A/N: I haven't found any definite statements about where Dozier-verse Century City is supposed to be. There's a real Century City in LA—developed on land that used to belong to 20th Century Fox, which produced The Green Hornet—but it wasn't founded until the early '60s, which doesn't fit with several of Mike's comments that suggest that the Reids had lived in Century City since Britt was a child. The only episode that implies a West Coast location is "The Secret of the Sally Bell," in which the Sally Bell left from Hong Kong but sank in a typhoon before it could reach Century City (never mind why a ship that sank in a typhoon, a name applied to storms only in the western Pacific, would be towed all the way to Century City for salvage). The one other potential clue we have is the Batman crossover 2.51-52 "A Piece of the Action"/"Batman's Satisfaction," in which Century City is "a long way from" Gotham but still close enough for Kato to drive the Black Beauty up for the case without raising many eyebrows. (The same episodes tell us that Britt and Bruce went to school together, but given the option of boarding schools, that tells us nothing about where Century City is relative to Gotham.) Gotham, of course, is supposed to be New York City—although adding The Saint to the crossover complicates that slightly because there are several Saint episodes set in NYC proper. Taking a cue from the comics, therefore, I'm positing that for this AU, Gotham and NYC both exist, with Gotham being one of the boroughs (Bronx-ish), and that Century City is somewhere around Norfolk, Virginia. That can still work with "The Secret of the Sally Bell" if we assume the Sally Bell had passed through the Panama Canal for some reason before being wrecked by a hurricane close enough to Century City to be towed there for salvage.

This story is complete in five parts; I'll post a chapter a day. At present, I don't have any further ideas for this AU. But I won't rule out coming back to it in the future!

Duet for Hornets
By San Antonio Rose

Chapter 1
The Saint Pays a Call

In working-class homes and around the average office watercooler throughout Century City, talk during the first days of June of 1969 centered around the usual newspaper headlines and newscasts regarding the war in Vietnam, the moon landing planned for the following month, and other events of state and local interest. But in the mansions and upper-class clubs and salons across the city, there was only one subject anyone was discussing.

Britt Reid was getting married.

A large part of the speculation involved the identity of Lenore Case, his announced bride-to-be. No one could remember having met her… not even those who'd walked past her desk at the Daily Sentinel repeatedly on their way into Britt's office. The relationship hadn't exactly been a secret—Britt's casual dates with socialite friends had dropped to nothing after a trip to London two years earlier, so rumors that he'd found someone with whom to go steady had abounded—but still no one could put the name with a face, despite having seen the two of them together on multiple occasions. (To be fair, the failure wasn't entirely due to snobbish lack of observation. Ken Shields had made good on his promise to forward a photo story about Britt and Casey's weekend in London to the Sentinel, but before it could run, King Tut had started feuding with Catwoman and dragged virtually all of Gotham's Rogues Gallery into the fray. By the time the Sentinel finally had space for the photo story, two weeks had passed, and Britt had decided it wasn't worth running a story that old.) Questions also circulated about who would be in the wedding party; Bruce Wayne was almost certain to be best man, but whether any other names from the social register would be among the groomsmen was anybody's guess.

For her part, Casey wasn't overly anxious to be recognized before the wedding. She worried that as soon as word got out that Britt was marrying "his secretary, darling!" it would spark a round of hurtful gossip, starting with "Of course, the Reids aren't one of our old families" and moving through disparaging remarks about their Texan origins to the fact that Britt's father had died in prison for a crime he didn't commit. "I don't care what they say about me," she told Britt privately in a tone that meant she cared very much, "but I don't like it when your so-called friends talk bad about you."

"Casey," Britt replied gently, "if I ever thought those people were really my friends, I lost that illusion after what happened to my father. If I cared that much about what people think of me, I'd never have become the Green Hornet. And I never dated any of those women seriously because I knew they were about as deep as a mud puddle." She snickered, and he continued, "All that matters to me right now is having you by my side for the rest of our lives. Besides, if you think they'll be shocked when they see you, remember who's going to be standing next to Bruce."

She laughed. "Have you told Bruce yet?"

"I haven't even told Frank yet. You and Kato are the only ones who know."

