Chapter Ten
A Night of Terror
I
Lee watched the Black Beauty as she rose out of her hidden berth in the garage. Her appearance always made his heart beat a little faster. He turned to thoughtfully regard John who had donned the Green Hornet mask and was watching the Black Beauty just like he was. "You know, Mr. Reid is going to ream us new butt holes when he finds out we've been out with the Black Beauty."
"If it clears Dad's reputation, it'll be well worth it," John answered. "I know Mom and Frank Scanlon wanted us to go along with Dad's orders," he said reasonably, "but I couldn't just sit on my hands and do nothing. Besides, look, what would have happened if I hadn't decided that it would be a good idea for us to stake out the party at the Lakeview Country Club. Sam Sprite and Stormy would be dead now."
"Stormy?" Lee commented, "So you're on a first name basis with her, are you?"
John shrugged, then added with a crooked smile, "Maybe."
Lee donned his mask, but before heading to the Black Beauty, said thoughtfully, "We don't have to go out tonight. We could tip off the police about Jake Gordon and the video tape."
"No," John answered.
"Why?"
"Because I don't trust them, that's why. Not after the attack on Dad at the jail. Somebody on the inside is helping Archer and the De la Culebra. The only way that tape is going to be safe is if we have it in our hands."
Lee nodded his agreement, then slid behind the Black Beauty's steering wheel. He looked into the rear view mirror to see that John had settled into the back seat. They went through the ritual of checking the Hornet weapons and the scanner. Lee found it oddly comforting, as if he could feel his father's spirit in the car beside him.
"Let's roll, Kato," the Green Hornet said.
Kato smiled, pressed a button on the Black Beauty's dashboard. The garage's rear wall rose and the Black Beauty moved out with a soft, deep purr of its massive engine.
"I wonder if the leak at police headquarters could have something to do with Tommy Cheung's disappearance," Kato said as he drove the Black Beauty through the darkened city streets toward Jake Gordon's apartment.
"He's the D.A.'s son, isn't he?" the Green Hornet asked.
"Yeah."
"I bet you're right."
"I don't know why," Kato said uneasily, "But I have a feeling that things are starting to come to a head."
"I agree," The Green Hornet grimaced thoughtfully as he watched the city pass by them. "I wish . . . ," the Green Hornet started. "Dammit," he swore, "We can't be every where at the same time . . . " he added in frustration.
"No matter how much we wish we could," Kato remarked in agreement. "But don't worry, I'm sure Ms Weathers has Sam Sprite well hidden. She didn't even tell Mr. Scanlon, or us, where she has him holed up after they left the motel. So he's safe while she's keeping an eye on Christy. And," he continued, "Mr. Reid is going to be okay in that safe house."
"Whose location is known only to a select few," the Green Hornet interjected, "Including the D.A."
"Mr. Scanlon personally hand-picked the men who are guarding him. Even if you don't trust Mr. Cheung, we should be able to trust the men Mr. Scanlon helped choose."
"We should, but . . . " The Green Hornet shook his head, "I still don't like it."
"We can't hang around there all the time . . . "
"I know," the Green Hornet said distastefully. "After we check out this Jake Gordon guy, we'll head out to the safe house just to make sure that everything is okay."
"Sounds good to me."
The Black Beauty pulled up in front the apartment building. It was a small two story place having only about twenty two-bedroom units. Jake Gordon's place was located on the top floor near the center. The hour was late and most of the windows of the apartments were dark, including Jake Gordon's.
After parking the Black Beauty out of sight, the Green Hornet and Kato noiselessly moved up the exterior stairs to Gordon's apartment. It took only a few quick moments with the cheap lock and they were inside.
Kato fingered the safety chain on the back of the door that had been left undone. "Careless," he said quietly.
Frowning, the Green Hornet nodded his agreement. "I hope that's all there is to it," he whispered back.
The Green Hornet and Kato swept their mini-flashes across the room. Chinese and pizza take out boxes covered the couch, chairs and coffee table that faced a large screen TV set in an entertainment center filled with expensive electronic equipment. Several bottles of beer and cheap wine littered the floor, making it necessary for them to walk carefully.
"I like his sense of style," Kato commented wryly.
"There," he said, pointing to a tall Totem pole that stood as a silent sentinel in the far corner of the room. It was well made, unpainted to show the dark sheen and handsome grain of its wood. A black raven of ebony wood silently regarded them with mother of pearl eyes.
"Let's check it out before we talk to Gordon," the Green Hornet said leading the way.
"Wait a minute," Kato said, his sharp eyes spotting a stray shadow that appeared and disappeared as his flash swept near the Totem pole.
The Green Hornet carefully eased next to him, the light of his flash joining Kato's. "A trip wire," he said, "Nylon, hair thin."
