"Agent West, are you all right?"
As if he could be! As if any of them were . . . .
"That was really impressive the way you took out six guys all by yourself," the captive Federal Investigation rookie whispered to him as Tem attempted to recover from the beating he'd suffered. He did his best to sit up despite having his hands shackled behind him.
Tem's fighting skills might have been impressive. They hadn't been nearly enough, though, against the mob of ten gangsters that had jumped him when he, Wickersham, and that idiot Flemings had so obligingly run into their trap. He was surprised he wasn't dead, considering the thugs were all armed with pistols and he'd been taking a toll on them. They'd only used those guns to pistol-whip and stun him, before handcuffing him and dumping him next to the members of Wickersham's freshman Investigator class, already taken prisoner. Wickersham had made his own game attempt to lay into their ambushers, but had been brought down by a blow to the head and was still unconscious. Tem heard him groaning and starting to wake up. At least he wasn't dead yet either. Flemings, the big shot State Department man, had been about as useful as a tissue paper pitchfork, shrieking and surrendering without even trying to help his stalwart defenders.
What a joke, Tem thought, glaring over at where Flemings still cowered on the floor. Their assailants obviously thought so too and hadn't even bothered to tie the man up like they had the rookie Investigators. That would have been handy if Flemings was just putting on an act to fool them as Uncle Arte would have done, but it was clear that he wasn't. Flemings was every bit as cringing and cooperative in the face of danger as he appeared to be. And this yellow-bellied lump of lack-spine had dared to insult Tem's brave, tough, smart-as-a-whip wife?
Unfortunately, that wonderful wife was far too vulnerable right now. As soon as Tem had seen the dilated pupils in her eyes, he'd guessed what her problem might be. She wasn't sick – she'd been drugged or poisoned, probably by something up in the attic or some relic she and Jimmy had brought down from it. It wouldn't have taken much – a prick from the tip of a dart, a small scratch from a tainted object, breathing in the wrong cloud of dust . . . . God only knew what might be up there or how dangerous that stuff was. He only prayed that whatever she'd been exposed to, the effects were only temporary and that she'd recover. But she might not have the chance. The bound rookie seated on the floor next to him had informed Tem of the men sent down to first floor to seal the exits and round up the section's remaining occupants. Of course, Flemings the sniveler had told them all about the infirmary and the three people in it. So help Tem, if they harmed one hair on Amanda's or Jimmy's head . . . .
"Awake, I see," a voice Tem wished he didn't recognize said. "Good."
'Presidio Pete' Yerba had sworn he would get revenge on the Wests one day, and it looked like he was about to get his chance.
"Hello, Pete," Tem growled, glowering up at him.
The San Francisco mob boss stepped up and fetched Tem a ringing slap across the face. Tem returned the favor by using his legs, with speed that the mobster wasn't prepared for, to scissor themselves around Yerba's, yank his own legs out from under him and dump Yerba on the floor. Immediately, Yerba's crew aimed their own guns, but Tem had already figured out they were under orders not to kill him for some reason. What he hadn't figured on was one of the more astute gangsters placing his gun barrel not up against Tem's head, but against the Federal Investigation rookie next to him. Faced with the unspoken threat to a fellow lawman, Tem yielded and withdrew his legs from where he'd been trying to scissor them around Yerba's throat next. Yerba, winded and furious as he stood back up, slapped Tem again and this time Tem made no attempt to retaliate.
"I, uh, take it you two know each other?" the Investigation rookie gulped as the gun to his head was withdrawn.
"You might say that," Tem muttered. "Yerba's wanted on charges of racketeering, extortion, bribery, blackmail, smuggling – and the murder of three Secret Service agents." Tem couldn't blame the rookie for turning a shade paler. He looked even younger than Tem and didn't need to be told that any man who would slay three of Washington's finest would kill their entire group of raw recruits without a second's hesitation.
"You caused me a lotta trouble, West," Yerba snarled. "You and your little lady. Twenty guys you cost me, over a million bucks and five more years of sweet deals. I owe you for that."
And we'd have caught you too if not for that damn earthquake! Tem thought fiercely, but did not say it aloud.
Yerba's mouth went from snarling at him to exposing a nasty, yellow-toothed grin.
"But you and your doll are gonna make it up to me. You're gonna be real good to me from now on."
If the situation hadn't been so serious, Tem would have laughed at the mobster's presumption.
"We'll never work for you."
But the mobster only grinned wider and pointed over to where one of his thugs was holding a large, sealed beaker filled with a glowing yellow-green liquid.
"Who says I'm gonna give you a choice?" Yerba gloated. "Once my labbies turn that stuff into head-rocks, you and her are gonna do anything I want, an' all I gotta do is whistle."
