The One Million Word Project

[csyphrett]

Loaded Teller's Tale at Fictionpress.comCES

[csyphrett]

Secret Service

1938

15

Rafferty drove around after his daring escape. He had to change out of the costume,
meet Fletcher, and then think of some other way to hurt Brown. If he knew who did
Brown’s books, he could go to that person and see what he had to say.

 

He had Brown’s books, but he couldn’t use them for evidence, and he couldn’t let
Brown use them to connect him to his new vigilante friend.

 

Brown had probably thought about all the connections. He probably already thought
that Rafferty and the vigilante were one in the same. How was he going to prove it?

 

He needed some way to convince Brown they were separate people. The only way he
could think was to have someone from Fletcher’s organization wear the costume
while he was establishing an alibi somewhere else.

 

He liked the idea, if he could make it work, it might throw Brown off his trail. Brown
didn’t know about Fletcher, or his organization. That might be enough to make things
work.

 

On the other hand, it could get the other guy killed for pretending to be him in a
dangerous situation. Did he want to throw someone else’s life away to dispel
suspicions from the guy he was trying to put in jail?

 

He decided he would save that for a last resort. It was better to set some kind of
booby trap and let Brown think he was in action while he was doing something public
like sitting in his pub.

 

He liked that, but a lot depended on the trap being blown sky high when the timer
went off.

 

He needed to work on that idea. He couldn’t expect Fletcher and his support to cover
for him against police suspicion. And it didn’t matter what kind of cover he had to
people like Brown. They already knew how to create their own alibis.

 

He paused when he saw a public phone booth. He needed to hand the books off to
Fletcher and then he needed to think of some other way to harass Brown. Maybe he
should burn another casino down.

 

He also needed to check in with Hawley and see if there was anything going on with
Bones. There had to be a way to turn him against his employers.

 

He pulled to the curb. He got out and called the operator to let him know that he had
Brown’s books. He needed someone to crack the code so that Brown’s customers
could be exposed.

 

Once the normal police got involved, there was no telling where things would go.
It might be enough to force Brown overseas if the pressure boiled high enough. Some
of his customers would not be happy they had been exposed to the public eye.

 

Maybe one of them would like to take Brown out before he was arrested.

 

As soon as Rafferty had set up a drop with Fletcher’s people, he called the Yard.
Hawley had left on business. The desk sergeant said it was something about an old
case that had come up.

 

Rafferty hung the phone up and went back to his car. He sat behind the wheel and
thought. It wasn’t like Hawley to go on his own on an investigation. The Inspector
preferred to have witnesses to what happened when he was out and about.

So what was going on with Hawley? And how did he find out?

 

He decided to call Fletcher’s people again. Maybe they could spread a net out to find
Hawley. Then he could put his paranoia down to just being paranoia.

 

He went back to the phone booth and called the Operator. He asked for any help in
finding Hawley and keeping an eye on him. He would check in an hour to see if they
had been able to do anything.

 

He didn’t know how widespread a net Fletcher’s people could throw out, but he knew
he couldn’t wait on them to produce results.

 

He had to do something.

 

Where would Brown take Hawley if Brown had taken Hawley?

 

Smuggling was Brown’s main source of income from what they could find. He
controlled docks along the Thames for that. Would he take Hawley there?

 

It seemed reasonable to Rafferty. Once Brown was done with Hawley, a ride down
the river could be arranged.

 

How did he find the right dock or warehouse that Hawley should be at if Brown
had taken him?

 

The fact that might be a little bit paranoid for no real reason danced in his head.

 

He decided to make sure, and when he was wrong, he would go about his business
of being a masked nemesis. If Brown thought he was the new masked man on the
scene, then using his friend to get the books back was a logical next step.

 

They probably had his pub staked out to keep an eye on him so they could call with
the ransom demand.

 

Of course, when Brown got his books back, Rafferty expected a bullet for him and
Hawley to settle things.

 

Hurting Brown was a good way to make others think he wasn’t as tough as he used
to be. It also pushed him into having to make an example of you when he knew
who you were.

 

Rafferty drove through the docklands slowly. He didn’t have the addresses of what
Brown owned. He was looking for a familiar face to point him in the right direction.

 

Once he had that, he could ask more pointed questions of the next man in line.

 

And if Brown hadn’t done anything to Hawley, it still added on the pressure of
pushing the mobster out of position.

 

It was hard to ship guns and cigarettes from a burning pile of brick.

 

Rafferty saw a familiar face standing in a doorway to a cigarette shop. He was busy
lighting up, and not watching the sparse traffic. He seemed alone at the moment.

 

The ex-detective drove along the block and pulled into a lot reserved for shopping.
He pulled on his mask and got out of the car. It was time to ask some questions.

 

There was a certain liberty about taking the law into your own hands. He wondered
if that was how Guy Fawkes felt when he wanted to blow up Parliament.

 

Rafferty walked along until he saw the glow of the cigarette in the dark. He pulled
the Webley and held it by his leg as he committed himself to the approach. He
couldn’t let the man give the alarm, or pull a weapon. Once the other mobsters were
alerted, who knew what they would do to Hawley.

 

“Make a sound and it will be the last thing you do,” warned Rafferty.

 

“I’m just standing here on the corner,” said the mobster. “I’m not doing anything.”

 

“Where’s your boss?,” asked Rafferty.

 

“I have no idea,” said the gunman. “I assume that he is conducting business.”

 

“Then what are you doing down here, Simpson?,” asked Rafferty. 

 

“Minding my own business,” said Simpson.

 

“I guess that’s what I’m doing too,” said Rafferty. “Which of these is he in?”

 

“Find out on your own, copper,” said Simpson.

 

“You wish I was a copper,” said Rafferty. “Start walking. No one is going to notice
another piece of trash in the river.”

 

Simpson jumped at the masked man with hands outstretched. He got the butt of the
gun next to his ear and went down. He didn’t feel the next blow to the back of his
head.

 

Rafferty shook his head. Something was going on. How did he deal with it?

 

He dragged Simpson back into the doorway and tied him down with his tie. That
was the best he could do for the moment. He searched the man and found a set of
keys. Which doors did these fit into?

 

What did he want to do now? There were a lot of doors on this side of the street. He
checked the one Simpson was in first. One key opened it right up. He slipped inside.

He decided that after his search, he could call Fletcher and see if the organization
could send people down to search everything for him. That would keep his two
identities separate. He liked that as an excuse for tossing the whole district and seeing
what would turn up.

 

A lot of Brown’s rivals and colleagues would not like that to happen.

 

Rafferty searched the building. He didn’t find anything. He thought something would
be there. Did Simpson have a car? That was a question that needed to be answered.

He looked at the keys on the ring. One of them went to a car. If he could find that car,
he could use that to hold Simpson until his search was over.

 

He headed back out on the street and walked down the block. He found a parked car
in an alley between Simpson’s lookout and the next building in line. He opened the
trunk and noted the blood on the edge of the door.

 

Did Brown own the next building too?

 

Rafferty tried the keys and one of them opened the front door. He stepped inside and
looked around. Guards leveled pistols at him. He raised his hands.

 

“Is that you in the mask, Rafferty?,” asked Brown. “I want my books back.”

 

“I already handed them off, Brown,” said Rafferty. “Some codebreaker is going over
them to see where your money is going.”

 

“I doubt that,” said Brown. “I think you’re in this on your own.”

 

“Maybe,” said Rafferty. “But how do you think I caught on to Bones so fast. The
people that recruited already knew where he was. All I had to do was pick him up.
They had him working for the Jerries.”

 

“So some secret branch of the government asked you to come after me?,” said Brown.

“That’s rich. What’s your next lie?”

 

“It doesn’t matter what you do to me, or Hawley,” said Rafferty. “These people will
just pick another man to wear the mask and send him after you. They’ll say
something like the initial bloke didn’t work out, but this one will. And then you’ll
have another commando nipping at your heels. Only he’ll be helped by the accounting
books I stole and handed over.”

 

“So there’s no point in keeping you two around,” said Brown. He stepped out of the
shadows in the back. “We’ll just have to take you for ride on the river.”

 

“Just shoot me now,” said Rafferty. “I would like that a lot better.”

 

“Don’t tempt me,” said Brown. “We had that whole frame with Corklin and you still
broke it somehow. It got you kicked, but not in prison like I wanted. Then here you
are, burning down my property, costing me time, shooting up my employees, making
me look bad in front of my professional rivals. What I really want is to hang your
head over my door in my office. Since I can’t have that, I will be glad to sink you in
the river. If another masked man comes along, I’ll plant him right next to you.”

 

“Do you really think so, Mick,” said Rafferty. “The next bloke might not want to put
you in jail.”

 

Who knew where Fletcher would get his next vigilante? Any Army type might want
to sit back and just shoot the target instead of proving he did it.

 

Rafferty thought maybe that was what he should have done himself. Petty harassment
only got you so far.

 

Now how did he get out of this mess? If he escaped on his own, Hawley could still
be killed. If he didn’t, no one would know what would happen. Fletcher might guess
but that didn’t mean a lot.

 

He had to do something before it was too late. As long as he was moving, Brown
might keep Hawley alive. If he stopped, they were as good as dead.

 

Rafferty threw himself backwards. He fell in the doorway, and rolled out of the
building to the sidewalk. He took a step to the rib on his way. He pulled the Webley
and waited.

 

Brown’s men rushed to the door. He fired at them, hoping to make them think twice
about coming out of the building. He rolled into the gutter and crawled away from
his shooting spot. Bullets chewed up the sidewalk around him as he worked his
way down the street.

 

Rafferty fired the rest of the bullets in his pistol as he pulled himself to his feet
and ran for the corner. He had to get some place where he could defend himself
and hold them off until someone showed up to investigate the noise.

 

He took a moment to reload as he watched the front of the building. Would they come
out after him? Would they wait for him to try and rescue Hawley?

 

Was Hawley alive?

 

He didn’t see any of the gunmen. What would he do? He imagined he would go out
some other way to avoid being shot.

 

How many other doors were there in that building?

 

Rafferty retreated down to the next corner. They weren’t coming out the door
he did. Where would they come out?

 

He heard a window open above. He fired at it before he thought. It could have
been some washer woman. A gangster fell out of the window.

 

He realized the buildings on this row were connected. He should have known
that. Cargo went in one door and out another on the other end of the block to avoid
anybody watching them.

 

He went over and grabbed the pistol that had dropped with the mobster and any spare
ammunition. He kept an eye on the windows in case someone else decided to attack.

He went to the next corner. How did he turn this around to his benefit?

 

He should have stayed in the Army. That would make this so much easier.

 

He decided to see if the ring of keys he had fit one of the back doors on the block. He
needed to get in before they cleared out. Hawley might have already taken a bullet to
the head to keep him quiet as a potential witness.

 

[csyphrett]

Secret Service

1938

16

Rafferty decided not to try the door on the end. He already knew some of Brown’s men had taken up a spot there. He needed to get inside one of the buildings in the middle and try to figure out how they connected internally.

 

If he could find Hawley, and get the man away, then the inspector would be able to testify to the kidnaping.

 

Of course, Brown would say he was somewhere else and pay enough people to prove it in court. He had to do something to prevent that. He didn’t know what he could do unless it was to kill the man and then flee before the inspector could arrest him. He considered if Fletcher knew people who could give him another identity somewhere else. Other parts of the country might need a masked man to look into things after this was over.

 

A man of his experience should have no trouble setting himself up somewhere in a new job, with a new name, and a new history.

 

Rafferty ran up the short steps to a door that didn’t look that dangerous. He tried the knob before he used the keys on it. He used the keys to unlock it and push it open. He slipped inside and listened.

 

He heard voices and footsteps overhead. He looked around and saw a set of steps heading to a second floor. He went up the stairs, frowning at the creaking he was doing trying to be sneaky.

 

At least no one noticed him from the way the voices carried on. He realized they were looking for him in the street. He supposed he had ducked inside before they saw him. He checked the Webley. He was ready to shoot as soon as he had a target. He needed to find one.

 

He advanced on the voices, pistol leveled ahead of him. He found a room to his right where two men watched the street. He didn’t have to shoot them if he could get within touching distance.

 

He brought the butt of the Webley down on the back of the right hand man’s head. The man’s hat absorbed some of the blow, but he went down in a daze. Another blow to the head put him down for the count.

 

The other man turned when his comrade went down. A gloved hand slammed him against the window. Then a boot caught him in the chest. He went through the window and out on the street.

 

Rafferty turned toward the door. He went to stand beside it and waited.

 

Three more men crowded through the door. They received gun shots to the legs. They went down as the cloud of smoke spread in the air.

 

Rafferty dropped his revolver in his coat pocket. He searched his victims and took their weapons. He waited for a few minutes before venturing out of the room. He didn’t want to walk into an ambush after being so successful.

 

Rafferty made his way down to the last room in the hall. He scanned it from the door. He thought that maybe there should be a secret door, but he didn’t have an idea how to open it.

 

Did he go out the door, and move down to the next front in line? Did he wait? Someone must have heard the gunfire. Brown would want it checked out. Would they surround the building from the street? They didn’t have to come in after
him if they didn’t care about the building.

 

It would be just as easy to burn the place down and wait for him to try to escape. He had done enough of that in the Great War.

He walked into the room. He examined the wall. He walked over and began searching for a release with his hands. He heard a click. The wall snapped out a few millimeters. He grabbed the edge with his hand and pulled it open, using the thing as a makeshift shield.

 

Bullets dug into the wood and plaster he hid behind. He ducked down as splinters flew through the air. He pulled one of the stolen pistols from his coat. He opened fire. A cry of pain rewarded him.

 

How many more gunmen still roamed the place? He had lost count. He hoped that he had shot most of them.

 

He needed to advance. Once he cut through the mobsters in front of him, he could find Hawley and get the hostage out of the way. Then he and Mick Brown could have a little talk about things.

 

He doubted he could go back to using James Rafferty as a cover since Brown had just told everyone he was the man in the mask. He needed some kind of next step to protect his life.

 

Before that, he had to rescue Hawley and put a bullet in Brown. When that was done, he could think about constructing a new life outside the mask.

 

He doubted Hawley would like a vigilante sponsored by the government to circumvent the laws.

 

Rafferty pushed through the door. He saw one man writhing on the floor. He didn’t see any others. Could that one man be the only one left? How many more men were in the complex? What would Brown do now? Those two questions seemed more important than anything else.

 

He could still kill Hawley. No one would say he was there. Rafferty wouldn’t be able to prove anything since he was there as his masked alter ego.

 

Only Fletcher would believe Rafferty’s account. No one else would, even with the number of men shot. They would put that down to a rival gang, or the ex-detective. And none of it pointed to Brown.

 

The only thing in his favor was he still had the accounting books. Brown needed them back. If the contents were decoded, a lot of people other than Brown would be headed to court.

 

That would put Brown’s head on the chopping block better than any other thing Rafferty could do.

 

Rafferty kicked the shot man in the head so he could hear other sounds better. If he had time, he would call an ambulance down to haul the mobster away. First, he had to work his way back to Hawley and get him free, if he were still alive.

He worked his way forward, eyes on the doors ahead. He didn’t want to get shot because he missed someone hiding in a room.

 

Rafferty heard something click behind him. He looked over his shoulder as he took cover in the next room off the hall.

The door to the other building had closed after he had entered the building he was in.

 

The clicking he heard came from someone working the lock on the door. It swung open. Men crowded in the entrance.

 

Rafferty pulled one of the other stolen pistols from his coat. He hoped that would be enough to deal with the crowd he saw. Bullets flew down the hall as the men spotted him bounding for cover.

 

He waited for the shooting to pause. He doubted the gangsters had learned fire discipline. He expected them to run out ammunition at the same time.

 

He hunkered down and waited. Splinters of wood and plaster peeled from the wall above him. He hoped they didn’t adjust for the fact that he might have ducked down from standing at his full height at the edge of the door.

 

The shooting stopped as the gangsters ran out of ammunition, or paused because they didn’t want to waste ammunition on a target that might be dead. Nervous hands reloaded as they waited for something to happen.

 

Rafferty fell across the threshold of the door, arms extended. He shot until he ran out of bullets in the automatics he had stolen. Cries of pain rewarded him as the men were caught in the stream of lead and fell to the floor.

 

The masked man discarded the empty weapons and pushed himself up. He ran down to the end of the hall. He had one more loaded weapon. He had spare magazines for it. Once he crossed the other side of the next secret door, it would be him and whomever Brown had left as guards.

 

He worked the secret switch on the hidden door and opened it. He took a moment to glance around. No one blocked him.

Rafferty worked his way down to the next door. He opened that and found himself above where he had escaped earlier. Hawley sat tied to his chair with a gag in his mouth.

 

He didn’t see Brown, or a guard. Where had the mobster gone? Why had he left Hawley tied to his chair?

 

He didn’t see any way down from where he stood. He looked around again. A ladder ran up the wall to the door. All he had to do was slide down that to the floor. He felt that the situation was a trap of some kind.

 

What did he do?

 

The prudent thing would be to go back and go out one of the side doors to the street, and circle around to the door to the room on the ground floor. The ladder had to be the trap.

 

How did he get around it?

 

He gauged the height of the door from the floor. He expected that someone would come in shooting if he remained on the ladder for any length of time. So he had to get down and get to cover before the trap sprang shut.

 

He dropped down to the floor and rolled to one side. That saved his knees so they wouldn’t be hurt by a direct drop. The roll carried him away from the ladder. He heard the door open as he pulled the last stolen pistol from his coat.

 

The door opened on the other side of the room. He leveled the pistol and fired before the new arrival could fire his own automatic. The last thing he wanted at this stage was to get Hawley killed after everything he had been through.

 

Rafferty pulled himself to his feet. He dumped out the magazine of his pistol and reloaded as he ran to the door. He kicked Hawley’s chair over as he passed. He didn’t need the inspector to catch a stray bullet when things were this close to being
resolved.

 

If he could take the fight out in the street, he might be able to drive Brown and the rest of his gang off. That would cause Brown to flee the city, if not the country. That would make the gangster someone else’s problem.

 

He paused at the door. He didn’t want to be caught in the same trap as the one he had turned around. Don’t run out if you can’t see where your enemy is. He peeked out. Brown’s men had Browning rifles in hand. He slammed the door shut.

He needed help to get out of this.

 

He ran to where Hawley lay tied to his chair. The inspector had some blood and bruising on his face. It looked like all the flying lead had missed him.

 

Rafferty cut the gag away with a pocket knife. He kept an eye on the door as he sawed at the rope holding the inspector in its grasp.

 

“Rafferty?,” asked the inspector. “What the blazes?”

 

“It’s my new job,” said Rafferty. “Can you move on your own?”

 

“I think so,” said Hawley. “I have to get the blood going.”

 

“All right,” said Rafferty. He went to the front door. “Each of these buildings are connected together with secret doors. Brown has some men outside with military rifles. We have three exits from this room; this door, the door on the other side of the room, and the secret door I used to get in here.”

 

“And Brown is guarding that door,” said Hawley. He went to the other door in the back of the place. He cracked it open. “We have some men out here too.”

 

“I do not fancy charging out there,” said Rafferty. “Will they come in through the secret door?”

 

“They would almost have to if they want to take advantage of having us bottled up in here,” said Hawley. “We have to do something to create a distraction and give us a chance to escape.”

 

“I’m thinking,” said Rafferty.

//187788

[csyphrett]

Secret Service

1938

17

“We have to go up the ladder,” said Rafferty. “The faster we move out of this trap the
better I’ll like it.”

 

“All right,” said Hawley. “What do we do after that?”

 

“There are windows and other doors,” said Rafferty. “The chances of being able to
escape increase if we can move before they do.”

 

“All right,” said the inspector. He went to the ladder and climbed up to the door. He
checked before pulling himself into upper room. He walked down to watch the rest
of the second floor for enemies.

 

Rafferty waited until his colleague had moved away from the top of the ladder before
climbing up. He shut the door, but didn’t know any way to lock it from their side. He
moved down to join Hawley.

 

“There’s another door at the end of this hall, and two entrances downstairs,”
whispered Rafferty.

 

“Let’s work our way down to the end and see how big a blockade Brown has thrown
up,” said Hawley.

 

Rafferty led the way. He knew how to open the doors, and he had a pistol. He could
buy time with the weapon while they looked for other ways out.

 

They were in a bind if Brown’s men invaded from both sides of the row and trapped
them in the middle. That would be the end of their escape attempt.

 

Rafferty wondered if he would be shot before being dumped in the Thames, or just
tied to an anchor and thrown in.

 

He decided that being shot was the more likely outcome of things considering what
was going on.

 

They crossed to the next area. Rafferty paused to listen. No one seemed to have
twigged to them moving out of the second building. Maybe they could get out of
there with their skins intact.

 

He opened the next door. He paused before crossing. He thought he heard a ratchet
of a bolt. He ducked back.

 

Bullets sprayed the door as it swung shut. Rafferty pointed Hawley downstairs. This
is what they thought would happen. They were going to be surrounded and cut down.

The men pulled open the door. They knew Rafferty had been hit in the first volley.

 

Rafferty ducked back in the first empty room. He waited for the door to open. Hawley
stood at the front door on the ground floor, waiting for men to burst in from the
outside. There wasn’t much the inspector could do with his bare hands. Mobsters
charged into the upper hall. Rafferty emptied the pistol as low as he dared. Men went
down. He charged forward and kicked one of the rifles downstairs while he seized
pistols for himself.

 

The rifle barked downstairs. Apparently Hawley had seen targets that needed to be
shot.

 

Rafferty scooted a loaded rifle down the steps as he went to the windows in the upper
hall. He looked out on the back. Men stood at the door, trying to get in through the
back door.

 

It looked like he would have to kill them to discourage their invasion. He didn’t like
that, but he couldn’t let them kill Hawley, and then himself. They had to be forced off
the back door before they could take the inspector by surprise.

 

Rafferty opened the window and fired down on the crowd at the door with one of his 
stolen pistols. Men went down with cries. Some shot back at him, but he had the
advantage of cover and surprise. That was enough to force them back.

 

“I think we should go,” said Hawley. He opened the back door and emptied his rifle
at the fleeing mobsters. “If we can get to a car, we can escape and get help.”

