dochermes | Entries tagged with chen lee-sun

"The Collector of Souls"

8/11/1943

I.

Through the open doorway, three gunmen surged into the room with their big 45 automatics swinging from side to side. Behind them, keeping well back, was a thin man in a dark suit that was too large for him. A white cloth mask had evidently been constructed hastily from a pillow case and tied at the neck with a shoelace. The eyeholes were ragged and did not match.

"Green Devil," rasped the masked man as he saw the young woman waiting for them. In her waist-length leather jacket, snug pants and riding boots all dark midnight green, she was unarmed. But her pose with hands resting on hips showed confidence. Nothing of her features could be seen. Her motorcycle helmet had its visor down. Two short curved horns had been fastened to the top of that helmet.

"Oh, forget about trying to disguise your voice, Drury," Kelly O'Connor sang back. "I know it's you."

"Drury? Phil Drury the writer? What makes you think I have anything to do with him?"

"Please. Give me some credit," the Green Devil snorted. "You were the only one who knew I was coming here tonight. That's why you rushed to get your goons."

As the thugs glanced back at him, the masked man gestured for them to spread out. "Cover her. Stay out of reach. She's a tricky little skirt. All I want is the Collector of Souls, girlie. I see it there on that counter behind you."

"Mr Drury. Really" The Green Devil did not make the mistake of turning back to see what the much discussed Collector of Souls actually looked like. "Let me tell you how you slipped up. The gas that you released at Wainscot's house was deadly all right. Potassium cyanide. Luckily I wasn't there. But then the gas that was used at your own house made everyone sick as dogs...but we still managed to get out. It wasn't the same gas. It was harmful but not fatal."

Folding his arms, the masked man exhaled sharply. "I don't know why I'm bothering to listen. But go on. How do you know this?"

The Green Devil was standing in the center of the display room, next to a bronze bust on a pedestal of some bearded philosopher. She rested an elbow on the metal head with regained sauciness. "Oh, I don't have a degree in chemistry. Not even someone as clever as myself knows everything. But the Sting was hidden in that room. He got out through a rear door. He told me he recognized the scent of sodium trichlormate. It's rarely fatal unless you make a point to breathe it all night."

"I believe you're genuinely looney," the masked man said. "Give me the Collector of Souls and no one has to be hurt."

"So the whole business was a charade to divert suspicion off you," Kelly continued. "Everybody would think the mysterious killer had tried to snuff out your life as well. You're a devious little bird."

Trying to stay out of a crosfire if his men opened up, the mastermind took a few steps to the side and leaned back against the wood-paneled door. "So the Sting is cutting himself in on this? That guy double-crosses everyone. All the mobsters he makes deals with end up behind bars or six feet under."

"You ought to know about double crosses." The Green Devil straightened up against, adjusted her dark leather jacket where it had ridden up and clapped her palms lightly together. "And by now, you should realize that wherever you find the Sting, you'll find the Dragon of Midnight!"

As those words were spoken, a slim dark figure leaped through the solid wall behind the masked man, passing through wood and plaster like a ghost. The Dragon of Midnight was in his all-black stalking outfit including the full-face mask. He seized the mastermind by one arm at wrist and elbow, swiveling around to fling the man reeling straight at the confused gunmen. Reacting before thinking, one of the thugs blasted off two shots that ripped into his boss's abdomen.

Even in the split second that this was happening, the Green Devil hoisted the bronze bust and flung it with all the strength she had. She put so much into the throw that she lost her balance and fell to her knees. The deep thump of the heavy object smacking against a gunman's face was lost in the echoes of the gunshots an instant earlier. Kelly O'Connor vaulted lightly back up on her feet as the two remaining mobsters started shooting wildly in her general direction.

Faster than her conscious mind could have judged the moves, Kelly's arms swirled in outward circular motions. Both her palms stung but were not harmed as she slapped bullets away. One ricochet shattered a glass display case.

Less than a full second had passed. Even as the gunmen were firing at Kelly, Chen lunged in close. He drove a knee up into one man's stomach, pivotting to blast a looping reverse punch that broke the other man's jaw. They both fell, one vomiting and the other man pawing in agony at his ruined face. Chen Lee-Sun moved as smoothly as if he had planned what to do in such a situation. He snatched up the handguns with his gloved hands and tossed them to the far side of the room.