"A trap?" Kato said.
"Probably."
"This doesn't look good," Kato said uneasily.
"It sure doesn't," the Green Hornet agreed. "Let's check out the rest of the place."
With the Green Hornet leading the way, the two men passed the narrow galley kitchen and small dining area and headed for the two bedrooms in the back. The first room was filled with computer equipment and a workbench with a high stool in front of it. On the pegboard over the bench were several pliers, hammers of assorted sizes and wrenches. Next to the desk was a tall cabinet. Unlike the rest of the apartment, it was scrupulously neat.
"Must be where he makes his jewelry," the Green Hornet commented before heading for the closed door across the hallway.
The Green Hornet suspiciously swept his flash along the sides, top and bottom of the door looking for signs of another trip wire. Finding none, he slid into the room. Kato took a few moments to check behind them before following the Hornet into the room.
The bedroom looked like it had been hit by a major hurricane. Not a single piece of furniture remained intact. The bed looked like it had imploded while shattered shards of glass glittered everywhere. Sheets looked like they had been run through a paper shredder while pillow feathers drifted lazily in the stray breezes of the Green Hornet's and Kato's footsteps. Dark stains turned rusty red as their flashes slid over the destruction.
"I found Gordon," Kato said lifting a piece of the shattered mattress away with his foot. "Or at least a part of him," he added distastefully. "Might be an arm."
"I found the rest of him," the Green Hornet said from the opposite side of the room. "We're too late," he said, "Somebody got to him before we did."
"How long ago do you think it was?" Kato asked as he walked over to the Green Hornet.
"I have no idea," the Green Hornet said. "It looks like rigor mortis hasn't set in yet, so it must have been in the last few hours."
Kato considered the body at their feet. "Somebody must have had a real mad on to do something like this."
The Green Hornet nodded. "I agree. Looks like whoever did this pulled the poor bastard's arms right out of their sockets."
"I hope he was dead by then," Kato commented.
"Me too," the Green Hornet said as he crouched down to look more closely at Jake Gordon's body.
"Got a guess who might have done it?" Kato asked, crouching down beside him.
"No, but this kind of destruction would have required a lot of strength." the Green Hornet said thoughtfully.
"Hakenkrueze?" Kato ventured.
The Green Hornet nodded grimly.
From a rooftop across from Gordon's place, Hakenkrueze smiled wolfishly as he looked up from his binoculars. The trap had been sprung. He thrust his bloodstained mechanical arm down in a triumphant thrust. A rocket sped out of the darkness, splintering it in a fireball of yellow and white as it exploded into Jack Gordon's apartment.
The hell with Archer and the woman's desires, he thought as he watched the flames consume the upper half of the building. He would have rather killed the Green Hornet in hand to hand combat, but if the De la Culebra woman was right, he at least had the satisfaction of the knowing that the real Green Hornet was still alive out there somewhere. His grin widened. This might be final straw that will draw the Hornet out into the open, he thought.
If not . . . Hakenkrueze mentally shrugged, then Archer and the woman would have to find someone else to blame the destruction of the Global Commerce Center on. Like she had said, anyone could wear the green mask, or anyone wearing the mask could be called the Green Hornet. If the person wearing the mask was dead who was to say differently.
II
Everything was quiet outside of the clinic. It was nearly closing time, with the last few stragglers being taken care of before the doors could be locked. The bag lady had settled her shopping cart across from the medical clinic with the coming of night. Leaning against a building in a bundle of rags that might have once been clothes, no one bothered her as she slept. Even the human predators bypassed her knowing that she didn't have anything worth stealing.
Safe under the matted grey wig, Stormy tiredly rubbed her eyes as she watched the clinic where the Isaacs girl was hidden. A stakeout was always the worst part of being a detective, Stormy thought, or at least, she mentally amended, the most boring. Fortunately or unfortunately, depending on one's viewpoint, detective work rarely required gun play. Most of the time it consisted of sitting and watching, or burying oneself in the library doing research.
Still, Stormy thought as she surreptitiously pulled out her gun, it was a good idea to be prepared. This job was promising to become violent. She couldn't always rely on a masked man to come to her rescue.
She suddenly straightened. A car with three men had just pulled up in front of the clinic. The music coming from the car was so loud that she could feel the wall behind her vibrate in sympathy to the deep bass. Two of the men stepped out while the third remained at the wheel. They were young, dressed in black wide pants that hung so low on their hips that the crotches of their pants reached almost to their knees. Tight sleeveless undershirts showed well-muscled, heavily tattooed arms. Not unusual for young men in this area, but the furtive looks they were casting about as they walked to the clinic promised that they were up to no good.