 

“Coming,” said Rafferty. He fired a couple more shots to give the enemy reason to
keep their heads down. He hurried down the staircase and out in the street behind the
inspector. He picked up some more pistols as he went.

 

“You have a car?,” asked Hawley. He had a pistol in hand to replace the empty rifle.

 

“We’ll never make it while fighting in the street,” said Rafferty. “We’re going to have
to steal one to get out of this.”

 

“All right,” said Hawley. “There’s one right there.”

 

“Cover the area,” said Rafferty. He handed him one of his pistols and opened the
driver door. He reached under the dashboard and hooked the ignition wires up. The
car started a second later. “Let’s go.”

 

The two men rolled from the trap. Bullets punched holes in the car, but it wasn’t
enough to stop Rafferty from hitting the gas. He drove out of sight, heading for his
own car.

 

“Nice mask,” said Hawley.

 

“My employer likes it,” said Rafferty. “This is going to get awkward if he knows you
know what’s going on. So I need you to keep quiet.”

 

“What is going on?,” said Hawley.

 

“I have been asked to function as an extralegal agent by someone in the ministry,”
said Rafferty. “The organization is giving me support, but I have to act on my own
and do the best I can, as well as keep my mouth shut. Mick Brown was the first target
because the thing is so new, they didn’t have anyone better for me to go after.”

 

“Brown is also a threat to any cargo heading from London to the Channel,” said
Hawley. “They might have picked you because Brown is in the way of government
control and we are at war.”

 

“Maybe,” said Rafferty. “There’s my car. Brown’s books are in it. I’m handing them
over and hoping that will lead to some arrests. The question is what will Brown do
now that you are on the loose and know he did something wrong?”

 

“I’ll have to call up the Yard and get every man I can down there to find him,” said
Hawley. “He’s likely to run now that he has been exposed. We’ll have to drag every
street in the West End for him.”

 

“You’re the only witness,” said Rafferty. “He’s more likely to go after you so he can
kill you before you can testify.”

 

“Do what you can to get your ministry to help out,” said Hawley. “Maybe both of our
organizations can find him if he burrows in.”

 

“We’ll switch cars, and then I’ll drop you off at the Yard,” said Rafferty. “If the
ministry moves, it will be behind the scenes. I get the feeling I’m the only one who
is tasked with chasing down lawbreakers. I’ll talk to the governor, and we’ll see
where we can help out.”

 

“All right,” said Hawley. “After this is over, we’re going to talk about this mask
thing. I don’t think it’s good for you.”

 

“It keeps me from doing stupid things,” said Rafferty.

 

“No, it doesn’t,” said Hawley. “It justifies doing stupid things in the name of the
Queen.”

 

“Just like the Army,” said Rafferty. He pulled his stolen car around to the other side
of the black car granted him by Fletcher. “Let’s get out of here before more villains
with guns arrive.”

 

“I couldn’t agree more,” said Hawley.

 

They switched cars and Rafferty drove away with eyes looking for Brown and his
cabal. Men struggled on the street as he passed. He didn’t see the mastermind among
them.

 

He turned and headed away from the river. He had to get Hawley to the Yard so they
could commence a clean up, and then he had to meet Fletcher somewhere and hand
over the books.

 

“Stop over by the call box,” said Hawley. “I can call the office from there.”

 

“Use the car as a shield,” said Rafferty. “We don’t know where Brown is and he
might be looking for us.”

 

“Keep an eye out yourself,” said the inspector. “You’ll be sitting still and he hates
you a lot more than he hates me.”

 

“I know,” said the masked man. He pulled in next to the curb and watched the street.
One call should mobilize the Sweeney. Regular patrols would be directed down to the
battlefield after that.

 

Hawley opened his door and left it open. He pulled the emergency phone from the
call box to him. He called the Yard. It took a few minutes to explain what was going
on, but he finally got a superintendent to authorize a full push.

 

Anyone not taken by Brown and still alive was going to the hospital for treatment.

 

Evidence would be gathered from what had been left behind. It would be Hawley in
court saying that Brown had taken him and tied him to a chair as bait. Brown would
swear it was the latest in a smear campaign against him by the police.

 

Rafferty would refuse to testify if called. He could not reveal his vigilante actions in
court, nor could he give credence that he and the masked man were one in the same.
He needed an alibi to show the court it was impossible for him to be on the scene as
Hawley and Brown claimed.

 

He thought Fletcher would help him with that to avoid exposure of his new program.

 

“All right,” said Hawley. “They’re on their way.”

 

“I have to get away from here,” said Rafferty. “Don’t say a word about this to
anyone.”

 

“Brown probably broadcasted your identity far and wide,” said Hawley. “I doubt you
will be effective after this. Thanks for saving my life.”

 

“That’s something I will take up with the governor,” said Rafferty. “It sounds like a
radio car is on the way. As soon as I know something, I will call you.”

 

“Take care, Jimmy,” said Hawley. “Maybe we’ll be lucky and Brown will have pulled
the trigger on himself over the losses we inflicted.”

 

“He’ll want to kill us first,” said Rafferty. “I’ll leave you to your business, Inspector.”

 

Rafferty drove off. He had to set up a meeting with Fletcher, and hand over the books.
Then he needed a nap, and a regrouping. He had been lucky to find Brown and
Hawley. He couldn’t count on that for a second encounter.

 

He had to think where would Brown go after this, and how would he act. How much
did killing Rafferty and Hawley weigh against a successful escape out of the city?
Would he try again?

 

How many of his gang knew that Rafferty and the masked man were the same man?
How many would try to use that to get back at him in some way?

 

Fletcher would probably pull him out of the field and fire him. He was supposed to
keep the secret. Half the underworld knew what was going on at this point.

 

If he got fired, at least he had pulled down Bones for his killing of Corklin first. That
had to count for something.

 

He smiled under his mask. It only counted because Bones followed orders from
overseas and needed to be taken out of play. No one really cared about what had
happened to him, or Corklin.

 

Tearing up Brown’s organization meant nothing if the man got away and rebuilt.
Searching for him could be done after the chaos had settled down. Time would give
him something if he let order cloak the streets again.

 

As long as the police flooded the streets, Brown would keep his head down and hide
in some property that no one should know about. When the police presence faded, he
would move to getting back in business, or fleeing the country.

 

Killing Rafferty might be high on the list of things to do before he fled the country.

The masked man pulled to the curb when he saw a phone box. He had to call in and
let Fletcher know what was going on. The man’s contacts might be able to find
Brown before the police did.

 

And he needed to know that Rafferty’s dual identity might be up for grabs when the
mob answered questions for the Yard’s detectives and constables.
 

[csyphrett]

Secret Service

1938

18

Rafferty waited for Sir Laurence in front of a block of offices just off Fleet Street
where the papers had started long ago. The knight walked along with cane tapping on
the sidewalk as he came.

 

“Come along,” said Fletcher. “We can talk while we walk.”

 

“Both Brown and Hawley know who I am,” said Rafferty. “I asked Hawley to keep
quiet, but Brown identified me in front of his goons.”

 

“That’s something to worry about if Brown is captured,” said Fletcher. “We might
have to pull your identity and ask for someone else to take your spot until we think
of something.”

 

“So I can stay on,” said Rafferty.

 

“But not as an enforcer,” said Sir Laurence. “We might have to move you into a
secondary role until we know where Hawley stands.”

 

“I’m fine with that,” said Rafferty. “The costume has some holes in it. It should be
fairly easy to sew back together.”

 

“Really?,” said Sir Laurence.

 

Rafferty hadn’t noticed in the middle of his rescue that bullets had cut through his
coat without hitting him. The uniform underneath had suffered some rips as well.

At least he could hand it over without worrying about who was going to wear it next.
As a reserve, he probably wouldn’t see any action unless someone got mouthy about
their lunch dish.

 

Changing clothes and cleaning up was the least he could do before he talked to Sir
Laurence about the situation.

 

“I’ll put the word out through the network to keep an eye out for Brown,” said
Fletcher. “What do you think he’ll do next?”

 

“I don’t know,” said Rafferty. “Grabbing Hawley was an extreme step for most
gangsters. Stirring up the peelers is bad for business.”

 

“I think he will try to kill you again,” said Fletcher. “Kidnaping the Inspector shows
that he thought you were behind everything before you confirmed it by going after
him. I don’t think he can leave either one of you alive in case something happens.”

 

“Well, Hawley is surrounded by bobbies from the Yard, and ambulance people by this
time,” said Rafferty. “I only have to worry about myself.”

 

“He’ll probably wait until you show up at your pub before he tries to do anything,”
said Fletcher.

 

“That’s the only place where I can be reliably found,” said Rafferty. “Some of his
minions are probably watching it right now.”

 

“Come with me,” said Fletcher. “Let’s hand the books over and see what can be made
of them.”

 

Fletcher led the way to a small building tucked away among others that looked the
same. He opened the door and peeked before crossing the threshold. A rail kept
visitors on side while the workers sat at desks in a open space beyond. A man with
a visor and rolled up shirt sleeves ambled to the rail to talk to Fletcher where he
waited.

 

“Hello, Larry,” said the man in the visor. “What can I do for you?”

 

“I need a decoder and accountant for a rush job, Dennison,” said Sir Laurence. “Do
you have anyone available?”

 

“Murtaugh is back from his vacation,” said Dennison. “He’s the best man I have
working.”

 

“All right,” said Sir Laurence. “I’ll pay double your usual if you can crack the code
and fill out all the entries before the end of the week.”

 

“Do you have the material with you?,” asked the manager.

 

Fletcher gestured for Rafferty to hand over the accounting books. The ex-detective
did with a questioning look on his face.

 

“Don’t worry,” said Dennison. He tucked the books under his arm. “We’ll suss
everything out and have it ready for reading in plain language on time.”

 

“Thank you, Dennison,” said Sir Laurence. “I will be waiting your report with
anticipation.”

 

“Don’t worry, Larry,” said the manager. He made a waving gesture with one hand.
“There’s no code built that we can’t crack.”

 

“Come along, Rafferty,” said Sir Laurence. “Dennison’s operators are all first rate.”

 

The two men stepped out on the street. Sir Laurence led the way, tapping the sidewalk
with his cane.

 

“Dennison’s operation is the core of message interception and translation,” said Sir
Laurence. “We’re going to war against the Germans. His people and others are going
to be here figuring out what the enemy is saying and helping us plan accordingly.”

 

“Decoding the book is something they could do as a matter of course,” said Rafferty.

 

“Dennison knows I am authorized to do whatever I have to do,” said Sir Laurence.
“So he would have decoded the book regardless. Paying him and his man something
extra on top of that will keep them from spilling anything secret they might find.”

 

“Now that is out of the way, I’m going home and staring at the walls,” said Rafferty.

 

“I think we should see if Brown is still waiting for you in case you still have his
books,” said Sir Laurence.

 

“There’s no way he could still think that,” said Rafferty. “I already told him that I
passed them along.”

 

“He won’t believe that because his people in the police department won’t be able to
find the books,” said the knight. “He will still think you kept them for whatever
reason.”

 

“So you think he will come after me again,” said Rafferty. “How do we use this to our
advantage?”

 

“The first part of the plan is to let him see you,” said Sir Laurence. “So you will have
to drop into your pub and have a drink. It should just be long enough for anyone
looking for you to call in. If we have a bite, you stay until a group of them show up
to take you away to wherever Brown is. Then we arrest him.”

 

“That sounds so dangerous, I might have to think of something more dangerous just
to say there are two things I won’t do,” said Rafferty.

 

“Do it,” said Sir Laurence. “I will be waiting for any such group who want to take you
away. You will be as safe from danger as I can make it.”

 

“That doesn’t make me feel any safer,” said Rafferty.

 

“Don’t worry,” said Sir Laurence. “I have been doing things like this most of my
life.”

 

“How do you want to do this?,” asked Rafferty.

 

“I’ll need time to get things ready,” said Fletcher. “Go home and take a break. I’ll
need you at the Unicorn in say about two hours.”

 

“All right,” said Rafferty. “I just escaped from a bunch of people trying to kill me. I
could do with a lot less of that.”

 

“Nobody is promised tomorrow,” said Sir Laurence. “Two hours.”

 

“I’ll be there,” said Rafferty. “I won’t like it, but I’ll be there.”

 

Sir Laurence veered off. He put his hand out and a cab rolled to a stop. He gave

Rafferty a wave of his hand before getting into the cab. The dark car whisked him
away.

 

Rafferty turned and started walking back the way they had come. He had to get his
own car and drive home. He wondered if Brown would make another try of things.
The man had lost most of his gang in the shootout earlier.

 

Brown couldn’t afford to have his books floating around where anyone might look
at them. He would want to get them back more than he wanted revenge on Rafferty.
So he would make another play to get the books back, and then he would go
somewhere overseas to run his business from afar.

 

It made sense to Rafferty. You couldn’t be the king of the underworld if you didn’t
know how much everyone owed you.

 

Rafferty drove home while keeping an eye out for anyone who might be interested in
his dark sedan. He probably should get something in another color to keep things
separate.

 

He smiled at the thought.

 

He would be lucky to keep the sedan if he wasn’t Sir Laurence’s attack dog anymore.
He would probably get a notice, and someone showing up to pick it up while he was
deep in the medicine of dismalness.

 

He parked the car out of sight and went up to his hiding place. He let himself in, glad
to be safe and alone. He settled in his chair and looked around. He got up and placed
another chair in front of the door. He sat back down.

 

He closed his eyes and let the memory of everything that had happened wash over
him. He envisioned his coat and uniform and realized he had been lucky to get out of
the showdown with Brown. Did he want to mix it up like that again?

 

Did he have a choice? His name was ruined. Any job other than publican would be
met by aren’t you the crooked policeman. He needed to get something of his
reputation back. If he helped take down Brown, he might be able to recover some of
that.

 

He wouldn’t be trusted as a policeman, but people would know he was a good guy.

Rafferty felt himself drift away. He had been in more dangerous situations in the last
few days than his whole time as a policeman up to that point. He hadn’t been shot at
so much since the war.

 

Maybe he should get out of the masked man business and tell Fletcher that he would
be glad to do support from now on. That would keep the danger off of him.

 

There were plenty of ways to check on things without getting shot.

 

Rafferty opened his eyes. He checked his watch. His time was up. He had to meet the
knight at the pub. He wondered what would happen if he stayed on.

 

Should he stay on after this?

 

His secret had been revealed before he had really started in the crimebusting business.
The barrister representing Billy Bones would be able to spin his involvement as a
criminal imposing his will on a weaker criminal. There was no way to fix that as far
as he was concerned.

 

Maybe Fletcher had some trick up his sleeve to silence the defense.

 

Rafferty stood and moved the second chair out of the way. He took one last look
around his new place. He smiled. He hadn’t had it long enough for it to be a new
place. He left the apartment and headed down to pick up his car.

 

Once he walked in the pub, he would know if he had a problem.

 

Brown might have put a man in to find him before he picked up Hawley. That meant
the mobster had planned to get rid of his unmasked side a long time before the
shootout in the empty buildings.

 

That meant long term planning to get rid of Rafferty. Taking the accounts books must
have triggered that response. If he had known it was that easy, he would have broken
in and taken the books when he was a policeman.

 

He drove to a spot close to the pub. He left the car in an alley. It should be safe
enough until he was done at the pub.

 

He would have to give the car back after this. He shrugged. He couldn’t expect to
keep it if he wasn’t going to be the masked man Fletcher needed.

 

He straightened his coat and pulled his hat down. He still had time before things went
in the crapper. He might as well use it.
 

[csyphrett]

Secret Service

1938

19

Rafferty walked into the Rotten Unicorn. He waved at some of the crowd he
recognized as he went to a table in the back. It was close to the kitchen in case he had
to duck out the back.

 

He settled in place. All he had to do now was wait for something to happen. How
long could that take?

 

Josie, one of the servers, approached. She smiled at Rafferty as he watched the crowd.

 

“Expecting someone?,” she said.

 

“I don’t know,” said Rafferty. “Could I have a beer?”

 

“Yes,” said Josie. “We have some fish in, and some of the chicken you like.”

 

“I don’t know how long I’ll be able to stay,” said Rafferty. “If nothing happens, I’ll
take you up on the chicken.”

 

“Right,” said Josie. “I’ll be right back.”

 

She walked away, talking to some of the patrons at the bar.

 

Rafferty watched the crowd. He didn’t see anyone acting suspicious. Maybe they
were wasting their time. He had no way of knowing. He was getting paid to wait, so
he would wait.

 

Eventually something would happen.

 

Josie came back with his beer. He sipped it as he watched the room. Would Brown
enter the pub with guns blazing? Were the customers and staff at risk? Should he be
sitting here waiting for Brown to show up?

 

He and Hawley had put a dent in Brown’s manpower. That should keep the gangster
down for a bit. No one wanted to deal with someone under official scrutiny.

 

One of the customers got up and went to the bar. He asked for the phone. He made
a hurried call. He went back to his table next to the door.

 

Rafferty leaned back in his chair. Should he make a phone call himself? Should he
wait for Sir Laurence to show up and extricate him out of this mess? Did he want to
remain where he was?

 

How much time did he have before the villains arrived to take him away?

 

He decided the best thing to do was wait. He didn’t know what was going on outside
the pub. He didn’t want to walk into an ambush. Buying time seemed reasonable to
him.

 

Sir Laurence would have someone waiting outside in case there was trouble. He
doubted there would be an excessive presence. The knight seemed to like things on
the quiet side.

 

Rafferty watched the room while he sipped his beer. No one else moved for the
phone. People going out the door talked about work and what they were doing after.
The man who had used the phone sat at his table and smoked as he looked out the
window.

 

Josie made her way around the room. She cleaned the tables as she went. She paused
at Rafferty’s table before going into the kitchen.

 

“Would you like anything else?,” she said.

 

“Could you bring me another beer, and a plate of chicken,” said Rafferty. “I might be
here for a while.”

 

“I’ll get you an order,” said Josie. “We have some greens to go with it.”

 

“That would be good,” said Rafferty. “Thanks, Josie.”

 

“I’ll bring you another glass in a moment,” said Josie. She carried the dirty glasses
into the kitchen to be washed. She walked back out and went to the bar. She poured
out a glass of beer and carried it back to Rafferty. She set it on the table with a quiet
thump.

 

“Is there a problem?,” Josie asked.

 

“I angered Mick Brown, and I think one of his men is sitting at the table next to the
door,” said Rafferty. “I think he called Brown to tell him where I am.”

 

“You don’t seem that worried,” said Josie.

 

“He won’t do anything while I am eating dinner,” said Rafferty. “He’ll wait until I
head outside.”

 

“Do you want me to call the peelers for you?,” said Josie.

 

“No,” said Rafferty. “I don’t want the police involved in whatever happens. Brown
knows people on the force. It’s better if I handle things on my own.”

 

“No, it isn’t,” said Josie. “No one messes with the Unicorn.”

 

“Don’t worry, Josie,” said Rafferty. “Things will work out. I just want to eat before
there is a problem I have to fix.”

 

“Remember what I said,” said Josie. She walked through the swinging door to the
kitchen.

 

Rafferty smiled. You messed with the Unicorn, and you got the horn. He sipped at the
unfinished first glass of beer as he watched the room and waited. If Brown did make
a play inside the pub, there would be problems for him. Would he massacre all these
witnesses?

 

He realized he had no way to be certain what Brown would do to get back on top of
his game. Kidnaping Hawley and not killing him had been a mistake. Now the whole
police force was looking for him.

 

The ex-detective watched the man by the door as he waited for his chicken. If the man
left, he would too. He couldn’t let the front of the pub be shot up just to trap his
enemy.

 

Josie came with his plate after he had finished the first beer. He thanked her as he
picked at the food with a fork. He kept an eye on his watcher as he ate.

 

How long did he have? He decided to eat half the chicken at least. The greens didn’t
matter that much to him. If the bloke got up to go, he would be right behind.

 

Rafferty sliced off pieces of chicken with his knife and fork. He ate slowly to give the
idea that he wasn’t going anywhere for some time. He didn’t want his watcher to
know that he had been spotted.

 

“Hey, Jimmy,” said Tolliver, the bartender and owner of the pub. He looked like
someone had used his face for a punching bag and his body to smuggle a laundry.
“There’s a call for you.”

 

“Thanks, Toll,” said Rafferty. He walked over and picked up the receiver. “Rafferty
here.”

 

“Operator,” said the caller. “Ready for instructions?”

 

“Go ahead,” said Rafferty. He smiled. Fletcher had a plan to solve the problem.

 

“You are to wait ten minutes, then leave the Unicorn,” said the Operator. “Turn right
and walk down the street.”

 

“Got it,” said Rafferty. “Anything else?”

 

“No,” said the Operator. He hung up.

 

Rafferty handed the phone back to Tolliver before going back to his table. He
finished the chicken and his beer in a few minutes. He waited until the time was up
before he got up and went the door. 

 

He went through and turned right like he had been instructed. The watchman came
out of the Unicorn and followed from a distance.

 

Rafferty wondered what trap was going to be sprung. He kept an eye on the street,
thinking about how empty it felt. Shouldn’t there be people walking along with him?
He heard the thumping of feet behind him. He turned.

 

The watchman had a cosh in hand as he rushed at the detective. He tried to bring the
weight in a sack down on his target’s head. Hands grabbed the arm to keep the
weapon at bay. He punched with the other hand to free his other arm.

 

Rafferty winced at the blow to his ribs. He pulled on the captured arm while turning.
He aimed his captive at the closest wall. The watchman put up a hand to protect his
face from the collision. The detective fell on the man and slammed his face in the
ground while trying to keep a grip on the wrist to keep the cosh at bay.

 

Cars rolled up. Men got out and surrounded the fight. Some of them had bandages
from what had happened earlier in the day. Mick Brown pushed through the remains
of his mob.

 

“Hands up, Rafferty,” said Brown. “It’s time for a slow ride.”

 

Rafferty stood. He held his hands up. He gave the watchman a kick in the ribs.

 

“The police are looking for you, Mick,” said Rafferty. “I think you should turn
yourself in.”

 

“I think that I am going to take care of you,” said Brown. “Then I’m leaving the
country.”

 

“Really?,” said Rafferty. He wished he had a bulletproof vest.