"You know who's not going to forgive you for this, right?"

"Mike," they chorused and laughed.

The wedding was set for Midsummer's Day, which was a Saturday, and most of the out-of-town guests who'd RSVPed were planning to arrive no more than a day or two beforehand. Bruce, in particular, wouldn't be able to leave Gotham until just before the rehearsal on the 20th. So Britt didn't know what to expect when he returned to the Sentinel Building on June 6 after the city's commemoration of the D-Day landings to be met in the lobby by a breathless Mike Axford.

"Boss," Mike whispered urgently, "there's a man in your office!"

Britt frowned, confused. The daily editorial meeting had already happened, and he didn't have any appointments for the rest of the day. "Who is it?"

Mike shook his head. "I dunno. I can't get a good look at him. He's sitting in your chair, but he's being awfully careful not to let anyone in the city room see his face."

"All right. Thanks, Mike." Britt clapped Mike on the shoulder, and the two men headed to the elevator and up to Britt's office on the ninth floor.* Sure enough, as they passed through the city room, Britt could see the interloper through the wall of windows behind the reception area next to his desk—and was reasonably sure he recognized the man just from the back of his head. If he was right, though, he was willing to play along with the mystery for the moment.

"There!" Mike whispered, pointing. "Do you think it's the Green Hornet?"

Britt rolled his eyes. "Mike, you know as well as I do that the Green Hornet never does anything during daylight hours, and all the daylight crimes attributed to him have turned out to be fakes. Besides, that man's not in costume, and I happen to know the Green Hornet doesn't smoke," he added as the interloper's arm, cigarette in hand, appeared past the back of the desk chair.

"Oh," said Mike, deflating slightly. "Well, who do you think it is?"

"Let's go find out." Britt led the way to his outer office, where Casey was typing away at her desk. "Hi, beautiful."

Casey looked up with studied worry. "I'm glad you're back, Britt," she said quietly and a shade too earnestly. Bingo. "There's a man here to see you."

Britt was definitely game to play along, since Mike had missed his guess so badly. "Who is it?" he asked in the same low, concerned tone Casey was using.

"He didn't give his name"—oh, Britt knew he was right now—"but he said he wanted to talk to you about taking a job as an anchorman."

"An anchorman? We're not hiring anyone on the TV side."

"That's what I told him, but he said he has newscasting experience… something about having done an exposé on Nat Grendel."

It was all Britt could do to keep a straight face. "Thanks, Casey."

He opened the door to the inner office and strode through toward the desk, Mike still hard on his heels. The interloper had evidently heard them coming and turned to keep his back toward them, but the style of his light brown hair and the smell of his expensive English cigarettes and French cologne were still familiar enough to further confirm Britt's hunch.

"Nat Grendel, huh?" Britt challenged. "I thought Lester Boyd was dead."

"He is," the interloper replied, and the suave British baritone voice was more familiar still—Britt had just heard it on the phone a few days earlier. "But poor Lester only started that crusade. I finished it."

Clearly unable to stand the suspense any longer, Mike shouldered past Britt and shook his finger at the back of the chair. "All right, you! Quit playing games and face the man you're talking to!"

The interloper conceded with a wave of his cigarette and turned around, mischief sparkling in his blue eyes and a hint of a smile above the cleft of his chin. Mike reared back in surprise.

Britt was losing his battle to keep from smiling himself as he slung an arm across Mike's shoulders. "What's the matter, Mike? Don't you recognize the famous Simon Templar?"

Simon glanced upward, and the smoke curling around his head flashed for a moment in a circle of bright white light, tilted at a jaunty angle that mimicked the halo over the stick figure that adorned his cufflinks.

"The Saint?!" Mike gasped. Then he recovered enough to shrug Britt off and start exploding again. "What the devil do you want here, Templar?"

"Really, Axford," said Simon and stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray Britt kept on his desk for guests. "Is that any way to talk to your boss' second-best man?"

Mike's "WHAT?!" could probably be heard on the street.

Britt grinned as Simon stood. "Did your watch stop, Simon? You're two weeks early."