Stormy waited until they had entered before she rose and sidled over to the car. She rapped on the driver's side door. "You mind putting your music down sonny? There's people around who'd like to get some rest, you know," she whined in an old woman's voice.
"Go away, don't bother me," the young man growled.
"You young people are all the same," she complained, "You don't have no respect for your elders."
"Get outta here before I do somethin' . . . " the man threatened.
"Got no respect," Stormy said, shaking her head as she seemed to fumbling around in her skirts, "Ain't got no respect."
Suddenly the driver found Stormy's gun pointing up his nose. "Of course," she said in her normal voice, "There's still some things you punks still respect."
"Look," the driver said, studying the gun between his crossed eyes, "You don't know what you're messing with. Turn around, forget what you see and there'll be a fat bonus in your next paycheck."
"Now, you're trying to bribe me, aren't you?" Stormy said with a nasty smile, "Forget it, buster, I'm not on your boss' payroll, although I'm sure I know somebody who would be really interested in who he is and who is on his payroll."
The driver growled as he angrily gritted his teeth, but did not reply.
"Put your hands out," Stormy ordered, pulling out a pair of handcuffs.
He suddenly lunged for something next to him, but Stormy quickly rapped him with the butt of her gun, rendering him unconscious.
"Tsk, tsk," Stormy said pulling a large automatic from his limp hand, "Didn't Mommy ever tell you not to play with guns?"
After tying up the driver and dumping him into the car's back seat, Stormy headed for the clinic's back door. It was normally locked, but she had been given the key. She glanced into the clinic's waiting room and found that it was empty. Drawn by the sound of thumping she glanced behind the counter to see the nurse trussed up like a Christmas turkey.
"Are you okay?" Stormy asked, pulling the gag out of the heavy set woman's mouth.
"Yeah," she said angrily, "Damn idiots shoved their guns right in my face. Couldn't do a damn thing about it."
"Is there anyone else?" Stormy asked as she hurriedly untied the woman's hands
"No, the doctor's already gone. He looked beat so I told him to go home and that'd I'd lock up after I finished the paperwork. They're after the girl, aren't they?" she asked.
"Yes," Stormy replied as she helped the nurse to her feet. "Call the police, while I go after those two."
"I'm going to have to call from a pay phone outside," the nurse said, "They pulled the phone clean out of the wall in here."
"Figures," Stormy said. "Do it."
"Maybe you had better wait until help comes," the nurse suggested.
Stormy shook her head, "Can't," she said as she followed the woman to the front door. "There's no time."
Stormy moved silently up the stairs to the small apartment where Christy was being kept. Hearing rough male voices mingling with a girl's higher pitched one, she hurried her pace. Then she stopped just before the opened doorway. Inside, Christy was arguing with the young men.
"Can't you at least turn around while I put my clothes on?" she protested.
"Just get them on," one of the punks said. "And hurry up, will ya? We don't have the time for you to be messin' around here."
"But . . . " she protested.
"Just do it," the man ordered with a leer. He glanced over to his partner and winked.
Christy huffed a dramatic sigh, then pulled her jeans on under the hospital gown. Her bra disappeared under the gown as did her arms with a lot of wiggling and maneuvering. Next a button down shirt disappeared under the gown and a lot more wiggling ensued. Finally she dropped the gown to floor appearing fully dressed except for her feet. She walked over to her sneakers next to a chair and began to put them on.
"Can't you at least tell me where we're going?" she asked.
"No," was the peevish reply. The young men were starting to get impatient "Get your damn shoes on before we make you walk outa here barefoot."
"It's cold out there, got to be at least 40 tonight. Don't I at least get to put on a coat or something?"
"You see us complaining?" one of the young men sneered.
"Nah, you're too macho for that, aren't you?" she replied contemptuously.
"Let's get this over with," one of the young men said moving closer.
Christy suddenly threw a cup of hot coffee into his face. As he spluttered and cursed, the other man charged for her, but instead found himself flying through the air. He quickly recovered but stayed where he was lying.
"That's a good boy," Stormy said. "Stay just the way you are," she ordered holding her gun on him. "You too," she said to his partner who angrily mopping the coffee from his face, "On the ground and spread them. I'm sure you know the drill."
After several quick moments of work Stormy and Christy had the two young men tied up securely.
"Thanks," Christy said, "What now?" she asked.
"I'm taking you to a safe place," Stormy replied hastily as she led the girl down the stairs and out the door. "I think this place has gotten too hot for you."
Stormy dumped her disguise into the trunk of her car then joined Christy in the front seat. Driving leisurely past the front of the clinic, she was glad to notice that the punks' car was still there. Good, she thought, the longer it takes for them to be discovered, the longer we have to get to safety.
Looking in her rearview mirror, Stormy found herself almost regretting not seeing a big black car behind her. It might have been interesting to meet the Green Hornet again. Oh well, she thought, I'm sure he has more important things on his mind.