 

“Yes,” said Brown. He pulled a pistol from under his coat. “I need to make a public
example out of you. No one can be allowed to stand up to the Brown Gang.”

 

A black car rolled up on the other side of the gang’s transportation. A man in an old
army uniform and a face mask shot through the windows of the parked cars with a
revolver. That sent the gang scrambling.

 

Rafferty charged Brown as he ducked for cover. He hit the bigger man and they both
went down. Brown rocked him with a back hand to the face. He gritted his teeth
and slammed the man’s head against the concrete sidewalk. Brown brought the pistol
to shoot at point blank range. Rafferty fell on the arm, pointing the pistol at the man’s
own chin. The gangster pushed to get the weight off his arm so he could shoot. The
detective heaved up and crashed down with his full weight on that arm. The gun went
off.

 

Rafferty grabbed the pistol. He had seen plenty of men with their faces blown off
during the war. What was one more?

 

He rolled from the body and shot at the gang. They had concentrated their firing at
the black car and its masked driver. None had considered the detective a threat
compared to someone shooting at them. He proved them wrong in a handful of
seconds.

 

Rafferty got to his feet. He kicked weapons away from hands as he looked around.
Customers from inside the Unicorn poured out in the street. He waved at them.

The black car pulled away in a cloud of smoke.

 

Rafferty looked around. Police whistles filled the air. He made a face. It looked like
he was going to spend the rest of the night talking to his former colleagues about
what happened.

 

“Well, Jimmy,” said Tolliver. “It’s a good thing that other man saved your life, isn’t
it?”

 

Rafferty nodded. He dropped the empty pistol to the sidewalk.

[csyphrett]

Secret Service

1938

20

Rafferty stood on a street corner a few feet from the Yard entrance. He rubbed his
face as he thought about what he could do for the rest of his life.

 

He had been questioned by a new detective constable for hours. The man wanted
to know everything he had done in the last two days. He stuck with sleeping and
drinking off his depression after finding out that Corklin was dead.

 

The murdered man was the only one who could clear his reputation.

 

Now he stood on the corner and wondered what he was going to do next. He doubted
Sir Laurence was going to keep him on.

 

He had taken Mick Brown, but his identity had been revealed to Inspector Hawley
and the remains of the Brown Gang. Killing Brown had been enough of a reason for
them to come calling, but knowing he was a masked vigilante outside the law would
just add fuel to the fire.

 

A cab rolled up to the corner. He frowned as the passenger leaned over. Sir Laurence
gestured for him to get in.

 

Rafferty slid in the back seat. He frowned at the glass between them and the driver.

 

“It’s for his protection,” said Sir Laurence. “Are you reinstated?”

 

“No,” said Rafferty. “The Yard has dozens of questions about my involvement in
all this.”

 

“I know,” said Sir Laurence. “I’m afraid I can’t push from my office to get you
rehired. The other job is still open.”

 

“So you want me to play dress up and chase down thugs in the night?,” said Rafferty.

 

“Seizing Mr. Brown’s books have given us enough information to look at his partners
through legal means,” said Sir Laurence. “I imagine that some of the dock criminals
will move around as we clear one gang up for another to take its place.”

 

“And you want me to harass these growing gangs?,” asked Rafferty.

 

“I would prefer surgical strikes where you cut away the parts we’re interested in,”
said Sir Laurence. “I expect things will go worse than that.”

 

“What about Hawley?,” asked Rafferty.

 

“I talked to the Inspector,” said Sir Laurence. “He has been read in to the public face
of the organization. He knows he is not to talk to anyone until he is released.”

 

“When will that happen?,” said Rafferty.

 

“Possibly never,” said Sir Laurence. “The war we’re undertaking will possibly create
a hole in the power structures of Europe that the Commandoes will be needed long
after our lifetimes are over.”

 

“So we’ll be fighting another world war,” said Rafferty.

 

“We’ll be fighting a different sort of war,” said the knight. “We’ll be fighting in the
shadows to do things that no other force could hope to do. More public branches
will be moving to help the Allied Command in planning and execution behind enemy
lines.”

 

“And we will be helping the war effort by keeping problems here at home down,”
said Rafferty.

 

“There won’t be any glory in it,” said Sir Laurence. “You already knew that when
you were assigned to look into the Brown Gang. The mask is more important than
the man.”

 

“Who was the man who saved my life outside of the Unicorn?,” said Rafferty.

 

“You don’t need to know that,” said Sir Laurence. “I’m recruiting more Commandoes
from across the commonwealth. You’re the first, but not the last.”

 

“What’s next?,” said Rafferty.

 

“I’m going to drop you off,” said Sir Laurence. “Then you are to take a week to
think about things. Call the Operator when you’re ready. There will be an assignment
waiting on you.”

 

“The spy network?,” asked Rafferty.

 

“MI-6 wants to leave it in place,” said Sir Laurence. “Capturing Bones has forced
them to look elsewhere for a contract killer.”

 

“So we’re going to foil them by letting them try to kill someone and taking out
their shooter?,” said Rafferty.

 

“No,” said Sir Laurence. “I already have things in place. Enjoy your week. Remember
to file a report about everything you have done. We’ll need it to find other links

to Brown’s operations. If you want to keep going after that week, call the Operator.”

 

"Can I ask a personal question?,” said Rafferty.

 

“Just one,” said Sir Laurence.

 

“How much of this have you done before?,” Rafferty asked.

 

“Quite a bit actually,” said Sir Laurence. “The old organization was asked to disband
after the war. The ministry didn’t need us, and wouldn’t for a long time was the
common view. After the Prime Minister met with Hitler, the call went out to
reactivate my old unit. The problem was there was only two of us left. So I was asked
to take on the responsibility to execute the Commando Program’s birth, and I agreed.”

 

“Thank you,” said Rafferty. “That explains a lot.”

 

“I’m going to let you out here,” said Sir Laurence. He rapped on the window. “Try
not to do anything stupid before you call.”

 

The cab pulled to the curb. Rafferty got out, looking around. He had paid sporadic
attention to where they were going. He smiled. He had been put out within walking
distance of the Unicorn. He should have expected that.

 

He walked down to the pub and stepped inside. The regulars hadn’t started coming
in yet. He had time to get something and head for home before he had to start
answering questions from the crowd.

 

“Oi!,” said Josie. “It’s the prodigal son returned at last.”

 

“How’s it going?,” said Rafferty.

 

“It was an exciting few minutes after the police hauled you off, Jimmy,” said Tolliver.
He poured a glass of beer from a spigot behind the bar. He handed it over.

 

“I’m sure,” said Rafferty. “It’s been a long boring talk in a featureless room for
me the last day, or so. I would like to have your famous chicken dinner if you don’t
mind.”

 

“I don’t see why not,” said Tolliver. “What’s going on?”

 

“Nothing,” said Rafferty. “I have a job offer to consider, but my days as a detective
constable are over as far as the Crown is concerned. You already knew that, so there’s
not much to add to it.”

 

“Working for that toff we saw you with, Jimmy?,” said Josie.

 

“I’m thinking about it,” said Rafferty. “It’s investigative work, it pays, and it’s
something I’m good at.”

 

“Finding bad apples is a knack you have,” said Tolliver. He poured himself a shot
of whiskey. He sipped it. “What happens to the neighborhood?”

 

“Nothing,” said Rafferty. “Apparently I will have time off so I can keep an eye on
things around here, and the old place. I don’t know what I will be doing next, but it
won’t be anything rougher than what I was doing for the Yard.”

 

“How many times you get shot at working for the peelers, Jimmy?,” said Tolliver.
“Maybe you should consider things before you jump into them.”

 

“I still have to pay the rent,” said Rafferty. “Not all of us are a rich landlord,
restauranteur, and wine dealer with an interest in exotic cheeses.”

 

“You said you wouldn’t say anything about the cheeses,” said Tolliver. “That is
between me and my supplier.”

 

“As long as that supplier wasn’t Mick Brown, you should be okay,” said Rafferty.

 

“You did for him, chum,” said Tolliver. “You better watch your back when the rest
of those blokes get out of prison. They’ll figure out if they want to start over, or join
someone else, and then some of them will come looking for you.”

 

“I think that would be a bad idea for them to do,” said Rafferty. “War is coming on,
and settling scores will be a bad idea.”

 

“Having bad ideas never stopped no one from trying them out,” said Tolliver.

 

“I can’t argue with that,” said Rafferty. He glanced at his glass. He had drank half
while they were talking. He might need to keep an eye on that. He didn’t want to get
so drunk that his reflexes suffered.

 

Mick Brown’s gang wasn’t the only people who might want to have a talk with him
now that he wasn’t protected by the Yard’s authority.

 

The change of living quarters had probably been a good idea even though he had
thought he had been compromised as early as his first night going after Brown.

 

He had to be more careful dealing with the next target on Fletcher’s list. He didn’t
want them even thinking they could threaten the Unicorn to get to him.

 

He doubted that Fletcher wanted him to burn everything to the ground.

 

He was not opposed to the idea. He doubted he would have to be that extreme chasing
down other criminals. Some of them would be reeling from what had happened to
Brown. It would make them easy targets.

 

He sensed that Fletcher would use him to target criminals known to be operating
against the government in some fashion. It would be up to him to expand the list of
potential targets he might want to chase down.

 

He wondered if he could get information on criminals that weren’t targeted by the
Commandoes.

 

Josie appeared with a plate of grilled chicken, brussel sprouts, and a piece of celery.
She put it on the bar with a flourish.

 

“Looks good,” said Rafferty. He finished his glass of beer. “Can I have another?”

 

Josie drew more beer from the tap for him. She handed the glass back.

 

“Thanks,” said Rafferty. “The toff gave me a week to think about the job. I’m going
to call him tomorrow and see what he has for me.”

 

“Be careful, Jimmy,” said Josie. “Running against the likes of Mick Brown can’t
be good.”

 

“Don’t worry,” said Rafferty. “I’ll protect the Unicorn with my life.”

 

“That goes without saying,” said Tolliver.

 

Rafferty smiled as he dug into his lunch. He felt this was worth fighting for even if
you didn’t know who you were fighting, or why. Fletcher would do what he could for
him but if he needed to be sent out to get something done, it would be to get
something done and not to waste time on a goal that meant nothing.

 

And Fletcher would help him protect his neighborhood as part of the deal.

 

He still had to work out where he stood with Hawley, but that could wait until he
knew where he stood with himself first. Most police did vigilante actions sometimes,
but now he had to do it as part of a job. That wouldn’t sit well with the inspector.

 

He wondered how much Fletcher revealed about his organization. He might have
traded Brown’s records for silence. On the other hand, he might have said be silent,
or it’s to the tower with you. If you were going to abuse the law to set up masked men
to target criminals, you were not going to stop because an inspector said something.

 

Rafferty finished his food and beer. He smiled as he headed out the door. He needed
to get a nap and then head out into the night life and look around.

 

Other bad men wanted Brown’s spot. This would be his chance to look at some of
them.

 

He might have to visit them later as his other face.

//195272

[csyphrett]

Inherit the Monsters

1955

1

Deputy Bernard Strife ambled along the sidewalk. He did two walking patrols of the
downtown such as it was of Earle City, Georgia. Three stores, a diner, a hotel, the jail,
a saloon, and a doctor/vet/dentist office made up the strip that he walked. When he
did that, he would take the car and drive out to the edges of the county since he also
did two driving patrols a day too.

 

Two other deputies and the sheriff shared responsibilities with him. He didn’t trust
the other deputies, and the sheriff seemed a bit lackadaisical.

 

On the other hand, Earle City’s biggest claim to fame was not being burned down by
Sherman.

 

Strife paused outside Luke’s General Store to look inside the window. Two kids
loaded up their pockets from the candy aisle while Luke rang a customer up. The kids
ran for the door while the shopkeeper made change. The deputy blocked their way
with his thin body.

 

“Empty your pockets,” said Strife. He felt he could catch them if they ran.

 

“We don’t have to do that if we don’t want to,” said the older boy. The other boy
nodded in agreement.

 

“Empty your pockets,” said Strife. “Or I’ll empty them for you.”

 

“What’s the problem, Barn?,” asked Luke. He and his female customer stood at the
door to the store. The woman slid around the boys and walked away.

 

“I caught these two stealing,” said Strife. “If they don’t empty their pockets, I’m
going to find out who they are and take them home to talk to their parents.”

 

“I know who they are,” said Luke. “These are Vernon Pressley’s boys.”

 

“The drunk on Fifty?,” said Strife. “Let’s go talk to your pa. I’m sure he will be glad
to see you rolling up in a police car.”

 

The two boys dumped out their pockets as fast as they could. Candy dropped to the
sidewalk. They looked up at Strife. The youngest held back tears.

 

“Don’t go into Luke’s anymore,” said the deputy. “Don’t steal. Don’t be stupid. Now
get out of here.”

 

The boys ran like the Devil was chasing them. Strife watched them go. He hoped he
had straightened them out, but their father was a drunk slob who only worked when
he couldn’t freeload. No one knew where Mrs. Pressley had gone. The deputy thought
she was buried on the lot they owned.

 

Busting Vernon Pressley’s face with a baton would be the makings of a good day.
Putting him in Old Sparky would be even better.

 

Luke looked down at the candy. Most of it had been warped out of shape by being in
the boys’ pockets. He needed to get his broom and dustpan to sweep the mess up.

 

Strife walked down to the diner. He frowned at crowd gathered in the place. He liked
to hit the diner last because it was right by the jail. He could go in, get a cup of coffee,
get a patrol car, then drive his route on the county’s back roads.

 

Now he had a group of black sharecroppers, a group of white townies and farmers,
and Bud Leeke, the owner of the diner, shouting at each other. He frowned. He didn’t
need a riot.

 

“What’s going on here?,” Strife shouted at the top of his voice. It squeaked to his
embarrassment.

 

“These negras don’t want to get out,” said one of the farmers.

 

“Deputy,” said one of the black men. He wore a suit and tie. “We just want some
lunch before we go back to work.”

 

“Get out of here, Darkie,” said the farm boy.

 

“Shut up, Toothless,” said Strife. He frowned at the two groups. “So what I have here
is twenty five men and boys that will be sharing the three cells of the jail for the next
day. That’s eight and a third men to a cell.”

 

“Can’t you get them out of here, Deputy?,” said Leeke, standing as tall as he could
behind his counter. He stepped on a box behind it to give him the extra height he
needed to run it.

 

“What do you think I’m doing?,” said Strife. “Running a social? The jail is right over
there. Start walking.”

 

“I don’t want to be locked up with no negras,” said the farmer.

 

“You should have thought of that before you disturbed the peace,” said Strife. “I
know it will be a bit crowded, and two of your cells will have to hold nine men, but
it’ll only be for twenty four hours.”

 

“Some of these people still owe me money,” said Leeke. “You can’t just lock them
up before they pay me.”

 

“Yes, I can,” said Strife. “Now if these groups of men were to order their food, pay
for their food, and leave, I might use the discretionary power of my office to just issue
a warning.”

 

“What?,” said Toothless.

 

“I said get your food in a bag and run for the hills before I decide to open your melon
like I was carving a jack o’lantern, you moron,” said Strife. “Get in line and let’s go.
Otherwise, it’s the hoosegow for whomever wants to stay here and get on my nerves.”

 

“You can’t do this,” was the general rumble. Strife frowned at the challenge to his
authority.

 

“Do I have to shoot one of you idiots?,” said the deputy. “You know I will. It will be
just like being back in Korea. Let’s go, you knuckleheads. Let’s go!”

 

The men got in line like the broken keyboard of a piano. None of them looked too
happy about the arrangement. Strife stood by the door, one hand hanging down by the
thirty eight he had bought when he was hired as a deputy.

 

He had only had to use it once. One of Jim Lynch’s cows had been hit by a truck. He
had come on the scene afterward. He put the cow down to end its suffering.

 

He decided he could put some of these idiots down to end his suffering.

 

The crowd got smaller as Leeke’s kitchen crew made their orders, bagged them, and
sent them up front. Bud took the money with expressions of disdain and anger. He
looked over at the deputy. Strife glared back with eyes of hatred.

 

When the last man in line left, Strife looked out in the street to make sure he didn’t
have to break up trouble out there too. It would be just like the idiots to start fighting
after he gave them an easy out.

 

“You cleared out the lunch crowd,” said Leeke.

 

“I’ll be back to clear them out for dinner too,” said Strife. “Cup of coffee, please.”

 

“That mob is going to get you fired, Strife,” said Leeke. He poured out a cup of black
coffee. “They’ll see it as meddling in the way of things.”

 

“Until they do, they better keep the peace,” said Strife. He sipped his coffee. “I don’t
have time to babysit children because they don’t like the way things are changing.”

 

“Good luck on that,” said Leeke. “Afternoon patrol?”

 

“Someone’s got to do it,” said Strife. “I’ll be back to keep an eye on things.”

 

“Earle City is losing a bit of itself everyday,” said Leeke. “Pretty soon, the only thing
here will be this diner and the jail.”

 

“And I will still be doing patrols until that day comes,” said Strife. He finished his
coffee. “Put up a sign that says you don’t want black people eating here, Bud. It’ll cut
down on your problems.”

 

“Why?,” said Leeke. “Their money is just as good as a white man’s.”

 

Strife shook his head as he headed out of the diner. He walked over to the jail and got
behind the wheel of the patrol car. He turned the engine over and started out of town.

The county wasn’t that big, and most of it was given to farms of one kind or another.
Earle City served as the county seat, with housing around the strip for people working
in town, or out on the farms. It usually took Strife about an hour to circle the area and
return to town. Sometimes he would run into something he had to deal with before
he could get back to town.

 

That afternoon Strife saw a stranger walking along the road. He wore a dun
trenchcoat and smoked a cigar. Upraised eyebrows formed natural question marks on
the craggy face. The deputy pulled to a stop beside the walker.

 

“Need help?,” Strife asked.

 

“Not really, Deputy,” said the stranger. “I’m going down to visit my friend, Joe.”

 

“Joe who?,” asked Strife. There were five Joes within reach of where they talked.

 

“Carlson,” said the stranger. “He lived down the road here the last time I came
through.”

 

“He’s not living down there now,” said Strife. “He’s at Holly Oak Cemetery.”

 

“Really?,” said the stranger. “What did he die of if I might inquire?”

 

“I don’t know,” said Strife. “I just know one of the other deputies was asked to make
a check and they found him dead.”

 

“Holly Oak Cemetery?,” asked the stranger.

 

“Get in and I’ll take you over there,” said Strife. “It’s on my way back to town.”

 

The stranger got in the front seat. He puffed on his cigar as he pulled his coat around
him.

 

“You know Joe long?,” asked Strife. He pulled off the shoulder of the road and
headed along the back roads toward town.

 

“Almost all of his life,” said the stranger. “I knew his old man too.”

 

“I don’t remember seeing you in Earle City before,” said Strife.

 

“I come through once in a while,” said the stranger. “It’s okay.”

 

Strife looked at his passenger. The man smoked his cigar, and looked out the
opened window. He seemed harmless enough.

 

The cemetery’s fence appeared as they drove down the road. The deputy looked for
the gate as the car rolled along. He pulled in to the main drive and pulled off the road.
He got out and looked around.

 

The man in the coat walked around the car. He chewed on his cigar. He examined the
generally flat stones mixed with more angelic monuments and tombs.

 

“I think Joe’s grave is over this way,” said Strife. He picked a path on the lawn and
started walking. He checked the names on the stones as he went. He paused when he
reached the Carlson grave.

 

A mound of dirt sat on one side. Carlson’s open coffin rested in the bottom of the
opened grave.

 

Strife looked around. He stood alone in the empty graveyard. The man in the coat
had vanished while he was looking for the right grave.

 

Strife rubbed the back of his head. He had an open grave and a stranger in town
looking for the deceased. What did he do about it?

 

The first thing he needed to do was let the sheriff know about it so they could be on
the look out for Joe Carlson, or the other man, walking around.

 

He doubted anything would get done unless he came up with something, but at that
moment he was stumped and didn’t like it.

 

Strife walked back to the patrol car. He got behind the wheel. He picked up the radio
mike. What should he say?

 

He decided that a simple report should be enough. Once it was logged, the sheriff
might run with it, or he might turn it over to the State Police.

 

Strife didn’t think there was enough around to search anywhere for the body.

The only evidence he saw was his footprints in the grass. The body snatchers might
have left clues for anyone else to find, but he doubted it.

 

He triggered the mike. He might as well get this over with so he could head in
and write a report on it.

 

“Sheriff’s Office?,” he said into the mike. “This is Strife.”

 

“Go ahead, Barney,” said the sheriff.

 

“I have a missing body down here at Holly Oak,” said Strife. “Did we get an
exhumation order no one told me about?”

 

“Not that I know of,” said the sheriff. “What do you have?”

 

“Someone dug up Joe Carlson and took him,” said Strife.

 

“I’ll call around and see if there was a problem,” said the sheriff. “Stay out there and
make sure they don’t take anyone else.”

 

“Sure,” said Strife.
//197347

[csyphrett]

Inherit the Monsters

1955

2

Deputy Strife shook his head as the sun went down. He had been on the scene at the
cemetery for hours. The sheriff still hadn’t called back to release him. Abandoning
his post looked good at the moment.

 

He doubted anyone else was on the way to take over for him. The sheriff probably
forgot to release him.

 

It had happened once before at a wreck heading up to Atlanta. The sheriff had
allowed him to stand on the side of the road after the cars and passengers had been
cleared out by tow trucks and ambulances. His explanation was he had forgotten to
send the all clear.

 

Strife grumbled in the descending dark. Goldbricker probably forgot him again. What
did he do about it?

 

He checked his watch. He would give the goobers one more hour. After that, he was
going back to the office and checking out.

 

Strife saw a spark in his mirror. He got out of the car. He looked out of the gate.
Something burned in the distance.

 

Earle City didn’t have a fire department. Out on the edge of the county, he might be
able to call a company from one of the bigger municipalities. He needed to see where
the fire burned before he did that.

 

Strife got back into his car and turned it around. He headed out of the gate and rolled
toward the glow. If he got back to the cemetery and it was empty, a fire took
precedent over a graverobber.