Kelly tentatively raised the clear visor on her helmet. Her upper features were still hidden by the green silk mask. She rubbed her palms together gingerly. The skin was not broken, there were no bruises, but she wanted to be sure her strange ability hadn't failed her. "Dragon of Midnight to the rescue," she said.

The dark mask turned toward her. Chen's voice said, "I heard everything from the next room. You could not have known I would enter when you gave me the cue."

"I thought it was worth a try. Good gracious, you have GOT to start teaching me how to fight like that. It's like poetry. Fred Astaire is clumsy next to you."

"Hah." Chen was straightening the suffering injured men out on the floor despite their feeble resistance. "Are you willing to train three hours a day for the next few years?"

"Um, well, I do have a day job," Kelly replied. "And at night I'm gallivanting around in this get-up. Maybe I could practice on my lunch break..."

Chen had examined the wounded mastermind, pressing a fold of the man's coat to where blood was seeping out quickly to pool on the bare wooden floor. "Even if we were to call for an ambulance, this man has a poor chance of surviving. His minions are not as badly hurt."

"You're not going to let him bleed out and die, are you? That's not right, Ch--Dragon."

"Far from it." The lean figure in black hauled all four of the gangsters together until they were almost huddled on top of each other. "Bring that blue ceramic jar over here."

Beginning to understand, the Green Devil felt sick and unsteady. She crossed over to the counter on top of which sat the Collector of Souls. Three feet high, a glazed turqoise-colored jar with a silver stopper at its plug, the ancient artifact was inscribed with esoteric symbols from a nation that had not existed for thousands of years. She picked it up despite her misgivings and handed it to Chen.

"If you do not have the stomach for retribution, you may wait in the hall," he said.

"Don't rush me! Damn it, Chen, I don't know how they do things back in China but we're in the U.S. now. We have laws, even if those gunners did try to kill us, we have something called right to a trial..."

"Stop," he snapped. "Green Devil, this is a matter older than America. Older than even China. These men work for a vile Fang Shih warlock. They want the Collector of Souls and they shall have it." He got down on one knee and gripped the jar's stopper. "Wait outside. Please."

Spinning, Kelly left the display room and slammed the door behind her. She was in the foyer where a coat rack and a padded bench were the only furnishings. Suddenly she felt stifled. It was foolish to reveal herself, but Kelly unfastened the modified motorcycle helmet and tugged it off, then yanked the green silk mask off as well. She dropped down on the bench with her face uncovered, taking deep breaths to steady herself.

From behind the door came deep painful groans that ended as if cut off. Kelly brushed back her red hair and found it was damp with cold sweat. She shivered visibly. Those moans...

A second later, the door swung outward and Chen staggered through as if on an uncertain surface. He held the Collector of Souls tucked firmly in the crook of his right arm.

"Is it over?" Kelly asked.

Seeing her plaintive face, Chen Lee-Sun took a seat next to her on the bench. He untied his own mask, the full hood with the rampant dragon outlined in thin silver. Only a few years older than she was, the Dragon of Midnight was a handsome man with strong features and a thick tousle of coarse black hair. He studied her face as she watched him.

"We should leave now. My partner waits in our car down the street. I know you left your roadster a mile away, we will drop you off," he said. "Our paths will cross again, little Green Devil."

"What about them? In there?" Kelly demanded. "Are they dead?"

Chen held up the cursed artifact, sealed again with its silver stopper. From within, faint murmuring voices could barely be heard. "Their bodies at least are dead," he told her.

5/29/2020

"Strangled By a Puppet's Strings"

3/22/1945

I.

In a guest room of Drum's house on Bleecker Street, Chen Lee-Sun stretched out on the bed, took deep slow breaths and was fast asleep at once. Leaving the door open a crack, Mark Drum smiled at his young guest and went down the long hallway to his den. Here, still in an overstuffed easy chair, sat the Sting.