III
Danielle regretfully headed toward the mall exit. She had lost track of how long she had been there and the sun had set at least an hour ago. It wasn't that she had needed to buy anything, it was just that she needed some time to herself, to think, to get away from the tension that hung around the Sentinel like an overheated miasma. The life that had once been so simple had suddenly became so very complicated. She was finding herself seriously doubting the plans that she had so innocently made a mere few months ago. Finishing law school and becoming a lawyer was fast becoming an irrelevant dream.
First had come the shocking discovery that not only had her father been the Green Hornet but worse, he had returned to the dangerous double-life that had once almost killed him. Now he was in jail, the Sentinel's future was in doubt, John was running around with Lee in the Black Beauty and the man that she had once entertained romantic thoughts about turned out to be her half-brother. Her mother seemed to be heroically holding up under the pressure, but Danielle wasn't too sure about herself.
With a sigh and a crooked smile, she caught sight of her two shadows as they folded their newspapers ---the Daily Sentinel, of course--- under their arms and headed after her. Shaking her head wryly, she waited for the Laurel and Hardy of the newspaper world catch up with her. What a pair, she thought, as she watched them. The heavyset Mike Axford, old enough to be her grandfather, still favored wearing a suit and tie even though neither looked like it had ever been touched by an iron. The battered hat he was wearing was probably as old she was. His smooth florid complexion belied his age as did his still slightly red thinning hair and determined pace.
He couldn't quite keep up with the lanky Ed Lowrey. A tall lantern-jawed scarecrow of a man, he had to shorten his long loose-limbed strides for the older man to keep up with him. Not that either man would admit to it. Dani could already tell that they were arguing about something. It didn't really matter what they were arguing about. It could have been the Lion's chances for the super bowl this year, the weather or how much better the Old Days were than Today. They just seemed to love to argue.
"It's a good thing the mall has some chairs for you guys to sit in while I was shopping," Danielle commented as they neared her.
"Hmph," Axford said, "That was Lowery's idea. A real newspaperman gotta be able to stand on his feet all day long waitin' for a story. Why in my day . . . "
"Yeah, in your day," Lowery interjected with a slow drawl, "A Real newspaperman used to stand on boiling hot concrete in his bare feet just waiting for a story to fall in his lap. 'Course in those days stories were chiseled onto stone tablets."
"I'd like you to know, you young whippersnapper," Axford growled at Lowery, "I never stood around waiting for a story, I . . . "
"I know you went out after them," Lowery continued for him, "Hi yo Silver and away!" he said, waving his hand over his head as if he was twirling an invisible lariat.
Axford's mouth closed with a snap as he glowered at the younger man.
"Guys," Danielle said before Axford could think of a reply. "Look, I know Mom and Dad wanted you to watch out for me, but do you have to go everywhere I do? Don't you have a story to cover or something?"
"Now, Danielle," Lowery replied gallantly, "There's nothing more important than keeping an eye on you."
"Yeah," Mike agreed, "We gotta keep an eye on you. If anything happened to you . . . I just don't know what we'd do." He pulled a long face, "It's the least thing an old man like me can do. After all, you're like a daughter to me," he said seriously. Then he shot a sour look at Lowery, "Of course with that young man there. I gotta keep an eye on him too. Can't just let him hang around you all by himself. You know what's always on his mind."
"Now Axford, you wound me," Lowery said as he dramatically pressed his hand over his breast, "I have nothing but honorable intentions."
"Young scoundrels like you haven't the slightest idea of what's honorable," Mike sharply replied.
"Mike," Danielle broke in, "I really appreciate your and Ed's thoughtfulness. I really do, it's just . . . ," she ended with an exasperated sigh.
"Sorry, Dani girl," Mike said, softening, "I know you're under a lot of stress and I don't mean to add to it. We're only here because we care."
"I know," Danielle replied, giving Axford a big hug.
"One for me too?" Lowery asked hopefully with a hang dog look on his face.
Danielle shook her head, but gave him one anyway. "Ahhh," he said with a blissful look on his face.
"Watch your hands," Axford growled at him.
Lowery stepped away from Danielle, shoving his hands into his pockets. The gleeful look did not disappear from his face.
"You're incorrigible," Danielle said kiddingly to the straw haired reporter.
"And you love me just the way I am," he said jokingly.
"At least that French dandy isn't hanging around no more," Axford growled. Noticing the sudden look of distress on Danielle's face, he added, "I'm sorry if it hurts, but that type . . . They're nothin' but trouble. As soon as things get rough they disappear into the woodwork. Don't worry yourself about him. He isn't worth it. You're too good for him."