 

The sheriff should have sent one of the others to sit on the cemetery. Sitting in place
for hours seemed to be all they were good at doing.

 

Strife realized the burning was on a farm back off the main road. He wondered if they
were burning debris. Should he bother checking it?

 

He decided he was still on duty for the next forty five minutes. He might as well at
least look at it.

 

He pulled up to a gated fence. He got out of his car. The fire burned behind the
farmhouse. He thought he saw people out there. He decided to check it. If it was the
owners, it had gotten him out sitting on his butt. If it was trespassers, it had gotten
him out of sitting on his butt.

 

The fence consisted of wooden slats fixed in upright planks. The gate rested
awkwardly on its hinges. He didn’t bother opening it so he could drive up. He jumped
the fence and marched across the lot toward the farmhouse.

 

He wondered what was going on. It didn’t seem right to have a bonfire. Maybe it was
the Klan.

 

Strife walked over to the bonfire. The figures he had seen were pylons stuck in the
ground. Little flags flew from their tops. He looked at the farmhouse. A family stood
there. The father had a bleeding cut on his forehead.

 

“Anybody want to tell me what’s going on?,” Strife asked.

 

“These people came and set our yard on fire,” said the mother. “Then they danced
around the flame, and said some things. Then they piled into their cars and left. Their
leader said they had some more fires to set.”

 

“How long ago was this?,” said Strife.

 

“About sundown,” said the woman. “They said that was the best time to do their
business.”

 

“They hit you, sir?,” said Strife.

 

“I tried to stop them,” said the father. “The one guy hit me. He told me to stay out of
the way. This was the end of negras.”

 

“Really?,” said Strife. “Let me put this fire out, then I’ll go look for these idiots.”

 

The deputy walked back to his car. He opened the trunk. He pulled out the fire
extinguisher he got from one of the volunteer fire departments around Earle City. The
sheriff didn’t want to spend money on the equipment, so he spent money out of his
own pocket to get the thing.

 

He had wanted it in case he had to deal with a vehicle fire. Now he was going to put
it to putting out this bonfire.

 

He walked back to the fire. He primed the extinguisher and then let a white cloud
attack the flames. Two minutes of spraying blasted the burning pile to smoldering
ashes.

 

Strife nodded when the fire emitted smoke and nothing else. The extinguisher had
been a good idea. He pulled the pylons out of the ground and stacked them up next
to the burnt grass.

 

“I have to go look for these idiots,” said Strife. “I’ll come back and file a report if I
can find them.”

 

“Be careful,” said the woman. “They sounded like crazy people.”

 

“Go to the doctor and get that crease looked after,” said Strife. “I’ll look around for
these guys. If I catch them, I’m going to need someone to press charges.”

 

“It won’t be us,” said the man. He pushed his children into the house. “It would be
our word against a bunch of white men. That would never fly.”

 

“All right,” said Strife. He picked up the fire extinguisher. He walked back to the car.
He put the red sprayer in the trunk as he thought about his next move.

 

He got behind the wheel. A bunch of whites burning blacks’ property was the
problem. Where could he find the whites?

 

He decided to cruise along this part of the county. He expected to see something if
he drove along far enough. He didn’t need witnesses if he caught this group
redhanded with their hands on the gasoline.

 

He noticed a light in the distance. This could be the group that he wanted. He rolled
forward to get a closer look. If he could catch them in the act, it was the hoosegow
until the sheriff decided what to do about the charges.

 

The lazy goof would probably cut them loose so they could continue their rampage.

A caravan of cars and trucks rolled out of a driveway. They turned and headed away
from the police car. Strife paused at what he should do. Should he stop and help with
the fire, or chase after the line of vehicles?

 

He braked the car and jumped out. He grabbed the extinguisher from the trunk and
ran up to where another family watched their yard burn. The fire had been built
around a tree and it stood framed against the sky.

 

Strife aimed the sprayer at the flame and threw out a cloud of white over it. He
sprayed as much of it down as he could. Then he handed the red can to whom he
thought was the most qualified adult there and told him to keep at it until the foam ran
out.

 

He ran back to his patrol car. He had to get after that caravan before they started
another fire. Once he had that done, he could run them in for arson and destruction
of property.

 

Strife got behind the wheel of his car and rolled down the road. He could still see
lights in the distance. They winked at him as the trees and other growth blocked them
from sight.

 

He didn’t bother to put the siren or lights on. He didn’t want them to see him coming.
They might keep driving out of the county if they saw him coming on after them.

He slowed to a stop when he lost sight of the caravan completely. He got out of the
car. He looked around in a circle. Where had they gone?

 

He spotted three red lights moving perpendicular to the road he was on. He realized
they had turned off on one of the farm roads ahead. He had to hurry if he wanted to
stop them from burning anything else.

 

Strife got back in the car and rolled along. He kept his eyes scanning for the right
turnoff ahead. He nodded when he came to a gravel road and saw the brake lights
ahead. He backed up and turned onto the road. He wheeled down that more cautiously
as the patrol car bounced on any irregularity in the road.

 

He pulled up under a tree to assess the danger he might be facing. He counted about
fifteen men in what looked like costumes from Ben Hur. Some of them poured
gasoline on the ground. Others hammered pylons like the ones he had seen at the
other properties into the ground. A couple of the men pointed rifles at the house and
shouted for the people to stay inside.

 

If he wanted to stop the men, he had to do something about those rifles. He couldn’t
count on them not shooting at him when they saw his badge. It was time for him to
get to work.

 

He got out of the car. He pulled his pistol and circled around in the dark. He didn’t
think any of the working men paid him any attention. Once he was close enough to
do something about the guards, things would get exciting.

 

Strife came on the first man with a rifle while the man was watching the house.
He wasn’t watching behind him, or to one side. The deputy whacked him on the
head as hard as he could with the butt of his thirty eight.

 

The man groaned as he fell to his knees. Two more whacks stopped that.

 

Strife searched his victim. He took a wallet, loose money, and a bag of something. He
didn’t look into the bag. He put everything in his pockets before he picked up the
rifle. He put the thirty eight in its holster.

 

Strife looked around. No one seemed to be looking at him. The other guard watched
the preparations for the bonfire. His rifle rode the crook of his arm so he would
have to adjust his grip to bring it up to shoot.

 

The second man never saw the wooden butt that knocked his lights out.

 

Strife looked at the group of men preparing the bonfire. They had gathered around the
perimeter, standing outside the pylons like the wooden stands marked a do not cross
line. One of the men pulled out a lighter to set the bonfire ablaze.

 

“Stop, or I’ll shoot!,” said Strife. “Just put the lighter down, and everything will be
all right.”

 

The man with the lighter looked at him. His eyes glinted in the night. He smiled to
show rotten, crooked teeth. He thumbed a flame into life.

 

“I will shoot you,” warned Strife. “Put out that flame, and step away. This is the last
time I am going to tell you.”

 

The man dropped the lighter into the gas soaked grass. Blue fire ran through the
grass. A shape formed into a word that vanished under a layer of smoke.

 

Strife shot the man. He felt that he couldn’t let whatever was going on keep going,
and shooting the leader usually stopped that. The man looked at him in anger, but
he didn’t fall down like the deputy expected.

 

The group of men laughed as their leader advanced on the deputy. Smoke trailed from
the man’s mouth.

 

“Now is the time that I impose my will on your petty species and wipe out your
civilization,” said the man. “You can’t stop me now that I have made the call.”

 

Strife shot him again. This time he put the bullet in the man’s head. He might be
wearing a bulletproof vest. Shooting higher should take care of that.

 

This time the man did fall down. Smoke erupted from his mouth and nose. It fled to
the other men that had formed the circle. Their eyes changed as Strife watched. They
took on that red glint and smiles as they regarded the deputy.

 

“Give up, or face the consequences,” said Strife. He pointed the rifle at the closest
man.

 

“You are too late to do anything to stop me, man,” said all of the group at the same
time. “I have made the call.”

 

Something reared out of the drifting smoke. It looked down on the farm with burning
eyes. Strife took a step back. He had seen a lot of things in Korea, but nothing like
this.

 

If someone had told him he would come home from killing Chinese and Koreans to
face a dragon of fire and smoke, he would have punched them in the face.

//199414

 

[csyphrett]

Inherit the Monsters

1955

3

Strife stepped back. How did he stop a thing of smoke and fire? He needed more
information.

 

The group around the dragon didn’t look like they wanted to talk. And shooting them
didn’t seem the right course of action. Maybe he could get something out of the two
nitwits he had knocked out.

 

He waved at the white man standing in the door of his house as he ran across the yard.
He didn’t know if the man saw him, or not. He didn’t have time to save him while he
tried to secure his captives so he had someone to squeeze for knowledge.

 

He grabbed the two men and dragged them behind the house. A stream of green flame
ripped through the wooden structure as he took cover. He slapped one of the men in
the face. He needed to wake him up so they could talk. The first slap didn’t work. He
did it again. A groan answered his effort.

 

Strife grabbed the man by the neck with one hand. He slapped him with the other.

 

“How do I stop that lizard?,” Strife demanded.

 

“I don’t know,” said the summoner. “Hoke was the one who found the book, and
stuff. He said we could wipe out the blacks.”

 

“What book?,” asked Strife.

 

“Hoke found this book when we looked through Joe Carlson’s house,” said the stool
pigeon. “He took it home. He showed us some stuff, so we threw in with him.”

 

“Did you take the body?,” said Strife. A beam of flame blew up a tractor in the yard.

 

“Hoke said he couldn’t find the fuel he needed,” said the summoner. “It was the last
place we looked.”

 

“I want you to grab your buddy and run,” said Strife. “I’ll try to draw that thing
off so you can get out of here.”

 

“Good luck on that,” said the summoner.

 

Strife helped the man to his feet. He picked up the other captive. He draped the man
over his buddy’s shoulder. He turned the man around.

 

“Count to thirty and start running,” said Strife. “Try to keep low. I don’t know how
well it can see in the dark.”

 

“Got it,” said the summoner.

 

Strife ran down to the other side of the burning house. He pulled his thirty eight.
He couldn’t see it working on the monster hovering above him. On the other hand,
shooting the circle of callers might do something.

 

He stepped out from behind the crackling wood. He started firing at the circle. He just
needed to attract attention. It didn’t matter if the summoners died at this point except
as revenge.

 

Green flame lit up Strife’s world. The pressure of energy on the air sent him flying.
He hit a burning tree and kept going.

 

Strife picked himself up. He hurt all over. Pieces of his skin flaked away as he tried
to figure out why he was still alive. Smoke filled his mouth and nose. He inhaled and
let it rush into his lungs.

 

He had a lot of questions. He put his survival down as a fluke. He looked around. His
pistol was nowhere to be seen. How did he fight back against that thing?

 

He took a moment to look at the setup. He felt he had time since the thing thought
he was dead.

 

The wounded summoners still maintained the circle around the base of the dragon.
He had gotten lucky and shot at least one of the men in the head and he had joined
his leader.

 

The dragon rose above the circle. It glared at the world. It didn’t try to cross the
circle’s line. Maybe it couldn’t. How did he get rid of it?

 

Maybe if he could put the fire out, that would put the dragon out. How did he do that?
There wasn’t any water around as far as he could see.

 

He saw a well. He couldn’t get the water out of that fast enough to put the fire
out. He needed something else.

 

He couldn’t cover the fire with dirt fast enough to put the flame out. The Mark might
be able to do strong man things like that, but he couldn’t.

 

Strife looked around. He saw an outcropping of rock in the distance. It stood above
the mowed grass. He couldn’t lift that with his bare hands.

 

He saw a bulldozer. He wondered if the thing would burn him again if he could get
that started.

 

He ran for it, using the remaining trees as cover. He climbed up into the seat. He
smiled when he saw the keys were still in the ignition. He turned over the engine and
put the machine in motion. He lowered the blade so it scraped up the top of the
ground as it rolled forward on its treads.

 

Green flame touched the metal. Strife threw himself over the back of the machine. He
didn’t want to be caught in an explosion. He landed in the fresh dirt.

 

The tractor kept trundling forward. The top of it glowed under the assault of the
dragon. The lizard reached down and picked the hot machine up in a paw. It flung
the bulldozer away with a flick of its wrist.

 

Strife looked at the pile of dirt. It was so close. A few more feet and the fire would
be covered up. What did he do now?

 

Flame reached for him. He threw himself clear. He caught a glimpse of the caravan.
The cars and trucks still had their lights on. He realized the engines were still running.
He might be able to make his plan work after all.

 

He sprinted for the closest truck. He ran in front of bursts of burning air. He grabbed
a rake on the way. He snapped it in half with a shrug of his arms. He hoped that this
worked right the first time.

 

He opened the door of the truck on the driver’s side. He jammed the stick in, and
released the brake. He jumped clear as the truck sped off.

 

Strife sprinted to the second car in line. He jumped behind the wheel. He released
the brake and hit the gas. He squinted against the whips of flame reaching for the
truck. He winced when it blew up in a ball of fire.

 

He watched the dragon whip its head around to shoot at him in the fast moving car.
He only needed to last for a few seconds. He saw the beast open its mouth. He gritted
his teeth and kept going.

 

The car plowed into the pile of dirt. It drove the soil on top of the flame. Strife turned
around in the circle to spread it over the bonfire. He spun out on the other side of the
circle.

 

The dragon shrank with part of the fire put out. It turned to hiss at Strife as he looked
at it. He got out of the car. He looked up at it.

 

The dragon opened its mouth to fry him again. He ran into the circle. He stamped the
remaining flames out with his bare feet. It hurt, but it had to be done. He brought his
foot down on the last spot and extinguished the bonfire for good.

 

The men fell. Blood poured from the wounds he had inflicted earlier. The smoke
dispersed. It took the dragon with it.

 

Strife looked at the devastation. He shook his head. He wondered how much worse
it would have been if that thing had been able to wander around.

 

One of the summoners had come through the mess without getting shot, or burned.
He looked around in a daze. Strife walked over and punched him in the face as
hard as he could. The man went down with a twisted jaw.

 

Strife decided that maybe he shouldn’t hit people as hard as he could from now on.
He seemed to be a lot stronger.

 

The deputy decided that he needed something to wear. He couldn’t walk around
without his clothes. He paused. He had lost his wallet, and his pay. He went and took
the dead men’s wallets. He looted the living summoner last. He walked to where he
had left his car.

 

He needed to call in and see if he could get a fire department out there to put out
the flames. Maybe he could get someone to take over for him so he could go home
and get his other uniform.

 

He reached his car and was glad he had left the keys in the ignition. He opened the
trunk. He pulled out a blanket and turned it into a kilt until he could get some clothes.

He looked through the wallets. He found one for Hoke Mosh. He read the address. He
decided to go out there and look around. Maybe he could find whatever they had left
from Joe Carlson.

 

Strife sat down behind the wheel. This had already been a long night, and it wasn’t
midnight yet. He grabbed the mike. He had to call this in. Then he was going to look
around Mosh’s place.

 

“Sheriff’s Office,” Strife said into the mike. “Anybody there?”

 

“I’m here, Barney,” said Orrie Zabbai. “How’s it going at the cemetery? Anybody
show up to dig up any more dead people.”

 

“I wouldn’t know, Orrie,” said Strife. “I’m out here at three five five seven Old
Savannah Road. There’s fires, and dead men. You might want to send the State
Police, and a fire department.”

 

“What?,” said Orrie.

 

“You heard me,” said Strife. “You might want to get things going. I have to get a new
uniform. I’ll write everything up when I get back to the office.”

 

“Wait!,” said Orrie. “What am I going to tell the sheriff?”

 

“Tell him there was some kind of gas explosion,” said Strife. “I think he should hurry.
He might find some survivors out here.”

 

The deputy put the microphone down. He looked in the mirror. He saw a pinpoint
of light. He got out of the car. A man in a dun coat puffed on a cigar as he led the
two guards and the old man from the burned down house on the road.

 

“You again,” said Strife.

 

“How’s it going, Deputy?,” said the man in the coat. He helped the others sit on the
side of the road.

 

“Who are you?,” said Strife. “What do you know about this?”

 

“I’m just a nobody,” said the man in the coat. He made a half shrug in his coat.
“I was passing through and saw things needed a nudge. You came through all right.
Good job.”

 

“Getting me burned to a crisp was a nudge?,” said Strife.

 

“You’re more of a hero than I thought,” said the man in the coat. “Joe’s old
protections worked like a charm, didn’t they? If I were you, I would think about
who else might want to use that old book Mosh wanted from Joe. It might prevent
a lot of trouble if you found it first.”

 

“We’re not done,” said Strife.

 

“Time’s wasting,” said the man in the coat. “And put some pants on.”

 

“You think you’re funny, don’t you?,” said Strife.

 

“A regular Jack Benny,” said the man in the coat. He puffed on his cigar as he turned
to walk away. “You did a good job, Deputy. Joe would be proud you’re taking up his
mantle as the next Herocles.”

 

“I don’t want this,” said Strife.

 

“Who does?,” said the man in the coat. He vanished into the dark.

 

“Are you guys all right?,” asked Strife.

 

The old man nodded. The surviving summoners looked at the ground.

 

“I have to go,” said Strife. “Help is on the way. I told Orrie this was a gas explosion.

I think you three should do the same.”

 

The old man nodded again.

 

Strife got in his car and drove to Hoke Mosh’s trailer on the other side of the county.
He found Joe Carlson still guarding his book in an easy chair while watching
television with embalmed eyes. The deputy took the book from the dead hands. He
took it outside and set fire to it. He ignored the wailing in the air as it burned.

 

He didn’t know if that was a good thing, or not, but at least no one would use the
book again.

//201481

[csyphrett]

I am so glad to reach 200k. Hopefully I can clock the next 200k a little faster.

CES

[csyphrett]

One Million Words Timeline

5000 BC- The Murmur tries to summon the Destroyer and is opposed by Nobody,
Cain, Memphis, Al-a-Din, and others in the Destroyer. The line of Kings is created
by the Destroyer.

1670- Bill Crenshaw is killed by a pirate hunter known as El Rey (The reincarnated
King) in Crenshaw.

 

1935- Bobby Benson takes over from Cain in the Heir. He becomes the Mark.

 

1938- Sir Laurence Fletcher starts the Commando X program with its first recruit,
James Rafferty. The mission is to investigate smuggler Mick Brown for the Secret
Service. 

 

1955- Barney Strife takes over for Joe Carlson as Herocles in Inherit the Monsters.

 

1956- Enemies of The Mark wound him and kill his friends and fellow spark bearers.
He lethally retaliates against them. Will Williams and Ann Baker were killed. The
Mark’s human side was wounded. Barberossa, Dr. Sybil, the Butterfly, Koal, and the
Spine were all killed by The Mark in the End of the Light.

 

1964- The Hazard Scouts help the Park Service with an animal enrager.

 

1969- The Mark helps his alternate Earth counterpart, Captain Spark in Across the
Divide. The Hazard Scouts are decimated by an unknown enemy in Showdown in a 
Small Town. Only Marty Morgan, the Animal Boy survives.  

 

1976- Cassie Troy cements her prophetic abilities by stopping a summoned monster
in a church for the life of her friend, Hector, in Cassie’s Knife. She is abetted by
Nobody. 

 

1979- Marty Morgan leads Corona, Cog, Finch and Ren against Watson Security and
their superpowered minions, The Squad, and rescues Barry Nicklaus and Cortez from
imprisonment in Revenge of the Scouts. 

 

1986- The Mark meets Eleanor, Carrie, and Money. He introduces them to Spiffy, and
Cassie Troy in the Sisters. Mark Hadron develops his lamp and begins to gather the
original Lamplighters in Light the Lamp.

 

1990- Eleanor, Carrie, and Money help the Robot Rangers fight a building come to
life in Tokyo in the Robot Ranger Rescue.

 

1992- Pablo Estevez introduces his trainee, Henry Harkness, to his mentors and
Cassie Troy at the Good Eats Diner in the Four Musketeers.

 

1995- Shirou Morita becomes M-37 after touching an orb left over from the
Apartment Man’s attack on Tokyo in M-37.

 

1996- Dr. Yamada tests a radioactive coat for M-37 in Testing for M-37

 

1997- M-37 responds to an earthquake in M-37's First Flight.

 

2002- Lynette Harkness is born to Henry and Martha June Harkness in Happy
Birthday.

 

2010- Jason Parley gains the sword of the King during a bust of cultists and their
summoned monster in Return of the King. Al-a-Din and his butler deal with a
bombing in Master and Servant. Memphis helps Moshe and Sara Levram against the
Dog Maker in Duel in the Desert. Tanner Lerner and Darla Huitt gain their powers
from a meteor in Ink Buttons.

 

2014- The Lamplighters are decimated. Three are killed. Mark Hadron lost an eye and
had a hand punctured.

 

2015- Jane Hillsmeirer talked to Mark Hadron about restarting the Lamplighters in
The Hermit. Jason Parley, the modern King, threatened a deal of nonagression with
the local mobster in A Parley. Denver McGinty picks up Kisara, Princess of the Genn,
on the side of the road and drops her off in New York City in Girl on the Road. The
basis for Lamplighters West is formed when four women ask Hadron for help dealing
with Crenshaw the ghost pirate in Splinter Cell. Marcel Hobart is the first new recruit
for the new Lamplighters in the Interview. Rangifer Tarandus, The Reindeer, evades
the Black Wolves trying to save a town in Norway in Special Delivery. Patty Page,
Kathy Baker, Lin Qi, Jean Lopez form the Lamplighters West and take on Crenshaw
with the help of Mark Hadron in Blue Flames over San Francisco. Roland Givens is
embedded with seven spirits by Amenophis and the Sons of Set despite interference
from Tanner Lerner and Lynette Harkness in Button Pushing. Bobby Iger and Maria
Garcia-Lopez join the Lamplighters after a talk with Harry Cho in Recruited. 

 

2017- The Mark is killed by the Queen of Genn in Make Your Mark. Lynette
Harkness helps fight the invasion in her training suit in New Girl.
 

[csyphrett]

The Shield 

1940

1

Frank Flanagan walked into his lab in New York. He had converted a space
underneath a factory he owned part of for this place under the city. He put the cares
of the business world away while tinkering with things that drew his interest.