"Oh, I know," Simon answered and came around the desk to shake Britt's hand. "But you can't get a hotel room within a hundred miles of the Normandy coast right now; London's positively stifling with heat; and I did say I wanted to get in a spot of fishing when I came to visit. Besides, one never gets a chance for a proper chat once the bulk of the wedding guests arrive."

"Second-best man," Mike grumbled. "I can't believe anyone but this young whippersnapper would be nutty enough to invite you to a wedding."

"Why, as weddings go, this one will be tame," Simon shot back. "The last time I was asked to be best man, it took a robbery to convince the bride's father to approve of the marriage, and the time before that, the bride was in severe need of a lesson in manners. Casey doesn't have that problem."

"I haven't heard this story," said Casey, bringing in a file to put on Britt's desk.

Simon turned to her. "Which one?"

"Well, I remember reading about your bet with Elliot Vascoe, but I haven't heard about the lesson in manners."

"Ah. You wouldn't have liked Belinda back then—poor little rich girl who was selfish, spoiled, and making everybody's life miserable. But Jack was determined to marry her, so I felt it was my duty to turn her into the kind of woman he thought she was."

Britt was intrigued in spite of himself. "What'd you do?"

Simon shrugged. "Well, we had ten days until the wedding, and we were about a hundred miles from where we were supposed to meet Jack. So I confiscated Belinda's passport and valuables—temporarily, of course—and we walked halfway across Spain."

Britt and Casey laughed, but Mike sneered, "Confiscated temporarily?"

"I gave it all back at the end," Simon answered. "I always meant to. But I think everyone needs a taste of poverty, of real hardship, at least once as a young person. It's a wonderful thing, knowing that you can lose everything and still survive, finding out that you can't bend all of reality to your every whim and it's not the end of the world, learning the value of fresh air and exercise and hard work and manners. Besides, that wasn't nearly as difficult as it would have been starting from Paris."

"And I suppose you know that from experience?" Mike was just baiting Simon now.

But Simon met Mike's gaze steadily. "Yes, 1940, just after the first airdrop by the Free French to the French Resistance. My Resistance cell was supposed to receive the drop, but they'd been betrayed to the Gestapo by a collaborator. Only two of the three men who survived knew about me, but it was too dangerous to try to get to Dunkirk or Calais, so instead they sent me to Spain—on foot."**

Mike was visibly taken aback, but he covered with a scoff. "You're not old enough to have been in the French Resistance."

"I was thirteen," Simon countered. "Not old enough to be on the front lines, perhaps, but old enough to carry messages, coordinate forgers, and rob safes. The hard part, of course, was having to go back to school when I finally got back to England—especially since I was immediately sent away to a boarding school in the country, where it was safe." Judging from his tone, Simon still resented the idea that he'd needed to be kept safe after his escape.

Now it was Britt's turn to be taken aback. He'd known all along that Simon was seven years older than he was, but he'd never really considered how different their wartime experiences must have been or the effect those differences must have made in their character as men. He barely remembered Pearl Harbor, let alone what life had been like before then, and neither Century City nor the Reids' hometown in Texas had ever been in danger from German bombers.

Before the conversation could become any more awkward, Britt took a deep breath and changed the subject. "So, Simon, about fishing—I'm free for the rest of the day. Why don't we go down to the yacht club for lunch and then take my boat out for a spin?"

"Oh, yes, please," said Simon in a mixture of eagerness and relief. Then he gestured to two suitcases that were half-hidden behind the desk. "I'm afraid I haven't made it to my hotel yet, so if we could stop on the way?"

"Yeah, sure." Britt kissed Casey's cheek. "We'll be back by 5 to pick you up for supper."

Casey smiled. "Have fun."

As Simon collected his suitcases, Mike gestured despairingly in his direction. "Boss, you're not really gonna—"

"Mike," Britt interrupted firmly, "Simon's been a good friend of mine for two years now, and if he'd wanted to rob me blind, he could easily have done so either time I visited London."

"You can't ask me to trust him!"

"I'm not asking you to trust him. I'm telling you that I do. You've worked with the Green Hornet often enough—"

"Under orders and under protest!"

"—often enough to know that public perception isn't always accurate. Now, will you stop worrying about me and start worrying about the evening edition?"