"I guess you're right," Dani said reluctantly, unable to reveal to the two reporters the dangerous game the Frenchman was playing. "I thought I had seen some good in him . . . "
"That's how that type of guy sucks in pretty girls like you," Mike said sagely, "They get all romantic and lovey-dovey like that and then boom . . . You're lucky he decided to take off when he did. It might hurt for a while, but you'll get over it. You'll find somebody, you just wait and see."
"Like me?" Lowery asked hopefully.
Axford glared at him, "No," he said snapped. He wrapped an arm around Danielle, "You're going to be all right, Dani."
"I know, Mike," she replied with a small smile. "I just hope Jacques is all right."
"Don't worry, his type always lands on their feet. He's probably sittin' right now in some fancy French hotel with some caviar and big glass of champagne. Take my word for it," he said positively.
"Mike . . . " Lowery interrupted.
"What?" Mike shot back angrily. He noticed for the first time a squad of noisy motorcycles coming into the mall's parking lot.
"I don't think I like the look of them," Lowery said.
"Me neither," Mike said, rushing Danielle toward her car. "We gotta get Dani outta here."
It was too late. The motorcycles were moving too fast. Before they could reach Danielle's car, the motorcycles had blocked their way. Roaring down the parking lot lanes from both directions, the Knights screamed and banged duct-taped baseball bats against cars as they charged toward Ed, Mike and Danielle.
Ed shoved Danielle behind him and Mike, "Get out of here!" he yelled at her, "I'll try to slow them down."
"I can't leave you!" Danielle screamed back at him, her voice barely able to be heard above the growling motorcycles.
"I said get out of here," Ed shot back to her, "Your dad'll kill us if anything happens to you!"
"Ed! Mike!" Danielle protested.
"Ed's right," Mike said, pulling and pushing her between the cars, "We'll slow those spaldeens down while you take off."
Suddenly one of the motorcyclists was in front of them, swinging his bat, he hit Mike square on. Mike fell to the asphalt in a crumpled heap.
"Mike!" Danielle screamed. Crouching over him, she yelled at the attacker who was swinging up the bat of another blow. "Don't!"
Ed jumped him, dragging the motorcycle thug to the ground. "Dani, get out of here!" he yelled.
Danielle backed away in confusion. She knew that running was useless but all her instincts urged her to flee from the chaos surrounding her. There was no way Ed could hold their attackers off. He was already losing his battle with his vicious foe. Mike was too still. She couldn't abandon him, no matter how much he and Ed wanted her to.
She backed up right into Husky Buske's solid mass. "I suggest you come with us if you don't want your friends hurt," he suggested in a too reasonable voice.
Danielle turned around to face the hairiest man she had ever seen. "You won't be hurt," he said, "We're just going to take you for a little ride."
A motorcycle with a side car pulled up behind him. "See, you can even go in style. Hell, we brought you something," he said pulling out a ridiculously pink girl's helmet, "So you wouldn't get your pretty little head hurt."
"Don't!" Ed protested from the tattooed arm that was wrapped in a hammer lock around his neck.
"All he has to do is squeeze a little bit more and your friend'll be a dead man. You want that, Girl?"
"Dani . . . " Ed gasped pleadingly, "Don't . . . "
Danielle shook her head. "I have to," she said to Ed.
Hiding her terror, Danielle scornfully snatched the helmet out of Husky's hands and regally climbed into the sidecar. Husky grinned at her. "Girl's got some spirit," he muttered under her breath.
"What d'ya what me to do with this guy?" asked the man sitting on top of the struggling Lowrey.
Husky shot a quick glance at Danielle who was forcing herself not to watch. His grin widened. "Gimme your cuffs," he said to one of his men. "Stretch here ain't goin' nowhere, so no point in harming him. 'Sides we gotta have somebody around who'll say what happened to the girl. At least that's the plan."
Danielle squeezed her eyes shut, willing away the tears that were threatening to fall. She silently prayed that Mike would be okay.
Ed struggled against the handcuffs uselessly as the motorcycles roared away. Where the hell is the Green Hornet when you need him? he thought miserably.
IV
Morrisey tiredly placed his cards face down on the table in front of him and glanced at Britt Reid who was pacing across the room. "You know Reid, you're going to wear a hole in that damn carpet if you keep on doing that."
Britt stopped his pacing. "I can't help it," he replied, "I can't sit still. I have a feeling that something is going to happen tonight."
"Since when have you become a psychic?" Morrisey asked derisively.
Shaking his head, Britt said, "I can't explain it. It's just that I've had a bad feeling in my gut all day long."
"Maybe it's that pizza we ordered. Probably too spicy for you."
"I don't know," Weston interjected looking up from the cards in his hands. "Haven't you ever had a hunch or something?" he asked his partner.
