard Hesterberg’s voice roar through the panel of the door.
    “Go on, you fools! After them, quick!”
    Apparently the Mad Red had little compunction about risking the lives of his men. He had no intention of giving the Dope the full minute that he had demanded to make his getaway. And so great was Hesterberg’s power, so great was their fear of their master, that his henchmen did not hesitate to choose between his wrath and possible death outside that door.
    For a second time the portal swung open. Two more figures raced through it.
    As they turned the landing at the top of the second flight two staccato reverberations boomed above them. Steel ate into the crumbling plaster of the walls. Van pushed Havens ahead of him down the stairs and, taking hasty aim, pressed the trigger of his automatic.
    One of the men staggered, but recovered and came on. Now there was an enraged shout from the top floor, and Hesterberg joined the chase in person.
    Four revolvers roared. Three from the pursuers and a single automatic took up the defense. The hallway echoed grim crashes, and the air was acrid with the stench of powder.
    Van and Havens leaped like cats down the last flight, with such speed that they gained the ground floor some thirty feet ahead of their pursuers. Once there, Havens ran toward the front door of the dive. But Van’s hand caught his flying coattails and pulled him back. He had a better plan than that.
    To run through the room, to enter the street was to court disaster. Gripping the publisher’s wrist, Van rushed along the