"That's a neat trick your partner picked up," Drum said as he crossed over to sit down facing the masked man. "No matter what the situation, he can drop off to dreamland in a few seconds."

The Sting grunted. "Yes. I've often envied him that. Chen has mostly studied his peoples' fighting styles, what he calls 'gung fu,' but he's also dabbled in some yoga and Tai Chi. We often go for days without sleeping, so he grabs a nap whenever he can."

Loosening his tie and unfastening the top button of his light blue dress shirt, Drum sighed wearily and closed his eyes. "It still bothers me to see you like this, Robert. I've tried all my Blue Guide techniques but nothing heals your legs. There's not even any physical damage I can find."

"Don't take it too hard," said the Sting. "I've been to dozens of doctors. Also to some old white-bearded sifus that Chen knows. It's Dim Mak, the Death Touch. No one has a way to restore use of my legs. Of course I'm not happy about it but at least it doesn't hurt."

Drum was a tall, sturdily built man in his thirties. Unruly black hair contrasted with deep pale grey eyes in a craggy face that was more stern than goodlooking. Faint echoes of his childhood in the Highlands had never left his voice entirely. "Even so, you've continued your work. You have quite a record cleaning up this town, Robert. Racketeers, black marketers, Axis spies, Fifth Columnists... you've been busy."

Lifting his head, the Sting revealed a full-face black cotton mask with only eyeholes showing any expression. Even here with one of the few men who knew his secret, Robert Hawk concealed his face. He was starting to feel as if the mask WAS his face. He certainly found he could think more quickly and decisively when masked, for whatever reason. "I like to think I've made a difference. It's certainly been nerve-wracking!"

"Posing as a free-lance criminal yourself so you can infiltrate mobs and turn them against each other. Damn. How do you keep all the double-crosses and lies and turnarounds straight?"

"Oh, I've screwed up a few times, believe me. It's like dancing on quicksand. Mark, we've been sitting here for what feels like forever. How much longer do we have to wait before we head out?"

"The third member of our team should come roaring in any minute now," the Blue Guide responded. "We'll need his good right arm. Up against the spymaster Puppeteer! What a devil that man is. Manhattan tonight is crowded with G-Men and men from Army Intelligence and every New York cop that could be called in. And none of them are making any more progress than we are, sad to say."

On a cabinet top near at hand sat two identical telephones. Concealed until needed, a powerful shortwave receiver could be slid out from within the cabinet to receive orders from the War Department. One of the phones rang shrill and Drum stretched out an arm to snatch up the instrument. He listened briefly, then spoke only "I understand, sir."

The Sting did not have to prompt his colleague for explanation. Drum hung up the phone, frowning with his eyebrows lowered. "That was Lieutenant-Colonel Collins of the OSS again. Overseas, he's been working under the alias 'Colonel Savage,' which I find a bit too melodramatic. He had no new information, he only wants to nag us to catch the Puppeteer for him so he can run back to occupied territory."

"Lucky him. Maybe he'll be in Berlin when our boys come marching in."

"Nothing would make him happier..." Drum broke off, swinging around in his chair. "That lifeforce at the door. It's like a bonfire. Sulak is here at last."

As he finished the last word, a massive form loomed up in the doorway. "I let myself in, Mark. Thanks for the key. Tonight's the night!"

Taller than even Drum and much brawnier, Sulak was intimidating merely filling the doorway. The huge Melgar was wrapped in a white trenchcoat which could not conceal how broad his shoulders were. Setting down a valise, he took off a fedora which badly needed blocking. A shaggy head of jet-black hair left long by contemporary standard framed a face marked with bright blue eyes and a lantern jaw. "Try to tell me you two have not been impatiently waiting for me."

"Like you would believe that," Drum responded as he rose. "I take it our informant came through? What's in that briefcase?"

"Hopefully what we need, and hopefully it's worth the cost!" Sulak said. "That little weasel won't have to get a job for a year with what he was paid."

"It's the War Department money, not ours. Our tax dollars at work!" scoffed Drm.

Still seated, leaning back, the Sting did not try to match their positive attitude. "Against this Puppeteer... I don't know. I'd be happier if we had more definite information. Reconnaisance. A "B" plan if things go south."