Morrisey huffed his disgust. Looking more like a varsity football quarterback than a cop, Weston was several years his junior. "You still got a lot to learn yet. When you've been around as long as I have, you'll learn never to put your trust in anything you can't see, feel, hear or touch. And even then don't ever trust anything completely but yourself."
"And your partner?" Weston asked.
"Well," Morrisey hedged, "It's always good to trust your partner too, but . . . " he ended with a shrug.
Knowing that Morrisey had gone through several partners, some good, some bad, Weston let Morrisey's reply pass without taking offense. "Still, I've heard about guys whose hunches have saved their lives. What Bob Fricke? He told me that a few years ago he was in a building on an arson investigation when he had the over powering feeling he had to get out of there. Moments later the whole thing collapsed. If he hadn't left when he did he would've been killed."
"Fricke probably heard something was starting to go without realizing it. His instincts told him to get the hell out of the there before it was too late."
"But what about Garcia and Horowitz? They both have told me that if it hadn't been for hunches they'd been killed several times over. And what about Sandy Smithson, she swears by her intuition when it comes to making drug busts. She can always tell when she has a live one."
Morrisey snorted. "For one thing," he began, ticking off on his fingers, "Garcia and Horowitz are both genuine space cases. They carry crystals in their pockets and mediate during their lunches. It's a good thing they're partners, nobody else would be able to put up with them. As for Sandy, one of the best officers I know, but there you're dealing with intuition, especially woman's intuition. I never discount intuition, because it's the most powerful tool a cop can have."
"How's intuition different?" Weston asked.
"Because intuition is based on instinct and instinct is based on training and experience. You get enough years under your belt and you don't have to think, it's all automatic. You just know when something's coming down. That's instinct and like I said, intuition is based on instinct. You know something's going to happen because you've seen it happen hundreds of times before under the same set of circumstances and with the same type of people. Nothing mysterious about it."
Unconvinced, Weston turned to Britt who had been listening to their discussion with interest, "What do you think, Mr. Reid?"
Britt shrugged. "I like to think I'm a realist like Morrisey, but I've learned that I should never ignore my gut feelings. Could be instinct, intuition, like Morrisey says, or you could call them hunches, but all I know is that I ignore them at my own peril."
"Like tonight?" Morrisey asked pointedly.
"Yes."
"I think you're just going stir crazy. Happens to people all the time when they're locked up for a while. Some people can take it better than others." Morrisey paused thoughtfully, "Could be that you're getting antsy. I kind of feel that way myself about this case of yours. Things are definitely starting to come to a head."
Britt nodded. He walked over to look over Weston's shoulder at the cards in his hands. Over Weston's protests he laid the cards on the table. He frowned at them, aces and spades, the death hand. "There are people who will stop at nothing to see me dead," he said meaningfully.
Bullets suddenly shattered the windows near them, stitching the wall behind him. Britt dove to the floor, followed moments later by Weston. Weston automatically drew the gun from his shoulder holster. Britt noted that the right shoulder of the young man's shirt was reddening with blood. Their eyes met, Weston, forcing himself to grin, said, "I think your hunch is right."
Bullets were zinging over their heads. A light bulb in a lamp next to them shattered with a loud pop and a spray of diamond sharp shards of glass. Britt crawled to the side of the young detective, "Are you okay?" he asked.
Weston nodded. "I'm fine. I was just winged. That's all."
Britt took a closer look and nodded his agreement. "You'll live. That is if you don't get hit again. Keep low," he suggested unnecessarily.
Weston hissed in pain as he sidled himself closer to the couch. Britt helped him lean against it in a more comfortable position. "I didn't think it would hurt this much." He looked sheepishly at the editor, remembering that the older man had had more than his share of bullet wounds. "I guess you know a lot about that."
Britt nodded. "Doesn't matter what kind of wound it is, it still hurts like hell." He shot a quick look for Morrisey. The senior detective was no where to be seen but his cursing told Britt that he was still alive and vividly angry.
"Morrisey," Britt yelled over the sound of gunfire, "Are you okay?"
"Yeah," Morrisey yelled back, "How about you and Weston?"
"Weston's been hit, but he'll make it. I'm fine."
More light bulbs were popping as they were hit and the tv shattered from multiple hits. One final light was hit and they were plunged into darkness. Britt heard Morrisey's voice closer to him, this time in a whisper, "I don't think they're going to let up 'til the roof falls on top of us."
"That'd be one way to do it," Britt said, "but that attracts a lot of notice."
Morrisey snorted, "We're way out in the middle of nowhere, by the time our backup gets here we're all going to be Swiss cheese."
"So you did get a call out?" Britt asked.
"Yeah, for all the good that'll do us. They'll never get to us in time."
Britt nodded. "Sooner or later they're going to charge the house."