"But . . . but you can't!" A protest came from a direction Tem wouldn't have expected – Flemings, the State Department man. "I-if you misappropriate that chemical, the government of France will . . . ." Flemings brief attempt at something vaguely resembling bravery ended as 'Presidio Pete' turned toward him and began moving in the objector's direction. The California kingpin did not appreciate the interruption. He grabbed the terrified Flemings by the shirt and yanked him up from where he'd been crouched to yell right into Flemings' face.
"The government of France is on the other side of the ocean, numbskull! I ain't! Who d'you think's gonna stop me, huh? West here?"
I'm sure going to try, Tem vowed.
Flemings was turning positively gray with fear and for good reason. Yerba released his grip on the shirt, causing his victim to fall back on the floor in a heap. But he wasn't done yet. Yerba held out his hand, palm up, to one of his men. The obedient goon put his own revolver in his boss' hand. Tem knew what was coming next if he couldn't somehow find a way to stop it. Flemings knew too.
"No . . . no . . . . Please!" Flemings begged.
Tem cleared his throat as loud as he could to get the mobster's attention.
"Yeah, you're a real big man, aren't you?" Tem said. "Threatening a small fry like him! Afraid to look me in the eyes?" Tem's bravado had the effect he hoped. Instead of shooting Flemings, Yerba turned back to his original target. He pulled back on the revolver and aimed the barrel right at Tem's forehead. The son of James West didn't flinch. He stared straight at Yerba as only the son of James West could stare, a look that could freeze someone with a survival instinct, a look that dared Yerba to shoot.
You think I wouldn't prefer that to being your mindless slave? You think you can impress me with how tough you are?
Artemus West hadn't blinked when his father's killer had tried to stare him down with Tem shackled over his alligator pit. He sure as hell wasn't going to blink now. But Yerba did.
"Nice try, West," the lead gangster muttered, turning away first and handing the gun back to his minion. "You ain't getting out of this that easy!"
Tem kept staring and noticed with some satisfaction that Yerba was no longer trying to meet his eyes.
That's right, killer. Be afraid.
Tem had not forgotten about the three fellow agents killed, or his determination to bring their murderer to justice. How ironic that Yerba had escaped them in San Francisco only to arrive voluntarily at one of the buildings where the Federal government meted out justice. Yerba would bitterly regret that mistake if only Tem could find a way to free himself and the other captives. That glowing greenish liquid still looked a long way off from being turned into the complex crystals that could be implanted in anyone's brain. Nor did Tem see 'Presidio Pete' as the sort of mad genius who would be able to get very far with running any large zombie slave operation. He was clever, yes, and dangerous, as the murder of three agents had proved. But he was also too violent, too careless, and now much, much too Wanted. Titus Trask's revenge fantasies had never been much more than an absurd pipe dream. In the end, Tem's father and Uncle Arte had defeated him using nothing other than play-acting and a couple bottles of sleep gas components. The more complex and ambitious the plot, the easier it was to throw a wrench in the works. Yerba might be highly competent in his preferred fields – extortion, smuggling, and murder – but he was no Count Manzeppi.
He might have just enough of a pinch of ego-obsessed Dr. Loveless in him though . . . . Time to do a bit of digging.
"So that's your grand plan?" Tem scoffed. "Come all this way to Chicago so you can steal a bottle of chemicals just to get your revenge on me and make me polish your shoes for you?"
Come on, Mr. Big Shot – start boasting your guts out and tell me what all your plans are so I know where to stick that wrench!
Once again, Tem had judged the mobster accurately.
"Polish my shoes?" The gangster cracked another one of his nasty yellow grins. "Naw – though that ain't a bad idea. I could have some fun making you do a whole lotta things like that. But that ain't enough, West. You cost me big. Having you under my thumb's gonna pay off real big." Yerba started laughing. "You're a great big bonus – that's what you are! Funny thing is, I was only makin' plans for these guys." He waved his hand around at the captive law enforcement rookies and Wickersham, who had now awakened and was listening just as attentively as Tem. "It wasn't bad enough the lousy Treasury Department saddled enterprisin' gentlemen like myself with the likes of you! Now your Mr. Bonaparte and his man Finch think they're gonna hit us with this whole new Bureau of Investigation?" Yerba shook his head. "I don't think so! Not for long, anyway."
Some of Yerba's men snickered along with their boss at the small group of individuals held captive at their feet, fledgling law enforcement agents with their hands bound behind their backs. Tem was pleased to see that the State Department's Flemings was the only man visibly quivering with fear among them. Even the rookie seated next to Tem who'd had a gun put to his head was now doing his best to keep a stoic and brave expression.
"If you think you can stop the Bureau by massacring us, you're wrong," Wickersham said, giving Yerba his own version of a glare. "There will b-" His words were cut off as Yerba slapped him across the face hard enough to knock him over. Another Investigator rookie tried to lunge forward to defend Wickersham, only to be knocked out by a blow to the head from a gangster's pistol-butt.