Sulak waved a dismissing hand. "Look at the four of us, Robert. Great strength, fighting skill, Tel Shai magic and shrewd craftiness. When we bring all these together, how can anything survive our attack?"

"Let's have a look at the papers before we hurt our arms patting ourselves on the back," grumbled the masked man.

Bringing the valise over to the cabinet between their chairs, the Melgar champion tapped the keyhole in its lid. "Locked," he smiled as he ripped the tough leather side of the case apart without any seeming effort. They had seen him peel apart steel plate as easily.

"If I ever need a jar of pickles opened, I know who to call..." Mark Drum scoffed.
Inside was a single thick manila envelope, its flap sealed with red wax. The Blue Guide lifted it appraisingly, then handed it over to the Sting. "Robert, this is definitely your area of expertise."

"Oh, yes, codes and cryptology are my meat," said the masked man. With gloved hands, he opened the envelope and slid out a sheaf of stiff yellow-tinged paper. "German manufacture, see the watermark? Up in the right hand corner, 'Page One of Fourteen Pages, initialed by two different people. Definitely classified, I might even say High Command material."

"My German is not what it should been even after four years of this war," admitted Sulak. "Read it to me."

"Ah, it's in code of course. This might take a while, old fellow. We're not supposed to have access to the Enigma findings but, you know, generals tend to give us some privileges." The Sting riffled through the parchment-like pages. "Mark, we will need some pencils and lots of paper. Black coffee wouldn't hurt either."

Peering over the Sting's shoulder, Sulak grumbled, "I don't suppose I can be of any use?"

"Afraid not," said the masked man. "This is where Mark and I have put in years of hard study. When it's time to shrug off bullets on your chest or bend machine gun barrels into pretzels, that's when you will be more valuable than a squad of Marines. Look here, Mark, I think this word in bigger numbers stands for 'Berlin,' it appears five times on the first page. Now, if that gives us the number 12 for the letter E, we can start to make some progress."

"Maybe. See, there's a few examples of two 12s next to each other, very likely a vowel in any case if not E. Could be O. We're starting with the premise that this is a basic transposition of course..."

After a few minutes of Drum and the Sting ignoring him while they scribbled and mumbled, Sulak turned away. The giant warrior swung on one heel and strode sullenly out of the den. Drum's modernistic kitchen was down the hall, all Art Deco chromium and aluminum tubing. Even the four-burner gas stove was sleek and streamlined. Drum had already taken the coffee pot with a few mugs on a tray back to the den.

Drum had long ago given the three members of their informal team full use of the icebox. Sulak began hauling out a stack of sliced roast beef, Swiss cheese, mustard, some lettuce. A fresh loaf of pumpernickel bread sat on a sideboard with a knife alongside. Fine. He might as well enjoy himself while he waited. The superhuman Melgar constructed a pair of bulging sandwiches that would put most people into a gorged stupor after eating, popped open three bottles of beer and sat down at the round table in the corner. His time to shine would come, he reassured himself. While he ate, just down the hall two of the sharpest minds in the Midnight War tackled a code that was constructed to not be broken.

( the rest of the story )

"Branded Men In Chinatown"

11/8/1940

I.

Laura Salerno had thought she was reasonably alert and difficult to take by surprise, but she gave a violent start and jumped back as a man in black stepped out of the narrowest of alleyways next to her. On this chilly November night, she was wearing an ankle-length black coat as part of her Sceptre outfit and her right hand whipped up from a pocket brandishing a strange device. One foot long, thin enough to wrap her hand around, it was a cylinder of copper-colored metal topped with a pale blue gem smaller than her fist. Laura held the Sceptre as if it packed the kick of a cattle prod.

The young man in a black chaffeur's uniform held up both leather-gloved hands in a placating gesture. Between the billed cap and the thick-lensed goggles, he was effectively disguised. "Easy. Steady there, Mrs Salerno. I'm a friend, not a threat."

"Oh yeah?" she retorted. "My friends don't jump out of the shadows and scare me out of my shoes!"