"That's the way I see it," Morrisey said.
Britt felt the heavy weight of a gun slip into his hands. "I know you're not one to use lethal weapons," Morrisey said hinting at the fact that the Green Hornet only used non-lethal weapons, "But I have a feeling that you know how to use them anyway."
"I do," Britt replied.
"Are you a good shot?"
"Very."
"Willing to use it against somebody?"
"Considering the circumstances, yes."
"I have a feeling that we're not going to be seeing some black car come to our rescue."
"Probably not," Britt said grimly.
"Are you going to able to hang in there?" Morrisey asked.
Britt glared at the black shadow that was the elder detective. "What makes you think I'm going to break?" he demanded tautly, not willing to admit to the detective, or himself the panic that was threatening to send him running through the front door.
"Dunno," Morrisey answered carefully, "Except I'm about ready to shit in my drawers as it is, and figuring you've been through something like this before . . . "
Pulling back on the bolt of the gun in his hands, Britt replied harshly, "Last time I wasn't armed."
"Good," Morrisey answered, satisfied more with the steadiness in the publisher's voice than his words. "What about you Weston?"
"I'll make it," Weston answered, "But we got to do something. We can't just sit here and wait for them to come in after us."
"Got a point there, could be better than charging out the door though," Morrisey said. "What about you, Reid?"
"We could stay in here. Surround ourselves with enough pieces of furniture to protect ourselves. It'd be a more defensible position. They'd have to come in after us and we could pick and choose our targets. Save ammo and maybe give more time for back up to show up. Problem is, I hate sitting around and waiting. Could give them more time to think of something else."
"Good point," Morrisey said. "I'd sure as hell like to get my hand on the bastard who set us up."
"So would I," Britt admitted. He was quiet for a few moments, then asked, "Does anyone have matches or a lighter?"
Weston handed him a lighter, "I don't smoke, but you never know when one'll come in handy."
"What're you thinking, Reid?" Morrisey asked.
"What would be a way for them to force us out?" Britt asked as he flicked the lighter. For a moment his face was cast in deep shadows and bright light before disappearing into the darkness.
"They could burn us out," Weston said.
"Exactly," Britt said.
"So . . . ?" Morrisey asked.
"How about if they think a fire has started?"
"They'd expect us to run out in a panic . . . "Morrisey said, starting to follow Britt's thoughts.
"Right into their arms..." Weston continued.
"It'd be like shooting fish in a barrel," Morrisey finished.
"Unless we do the unexpected," Britt said. "We're not completely surrounded. I haven't heard any shots coming from behind the house."
"I don't think they'd be stupid enough to leave the back unguarded," Morrisey said doubtfully.
Britt agreed, "A smart man would have it watched. It'd be a good way to catch somebody who was trying to escape."
"Unless their attention was caught somewhere else," Weston said.
"Like by a fire . . . " Morrisey said.
"Right," Britt said. "If they think that we're being burned out . . . "
"And giving up."
"Then all of their attention would be where we wanted it, while we would be making our escape in the other direction."
Britt touched the flame of the lighter to the couch and then to one of the chairs. For a few moments the fire tentatively ate at the upholstery with small bright bites. Despite the bullets that still zinged around their heads, Morrisey watched entranced as the flames licked higher, getting hungrier for something else to devour. He felt perversely like they were sitting around a campfire except instead of roasting wienies they were taking a risk that could result in their own lives literally going up in smoke.
Morrisey drew his attention away from the growing fire. "Think it's big enough for them to notice?"
Reid drew his gaze away from the fire. His pale blue-eyed gaze was steady but Morrisey noticed a pale sheen of sweat on the man's face. Heat? Morrisey wondered, or something else? How long would the big publisher be able to keep from panicking? he thought. He had known men who had broken under lesser circumstances, those who had not come as close to death as Reid had.
Reid's firm voice broke through Morrisey's thoughts. "More than big enough," he replied. "Better now before it really becomes dangerous." He shot a look at the younger detective who had become alarmingly silent. "We better get him out of here while he can still stay on his feet."
"I'll make it," Weston protested. "Just point the way."
Reid nodded to Morrisey. "Showtime. You and Weston head for the back door."
Morrisey crawled to Weston's side. He didn't much like the size of the red stain that covered the young man's shoulder. The smoke around them was getting thicker. Soon it would be impossible for them to breathe. It was one more reason for them to stay close to the ground.
He heard Reid shout loud enough to be heard above the whining bullets, "Help! Fire! For God's sake we give up! We're going to burn to death. We give up!"
The detective was half surprised to hear the gunfire suddenly stop. Above the unnerving silence a heavily accented voice answered Britt's plea. "Yeah, sure. We'll stop firing. That is if you give up. No funny stuff." Morrisey could almost see the snickering faces around the speaker. He was sure they had no intention of letting anyone survive. "How many of you are there?" the speaker demanded.