 

He doffed his overcoat and hung it on a coat rack next to the door. He looked around.
Everything looked ready to help him with the mysteries of the universe.

 

Flanagan went to the shelf with his log books on it. He wrote down everything about
an experiment as he did it. It saved him a lot of trouble of redoing something he had
already done.

 

He had two projects he was working on. He planned to create the next generation in
bullet resistant cloth. The other project was trying to find a chemical mix that he
could use to boost his physical and mental abilities.

 

He admitted that both were failures at this point.

 

The formulas he had tried on his rats killed them. Some became very violent and tried
to eat their way through their cage bars. Some curled up and died. He performed
autopsies on all of his subjects and most had their brains explode inside their skulls.

The cloth burned up under the treatments he tried. He could not get the fiber to react
the way he thought it should.

 

He sat down at his work desk. He went over the experiments one by one. He frowned
at the results noted in his changing script. He saw something that might be doable. He
needed to mix the necessary things together.

 

If this worked, he might be able to at least get his brain chemical to do more than
cause gray matter to explode in their bony enclosures. If it didn’t, he would give it up
so he didn’t have to cut up another mouse again.

 

He got the bottles of chemicals from their shelves and placed them on his work table.
He consulted the log book. He mixed together lower portions of each ingredient and
put it in a stand over a Bunsen burner. He turned the flame up and watched as the
chemicals started to simmer.

 

The phone rang. He turned from the burner to go get it. Who would be calling him
now?

 

“Flanagan,” he said into the receiver.

 

“This is Arnold Courtland, Mr. Flanagan,” said the caller. “I am calling to see if you
thought about our offer.”

 

“I thought we talked about this,” said Flanagan. “I don’t want to sell. I have
something I’m working on. I’ll call you back when I’m done.”

 

“Wait, Mr. Flanagan,” said Courtland. “I can double our offer.”

 

The chemicals reached a steady boil in their container. Smoke gathered under the lid.
The bottom of the glass turned black.

 

“I have something cooking,” said Flanagan. “I will call you back, or you can call my
office tomorrow. Good night.”

 

Flanagan hung up the phone and went back to his heating set-up. He frowned at the
bubbles roaring against the top of the flask he was using. He reached for the control
knob on the burner. The flask shattered and covered him with the chemical mixture
and broken glass.

 

He fell to the floor. He tried to get out of his shirt and tie. Fumes put him to sleep
while he struggled with the soggy mess.

 

Flanagan woke up hours later. He didn’t know where he lay at first. He looked around
and saw the small amount of damage to his equipment. He should not have answered
the phone.

 

He examined the log book. He had put down every chemical he had planned to use
on the last page. He realized he had heated the mixture longer than he had intended
because of his talk with Courtland.

 

He had no way to know how many minutes the formula had boiled before it cracked
the beaker. He figured at least two minutes, but he wasn’t sure.

 

He wondered when his brain would explode and kill him. He sat down at his desk.
How much time did he have? What could he do with it?

 

The rats had died within minutes of their injections. So he should be dead in a few
hours. He didn’t like the thought, but he could fall over at any moment.

 

How did he want to spend his time? He couldn’t do a lot in the time he expected to
die. Maybe he could figure out what was wrong with the fiber while waiting. He
could give the formula to his partner to create suits for the army.

 

He went back to the log book. He looked at the section that he had set up for the fiber.
He read everything in a second. He frowned as he thought about the different
chemicals moving in harmony to do what he wanted.

 

He wrote down the formula he felt would create a breed of toughened fiber. He just
needed to create some to make sure his formula worked.

 

Flanagan took off his stained shirt and tie. He threw them in the metal trash can he
used for failed experiments and went to his spare living quarters to clean up and get
a new shirt. He went back to his office and unplugged the phone when he had his new
shirt on.

 

Why did Courtland want his company so much? It didn’t make sense. His operation
was small and specialized in chemical engineering to make things. Some of his
patents had been applied to aircraft, but that was just enough to keep the business
going.

 

He supposed the patents were valuable enough if added to something else. He
considered the implications for a few moments while gathering up some string from
a small pulley and vat he had built. He didn’t have enough information.

 

He wondered how much Courtland would lie to him if he asked him what was going
on.

 

He expected something was going that he didn’t know about yet. He should go over
his books again. Then he should go over all the contracts his company was involved
in. He had feeling the answer was in one of those two places.

 

He had talked informally with Courtland several times about his company. The man
refused to take no for an answer. Maybe he should ask his staff to dig into the man.
Maybe they could find an answer for him.

 

He worked on the fiber for hours. The hard part was making sure that his creation
didn’t break apart, rot away, or become so immobile that no one could wear it. It took
him several tries, but he thought he had it.

 

He tried to cut, burn, and bend the strands. They slightly reacted, but not anything
like they should.

 

He poured more of the chemical into a mold. He went to his bedroom and got another
shirt. He pressed that down in the mold with the mix. He closed the top on the thing.
Sleeves and tail stuck out of the lid, but that wouldn’t affect the chest area.

 

Flanagan waited for an hour before he opened the lid. He smiled. The shirt seemed
to be stiff as a board and hard as rock.

 

He tried to set fire to it, cut it, or tear it. He couldn’t do any of that. He got his chair
and took it to the end of his lab. He placed the altered shirt in it. He got his thirty
eight from his desk. He fired into the shirt. He whistled. The material stopped the
slugs cold.

 

Flanagan laughed at his partial success. He needed a way to turn this into something
someone could wear. How did he do that?

 

He threw the empty brass and the crushed slugs in the failed experiment trash can. He
put the gun back in his desk. He walked back to consider the shirt and its
bulletproofing.

 

He inspected where the bullets had struck. He found indentations in the front surface.
He pulled the thing away from the back of the chair. Nothing penetrated to the back.
The chair was untouched.

 

Flanagan considered the evidence. He could make more of the stuff to stop heavier
caliber bullets, and knives. The weak points were going to be whatever he used to
join the two molds together.

 

He realized that if he wanted to make the stuff into something usable, he might need

to know how drilling worked on it. He could use that to put screws in to hold two
halves together around the wearer.

 

Did he have a drill in his lab? He looked around. He frowned when he didn’t see the
required equipment.

 

There should be one upstairs. He could take the bulletproof ex-shirt upstairs to work
on it. The night crew knew him well enough to let him work on his business without
bothering him.

 

Once he was sure that the screws would work, or not, he could think of other ways
to make a shirt out of his mix.

 

He paused to consider that he probably was going to die before he figured out the
problem. He checked his watch and smiled that he had already outlived the first rat
he had tested on.

 

He wondered how much more time he had before he keeled over.

 

He carried his burden through the factory floor until he found a drill press. He asked
the man using it to let him have five minutes. The guy stepped back from the
machine.

 

Flanagan put on safety glasses and put his vest under the drill. He spun the machine’s
engine up and then lowered the bit against the hardened shirt. He checked it after
five minutes. A hole was there, but it had taken longer than what he would have
thought.

 

He thanked his worker and took the shirt off the drill stage. He had something really
tough compared to normal protective suits. A knight clad in one of these could take
as many arrows as he wanted.

 

He had to get his formula really tested before he tried to patent it, and put it on the
market. He had a game changer in his possession.

 

Something crashed through a skylight. He watched it fall to the factory floor. He
realized the object had a lit fuse. He screamed at his people to get back as he ran
forward with the vest in front of him. He fell on the object, covering it with his new
invention.

 

The explosion sent him flying.

[csyphrett]

The Shield

1940

2

Flanagan woke up in a hospital bed. He looked around slowly. He had a basin of
water on a table by his bed. Bandages covered his arms from what he could see. He
expected some more wrappings around his legs.

 

Light through the shades over the window drifted across the room. He seemed to be
alone. How did he get clothes so he could leave?

 

He sat up. He doubted his clothes that he had been wearing had survived the blast.
 Why was he still alive?

 

That piece of scrap must have been tougher than he thought it could be. It must have
taken the brunt of the blast. Was it still in one piece?

 

He paused to take stock. He hadn’t thought the treated shirt would protect him. He
had assumed that it would take some of the blow so he could save the factory and his
employees. The fact that it had taken a blast at full power meant it might keep soldiers
alive on any current battlefield.

 

A big man came into the room. He wore a badge on the front of his jacket. His suit
had seen better days. His hat had a hole in it near the band in the center.

 

“How you doing?,” the big man said. “Do you know what happened to you?”

 

“I fell on a stick of dynamite,” said Flanagan.

 

“Too true,” the detective said. “You lived. Why is that?”

 

“I don’t know,” said Flanagan.

 

“Let me introduce myself,” the detective. “I’m Detective Dern. What can you tell
me?”

 

“I was drilling holes in a test material,” said Flanagan. “I looked at the material.
Drilling didn’t seem the way to go. I was about to take it back to the shop when I saw
the dynamite falling from the skylight. I threw myself on the dynamite to protect my
employees.”

 

“It looks like this test material saved your life,” said Dern. “We gathered what we
could. The lab boys haven’t seen anything like it.”

 

“I came up with the formula and mixed it just before the thing with the dynamite,”
said Flanagan. “Do you know who tried to blow up my factory?”

 

“That’s why I’m here,” said Dern. “Do you have any enemies?”

 

“Not really,” said Flanagan. “I do have one guy who’s been badgering me to sell the
company to him. I doubt he would try to dynamite it to persuade me to sell.”

 

“What’s this guy’s name?,” said Dern. “We’ll have to check him out in the course
of things.”

 

“Arnold Courtland,” said Flanagan. “He says he can pay me money for the company,
but I don’t think he’s acting alone. I think he has some backers for the money.”

 

“All right,” said Dern. “Did you see the person who used the dynamite?”

 

“I don’t know,” said Flanagan. He closed his eyes and tried to see the memory. It
appeared in front of his mind’s eye like a photo.

 

“I was standing beside the drill press. I had the test material in my hands. Bobby
Hatchett, the drill operator, was standing beside me. He was about to take the drill
back and start drilling holes for the parts we build. I saw Frank Detillo, the floor
supervisor, talking to one of our guys on another machine across the floor from me.
I couldn’t see who he was talking to from where I stood. The skylight broke. I looked
up. I saw a hand pulling back from the skylight. The stick of dynamite was already
falling to the floor. I estimated where it would hit and ran toward it. Various
employees were running away. I covered the stick with my experiment and pressed
down on it,” said Flanagan. “That’s all I can remember. There’s a ladder on the
side of the building to get to the roof to service the air-conditioner.”

 

“The lab boys dusted it, but they didn’t find any prints,” said Dern. “If you remember
anything else, I want you to call me.”

 

He pulled out a business card and handed it over.

 

“I’ll look into this Courtland and see what he was doing,” said Dern.

 

“I doubt he showed up at my factory to blow it up in person,” said Flanagan.

 

“Right now, he’s the only suspect,” said Dern. “He wants your company. An
explosion in one of your factories might be something that would make you sell. Only
you prevented that explosion from doing any harm except to yourself. He’s viable,
but it will be hard to prove unless we catch whomever he hired to do the dirty work.
Then we can try to flip them, and see if they will rat the guy out.”

 

“The odds aren’t great,” said Flanagan.

 

“No, they aren’t,” said Dern. “When the doctors release you, I’ll need you to come
down to the precinct to make your statement. If we find out anything about Courtland,
I might have more questions for you.”

 

“You aren’t going to be able to protect the factory,” said Flanagan.

 

“No,” said Dern. He looked down at the floor. “I don’t have any manpower to put
down there as a guard, and you have an extensive list of places that could be attacked.
And if I can’t guard one place, I couldn’t guard most of them for this. My feeling is
this guy is going to try again. You’re going to have to hire people for protection until
I can figure out how to link things together. Right now, we just have Courtland as
an obvious suspect. What I can take to court is nothing.”

 

“I understand,” said Flanagan. “I need to make some calls. Thank you for your
honesty.”

 

“If the guy comes after you here, I have a man on the door until you leave,” said
Dern. “Once you’re out and about, you’re going to need a bodyguard.”

 

“Don’t worry,” said Flanagan. “I’m going to take precautions.”

 

“All right,” Dern said. He started for the door.

 

“Detective Dern,” said Flanagan.

 

“Yes?,” said the policeman.

 

“What if it wasn’t Courtland?,” said Flanagan.

 

“Then I’ll have to find someone else who wanted to shut down your factory,” said
Dern. “Get well, Mr. Flanagan.”

 

He left the room, shutting the door behind him.

 

Flanagan looked around. He smiled when he saw the phone. He needed to get out
of the hospital. Then he could start making arrangements.

 

Arnold Courtland was going to pay for trying to blow up his factory. He would dig
up the proof somehow. He knew he could do it.

 

How could he do it?

 

Flanagan reached for the phone. He needed to call the office. Then he could make
arrangements to get out of the hospital if his secretary was there.

 

Under no circumstances was Arnold Courtland allowed in any of the properties
Flanagan Solutions owned. This went double for any attempt to buy the company.

Flanagan reached over for the phone. It hurt a little to move, but he put that down to
being caught in an explosion and moved on. The body was a wonderful machine, but
like any machine, it was subject to wear and tear.

 

He dialed his office’s direct line. He waited for Josephine Rich to pick up the phone.
She handled a lot of the office business. After he had been taken to the hospital,
some decisions still had to be made. Josephine would be making them.

 

“Mr. Flanagan’s office,” Josephine finally said. “I’m sorry. Mr. Flanagan is not in
right now. Can I take a message?”

 

“I need you to figure out which hospital I am in, and come down here and get me
out,” said Flanagan.

 

“Mr. Flanagan?,” said Josephine. “Thank you for calling. I have reporters calling,
that man Courtland has been calling for a meeting, I have people from the board
calling. What am I supposed to do about all this?”

 

“First things first,” said Flanagan. “I don’t know where I am. I need you to find me,
and come down here and check me out. Better bring a suit and some shoes. I think
I have spares in my office. Anyone from the board calls, tell them I am fine and
getting back to work, tell Courtland I will talk to him eventually but the answer is still
no so he might as well quit calling. Any reporter should be told that everything is
okay, and I will be back behind my desk as soon as possible.”

 

“All right,” said Josephine. “I doubt the hospital will tell me where you are. I’ll let
the board members know you’re okay.”

 

A nurse came into the room. She put her hands on her hips as she waited for him to
get off the phone.

 

“Which hospital am I in?,” asked Flanagan.

 

“St. Xavier’s,” said the nurse. “I have to check your bandages as soon as you hang
up.”

 

“It’s St. Xavier’s, Miss Rich,” said Flanagan.

 

“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” said Josephine.

 

“Thank you,” said Flanagan. He hung up the phone.

 

“Excellent,” said the nurse. “I’m Nurse Maybourne. What I am going to be doing is
unwrapping your bandages and putting fresh ones on. It might be a little painful but
it has to be done so we can check on your wounds and see if they are healing.”

 

“How long have I been in the hospital?,” said Flanagan.

 

“About thirty five hours,” said Nurse Maybourne. “I’m going to need you to lie still.
This might sting a bit, but I only have to check if things are healing around the
stitches. If they are, you might be able to go home tomorrow.”

 

“That’s nice of you,” said Flanagan. His hands had some bandages, but not a lot. His
experimental shirt had protected him that much at least.

 

Nurse Maybourne rolled a cart over beside the bed. She set out wrap, scissors, and
gauze. She pulled down the thin blanket the hospital supplied for their beds. He shook
his head at the wrapping around his lower legs. At least he had all of his toes.

 

She took the scissors and cut away the wrapping around his shins. He winced at the
sight of the stitches in sight. He counted six wounds, but thought there might be more
that he couldn’t see.

 

“Looks good,” said Nurse Maybourne. “Looks very good.”

 

“So my legs won’t fall off?,” said Flanagan.

 

“No,” said Nurse Maybourne. “Give me a second. I’ll wrap them up and you can
get some rest until the doctor comes to see you.”

 

She fitted gauze to the wounds, and then wrapped fresh bandages around his legs. She
nodded when the job was done.

 

“Doctor Hughes is treating you,” said the nurse. “He’ll probably want you to get
plenty of bed rest. This is the first time we have seen someone caught in an explosion
and lived.”

 

“That makes me feet lots better,” said Flanagan. “When will the doctor come by?”

 

“It shouldn’t be too long,” said Nurse Maybourne. “I’ll prod him along.”

 

“Thank you very much,” said Flanagan. The last thing he wanted was rest. He didn’t
know how long he had to live, and he didn’t want to spend what he had left trapped
in a hospital bed.

 

The nurse left the room.

 

Miss Rich better be on the way with his clothes so he could get out of there.

 

He turned on the radio. Big band music played as he watched the shadows from the
shades in the window move about. How long did he have bothered him the most.

At any second, while trying to protect his company and employees, he could just
drop dead. That was the reality he faced. Every second trapped in the hospital meant
he had less time to get things done.

 

“This is Mike Colter for NBC News,” said the radio. “Top stories are the Mark saves
boat at sea. The musclebound hero brought the USS Armand into port here in New
York City after the cargo ship was struck by a torpedo. There are an unknown number
of dead from the hit. We will update you through the night.

 

“Barry Nicklaus has set a world record by sailing a balloon to the edge of space. He
has brought back pictures of the Earth.

 

“The Promethean saved people from a fire earlier today. He vanished without a trace
before the police and fire department could arrive.

 

“I am going to turn the broadcast over to Dashiel Montauk in London,” said Colter.
“He will give us a brief rundown of stories happening in Europe.”

 

Flanagan turned off the radio. He looked up at the ceiling. Masked men tended
to work outside of the law to get results. Could he do that?

 

Did he want to? What did he gain by investigating this attempt to kill him?

 

Dern couldn’t do anything to gain evidence if Courtland stonewalled him. It would
be Flanagan’s word against the other man about the constant demands to sell the
company.

 

If he did take on a masked man identity, how did he go about getting evidence? What
would be important to show that Courtland had tried to blow up his factory? How did
he tie Courtland into anything?

 

Flanagan thought about the problem until the sun went down. His legs hurt. His
stomach protested the lack of food. And the turned on radio had decided to treat him to Cass
Cassidy, Man of Action while he was trapped in his bed.

 

He had to get out of there before he went crazy.

 

Josephine showed up with a suit and shoes.

 

“Hello, Mr. Flanagan,” she said.

 

[csyphrett]

The Shield

1940

3

“All right, Miss Rich,” said Flanagan. He liked being back in his office. He still
needed to take steps. Dern might be a whiz of a detective, but he wasn’t going to
crack this. He didn’t have enough evidence to do anything. “What do we know about
the attempted bombing of the factory in Jersey?”

 

“The bomb was a stick of dynamite. It was dropped through the skylight on the main
floor of the factory. It didn’t do much damage since you smothered it,” said
Josephine.

 

“That’s all?,” said Flanagan.

 

“Yes, sir,” said the secretary. “If the police learned something, they didn’t share it
with the board as far as I know.”

 

“What do we know about Arnold Courtland?,” said Flanagan.

 

“Nothing,” said Josephine. “He wants the company, but that’s all we know about him
right now.”

 

“So the first thing we need to do is learn more about Courtland,” said Flanagan. “That
requires detectives on the payroll. Do we have any?”

 

“No, sir,” said Josephine.

 

“Let’s start with that,” said Flanagan. “Ralph Couteri heads our legal department. Call
him and ask him to recommend somebody. Then we’ll call his recommendation and
see what he can do.”

 

“Are we going to have more guards for the factory?,” said Josephine.

 

“I think so,” said Flanagan. “We need more than Pop Stevens at the gate. These guys
already got by him once. At least they didn’t kill him while they were trying to kill
the crew in the work area.”

 

Josephine made a note. Maybe Mr. Couteri had dealt with security agencies as well
as private investigators.

 

“What about the factory?,” said Josephine.

 

“How much damage was done?,” said Flanagan.

 

“They are still looking things over,” said Josephine. “They are supposed to give a
report to the board later this week.”

 

“Let me know as soon as the report is sent in,” said Flanagan. “I expect the board will
try to remove me. A lot of them don’t have that much invested in the company.

They’ll want to sell everything and get out.”

 

“But you saved the factory from being wrecked with that thing you were testing,” said
Josephine.

 

“Doesn’t matter,” said Flanagan. “They are going to claim that we should give in to
Courtland after this. It would be even better if I had been killed.”

 

“So someone comes along and bullies them and they fold?,” said Josephine. “I don’t
think they will. We’re gearing up for war. Everyone sees it. The company will make
a mint in the next few years. They won’t let that go.”

 

Flanagan nodded. His company would be a small cog compared to others vying for
contracts. They stood to triple their earnings if the government asked them to supply
parts for the Army and Navy.

 

That could be why Courtland wanted to buy the company before they turned their
earnings into something to rival the big boys that also wanted contracts. Once he had
control, he could rake in as much as he wanted with no problem.

 

Flanagan frowned. He had a nest of theories. He had to rule some of it out so he could
see the real picture. Then he could try to figure out what to do about his saboteur.

If anything he expected another attack to try to finish the job.

 

“Go ahead and call Couteri,” said Flanagan. “Get him working on the security and
investigating part of things. Then I need to look at the contracts we’ve signed in the
last three years maybe. I doubt there is anything there, but I want to make sure.”

 

“Mr. Courtland?,” asked Josephine.

 

“Put him through if he calls,” said Flanagan. “It will probably be another demand for
me to sell with some veiled reference to something else happening to the company if
we don’t. If he keeps at it long enough, he can drive our stock down so that he can
pick it up for pennies on the dollar and just take over.”

 

“I understand,” said Josephine. “Let me get the copies of the contracts you want, and
then I will call Mr. Couteri.”

 

Flanagan rubbed his face with his bandaged hands. How did he protect his company
and his employees. All of them could be targets until he figured out what was going
on and took care of it.

 

At least his petrified shirt had worked better than he thought it would. It had saved
his life when he should be dead. If he wanted to be a masked man, he could do worse
than building armor out of the mix.

 

Josephine returned with a stack of folders. She placed them on his desk. He squinted
at the paperwork. This could take longer than he had thought at first.

 

“Mister Couteri said he knows someone. They’ll come by to talk to you later today,”
said Josephine a few minutes later.