Mike sighed heavily. "All right."

Britt looked back at his guest. "Ready, Simon?"

"Quite," said Simon.

So they said their goodbyes and left, chatting about deep sea fishing on the way to the elevator. It wasn't Britt's favorite sport, but he did do it occasionally, and Simon had some highly technical questions about what gear Britt had to loan him and what he'd want to rent.

"Did you update your reservation at the hotel?" Britt finally asked as they left the building.

"No, not yet," Simon confessed. "It was a last-minute decision, really. I've just finished an assignment for MI-5 and thought I should flee the country before Maj. Carter could send me another."

Britt laughed.

"No, really, I was beginning to think I wouldn't make it to the wedding."

"Well, in that case, come stay with me. I've got three guest rooms, and they're not reserved for another two weeks."

Simon grinned. "All right, then, I will. Thanks."

They arrived at Britt's convertible then—Simon had admitted on the way down that he hadn't gotten a rental yet, either—and Britt got in first and popped the trunk so Simon could put his luggage in it. He had just put his key in the ignition, however, when something stung the side of his neck. At first, he thought it was just a mosquito bite, but when he slapped at it, his hand hit something hard. He pulled it away and found himself staring at a small red-fletched dart.

"Simon," he called, already feeling the effects of whatever fast-acting barbiturate the dart had been carrying.

"Yes?" Simon returned, closed the trunk, paused, and then came running when Britt didn't respond. "Britt?"

"Dart," Britt managed. "Tranq…."

Simon opened the driver's door. "Here, move over."

Britt was aware of Simon starting to slide him toward the middle of the seat, but then there was a thud and a grunt and Simon's hands fell away. Britt had just enough time to think Oh, not again… before the drug pulled him all the way under.

The stunning blow to the back of the neck that sent Simon into the floorboard didn't knock him out completely, but he had no time to recover before the person who'd struck him hauled him up by his collar and dragged him out of the way of the two men in pinstriped suits who pulled Britt out of the car after him. Simon tried to struggle against his captor but couldn't quite muster the muscle control yet.

"You got 'im?" his captor asked the other hoods.

"Yeah," answered one of the men holding Britt.

"Whadda we do about this guy?"

"Who is he?"

"No idea."

Simon was never sure whether to be annoyed or grateful when the ungodly didn't recognize him. This time he settled for both.

"Ah, leave 'im," the third hood growled. "The boss wants Reid. He didn't say nothin' about nobody else."

"A'right," Simon's captor agreed. They were approaching the back fender, and the captor shifted his grip as if he were going either to drop Simon or bundle him into the boot, presumably to suffocate or die of heat stroke.

Whatever the thinking, that shift was Simon's cue. He was still a bit wonky from having been coshed, but he'd recovered enough to be able to plant his feet, grab his captor's lapels, and hurl him in a modified morote seionage throw toward the other two hoods. That did succeed in getting him free, but the motion did his own balance no favours. He fell back against the car, which winded him, and the other hoods only ran to stuff Britt into another car several spaces away. His captor, meanwhile, landed hard but quickly rolled to his feet and punched Simon in the face, hard enough to draw blood.

"Let's go!" someone called from the other car before another blow could land, and Simon's captor ran off. As soon as he was in the other car, the assailants drove away.

Simon was too dazed to get the number from the plates. By the time he'd recovered enough to use the car behind him for leverage to push himself to his feet, the other car was long gone, and Britt with it. Then red-hot rage surged through Simon, and he staggered over to the driver's seat, grabbed the keys out of the ignition, and raced back inside and up to Britt's office, where Casey was still talking with Axford.

"Simon!" Casey gasped as Simon burst in and slammed the door behind him. "What happened?"

"Britt's been kidnapped," Simon growled.

"What?!"

"Shot him with a tranquilizer dart, knocked me for six when I tried to help him." Simon managed to remember his handkerchief before he swiped at the trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth. "There were three that I saw, presumably a fourth driving the getaway car. I was in no shape to read the number plates."

Axford scoffed. "Is this your idea of a bachelor party?"

"Shut up, Axford," Simon snarled.