"What d'you think I am, stupid?" Yerba yelled at Wickersham. "You think I don't know killin' a couple of you jokers ain't gonna be enough?" With effort, Yerba reined in his temper enough to return to his gloating. "Don't think I'm just makin' you martyrs! I got a much better idea than that!" Again, Yerba pointed to the flask of glowing liquid. "I'm gonna be doin' to you just what I'm doin' to West here. I'll fill your heads all fulla them little Franconium pyrite rocks my labbies are gonna whip up for me. Then I'll be makin' sure you obey my orders instead'a Boney and Finch. And oh, them orders are gonna make sure everyone in this country starts clamorin' for your new Bureau to be stomped out once and for all!" Yerba leered at his prisoners and made a bye-bye gesture with his hand. "People are gonna be thinking I'm a saint compared to what I have you Investigators do!"
"You'll never get away with this!" Wickersham glared up at him.
I couldn't have said it better myself, Tem thought. No – 'Presidio' wasn't in the same league as villains who might have been up for carrying out such a scheme, and he was too ambitious to have figured that out yet. Tem had to hand it to the man for getting this far, and for coming up with a plot against the new Bureau of Investigation which, in the hands of a more subtle mastermind, could work. Tem inwardly shuddered to think what someone like the Man in the Red Hat could accomplish if he got his hands on the Franconium hydrate and this crew of captive Federal agents. Thankfully that wasn't the case. Yerba and his gang might have succeeded in getting into the Federal Building without discovery – probably last night, Tem guessed – and in staying hidden to ambush them all today. But getting back out with not just the chemical but with over a dozen hostages was another matter. In boasting of his plans, Yerba had just made his biggest mistake. These weren't any ordinary hostages. They might still be green, but the Federal Investigators were lawmen through and through. These men were hand-picked for a reason, Yerba, and now you've given them another reason – to fight you all the way up to death by any means necessary. The means weren't presenting themselves yet, but they would. Tem was a firm believer in his father's philosophy: never give up.
Tem was glad his father had ingrained that philosophy so deep in him. If anything could have driven him into despair, it was what happened next. The door of the room they were being held in opened and Amanda and Jimmy were nudged in at gunpoint by three gangster 'security guards.' Amanda had picked up a new suit, presumably from one of Yerba's goons by the look of it. Tem was relieved to see she was walking upright and appeared steadier and more alert. Jimmy was holding Amanda's skirt in one of his upraised hands for some reason, very pale but trying so hard to be brave, like the rookie seated next to Tem. Tem's heart ached at seeing them both captured, knowing that they were faced with the same ghastly peril he was in because he had brought them here.
'Presidio Pete' Yerba was in his full gloating glory now, with another of the agents he so desired vengeance upon in his grasp, along with the young man who was dear to her and Tem both.
"Well ain't this something, West?" the mob leader laughed. "Looks like I got a family reunion going here! Ain't that peachy keen!" Yerba looked the new arrivals over, paying special attention to Amanda. "An' here's the witch with the white umbrella! Where'd you leave it, sweet cheeks?"
Amanda's response was stony silence and a glare that was in its own way every bit as threatening as Tem's. That and her outfit only seemed to amuse Yerba, however.
"Them clothes look better on Joey, baby doll," Yerba snickered. "Mebbe we should take 'em off you instead."
Tem had never wanted to punch anyone in his life quite as badly as he wanted to punch Yerba right then. He wasn't sure he could actually kill a man with one punch, but he so wanted to find out . . . .
And Yerba's men were just as eager as their boss to get a closer inspection of the female elite Secret Service agent – a much closer inspection. Tem tensed his legs, ready to spring from the floor and fly at Yerba and any other man who so much as touched her. Hands cuffed behind him or not, he'd risk . . . .
But Amanda saw the subtle movement of Tem's leg muscles that no one else had noticed, and just as subtly sent a hand and eye signal of her own that Tem well understood.
Wait.
As it turned out, Yerba was willing to do the same, at least long enough to hear what one of his phony 'security guards' had to say.
"Nurse's out like a light, boss. Joey, Dugan and Howie too. But we di'nt see no fancy umbrellas on her like you warned us about. All she had was this." The guard handed over a pistol.
"Nothin' on the kid?" Yerba eyed Jimmy suspiciously. "He got nothin' in that cloth he's holdin'?"
"Nah," Yerba's man told him. "We made him show us. Just holding onto his sister's duds for her." The man snickered and Tem saw Jimmy blush beet red. "But we got something better for you! These guys had a wagon piled full of stuff – boxes and boxes of it!"
"Yeah?" Yerba's eyes lit up and he practically licked his lips with greed. He also turned to leer at each of his Secret Service prisoners. "My day just keeps gettin' better and better, West! How nice a'you to bring me presents like that!" He snapped his fingers at two of the men holding guns on Tem, Flemings and the Investigators and gestured with a thumb toward the 'security guards.' "Sam, Lou – go with these guys and bring me up anything that looks interesting! We got a while to wait 'til nightfall an' get out of here," he grinned at Tem. "So let's see what's in them boxes and have us a nice surprise!"