"Just two. Now. There were two cops with me, but one of them was killed. The other's hurt very badly. He'll die if he doesn't get medical care soon." Britt broke into a loud fit of coughing that made Morrisey wonder if it was an act or not. Then Britt continued, "I'm the one you want. I'll give up myself up, if you'll let him go."
"Sure," the voice said. By this time Morrisey had it tagged as being Caribbean, perhaps even the new head of the Trinidad gang, Mbeka. "Keep your hands up and come out. We promise we won't shoot."
"I'm coming out," Britt said. He shot a look at Morrisey and Weston, "Now," he mouthed as he motioned them to the back door. "It's going to take me a few minutes," he shouted as joined the detectives.
"No way they're going to fall for this," Morrisey said cynically as he opened the back door. Black smoke billowed out around them as they stepped into the cool night air.
Too late Morrisey saw the dark leering face above an equally dark revolver. "You think we're that stupid?" the man demanded.
Britt already had his gun drawn, aiming it at the gunman. "Fire and you're a dead man," he gritted.
The gunman's grin widened. "It's hopeless," he said. "All it takes is a gun shot and the entire gang will be on you in an instant."
"Maybe," Britt replied, "But you'll still be dead."
Suddenly the gunman's leer changed to a look of stunned surprise as the silver blade of a sword split him from shoulder to hip. He fell to the ground in two pieces moments before he realized he was dead. Morrisey gaped open-mouthed at the slender woman who faced them. She calmly wiped her sword's bloody blade on the body of the man before she returned it to the scabbard behind her back.
"What the hell?" Morrisey gasped, "What's a Ninja doing here?"
"Not Ninja," Britt said in a low voice, "The sword's all wrong. Ninjas use a single bladed sword that's slightly curved. Hers is a Chinese straight double bladed sword called a wu jian."
"Chinese?" Morrisey questioned.
"Yes, she's a Chinese assassin," Britt explained, "Compared to her people the Ninja are amateurish johnny-come-lately's." He bowed to the woman, fist in palm, saying, "We are honored by your presence and much in your debt, Dark One."
The woman nodded to Britt, "Indeed you are. I exact a price for your lives."
"What price does one of the Lin Kuei ask for our miserable lives?" Britt said in extremely formal humility.
"So you know of the Lin Kuei," the woman remarked with interest.
"I do," Britt answered, "There are few in the West who know of the 'forest demons', but those who do, like myself, hold them in much honor."
Morrisey was surprised to see the powerful publisher act so humbly. He would have never dreamed it was possible. However, considering that the woman could slice and dice them without blinking an eye, he realized that Reid's tack was the exactly right one to take.
"The price is information. I seek the one named Thomas Cheung. I have many prospects, but little time."
"The one you seek is the son of Michael Cheung, the District Attorney," Britt stated half in question, half in confirmation.
"Cheung's son?" Morrisey blurted in surprise, but clamped his mouth firmly shut when the publisher made a slashing gesture for silence. For a moment the woman turned her eyes on him. Her glance so cold as to be alien. He quickly decided he'd leave the negotiating to Reid.
"He is the one," she said to Reid, Morrisey forgotten as if he had never existed. "Do you know where he is?"
"I don't know for a fact where he is, but if the boy is really missing and not with one of his friends, I'm willing to bet that Julius Archer has him. Do you know who Julius Archer is?"
"I do. Why him?"
"Julius Archer wants me dead. Very few people knew I was here. One of them was the boy's father, Michael Cheung. I suspect Cheung told Archer where I am. Michael Cheung would have revealed my whereabouts for only one thing."
"His son," the woman stated.
"Right," Britt replied.
"Well stated," she said. "But there are others who might have told this Archer where you were hidden. That is if he is the one who ordered this attack."
"These are merely my suspicions, especially since it appears that Thomas Cheung is missing," Britt replied.
The woman considered for a few moments. "I will seek this Julius Archer."
The sound of sirens far in the distance distracted Britt and Morrisey for a few moments. When they turned back to the woman, she was gone.
"Did you see where she went?" Morrisey asked Weston who was resting on the ground.
"Nope. One moment she was there. The next she was gone." The young detective cracked a tired smile. "I really hope I never meet her again. She's not somebody I'd like to have after me," he commented.
"Neither would I," Morrisey said to his partner. "I wonder why we haven't heard anything from the attackers out front," he said to Britt. "They should've shown up a long time ago."
Accompanied by coruscating lights that lit the night red, white and blue, the sirens of the quickly approaching police cars became so loud that Morrisey could barely hear Britt's grim reply, "I don't think you want to know."