"Well, after what you said about that little toughening-up course—"

"Mike, that's enough!" Casey interrupted before Simon could take a swing at him.

Axford stopped that thought but continued with, "I suppose you'll tell us not to call the police?"

"That's the standard procedure in any kidnapping case," Simon snapped. "Wait for contact and don't call the police. Surely you've covered enough kidnappings to know that."

Axford nodded. "And then you'll tell us to pay the ransom."

"No."

"I'm onto your little—no?"

"Firstly, we don't know what they're going to ask. One of them said they were told to take Britt specifically, which may mean they want something from the Sentinel or from Frank Scanlon, or they may be trying to force Britt to do something. It may not be about money."

"Oh." Axford considered. "That's a good point."

"Second," Simon continued, still simmering, "I never advise paying ransom or blackmail if there's any alternative that won't get someone killed. Third, I steal only from the ungodly, not from my friends. And fourth, if I want to steal something, I steal it. I don't clutter up the works with a kidnapping."

Axford subsided with a grimace.

"What should we do, then?" Casey asked.

Simon turned to her. "Are you free to leave?"

"Yes. It's about time for my lunch break, and there's nothing I need to do that can't wait until Monday. I don't think I can focus on work right now anyway. Trouble is, I just sold my car, and I've been riding to work with Britt the last few weeks, but I don't have my own key to his car yet."

"That's all right. He left his keys in the ignition."

Axford scoffed.

Simon ignored him. "We don't know where the kidnappers will try to make contact, so you and I had best go to Britt's house to wait. Axford, you stay here and mind the store. Hold the story of the kidnapping until tomorrow mid-day. Ring us if you hear anything; we'll do the same."

"All right," Axford agreed, somewhat grudgingly. Then, as Casey grabbed her purse, he added more earnestly, "Look, Templar… I love these two like my own."

"We'll get Britt back," Simon vowed. "And if his captors harm him, or if they lay a hand on Casey, they'll rue the day they were born."

Axford nodded. "Thanks."

Simon nodded back and escorted Casey to the lift. Once the doors were safely closed, however, he handed her Britt's keys and braced himself against one wall of the cab in the hope that the descent wouldn't do his head in too badly.

"So this really isn't a gag," Casey murmured sadly.

"No," Simon murmured back. "I wish it were."

"Are you all right?"

"I've had worse, but I don't think I should drive. Anyway, you know where we're going, and should we pass any policemen who'd recognize the car, it'll look less suspicious with you driving."

"Okay. I don't have a lot of first aid experience, but Kato does. He can take a look at you when we get to the house."

He sighed. "If he doesn't murder me for having lost Britt."

She put a gentle hand on his arm. "Simon, this isn't your fault. We had no reason to think Britt was in danger. The paper hasn't gotten any threatening letters beyond the usual crackpots in over a month."

"No, this wasn't a crackpot operation. I'd have thought mob myself… although I suppose it's possible they were hired by some society belle to put a stop to the wedding."

She scowled. "If so, she won't have to worry about you and Kato."

"That," he said with a smile as the lift reached the ground floor, "is why Britt loves you."

If anyone in the lobby had witnessed the fight in the parking lot, no one dared to approach Simon or Casey about it. The two of them thus made their way out to Britt's car without further delays and were on the road in less than a minute.

Not until they were out of the parking lot did Casey sigh heavily. "This is worse than the time Britt got shot. At least then I knew where he was, even if I did want to kill him for going after Mike when he should have stayed in the hospital."

Simon frowned. "'Going after Mike'? What happened?"

"Oh, Mike got it into his head that the Green Hornet was behind the string of robberies Britt was investigating, so he decided to set a trap with a news article talking up a new shipment of furs one of the stores had just gotten in. He didn't know the real culprits were a pair of cops who'd have killed him if Britt and Kato hadn't intervened. It's a miracle Britt didn't tear his stitches and bleed to death."

He decided not to press that issue. "Does Britt have a homing device on him?"

She shook her head. "I don't know. He does have his watch, and he'll probably use that to signal Frank Scanlon and maybe try to radio Kato, but I don't know if he has a Hornet Signal. There's one sewn into the lining of the Green Hornet's coat, but he hasn't said whether he's put one in his everyday clothes."