 

“Thank you, Miss Rich,” said Flanagan. He had the first file open in front of him. His
finger marked where he had stopped reading. “If anyone from the board calls, I’ll take
it, or if someone calls about trouble at one of our places, I’ll take that. And Courtland.
Everyone else will just have to leave a message unless it’s life or death.”

 

“I understand,” said Josephine. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

 

She stepped out of the office and closed the door to leave him in peace. She hoped he
knew what he was doing. The doctors didn’t like him checking out of the hospital and
going back to work.

 

She didn’t think it was a wise move either.

 

Flanagan examined the papers, focusing on parts that he thought would give him a
motive. He admitted he didn’t see anything in the contracts they had signed that
would prompt a takeover.

 

There were contracts that his lawyers were working on. Maybe there was something
in one of those. He searched his memory. They had two contracts with the
government waiting to be signed as soon as the set up work was done.

 

Flanagan leaned back in his chair. Those contracts were confidential. As far as he
knew, his people were still bargaining with the appropriations people on how much
they would pay to buy the parts they wanted. Could Courtland know about that? If he
did, how did he find out?

 

Flanagan had no illusions about absolute secrecy. There were a ton of people
involved who could have leaked the information to Courtland, or set him up as the
buyer so they wouldn’t be exposed.

 

That was something he would have to talk to Couteri’s investigators about when he
called them to get them started.

 

Who was on the negotiating team for his side? He realized he didn’t know. Maybe it
was time he found out.

 

“Miss Rich?,” Flanagan said into his intercom.

 

“Yes, sir,” said Josephine.

 

“Can you find out who was assigned to selling the government parts?,” asked
Flanagan.

 

“I’ll have to call down to the sales office,” said Josephine. “I’m not sure there will be
anyone down there at this time of night.”

 

“What time is it?,” asked Flanagan.

 

“It’s about nine, Mr. Flanagan,” said Josephine. “Mr. Couteri called to say he would
get on your request. I haven’t taken a call from Mr. Courtland, or the board.”

 

“Can you get me a cab,” said Flanagan. “I would like to go out to the factory and look
around.”

 

“No problem,” said Josephine. “I’ll call one for you. Do you need me to ride down
with you?”

 

“No,” said Flanagan. He locked the contracts up in his desk. “I assume if Courtland
is going to call, he’ll call my work area. The board might not even know I’m out of
the hospital. When you come in tomorrow, I want you to find out who is negotiating
with the government and get a list of everybody on both sides, lawyers, senators,
congressmen, everybody. Put it on my desk for me.”

 

“Yes, sir,” said Josephine. “Is there anything else?”

 

“Go home and get some sleep,” said Flanagan. “We’re going to have a long day
tomorrow.”

 

“Yes, sir,” said Josephine. “Do you think they’ll try again?”

 

“I don’t know,” said Flanagan. “We’re waiting on their next move while trying to
figure out who the players are. If we can identify what Courtland wants from the
company, and if he was behind the dynamiting, we might have something we can use
to shut the attempts down.”

 

“All right,” said Josephine. “I will get that list the first thing in the morning.”

 

“Thank you,” said Flanagan. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

 

“What are you going to do at the factory?,” asked Josephine. She reached for her
phone.

 

“I’m going to look around and see what I can see,” said Flanagan. “I would like to
know how much of the blast was contained for example. Falling on top of the
dynamite was a stroke of good luck on my part.”

 

“I’ll have a cab waiting for you by the time you get downstairs,” said Josephine.

 

“Thank you, Miss Rich,” said Flanagan. “Be careful. We don’t know what Courtland
will do once he knows I am out of the hospital and moving around.”

 

“I will,” said Josephine. “You be careful, Mr. Flanagan. A lot of us depend on you.
If something happens to you, the rest of the board would think nothing of tearing the
company apart for a little bit of money.”

 

Flanagan couldn’t disagree with her assessment. He headed to the elevator, thinking
about what he knew so far. He admitted he didn’t know enough about Courtland. The
motive of wrecking something just enough so you could take it away from someone
else was there, and it was as old as the hills. It didn’t mean much if he couldn’t prove
it somehow.

 

He stepped out of the elevator and headed across the lobby. He doubted Courtland
knew he would be at the factory, unless he had called to make sure that he would be
there. That showed extensive research into his habits. Very few people knew that he
used the lab under the factory all the time.

 

Which one would have told Courtland that?

 

Maybe Courtland had him followed around to learn his habits. That was better than
thinking that one of his associates was in cahoots with the buyer.

 

He filed the suspicion anyway until he could rule it out. People did things for money
they wouldn’t consider for any other reason. If Courtland promised a section of the
profit from the company, or keeping the mole on the board, or maybe a huge
settlement, then selling the company out might be on the table.

 

Flanagan crossed the lobby. He saw the cab and realized that he didn’t have his wallet
with him. He rubbed his face. He needed to get to the factory. His lab had some spare
money he could use to pay the cab driver off.

 

Tomorrow, he would have to replace his identification.

 

He should have asked Miss Rich to bring him his spare money when he asked her to
get his suit.

 

He patted his pockets as he walked up to the cab. He reached in. Miss Rich had put
some money, a spare checkbook, and a pen in his pants before she gave them to him
at the hospital. He smiled.

 

He needed to give her a raise.

 

“Where to, Mac?,” asked the cab driver, getting out of his car.

 

“I need to get to New Jersey,” said Flanagan. “I have some business to take care of
there.”

 

He gave the driver the address of the factory.

 

Flanagan settled in the back seat as the cabbie drove out of the city and across the
state lines. Once he was back in his lab, he could take a nap, and look over his notes
from that night. He realized that he had sent Miss Rich into the place with the mixture
still sitting in its bowl.

 

He put the thought aside. He had to trust someone. Miss Rich had proven worthy of
that trust for years. He could count on her.

 

If he couldn’t, he had already exposed his test work to her. She could duplicate it if
she had the log sheets from the book.

 

The cab pulled up in front of the gate. Flanagan paid the driver, walked through the
gated entrance to the lot while waving to the guard. He headed for the front door of
the factory.

 

He descended to the door to his lab. He found it locked. What had happened to his
keys? They must have been scattered in the explosion, or left at the hospital. Did the
hospital have his personal effects? He hadn’t bothered to ask.

 

He noticed a upside down cup at the foot of the door. He picked it up. His keys lay
underneath. He smiled.

 

He definitely was giving Miss Rich a raise after he had everything sorted out.

 

He took the keys and opened the lab door. He stepped inside and looked around.
Everything looked like he had just left it. The only difference he could see from his
casual inspection was the mix in the bowl had hardened into unusability.

 

He could mix more now that he knew how to do it.
//207709

[csyphrett]

Loaded Chasing the Red Star and The Stranger Crowd to my website.

[csyphrett]

The Shield

1940

4

It took Flanagan a small amount of minutes to make a small batch of his formula and
let it sit. He noted that after a few minutes it would solidify into a hard shell.

 

How did he apply that to make armor?

 

He realized he could do a chestpiece with a tailor’s dummy using a shirt. He couldn’t
build the rest into a suit unless he created pieces to protect him like ancient armor. He
would still need to drill holes once he had the pieces set out to put in ties so he could
wear everything, unless he used pockets.

 

He sat down and thought about that for a minute. He could make pads and then use
pockets to seal them inside the suit. He frowned at that. It would work great unless
the cloth was destroyed. The pads would fall out of place.

 

He needed a way to keep the fluid still fluid but also capable of taking the impact he
had already seen. If he couldn’t do that, he would have to settle for making a
bulletproof vest and wear that under his clothes from then on.

 

He thought about the potential armor for a while. His experiment had protected him
from a stick of dynamite as it blew into fragments. He was lucky to still have his legs,
but he hadn’t been seriously hurt.

 

He considered that he had been the target. It made sense except for the weapon used.

Why hadn’t they used a gun when he left the factory? That made more sense unless
they wanted to kill part of the crew too, possibly wreck the place just enough to
knock it out of business but not enough where it would cost a lot to renovate.

 

How soon would it take for them to try again?

 

He had too many variables and he wasn’t sure if Courtland was behind the attack.

 

He needed to make sure before his board tried to muscle him out on the street.

 

If he had the armor, he could sell that to the government for the war effort. That
would take things out of his hands except as the maker of the armor. The problem was
he couldn’t figure out a way to make it mobile.

 

If he could solve that problem, the Army would pay through the nose to have a
regiment of bulletproof soldiers.

 

And that would stop any problems with Courtland trying to buy the company.

 

He got the log book. He looked at the formula for the mix. He frowned as the letters
moved in his head as he looked at the chemicals and how much of each he had used.
He saw some shifting of ingredients as he thought about making a more flexible mix.
He wrote down a formula on the next page of the log book with his pen.

 

He regarded the new formula, comparing it to the old one. This might be what he
wanted. He had to make a batch and see what happened when he dipped a shirt in it.

Flanagan smiled. Once he had a suit, he just needed to test it to see what it could do
under pressure.

 

He got a suit out of his office. He frowned when he realized he was almost out of
spare clothes. He would have to bring some more down when he had time. He put
everything on hangers and hooks on the wall next to his working area.

 

He pulled the chemicals he needed from the shelves. He mixed everything together
as precisely as possible. When he sold the formula to the Army, he would have
to buy blenders and tubes to place each mix in its bowl to come down an assembly
line.

 

The workers would have to be aware to keep the stuff moving, or the hoses empty.
Once it was frozen in place, they would have to take the hoses apart and replace the
blocked section.

 

Flanagan poured his mix into a vat. He put the frozen mix in a bowl on a shelf. When
he had time, he would try to chisel the stuff out of the bowl so he could use it later.

He took his suit, folded everything up, and stacked that in the vat inside the mix. He
placed his shoes on top. He shut the lid and set the timer. Once the timer went off, he
would pull his things out and test them.

 

If they were as bulletproof as his original experiment and easier to wear he should
be one step closer to what he wanted.

 

The timer went off as he thought about other things he could put to work. His mind
seemed to generate methods all by itself. He wrote most of his ideas down in his
logbook so he could use them later.

 

He opened the vat. He grabbed tongs and reached into the vat. He pulled out his
suit and shoes. He frowned at the color change first. The suit had been a brown
when he put it in, now it was blueish purple. Then the suit had looked tacky to the
touch. He realized that he should have put the items in one at a time. He pried them
apart with heavy work gloves so he didn’t have any of the stuff cover his own hands.

 

Flanagan shook his head. He should have thought about putting everything in
separately. That was stupid of him.

 

He hung the clothes up on the hooks. He realized he should have put down a drop
cloth first. He went and grabbed an old painter’s cloth and dropped it under the
hanging clothes. He placed the shoes upside down on the cloth at the edge.

 

He had really flubbed this. He checked the vat. He still had enough of the mix to try
another test. He just needed more clothes.

 

Would the material stay fluid while he went and got another suit and shoes?

 

He watched as the excess dripped off his hanging clothes. He frowned as the color
remained. Maybe he had done some of the needed things the wrong way, but he still
might have his suit of armor.

 

He waited and watched. The drop cloth turned purple under the clothes. He wondered
if he should install a heat lamp to dry new suits faster.

 

Flanagan waited until nothing else fell on the drop cloth before he touched the jacket
with the tongs. They didn’t stick to the material. He grabbed the sleeve with the tongs
and pulled. The sleeve stretched for a few inches, but no further.

 

He smiled as he put the tongs aside. The mix hadn’t moved from the cloth to the steel
at all. Would it be as bulletproof as the original hardened mix he had invented first?

 

He hung the suit jacket on his impromptu shooting range. He got his thirty eight and
loaded it. He fired at the jacket. The bullets hit but didn’t go through. The suit jacket
filled the dents as he watched.

 

He got a knife and tried to stab the jacket. The point turned aside. He tried to cut it
with scissors. The blades wouldn’t close. He got his lighter and held the flame to a
sleeve. Nothing happened.

 

Would it stand up to a stick of dynamite?

 

He didn’t have a way to test that other than getting blown up. He decided he didn’t
need another trip to the hospital.

 

Flanagan had a suit of armor for protection. Could it be worn? What kind of
procedures could he put in place to mass produce the thing for others? Why was it
dark purple?

 

He decided that he could wear the suit jacket over his regular shirt and pants. He
didn’t want to test the whole thing out if he didn’t need it.

 

He pulled the suit jacket on. He stretched this way and that to make sure the thing
would move with him. He smiled at the smoothness.

 

He decided he needed to take a nap. In the morning, he would have to go to the office
and talk to Coutri about the contracts and the security force he needed. Then he
needed to change his will so his company would not fall into the wrong hands.

 

His board members were okay in their way, but they had no clue about how things
worked outside their boardrooms.

 

Selling his company would be number one on their agenda if he couldn’t put a stop
to things.

 

He needed to make sure Courtland was responsible, or knew what was going on,
before he tried to do anything against the man. Once he had an idea, he could try
to gather evidence to hand over to Dern.

 

Others could be vigilantes, but he had responsibilities to his employees and his
customers. Running around in a mask was not something he could just do because he
wanted to do that.

 

He hoped he could settle things without a prolonged war. The contracts with the
government could fall through if this carried on too long. His company could lose one
contract but not every contract afterwards which is what he was looking at if
Courtland did try to damage his factories and chemical plants.

 

If he couldn’t secure contracts with the government in a reliable way, most of his
business would dry up. Then he would have to lay people off.

 

He wasn’t going to allow that to happen.

 

Flanagan decided to take his jacket out and wear it around. If nothing happened
to it, then he had a bulletproof piece of cloth as light as anything made. If the formula
did something to the fabric, then it was back to the drawing board.

 

He didn’t see any disadvantages. And it was late enough that the streets wouldn’t be
full of people. He could hit any late night place that was open, get something to eat,
and then come back to work on anything else that he might like to do.

 

And when his mind needed to shut down, he could take a nap without worrying about
anyone breaking into his lab.

 

He made sure he had his money. He needed to get his identification replaced as soon
as possible. He would have to go down to the license office and get one sometime
between all the meetings he foresaw.

 

Flanagan took one look around before he stepped out and locked up his lab. He
scanned the hall as he went upstairs. The factory looked like it was going full steam.
He waved at one of the supervisors before he crossed the factory to the door.

 

At least no one was throwing dynamite at him.

 

He walked down to the guard box, stepping around the arm blocking the drive. He
waved at the guard. He turned and headed down the road. He could see the lights
of the city and the walking felt good to his addled brain.

 

The impact of bullets against his back threw him down where he stood.
//209548

 

[csyphrett]

Loaded first two parts of the Air Race on Deviant Art.

CES

[csyphrett]

Loaded the rest of the Air Race. The first part is here. The rest should be on the list on the right of the page. Dev Art apparently has an 8k limit on what you can post as text there.

CES 

[csyphrett]

The Shield

1940

5

Flanagan didn’t move. Someone had shot him. He didn’t feel any pain. Shouldn’t he
feel something? Was he dying?

 

He closed his eyes and mentally took stock. He seemed to be okay other than lying
on the side of the road on his face. Did he want to stand up? Was the gunman still
there? What were his options?

 

He heard steps crunching toward him. He decided that the walker was behind him and
on his right side. How close was he going to come to make sure that he had
committed the deed?

 

The steps stopped. The position wasn’t close enough in Flanagan’s judgement. One
of them would have to move closer to the other before he could get his hands on the
other man.

 

He heard the click of a pistol hammer drawing back. He knew that his coat would
take another impact. His head wouldn’t. He had to take advantage of whatever
surprise he had.

 

Flanagan rolled against the other man. He took his assailant’s legs out from under
him. He moved the other way as the man hit the road.

 

The gunman tried to crawl away from the confrontation. He had lost his pistol
somewhere so he didn’t shoot the suddenly living target like he wanted. He wanted
the distance to find the gun, get set for continuing the fight, or running away. He did
not like the sudden weight on his back, trying to bulldog him into the ground.

 

Flanagan grabbed his enemy by the neck, wrapping an arm under his chin. He locked
his grip with his other arm. He held on until the man stopped moving. He pulled the
man’s jacket down to hamper his arms before looking around for the missing pistol.

He spotted the revolver lying on the asphalt and scooted over to pick it up. He
climbed to his feet and looked around. What did he do now?

 

The gunman got his hands under his body to push up to his feet. A clubbing to the
back of the head stopped that.

 

Flanagan emptied the man’s pockets. He kept the small amount of money and the
wallet he found. He left the rest on the road. He opened the wallet up and found that
his assailant was Ian Shanks. He took the license card and dropped the wallet.

He liked having a name for his enemy. It gave him avenues to attack. He walked back
to the guard house. The police would know who Ian Shanks was if he had been in
business long enough to feel their touch.

 

At least he knew two things. His jacket had muffled the impacts of the bullets so he
had barely felt them. He had to be personally killed for whatever plan to continue.

Once he knew for whom Shanks worked, he would know who wanted him out of the
way.

 

“Hello, Mr. Flanagan,” said the guard. “How was your walk?”

 

“Some guy tried to kill me,” said Flanagan. “Let me see the phone. I have to call the
police to come out and get him.”

 

“It will be the state police out here,” said the old man. “They handle anything outside
the city.”

 

“Thanks, Pop,” said Flanagan. His mind turned over the timing. Someone must have
told Shanks he was coming back to the factory. Or Shanks had been told to watch for
him. Were there watchers on his house? “Operator? I need to call the State Police.
Someone tried to shoot me just down the road from the Flanagan chemical factory.
I left him on the road to call for help.”

 

Flanagan hung up. He leaned against the door of the box. He watched the road. He
didn’t see any lights on the road, but that didn’t mean anything.

 

If Shanks had a partner, the partner could drive up without lights, pick up Shanks,
drive away, then cut his lights on to see. A minute without lights wasn’t going to slow
a determined driver down any.

 

“What went on?,” asked Pop.

 

“Someone took a shot at me in the dark,” said Flanagan. “He missed. Now I’m hoping
the police will arrest him so I can press charges and find out what’s really going on.” 

 

“A bombing and a shooting,” said Pops. “It doesn’t make sense.”

 

“Why’s that?,” said Flanagan.

 

“Why bomb the place? A bombing stops the place from working, but if it misses, then
it does nothing,” said Pop. “Shooting you won’t stop the place from working. Others
will keep it going because of the money involved.”

 

“A man named Courtland offered to buy the factory,” said Flanagan.

 

“If he blows it up, what good does it do him?,” said Pop. “Unless that’s the point. In
which case, why offer to buy it? He must know you would never sell.”

 

“I would never sell?,” said Flanagan.

 

“Mr. Flanagan, you treat this place like it’s your child,” said Pop. “You’re here every
night. You know everyone, and everyone knows you. Anyone with half a brain would
know you would never sell once they heard you say anything about it.”

 

“So you think the only way to get the factory is to get rid of me?,” said Flanagan. He
smiled at the analysis.

 

"Unless getting rid of you had nothing to do with the factory at all,” said Pop.

 

“I don’t follow,” said Flanagan.

 

“Yes, you do,” said Pop. “Whomever is trying to kill you might not care about the
factory at all. You just think he does because of this offer for it. He might want to kill
you for other reasons that you don’t know yet.”

 

“So if I can figure out whom Shanks works for, I will know what’s really going on?,”
asked Flanagan.

 

“I don’t see why not,” said Pop. “On the other hand, you might have two enemies
acting across from each other. One wants the factory, the other just wants you dead.”

 

“Thanks, Pop,” said Flanagan.

 

“Once you run down this Shanks, and whom he works for, then you can see if it has
something to do with the factory,” said Pop. “If it is something personal, how many
want to kill you?”

 

“I don’t really know,” said Flanagan.

 

“I would suggest you make a list,” said Pop. “Then you can check on everyone you
suspect.”

 

“Good idea,” said Flanagan.

 

He considered the idea that he might have been wrong about someone wanting to take
the factory from him. It opened up a list of suspects that he had no idea where it
ended.

 

He needed to have other people look into things he couldn’t do himself. He might
need auditors to check his company finances. Were things going as well as he thought
they were? Had he missed something?

 

Flanagan came out of his reverie when he saw flashing lights approaching. He
wondered if the state police knew this Ian Shanks. Who had hired the hitman?

 

He considered that Shanks might be an alias. If it was, maybe it had been used often
enough that someone real had been attached to it.

 

A pair of state policemen got out of a marked car after it pulled up to the gate. They
didn’t look happy to be called out in the middle of the night. One pulled out his pad
to take notes as they approached.

 

“I’m Patrolman Broderick, and this is Patrolman Coulsin,” said the lead officer.
“Someone reported an attack.”

 

“I did,” said Flanagan. “I was walking down the road. Someone shot at me. I fell
down. When the robber got close enough to take my things, I jumped him and fled.
I left him down where it happened.”

 

Flanagan pointed into the darkness beyond the factory.

 

“All right,” said Broderick. “That seems straight forward. He didn’t take anything?”

 

“No, sir,” said Flanagan. “I got his gun from him and hit him with it. Then I came up
here to call for help.”

 

“You got his gun?,” said Broderick.

 

“Yes, sir,” said Flanagan. He pulled the pistol from his jacket pocket. He extended
it butt first.

 

The state policeman checked the weapon’s cylinder, sniffed the barrel. He shook his
head.

 

“Been fired four times,” said Broderick. “Looks like a .38. Maybe the lab will have
a ballistics match when we turn it in.”

 

“Serial number?,” asked Coulsin. He wrote down the number as it was read to him.

 

“This is the other guy’s?,” said Broderick.

 

“Yes, sir,” said Flanagan.

 

“Do you have a firearm?,” asked Coulsin.

 

“I have one in my desk,” said Flanagan. “I use it to test materials.”

 

“What do you mean?,” asked Broderick.

 

“I work here in the factory, and some of the things that I work on have to be tested
to see if they can be hurt,” said Flanagan. “Typically I use a .38 like this one. I don’t
carry it around with me.”

 

“What’s your name?,” Broderick pointed at Pop Stevens.

 

“Paul Stevens,” said Pop.

 

“What do you know?,” asked Broderick.

 

“I saw Mr. Flanagan walk down the road here,” said the guard. “I heard some noise
but I didn’t see what caused it. Mr. Flanagan walked back here from where he had
gone. Then he called you from here instead of calling from inside.”