"I'll assume not, then, at least until we talk to Kato, since you say he had no reason to think he was in danger. I won't count on the radio being in range, either—even if it is, he may not be able to tell us more than that he's alive."

"Because he's been drugged?"

"Partly, yes. He won't have seen the place from the outside, and even if there are clues in the place where he wakes, he may not be able to communicate them well until the drug's fully worn off. His hands may also be tied, which would limit his ability to use the watch, or there may be someone in the room with him."

They stopped at a stop light, and she looked over at him. "Is there any hope, Simon?"

He rubbed her shoulder gently. "There's always hope, Casey. They won't kill him as long as he's valuable to them, and that gives us time to find him and get him out. We'll know more in a matter of hours."

She sniffled but then made a visible effort to pull herself together and nodded. "Thanks."

It wasn't many minutes more before they were slowing down outside a townhouse on a busy street. Casey pressed some hidden button, and a panel that had looked like merely a mod-decorated wall lifted to reveal Britt's one-car garage (which was still more than Simon had had at any of his flats in London). As she pulled the car into the garage, Casey was careful to park in exactly the right spot, and the garage door closed again behind them.

"The floor is a turntable," she explained quietly once she'd switched off the engine. "There are clamps that raise automatically to hold this car in place when Britt wants to switch to the Black Beauty."

"Clever," said Simon and got out.

Casey had just popped the boot lid when Kato, in a white-jacketed butler's uniform, opened the door into the house. "Oh, Miss Case, Mr. Templar!" he said. "Sorry, I wasn't expecting anyone for lunch. Where's…."

"Britt's been kidnapped," Simon said grimly.

Kato's eyes widened in alarm, but then his face hardened. "Come in, please. I'll get your bags."

"Thanks, Kato."

While Kato took Simon's luggage up to a guest room, Simon got drinks for Casey and himself, after which they adjourned to the kitchen and filled Kato in as he fixed sandwiches for all of them and checked Simon's head. Simon did his best to describe the three hoods, but Kato didn't recognize them from what little Simon could recall.

Apart from conversation, all was quiet until after lunch, when the three of them went to Britt's study just in time to hear an odd chime. Kato rushed over to the bookcase and tilted three seemingly-random books forward in sequence, which caused the fireplace to rise and reveal a hidden lift just coming down with an older man in the cab.

"Hi, Mr. Scanlon," said Casey as the man stepped out into the room. "Oh, Simon, this is our district attorney, Frank Scanlon. Mr. Scanlon, Simon Templar."

"Counselor," Simon said, stepping forward to shake hands.

"Templar," Scanlon replied, sounding confused. "Sorry, Britt signaled me. I thought he'd be here."

"He's been kidnapped," Kato stated.

"What?!"

The conversation was interrupted by a crackle of radio static, followed by Britt's voice calling weakly, "Kato… Kato, are you there?"

Kato dove for the bottom drawer of Britt's desk and pulled out the microphone of a radio transmitter. "I'm here, Boss."

"Oh, thank God. Simon?"

"He's here, and Miss Case and Mr. Scanlon."

"Okay… okay, good. Glad they're safe."

"Where are you?"

Britt groaned. "Dunno. Think it's… some sort of warehouse. Small room… plywood walls… one cot, one door, no windows."

Simon motioned for the mic, and Kato handed it over. "Britt, this is Simon," Simon said. "Stay put and rest. We'll find you."

"Thanks, Simon," Britt sighed, sounding very Texan indeed. "Someone's comin'. Over an' out."

Scanlon grimaced as Kato took the mic back and closed up the radio drawer. "A small room with plywood walls in a warehouse. That doesn't narrow it down much."

"At least it suggests he's still somewhere in the city," Simon countered. "That shortwave radio in his watch hasn't much range."

"Yes, but there are hundreds of warehouses in the city. That doesn't even tell us whether he's near the waterfront, near the train yards, in the manufacturing district…."

"Simon said he thought the kidnappers were mobsters," Casey offered. "Would it help if he looked at mugshots?"

Scanlon grimaced again. "It's tricky—we wouldn't want to risk the kidnappers assuming you have called the police. I suppose I could see about bringing the file here, but even then…."

They were interrupted again by a telephone ringing, but not the one on Britt's desk. This one—presumably a radiophone—was hidden behind a panel in the bookcase, which Kato opened by triggering another secret switch.*** "It's the Green Hornet's private line," he explained and took something out of the top drawer of the desk that looked like a child's toy. "This is a scrambler," he told Simon. "It'll disguise your voice." Then he picked up the phone, attached the scrambler over the mouthpiece and switched it on, and handed the receiver to Simon.

"This is the Green Hornet," Simon answered, adopting an American accent for safety, and held the phone away from his ear so that Kato could listen as well.

"Don't ask questions, Hornet," returned a male voice on the other end. "My boss wants to make a deal with youse—and it concerns Britt Reid."

Simon and Kato exchanged a look. "I'm listening," said Simon.

"Patton Warehouse, 10:00 tonight. Come alone."

"I bring my driver, or no deal. I'm sure you'll have us outnumbered anyway."

Kato nodded his approval.

The caller chuckled. "All right, bring your driver—but no one else."

"Fair enough."

"Oh, and Hornet… don't be late."

"Of course."

The caller said nothing else, only hung up.

Simon handed the receiver to Kato and turned back to Casey and Scanlon. "Patton Warehouse, 10:00," he repeated. "Whoever the man was, he said his boss wants to make a deal with the Green Hornet concerning Britt."

Scanlon frowned. "That's it? No further demands?"

Simon shook his head. "None. What puzzles me is why they called the Hornet and not Casey or the Sentinel and why they think holding Britt would give them some kind of leverage over the Hornet. What's their relationship supposed to be like?" He'd seen Britt pretend to Amos Klein that they were enemies, but whether that still held in Century City was another question.

"Adversarial," said Scanlon. "Britt's published some scathing articles and editorials about the Hornet's alleged crimes, and the Hornet's offered to kill Britt several times as part of a trap for gangsters like Glen Connors. Then there was the time Britt got shot—the only way we could get him admitted to a hospital without raising suspicion was for Kato to fire a blank at Britt in front of the entire city room at the Sentinel."

Simon nodded slowly.

"So what should we do?" Casey asked.

"There's only one thing for it," said Simon. "I'll need your help, Casey, and yours, Kato."

Kato nodded, clearly understanding what Simon meant. "It'll be more difficult than in London."

"Impossible if they've met the Hornet before. Visual is one thing, but I don't sound like Britt."

"I didn't recognize the man's voice."

"All we can do is hope, then. It's closer range, true, but with low light and the right makeup…."

Scanlon looked from Simon to Kato in alarm. "You're not suggesting…."

"Not suggesting, Mr. Scanlon," Simon said. "Our only hope of saving Britt is for the Green Hornet to make that meeting. And he's going to."

.

* Location based on Casey's line in "Programmed for Death": "But how could the leopard have gotten to the city room, eight floors above the street?" The city room is right outside Britt's office.

** Eigon has a story along similar lines on AO3 ("'You were so brave, and so very, very young…'"), but I've tried not to lift anything directly from that story and instead to draw on the same clues from canon. My take on Simon's and Britt's ages is based on Sir Roger's and Van's.

*** This is pure speculation on my part, but I think canon supports it. The one time we see Britt make a call from his house as the Green Hornet (in "Freeway of Death"), he uses the regular landline phone on his study desk—admittedly, he's calling Mike at the Sentinel Building, so there's little risk in his doing so. "May the Best Man Lose" implies that Britt puts a message out through some sort of back-channel criminal network when he wants to contact the man who tried to kill Frank, and otherwise he normally tells criminals that he will contact them on his own schedule. But "The Hunters and the Hunted" and "Ace in the Hole" both begin with mobsters having contacted the Hornet to arrange a meeting, which they can't have done by calling the landline in Britt's study, and the situation in "The Hunters and the Hunted" is too urgent and sensitive for Mel Hurk to have used the back-channel network or called the phone in the Black Beauty on the off chance that he could catch the Hornet in the car. A radiophone in the house would be the only logical solution. (How Britt controls who gets the number is a separate problem.)