 

“Flanagan?,” said Coulsin.

 

“Frank Flanagan,” said Flanagan.

 

“Why were you walking down there in the dark?,” asked Broderick.

 

“I had been working on something,” said Flanagan. “I just came out to walk some of
the frustration off.”

 

Flanagan broke into the chemical formulae for the suit of armor he was working on
without going into what he had already done. He noted that Coulsin seemed to write
two words of his lecture down, but he didn’t see what they were.

 

“All right,” said Broderick. “Can you show us where you left this guy?”

 

“Sure,” said Flanagan. He checked his watch. “He probably came to and fled by
now.”

 

“If he is still there, we’ll take him in,” said Broderick. “The lab will run the gun for
his fingerprints. It looks like a robbery gone bad. You’re going to have to file a
statement.”

 

“I’m ready to do that,” said Flanagan.

 

“Where did you get that jacket?,” asked Coulsin. “It looks purple.”

 

“I made it in my lab,” said Flanagan. “I had hoped for something else, but the
chemical dye turns everything purple.”

 

“Sounds bad,” said Coulsin.

 

“Worse,” said Flanagan. “It’s scratchy like you wouldn’t believe.”

 

“Bad, eh?,” said Broderick.

 

“I would take it off, but I have to put it under a microscope now that I have worn it,”
said Flanagan. “The faster we get this done, the better I’ll like it.”

 

“Let’s collect our robber,” said Broderick. “Bring the car, Quin. I’ll walk down with
Mr. Flanagan. Turn the high beams on. We don’t want to miss anything.”

 

“Right, Pat,” said the younger officer. He put away his pad and walked over to the
patrol car. He got behind the wheel as his partner and Flanagan started down the road.

Broderick had Flanagan stay out of the light from the headlights as they walked.
He paused at a spot and put down a quarter. He walked on for a bit more.

 

“He should be a few feet ahead,” said Flanagan. “I remember the stars when I came
around the bend.”

 

Broderick looked back, shielding his eyes with a hand. He gestured for his partner
to cut the lights.

 

“The factory is out of sight,” he said. “The guard might have been able to hear the
gunshots, but I don’t think he could have seen the sparks from there.”

 

Flanagan looked over his shoulder. He agreed with the eyeball assessment. Even
if Pop had seen the sparks of the shots, would he have thought they were gunshots,
or something more innocent?

 

Coulsin cut the lights back on and they walked forward some yards. Flanagan
compared what he could see in the light to what he had seen in the dark. They were
right on top of where Shanks should be. He wasn’t lying there for them to take away.

 

“He’s gone,” said Flanagan.

 

“He left some blood behind to prove your story,” said Broderick. He pointed at a
patch in the road. He looked around. “He could be anywhere by now. We’ll put out
a notice and hand the gun over to detectives to trace down. Maybe they’ll get lucky
and run him down before he heals up.”

 

Flanagan frowned, but nodded. There was nothing more he could do at the moment.

//211624

[csyphrett]

Loaded Doreen's Duel for Hodgepodge

CES

[csyphrett]

The Shield

1940-

6

Flanagan sat behind his desk at his office and looked at his notes. The jacket had
stopped four bullets without taking a scratch. He had felt the impacts, but had
received no damage as far as he could tell. The small soreness he felt could be from
the actual fight later instead of getting shot.

 

He wondered how he would have felt if he had worn the shirt under the jacket. Would
that have spread the impact even more after the initial hit? He couldn’t expect it to
stop heavier weapon slugs, but it had been a good field test.

 

He wished it had been something he had come up with and not because someone had
tried to kill him.

 

“Mr. Coutri and Mr. Westwood are here,” reported Miss Rich from the outer office.

 

“Send them in,” said Flanagan.

 

Coutri, a serious man in a good suit and grave demeanor, and Westwood, smiling too
much and wearing a suit pulled off a rack somewhere, came in. Flanagan waved them
to padded visitor chairs. He hoped they could help him out.

 

“Thank you for coming,” said Flanagan. “I need your help with some problems that
have come up.”

 

“What kind of problems?,” asked Coutri.

 

“A man named Arnold Courtland has persistently asked me to sell my interest, or
the whole company, to him,” said Flanagan. “The answer has been no, but he won’t
go away. I need you to dig into him, Mr. Coutri. I need to know everything you
can find out about his financial status, and if anyone is behind him. I need a way
to attack him, and possibly buy his company, and interests out from under him if
I can. In any case, I want the offers to stop, as well as any offers to the board he
might be making.”

 

“I’ll see what I can do,” said Coutri. “It might take some time depending on how he
has arranged his businesses to protect his holdings.”

 

“Do what you can as fast as you can,” said Flanagan. “I need ammunition for the next
board meeting.”

 

Coutri nodded. He wrote the name down on a card and put it back in his suit pocket.

 

“Mr. Westwood,” said Flanagan. He looked at a note on his desk. “Mr. Coutri has
recommended you as an investigator. I need you to get me everything you can on a
man named Ian Shanks. I need you to find him, and keep an eye on him. I need to
know everyone he talks to, and everything he does until I figure out how he fits in to
things.”

 

He handed over the license he had taken from the gunman the night before.

 

“I took this from him last night,” said Flanagan. “He tried to shoot me.”

 

“Do the police know?,” asked Coutri.

 

“The New Jersey State Police know about the attempt, and they have his gun,” said
Flanagan. “I don’t know if they can trace it back to him, or if it belonged to someone
else. They don’t know I took the license, or that I know who he is.”

 

“That could lead to trouble down the road,” warned Coutri.

 

“I’m not interested in the police catching him,” said Flanagan. “That would be
nice, but it won’t solve my problem. I have someone trying to take over my company,
and an attempted bombing of my main factory, and an attempted shooting of me.
I doubt that Shanks decided on his own let’s kill Frank Flanagan. I need to know
if he is working for Courtland, or someone else. If he is, then I can think about
what I can do about it.”

 

“I’ll put out some feelers,” said Westwood. “If he has a record, he might have some
known associates I can use to find him. If he doesn’t, I’ll have to start at this address
and work my way outward.”

 

“Do whatever you have to do,” said Flanagan. “Only a few people know about this.
A detective named Dern is looking into the bombing. He spoke to me at the hospital.
The state police said they were going to hand the pistol over to a detective to chase
down. He hasn’t called yet.”

 

“It might take a while,” said Westwood. “I assume if we find this Shanks, you’ll want
to turn him in.”

 

“I’m more interested in finding his boss,” said Flanagan. “If you see him committing
some other crime, turn him in. I’ll be on the look out for his replacement.”

 

“He missed,” said Westwood. “A new guy might already be out there. We won’t
know until he takes a shot at you. I’ll get you a bodyguard to try to keep you safe.”

 

“Don’t worry about that,” said Flanagan. “I have some things to do at my factory, but
I don’t plan to be out in the open except for transit between here and there.”

 

“How do you want to proceed after we complete these tasks?,” asked Coutri.

 

“I don’t know,” said Flanagan. “I don’t know if they are connected. If we can prove
that they are connected, we can take them both out by proving they’re a conspiracy.
If they are separate efforts, then we can take one, then the other.”

 

“All right,” said Coutri. “I’ll see what I can dig up.”

 

“Leave everything with Miss Rich if I am not here,” said Flanagan. “She’s the only
one I trust.”

 

“Got it,” said Westwood. “Where is this factory, and does it have a phone?”

 

Flanagan pulled a card from a tray on his desk. He wrote down the number of the
lab phone on the back and handed it over.

 

That struck him for a second. He paused at the thought.

 

“Courtland called me on my private line at the factory,” said Flanagan. “Only four
people other than you have that number, and I just gave you the number.”

 

“So one of them must have talked to Courtland and handed him the number to call
you,” said Westwood. “Names?”

 

“Miss Rich, Frank Saxon, Jim Rydell, Larry Rutherford,” said Flanagan. “Saxon runs
our West Coast operation. Rydell is on the board. Rutherford is my Treasurer and
Financial Officer.”

 

“There is a small chance that he didn’t get the number directly from any of these
people,” said Westwood, taking notes. “He could have stolen it somehow, or hired
someone to steal it for him.”

 

“Find out,” said Flanagan. “I would stake my life on Miss Rich, but Saxon could get
a promotion out of a change of ownership, Rydell would get some money if he was
able to sell his shares, or get more shares in the new company, and Rutherford could
want a bigger seat at the table.”

 

“All right,” said Westwood. “I’ll put some men on them and see where they go. If
Saxon is out west, I’ll call some people out there and subcontract the work.”

 

“That’s fine,” said Flanagan. “Miss Rich, could you come in, please?”

 

The secretary opened the door and stepped inside. She closed the door behind her.

 

“Miss Rich, Mr. Westwood is going to need personnel files and so forth from us,”
said Flanagan. “Also he will have someone guarding you until this is over. You’re
the only one I trust, and I don’t want any problems for you.”

 

“So you think someone will throw a bomb at me?,” said Miss Rich.

 

“Not really,” said Westwood. “I like to be thorough. Mr. Flanagan said Arnold
Courtland called him at his lab, but only a few people have the number. Is there
any way he could have gotten the number from you.”

 

“Yes,” said Miss Rich. “Depending.”

 

“I don’t understand,” said Westwood.

 

“I have a list of people I have to call on my desk,” said Miss Rich. “Mr. Courtland has
come here to talk to Mr. Flanagan. All he would have to do is look at the number for
Mr. Flanagan’s lab on that list if he had time to read it between my notifying Mr.
Flanagan he was here for his appointment and showing him to the office door.”

 

“Do you know of anyone else who might know the number?,” asked Westwood.

 

“Mr. Rydell,” said Miss Rich. “He likes to call if there is a slightest hiccup, and Mr.
Rutherford, who calls when there’s some problems with our cash flow, or numbers.
They call my office first, and then generally say they will call the factory
looking for Mr. Flanagan. I assume they both have the lab number.”

 

“Anybody else?,” said Westwood.

 

“I don’t think so,” said Miss Rich. “Usually people call me, I call Mr. Flanagan, and
he calls them back, or tells me to act on whatever I was asked.”

 

“Can you give me an example?,” said Westwood.

 

“When Mr. Flanagan came back to work after the bombing, I took a call from Mr.
Rydell. He wanted to talk to Mr. Flanagan about what happened. I talked to Mr.
Flanagan. Mr. Flanagan told me he didn’t want to be bothered while he was going
over some of our production contracts. I told Mr. Rydell that Mr. Flanagan was busy
and would call him back when he was done. He became a little huffy on the phone.
I told him that Mr. Flanagan was busy, and it was fine to come down, but I was sure
that Mr. Flanagan would throw him out of the building. It was better to leave a
message.”

 

“You told a member of the board I would throw him out of the building?,” said
Flanagan.

 

“Yes, sir,” said Miss Rich. “Mr. Rydell is too haughty for my liking.”

 

“Thank you, Miss Rich,” said Westwood. “I am going to need the personnel files
for a Frank Saxon, Rydell, and Rutherford for a start. Can you get them for me?”

“Yes,” said the secretary. She left the office.

 

“I like her,” said Westwood. “I wish my secretary would threaten some of my clients
like that.”

 

“I’m surprised Rydell didn’t demand I fire her,” said Flanagan.

 

“Do you think this Courtland and the attacks are connected?,” asked Coutri. “They
look that way to me.”

 

“There are only so many options,” said Flanagan. “Either Courtland wants the
company so bad that killing me is on the table so he can get it, or I have two enemies
acting at the same time. Either way, I have to know what’s going on, and deal
with it in some way.”

 

“Don’t worry,” said Westwood. “If Shanks is connected to Courtland, it will take a
bit to dig it up, but we will. He isn’t going to work for free.”

 

“Shanks might have a helper,” said Flanagan. “I hit him on the head pretty good. It
took a bit for the State Police to arrive, but he was gone. I am leaning on someone
else being there and driving him away while I was calling the law, but his skull could 
be that thick.”

 

“When we find him, we can see if he has someone who helps him out,” said
Westwood.

 

“Go ahead and get started,” said Flanagan. “As soon as I hear from Courtland again,
I’ll call you so you know where he is.”

 

“Be careful,” said Westwood. “I want to get paid.”

 

“I’ll set up a fund with Miss Rich to pay even if I die,” said Flanagan. “I’ll sign the
paperwork before I leave today.”

 

“Have it filed at the courthouse before close of business,” said Coutri. “Otherwise,
if you die tonight, we want get paid.”

 

“I’m not going to die unless I blow up my lab,” said Flanagan. “If that happens,
Courtland will be able to buy everything for a song.”

 

“It was nice meeting you, Mr. Flanagan,” said Westwood as he stood. “I don’t think
I have ever met someone so cool about someone wanting to kill him.”

 

“This isn’t the first time something dangerous has happened to me,” said Flanagan.
“I’ll call you in the next few days to check in. If something happens to me, Miss Rich
will pay you to keep digging.”

 

“You can call to check in, but it will probably be close to next week before I have
something for you,” said Westwood. He looked at Coutri.

 

“I don’t know how long it will take to dig into Courtland,” said Coutri. “We’ll have
to do a ton of searches for his licenses and records just to get a handle on things if he
is an honest businessman. If he isn’t, we’ll have to track him through any associates.”

 

“See if he is connected in some way to Rydell,” said Flanagan. “The man owns a
quarter of the company’s stock. He might want the rest.”

 

“Makes sense,” said Coutri. “I’ll see what I can dig up.”

 

He stood up and straightened his suit before joining Westwood at the door.

They stepped out to talk to Miss Rich. Flanagan sat back in his chair. He needed
information. If they could get him something, that would help him settle things so
he could get back to work.

 

He didn’t like the fact that he was a target, but he wasn’t a social butterfly. If
someone wanted to get him, they would have to come at him at one of three places.
He spent the most time at his lab, then his office, then his townhouse across the city.

He idly considered what would happen if he went home.

 

He wondered what would happen if he had protective gear.

 

No one would be watching his house. He hadn’t been home since everything started.
Any watcher would be bored out of their mind by now.

 

He needed information. The townhouse was probably safe. If it was watched, would
anybody be stupid enough to come after him? Could he grab one of his attackers? Did
he want to be bait?

 

Maybe he could use a tougher set of armor for protection just in case.

 

Flanagan leaned back in his chair. It was too bad he couldn’t rule Saxon out of this.
It would be nice not to have to worry about something while trying to get to the
bottom of things.

 

“Miss Rich,” he said into the intercom. “Could you come in here, please?”

 

She appeared with pad and pen in hand. Her eyebrows knitted together as she
wondered what he wanted.

 

“Please sit, Miss Rich,” Flanagan said. He gestured at the visitor chair. “I would like
to talk to you for a moment.”

 

Miss Rich took a chair.

 

“Do you have a boyfriend, a fiancé, Miss Rich?,” asked Flanagan.

 

“Excuse me?,” said Miss Rich.

 

“I need a date,” said Flanagan.

//214054

[csyphrett]

The Shield

1940-

7

Flanagan walked his townhouse. He nodded at the security guard at the door dressed
as a waiter. He had decided on his scheme after five minutes of thought. It had taken
him a week to put things in motion.

 

Most of that time, he had spent at the lab. He put together a lightweight suit of armor.
He had boxed the armor up and brought it home to his townhouse. It sat in the closet
upstairs. He planned to put it on after he had dismissed his guests.

 

He had issued invitations to a bunch of people across the business scene in the tristate
area. Rydell and Rutherford were on the list. Courtland wasn’t, but the man had
shown up. Westwood had been alerted so he could find out who Courtland had ridden
with so they could add that to the list of things they knew.

 

He walked into the miniature ballroom. It stood full of suits and dresses filled by
people he barely knew. He noted the presence of guards dressed as waiters moving
through the room.

 

Miss Rich stood to one side with Mr. Coutri. Neither looked happy to be in
attendance.

 

“What do you think?,” asked Flanagan, as he joined them.

 

“I know most of the lawyers in this room, and only like two, or three, of them,” said
Coutri. He sipped from a snifter in his hand.

 

“Miss Rich?,” said Flanagan.

 

“We should have held this somewhere else,” Miss Rich said. “It’s like looking at a
can of sardines in nice clothes.”

 

“It’s fine,” said Flanagan. “It narrows our suspect list to the people in this room and
their staffs.”

 

“Not really,” said Coutri. “But it does narrow it down from the entire tristate area. We
need something physical to narrow it down to someone in this room.”

 

“I’m hoping to narrow it down to one person before the night is over if Mr.
Westwood’s detectives are as good as they think they are,” said Flanagan. “I think the
dinner is almost ready. We have to get these people outside.”

 

“I think that’s your job, sir,” said Miss Rich.

 

“All right,” said Flanagan. “Don’t call me sir.”

 

“Everybody!,” said Flanagan. He clapped his hands to get the crowd’s attention.
“Dinner will be served outside in the back yard. Please follow me, and we’ll get you
set up.”

 

He led the way down the central hall of his townhouse to the back door. He opened
it, and stepped outside. The party goers followed, drinks in hand.

 

Flanagan glanced at the caterers. They seemed ready to take care of things. The
detectives stood out against the regular wait staff. He hoped they didn’t spook
whomever wanted him dead.

 

After all, the whole point of the party was to set the bait for the trap.

 

As long as he was at his office, or his lab, it was going to be hard to get at him. But
his townhouse was in the city, surrounded by other townhouses, and anybody could
scale the low stone wall that surrounded his back yard. And three of the people he
didn’t trust knew he was going to be there all night after the party.

 

He wondered how long he had before someone showed up to kill him.

 

He checked his watch. He figured the party would start breaking up about ten, maybe
eleven. The caterers had to clean up. Westwood’s men would have to take up position
to watch the outside of the house and then stop anyone trying to leave. He figured the
killer would try after midnight.

 

His armor waited on him upstairs. He had timed himself and practiced. He could pull
it on in two minutes.

 

As soon as he had seen everyone off the property, he would go upstairs, put on his
armor, and wait. If they came for him in the limited window he had opened, he would
be able to shrug off most normal impacts and defend himself until the detectives took
action.

 

He had to hide the armor before they saw it. He didn’t want people knowing he had
it before he was ready to start selling it to the highest bidder. He was still working on
ways to mass produce the suit.

 

If it got him through the night, it had more than earned a successful rating from him.

Flanagan moved through the crowd as they found seats at the tables brought in for
them. He planned to eat his dinner in the kitchen, but he wanted them to think he was
thinking of them. It was his first party, and he couldn’t wait to clear these virtual
strangers off his property so he could move to the next phase of his plan.

 

After making sure everyone was happy, and the food was moving, he retired to the
kitchen. He leaned against the counter holding the sink and watched the backyard
through his window.

 

He hoped his plan went off without a hitch. He could see these people expecting him
to show up for their garden parties after everything was settled. He didn’t plan to do
that.

 

At least the caterers hadn’t been infiltrated. The last thing he needed was his party
turning into a blood bath.

 

He noticed Courtland had taken a seat by Rydell. Rutherford sat two tables over.
Westwood sat in a spot where he could watch all three.

 

Small talk seemed to rule the evening. That was fine.

 

Flanagan grabbed a plate and went through the prepared food, grabbing what looked
good with tongs, or a fork. He poured a glass of milk to drink with his food. He
seemed to be the only teetotaler at this shindig. He should have expected that.

He hoped he didn’t have to pour the bunch of them into cabs by the end of this.

 

“It looks like everything is going smoothly,” said Billy Berra, the owner of the
catering service. He was gray haired, thin, and had a jaw that would make a
nutcracker proud. He wore the same white jacket, white shirt, black pants, bow tie,
as his employees.

 

“I think so,” said Flanagan. “Your guys have done a good job.”

 

“The extra help you rounded up made everything easier,” said Berra. “They’re a little
brusque but they seemed to have been able to keep things rolling smoother than I
would have thought.”

 

“Smoother than I thought too,” said Flanagan. “This is pretty good.”

 

“Just some chicken, some steak, some seasoning, and some sauce mixed together,”
said Berra. “The vegetables are mostly greens with potatoes and corn mixed in with
it.”

 

“No cordon bleu?,” asked Flanagan.

 

“That’s just chicken with blue cheese,” said Berra. “I like to make food with some
flavor in it.”

 

“It does have that,” said Flanagan. He took another bite and chewed. “If I ever need
a personal chef, I will call you first.”

 

“I own a restaurant you can eat at any time you want,” said Berra. He shook his head.
“Come by and I’ll fix you my recipe for an omelette.”

 

“That would be swell,” said Flanagan. “I’ll come by one day for that.”

 

Berra saw one of his employees doing something, and left the kitchen to talk to the
waiter. Flanagan finished his plate, loaded it again, and ate that while watching his
back yard. He spotted Miss Rich sitting in a group next to the house. She looked
uncomfortable.

 

He put the dirty plate down next to the sink. He stepped outside and walked over to
Miss Rich’s table.

 

“Ladies,” Flanagan said. “Do you mind if Miss Rich and I talk for a bit.”

 

“Go ahead,” said Mrs. Kiel. Rumor stated that she had conducted the trade with the
Indians for the island, and remained after everyone else was dead. She waved her
hand for them to go. 

 

“You’ve done a good job with this,” said Flanagan. He led her away from the crowd.
“Thanks.”

 

“The caterers handled everything for me,” said Miss Rich. “All I had to do was give
them the order, and the money from the discretionary fund. I have already filed copies
of the receipts and sent the originals to accounting.”

 

“You’ve done a good job,” said Flanagan. “What do you think of the guests?”

 

“Some of them are very sharp,” said Miss Rich. “Some of them are very stupid. Some
of them mix it up in ways I am not sure how they were able to make money in the first
place.”

 

“They inherited it,” said Flanagan. “If something happens to me, Coutri has some
paperwork for you to sign. I just wanted you to know so you wouldn’t be surprised.”

 

“Paperwork?,” said Miss Rich.

 

“Yes,” said Flanagan. “He’ll go over it with you if it becomes necessary. I’m hoping
it isn’t necessary.”

 

“All right,” said Miss Rich. “Nothing will happen. You have all these men around
you.”

 

“I also have one man standing outside your door,” said Flanagan. “When this over,
it will be back to business as usual. Until then, I want you to be as safe as possible.”

 

“Why would they come after me,” said Miss Rich. “I’m just a secretary.”

 

“You also know everything about the company from how many paper clips we buy,
to how much material we ship from one port to another,” said Flanagan. “If you were
to disappear, the company would flounder until we moved someone into your spot
who is as good as you are, if such a person exists.”

 

“There’s some,” said Miss Rich. “I know one girl who covers the accounting
department.”

 

“Put her on your list of replacements if you keep one,” said Flanagan. “But I am
going to try to make sure that isn’t required.”

 

“Thank you,” said Miss Rich. “I’ll see you in the office tomorrow. We still have that
meeting with the people from the government.”

 

“I’ll be there,” said Flanagan. “The contracts look good, and it’s things we can easily
handle.”

 

“This has been a weird experience,” said Miss Rich. “Thank you for inviting me.”

 

“I didn’t invite you,” said Flanagan. “I ordered you to put things together, and you did
with great efficiency. I couldn’t have got all these stuffed shirts here myself.”

 

“I noticed you were avoiding talking to them,” said Miss Rich.

 

“That’s another reason I ordered you to put things together,” said Flanagan. “None
of them would have believed it if I had sent the invites myself.”

 

“I can see that,” said Miss Rich.

 

“Now, we’re going to say goodbye to our guests as they leave,” said Flanagan,
checking his watch. “Then I will put you in a cab to take you home. Lock up when
you get there. You’re the linchpin to the company, and even with a guard, I want you
to be careful.”

 

“If something happened to me, what would you do?,” said Miss Rich.

 

“I don’t know,” said Flanagan. “If it was because of a person, I would hunt him or her
down and eat their liver. Anything else, I would probably have to join a monastery
and reflect on the conditions of life.”

 

“Really?,” said Miss Rich.

 

“No exceptions for the liver either,” said Flanagan.

 

“Thank you,” said Miss Rich. “I will hold on to that statement until my dying day.”

 

“So we have to shake hands, and say goodbye,” said Flanagan. “How hard can that
be?”

 

“That nice old lady I was talking to thought we’re in a relationship,” said Miss Rich.

 

“Really?,” said Flanagan. “What kind?”

 

“Getting ready to be married,” said Miss Rich.

 

“I don’t think I would make a great husband, Miss Rich,” said Flanagan. “You could
do better.”

 

“I seriously doubt that, sir,” said Miss Rich. “Every uncommitted woman, and some
of the committed ones, outside would throw themselves at your feet. I guarantee it.”

 

“They would be throwing themselves at someone who doesn’t have time for them,”
said Flanagan.

 

“Exactly,” said Miss Rich. “But they don’t know that. They just see the millionaire
financier entrepreneur who owns parts of five states and will give them anything they
want.”

 

“Really?,” said Flanagan. “What do you think? Would I make a great catch?”

 

“If the woman didn’t mind sitting at home waiting for you,” said Miss Rich.
“Otherwise, no.”

 

“That is sharp,” said Flanagan. He smiled to say he didn’t take offense. He liked his
work more than he liked people. He could live with that.

 

“It is better the truth come out now before you let some gold digger get her claws into
you and ruin your name and fortune,” said Miss Rich.

 

“That will never happen as long as I have you,” said Flanagan.

 

Miss Rich blushed.

 

The guests filed down the hall as they finished their talk and food. Flanagan and
Miss Rich shook their hands and let them out the front door to the street. Cabs and
chauffeur driven private cars were summoned to carry them away.

 

“I still want to buy your company,” said Courtland when his turn came up.

 

“I can’t sell it to you,” said Flanagan. “I’m in the middle of an internal investigation.
Have a good night.”

 

“Internal investigation?,” said Courtland.

 

Internal investigation?, mouthed Miss Rich silently.

 

“Someone tried to have me killed,” said Flanagan. “The thought is that it was
someone in the company. We’re going to root him out and turn him over to the
police.”

 

“Good luck,” said Courtland.

 

“I was wondering who gave you my private number to the lab,” said Flanagan.

 

“I think I got it from your secretary,” he said.

 

“I’ll have to talk to her about that,” said Flanagan. “Have a good night.”

 

“Good night, Flanagan,” said Courtland. He stepped out on the stoop, walked the
eight steps to the sidewalk, turned right, and started walking down the block.

 

“I did not give him the lab number,” said Miss Rich in a low whisper. She looked
furious at the claim.

 

“Rydell gave him the number,” said Flanagan.

 

“How do you know that?,” asked Miss Rich.

 

“It’s obvious they’re old friends,” said Flanagan.

 

He smiled at the next guest leaving and ushered them out.

//216401/

 

[csyphrett]

The Shield

1940-

8

Flanagan placed Miss Rich in a cab and sent her home. He made sure to pay the hack enough to cover the ride with a generous tip on top of that. He told Berra to let him know when they were done cleaning up. He walked upstairs to his workspace.

 

It wasn’t a lab, but it had a ton of books and some equipment he could use for small things. He couldn’t build more armor unless he decided to knock out a few internal walls and have vats and other things dragged upstairs and put in place.

 

He liked to use it to catch up on reading industry reports and new patents. Some of those he could reverse engineer and use for his own company. A few he bought outright because he couldn’t figure out how they were supposed to work, and he didn’t mind paying for things he felt could help his company.

 

He decided he needed a visual aid to keep him up to date on what he was doing, and what he needed to do.

 

He pulled down a chalkboard from the ceiling and picked up the chalk on the tray at the bottom.

 

He spent an hour assembling what he knew in short sentences. Each sentence had a confirmation written down next to it. A lot of question marks took their places where he didn’t know enough to proceed.

 

How did he tie Rydell to Courtland? He had no idea at the moment. He was sure they were working together, even if he had no proof.

 

Maybe Westwood’s detectives could dig something up.

 

And then Shanks sat on the side. Whom did he work for? If he could be tied to the Rydell-Courtland partnership, that would make things that much easier.

 

If he couldn’t be tied in, that meant another party wanted him dead, and he had no clue who that could be.

 

He decided that everyone knew he was going to be home for the next few days. Someone would make a play. Shanks was in hiding. This might draw him out, or someone else who wanted Flanagan out of the way.

 

How long did he have to wait was the one question he really wanted answered.

 

A knock on the door drew him back to the present. He pushed the chalkboard back in its hiding place before pulling the door open. Berra stood on the other side. His tie and jacket had vanished since they had talked.

 

“We’re done,” said the caterer. “Everything is as it was.”

 

“Thanks,” said Flanagan. “You really came through for me.”

 

“You paid the money and provided the extra hands,” said Berra. “That was enough to make everything presentable.”

 

“No problem,” said Flanagan. “Let me show you the door and lock up. I have a meeting tomorrow I can’t miss.”

 

“The bill is on the kitchen counter,” said Berra. He turned and headed downstairs.

 

“I’ll have Miss Rich write you a check in the morning,” said Flanagan. “It’ll be in your office tomorrow. I’ll send it by messenger.”

 

“Let me know if you need another party catered,” said Berra. “It will be my pleasure.”

 

“All right,” said Flanagan. He walked behind Berra. He casually looked around.

 

Everything looked like it was still there. He closed the door behind the caterer, noting a van with the restaurant name on its side waiting in the street. He locked the door.

 

Flanagan searched his townhouse to make sure it was empty. He cut off the lights as he went up to his bedroom. How long did he have before they tried to kill him?

 

He pulled on his armor as he waited. He had taken the week to put the thing together.

He wore coveralls, a piece of chain mail, and a tunic over that. He had adopted a welder’s mask and hood to protect his face except for the glass eyeslit. Everything had been dipped in his concoction and was a dark purple.

 

He had dipped a triangle of wood to make a purple shield. He strapped it on his arm. He felt it would stop a blast of dynamite, and as many bullets as it could block.

 

Flanagan sat down in his chair, beside the door of the bedroom. He reached up and cut off the lights. All he had to do now was wait.

 

Flanagan wondered where they would keep watch on his townhouse. He doubted there was any place other than directly across the street. He supposed they might come at him early in the morning. That was the usual time for raids.

 

If they didn’t show up by five, he would get some sleep so he could be fresh for the office in the morning.

 

He would try this the next two nights. If it didn’t work out, he would have to try something else.

 

He doubted it would come to that. As soon as they knew where he was, they should have decided if they were coming right away, and what they were bringing. Any delay hurt them.

 

A noise attracted his attention from downstairs. He went to the door. The solid coat of mix kept the chain mail from rattling as he moved. He looked at the stairs. A light shone somewhere on the ground floor.

 

He crept to the stairs. He realized that he had never tested if the chemical would absorb falling damage as well as it did being shot and blown up. He doubted he could fall three stories in his new suit and just walk away.

 

He didn’t want to test it now that he had intruders in his house.

 

The lights came up the stairs. He counted two flashlights. He couldn’t see how many men were behind the lights. He stepped back from the railing. He wanted them away from his lab, and caught flatfooted when they reached the top floor.

 

He leaned against a wall, raising his shield to maximize his coverage. He waited as the group paused at the top of the stairs. One of the men pointed at his closed bedroom door.

 

They assembled at the door. One of them tried the knob. It twisted under his grip and he nodded. He pushed open the door and the group crowded in the door and started shooting.

 

Flanagan frowned at the new holes he imagined being punched through his bed. He walked forward. It was time to have a talk with his home invaders.

 

He walked up to the last man in the group. He kicked the man into the rest of the group before they realized he was behind them. Then he started swinging as hard as he could as the group tried to get away from him.

 

He realized that he could hit harder because his chemical soaked gloves spread the impact as he punched. He wouldn’t want to hit a brick wall, but it worked great against the bones of faces.

 

Flanagan took several blows to his shield, but he barely felt them. He used it to ram a man into flight across the bedroom. The gunman hit the window and almost crashed through to the street below.

 

The financier took a blow to the face he didn’t feel and backhanded his attacker into a chest of drawers. He followed through with a punch that sent the man to the floor.

 

One of the men scrambled for the door. He had recovered his pistol, or never lost it in the scuffle. He turned and started shooting into the room as he ran to the steps.

 

The obvious plan was to run down the stairs and out the front door. He never expected a crazy man to jump the railing and fall down on him while he was shooting. Then they both rolled down to the third floor. A purple gloved fist ended the fight
with two punches.

 

Flanagan got to his feet. He ran up the stairs to the fourth floor. How many of the assassins were still ready to fight?

 

He ran to his bedroom door. He turned on the light. The room was wrecked. He shook his head as he grabbed one man still trying to fight his way to an escape and slammed his face into the wall.

 

The armor had worked better than he had thought it would. He checked it quickly. Several slugs had hit his outer tunic and flattened against the covering. He had barely felt the impacts in the struggle.

 

He started tying the men up with strips torn from his sheets and searching them. The police could pick them up as soon as he was done.

 

He went to the man in the stairwell and dragged him back to the bedroom. He tied him up with the rest.

 

Flanagan looked at the wallets and slips of paper he had tossed on his end table. He went through them, taking any money he found. He paused in his examination of the slips of paper on the end table. It had two addresses on it. One was his townhouse. The other was one he had heard but never seen.

 

Where had he heard it?

 

He realized it was Miss Rich’s place. Had these goons hurt her? If they had, he wouldn’t be calling the police for a long time.

 

He slapped one of the men awake. The gunman struggled against his bonds. He punched the man in the face to get him to pay attention.

 

“This address,” said Flanagan. “Where did you get it?”

 

“What does it matter to you?,” spat the captive.

 

“I’m going to count to five, then I am going to throw you out the window,” said Flanagan. “Then I am going to talk to one of your friends next. Where did you get the address?”

 

“Screw you,” said the man.

 

Flanagan hefted him up and carried him to the cracked window. He started counting.

 

“What are you doing?,” asked the man. His face pushed against the cracked insets of the window.

 

“Where did you get the address?,” asked Flanagan, pausing his count. He pushed the man into the window. “Otherwise, you get to fly.”

 

“The guy who hired us gave us the address,” said the man. “A crew is already over there.”

 

“Were they supposed to kill her?,” asked Flanagan. If the answer was yes, he was going to get revenge the moment after.

 

“No,” said the gunman. “They’re just supposed to hold her until after the meeting that’s going to be called. After that, it won’t matter.”

 

“You just saved your life,” said Flanagan. “I’m going to call her. Then the police. If something has happened to her, I know who all of you are. I’ll find you and make your life hell.”

 

He looked at where the phone should be by his bed. He didn’t see it. He looked around. It rested on the floor. He picked it up and asked the operator to connect him to the phone number for Miss Rich’s place. He waited, but there was no ringing tone.

 

He called the police and asked that someone be sent over to pick up the five men he had captured. He told the man on duty he didn’t know where the owner was, but doubted he had wanted his bedroom shot up. He put the phone down.

 

“I’m going over there,” said Flanagan. He picked up one of the pistols and stuck it in his belt. “If something has happened to Miss Rich, I will make you sorry.”

 

Flanagan left the room. He knew he was too late if the two groups had struck at the same time. Maybe there was a clue waiting there for him.

 

He headed downstairs and found the car his attackers had arrived in. He got in, tossing his shield in the back seat. He pulled away from the curb and headed for Miss Rich’s apartment.

 

What meeting would have been called with both of them out of the way? He thought about it as he drove.
 

 //218403

[csyphrett]

The Shield

1940-

9

Flanagan arrived at Miss Rich’s apartment building. People milled about. He didn’t
see a policeman yet, but he had no doubt one was on the way. What was his next
move?

 

He couldn’t stay where he was. Someone would see his getup and call the law on him.
He didn’t want to explain anything.

 

And there was a chance Westwood’s man had been hurt during all this. Should he
check to make sure?

 

And he didn’t know if Miss Rich had been taken alive, or left for dead in her
apartment.

 

He needed to find out in the narrow window he had before the police arrived.

Flanagan got out of his stolen car. He decided that it was best to go in the front
door. He didn’t have a lot of time for sneaking around.

 

He pushed through the small crowd. He ignored the comments on his costume as he
spotted stairs and elevator side by side. He went up the stairs as fast as he could to the
third floor.

 

He read the numbers on the doors as he searched for the right place. He paused when
he found a bullet riddled mess at the door he wanted.

 

“Miss Rich?,” he called out. He held his shield in front of him in case her guard was
still capable of shooting. “Miss Rich!”

 

He pushed the door out of the way and stepped inside the apartment. He shook his
head at the bullet holes in the walls, and furniture. He spotted blood on the tile
covering the floor and followed it into the kitchen. He paused when he found the
bodyguard lying on the floor.

 

Flanagan frowned as he knelt beside the man. He spotted blood on the man’s shirt.
He opened it and shook his head at the hole he saw. He might live if he was taken to
the hospital right away.

 

The police weren’t going to do that. It would take too long for them to mobilize in his
opinion. He had to do something now if he wanted to save the man’s life.

Then he could look for Miss Rich.

 

He found a hand towel and some tape. He packed the towel in the wound. He checked
the man’s back. He didn’t find an exit wound. He taped the towel in place, wrapping
the tape around the man’s torso as tight as he dared. That caused a cry, but he
couldn’t let that deter him.

 

He had to move forward.

 

Flanagan picked the man up and carried him out of the apartment. He took the
elevator down. He couldn’t jostle the bodyguard with a three story walk down steps.
The hole in his side might soak through towel and tape if he encouraged it.

 

Flanagan had to push the crowd out of his way so he could carry his burden to his
stolen car. He placed the man in the back seat, and got behind the wheel. He aimed
his car for the nearest hospital. Hopefully the doctors would be able to stop the
bleeding and save the guy.

 

He would have to call Westwood after he had dropped the bodyguard off. He needed
to know where Rydell and Courtland were so he could plan his next move. He had
to get Miss Rich back, and they weren’t going to stop him.

 

He pulled up into the driveway to the Emergency ward at the hospital. He glanced at
the sign so he knew where he was, but that was for calling Westwood after he had the
victim squared away.

 

He got out and waved one of the nurses over. He opened the backdoor and reached
in and pulled the bodyguard out of the car. He carried the victim into the building,
watching as one of the women on duty called for a doctor, and a gurney. An orderly
arrived a second later with a rolling bed. A few seconds later, the bodyguard was
on the way to an operating room.

 

Flanagan almost smiled under his mask. He put the feeling aside. Now he had to get
back to work.

 

He got back in the car as a nurse demanded his name. He looked at her for a moment.
Then he drove off.

 

He roamed the streets for minutes until he found a payphone. He had to call
Westwood’s office so he could tell them their man was at the hospital. He couldn’t
go home, and he couldn’t look for clues at Miss Rich’s. He needed information if he
wanted to find her.

 

He searched the car and found some change. He got out and walked to the phone
booth. He opened the door and dialed the private investigator’s number while he
watched the street.

 

He had a distinctive appearance. The police at Miss Rich’s apartment would make
the connection if the hospital informed them about the shot man that had been
dropped off. He imagined a description of his purple suit and shield was being
sent to every radio car in Manhattan with the order to stop him.

 

He couldn’t afford that.

 

“Westwood Detective Agency,” said a voice after five rings. “Would you like to leave
a message?”

 

“Miss Rich has been kidnaped,” said Flanagan. “His man is at St. Luke’s. If he checks
in, tell him that I need to know if he tracked Rydell, or Courtland, home. Got it?”

 

“Who should I say is calling?,” asked the message taker.

 

“Tell him it’s Flanagan,” said the financier. “I’ll call back in a few hours to see if he
has checked in.”

 

“I got it,” said the voice. “As soon as Mr. Westwood calls, I will let him know.”

 

“Thanks,” said Flanagan. He hung up. Where did he go from here? He couldn’t
drive around in a stolen car all night. He couldn’t go home either.

 

The office or the factory would be places people would look for him to show his face.
He couldn’t do that while he was trying to figure out how to rescue Miss Rich. He
couldn’t go home until he was sure the cops had hauled away his earlier catch.

 

He needed to think about his next moves. He needed to get off the street. He needed
to know things. He decided to drive by his place. Maybe the police had already taken
his catch away.

 

He needed to rest for a minute and think about some way to get Miss Rich back. If
he could do that, he might be able to figure out where they had taken her.

 

He planned to hurt Rydell if something had happened to his secretary. He didn’t know
how much pain he was going to inflict. He decided to wait until he knew which way
the wind blew.

 

Then he would see how much the man liked having a broken leg for starters.

He pulled into the alley behind his townhouse. The front of the place had looked
quiet. He hoped that meant the police had come and gone. He used a key stored in his
armor on the back door. He stepped inside. He searched the place. His attackers had
been taken away. One of the policemen who had answered the call had left a card. He
put that in his armor’s pocket before he went to his phone.

 

He had to call the factory and let them know to keep an eye out for trouble. If he
and Miss Rich had been attacked, the factory might be the next target.

 

He went to his parlor and sat down in his favorite chair. How did he fix things?

 

He closed his eyes and thought. Links formed with the assumption that Rydell was
behind Courtland. The places they could safely hold Miss Rich narrowed to places
that Rydell owned in some way.

 

He discounted businesses and offices. He concentrated on places that he knew Rydell
used for pleasure. He didn’t have time to check them all. Miss Rich might be in
trouble while he thought. He needed a way to narrow it down more.

 

He decided to call Westwood’s office again. Maybe the detective had checked in and
was still there.

 

He needed to know if the agency had trailed Rydell and Courtland around.

 

Maybe the hounds had seen something that would help him.

 

“Westwood Detective Agency,” said Westwood. He sounded angry on the phone.

 

“It’s Flanagan,” said Flanagan. “I need to know where Rydell and Courtland went.”

 

“Courtland is in a hotel in lower midtown,” said Westwood. “Rydell is at his house
on Long Island.”

 

“Did Rydell stop anywhere on the way out to the Island?,” asked Flanagan. He had

been to Rydell’s mansion. It stood up close to a nice beach with a shape like a white
Monopoly hotel.

 

“Not that my man saw,” said Westwood. “He’s still out there according to the last
report I got.”

 

“Which hotel is Courtland in?,” asked Flanagan. “I have to ask him some questions.”

 

“St. Luke’s said some man in a costume brought my investigator in,” said Westwood.

 

“I’m sure it looked good,” said Flanagan. “Where is Courtland at?”

 

“It’s a place called the Aviary,” said Westwood.

 

“I need you to stay on Rydell,” said Flanagan. “I’m going to talk to Courtland. If

Rydell leaves his house, I need to know where he goes. If he has Miss Rich, I doubt
she will be at a business, or his house. He’ll probably have her somewhere close to
the house in case something goes wrong and he needs her.”

 

“He has two other properties close to his place on the Island,” said Westwood.

“They’re both rental houses.”

 

“Where are they?,” asked Flanagan. He memorized the addresses before he hung
up. He had a choice on what to do next. Maybe he should talk to Courtland before
trying to search houses that might have civilians in it.

 

He went out his back door and vaulted the fence to get to the alley beyond that. He
got behind the wheel of the stolen car and started it. He drove down the alley and out
on the street. He headed for the Aviary.

 

Flanagan turned over pieces in his mind as he drove south. He didn’t have a lot, but
he liked the challenge of thinking about the inside of the box.

 

If he was wrong about Courtland, he was going to have a problem with the rest of his
plans. If he was right, there might be something to link the face man to Rydell and the
both of them to Miss Rich.

 

And he wanted to be right in this above all others.

 

He parked beside the hotel, grimacing at the flashing sign on the roof of the place. He
got out and went to the fire escape on the side of the building. He used a dumpster to
get to the bottom rung of the ladder. Then he started up.

 

He climbed up to the second floor window. He let himself in. He crept down the stairs
to the lobby. He watched the desk man. When the employee stepped away from the
desk, he jogged over and looked at the register. He jogged back to the stairs and
hoped Courtland hadn’t switched his room.

 

He climbed up to the indicated room in the register. He knocked on the door. He
put a finger over the peephole. He didn’t want Courtland to take it in his head to run.

 

“Who is it?,” Courtland asked.

 

“Room service,” said Flanagan. “I have some extra towels for you.”

 

Courtland opened the door. He froze when he saw the purple menace on his doorstep.
He tried to swing the door shut. A fist to the face stopped him from doing that. He
staggered away from the door.

 

“Let’s talk,” said Flanagan. He stepped inside and shut the door.