"Please, let us speak softly," he said. He seemed to be Asian, but not much of his face could be seen. "I have been searching for you. My boss says we are working on the same problem from different angles. It would be most productive if you and I helped each other."

Laura grudgingly lowered the Sceptre. In the light from a nearby streetlamp, she was revealed as a gorgeous woman about thirty, slightly above average height, with long wavy black hair down to her shoulder blades. As she had drawn her talisman, her coat had fallen back. She was wearing sky-blue slacks and a silk shirt of a bright canary-yellow hue, showing a solid bust ledge. Seeing Chen's eyes drawn to her breasts as if unwillingly, she smiled with wicked glee. "Oh, I think I know who you must be. You work with the Sting, right? You're called the Dragon of Twilight, no, Midnight. I've heard a LOT of gossip about you two."

"This is so. You have been prowling Chinatown for weeks now, trying to make alllies in your vigilante crusade." The Dragon of Midnight shook his head sadly. "I don't think you will ever get much deeper than you already have, Mrs Salerno. My people keep to themselves because of past injustice and they do not easily admit outsiders into their affairs."

"Wait. Who do you think I am again?"

"To the underworld and the police, you are called the Sceptre. But my boss has some skill at investigations. Your true name is Laura Salerno, widow of the late Ray Salerno who created that weapon you hold." He pointed a thumb at a black Lincoln parked on the next block down. "Will you accompany me? We have much to discuss. The threat of the Branded Men has brought us both out on this uneasy night."

"Hmph. I suppose." Laura placed her hands back into the deep pockets of her coat. "All right. I'll hear what you want to propose. Is that your car there?"

"Yes. The Dragonwing, it is called. Please."

The Dragon ushered her over and started to open the rear door for her, but the Sceptre went past it and got into the front passenger seat. "I'm not your boss," she explained, "Let's start off as equals."

As the Dragon of Midnight crossed around the long gleaming car to climb in behind the wheel, he said, "You might as well call me Chen. It might even be my real name, who can say?"

"Sure. I have to warn you that it's only fair if I find out who you and the mysterious Sting really are as well."

Chen Lee-Sun started up the engine, which ran so smoothly that Laura wasn't even sure it was on until the car eased away from the curb. On this foggy night with a faint cold mist in the air, few pedestrians were out and auto traffic was sparse. "It is a dangerous game we play, Mrs Salerno. Both you and my partner and I have made enemies who will kill us if they can."

"I'll tell the world," she said. "But please, call me Laura. I kept my married name after Ray died, but it sounds funny to hear someone call me that so often."

Watching him as he drove south past Central Park, the Sceptre smiled again with full red lips. "You're Chinese but to be honest you sound British to me? Are you from England?"

"Hong Kong. I suppose there is no harm in telling you that. When those damned Japanese started beating the drums of war, many Chinese tried to come here to America. I had lost my family. I had nothing keeping me at home, and I hoped to begin a second life here." He turned those unreadable goggled eyes on her as they turned a corner. "But I wish to hear more about you. That talisman you wield has this city's mobsters and petty crooks in an unroar. They're terrified."

"As well they should be," she said. "As you found out somehow, it was my husband who devised the Sceptre. Ray was a wild, roguish sort of fellow. I know he traveled all over, getting in and out of trouble. He was an explorer, a soldier of fortune, maybe a tomb robber. I suspect he had been married once before, or at least engaged. What he saw in mousy little me, I'll never know."

"Mousy...? Never mind. Please, go on about the Sceptre."

"Sure. Ray started accepting commissions from a man named Kenneth Dred. He's a scholar and expert on the occult. Ray sometimes went abroad to come back with rare books of mystic lore or odd little statues or ancient swords. On one of his trips, not longer after we had gotten married, he returned from God knows where with an Eldar travel crystal and a blasting rod made of Darthan gremthom."

"Really. Those are potent, each by themselves," the Dragon commented.

"You're telling me. Ray didn't know that the two types of magic don't mesh well at all. In fact, they're completely antagonistic. So naturally, being Ray, one night he fastened the Eldar jewel to the Darthan rod. Boom. After the explosion, when he stopped seeing double and could hear again, he found he had created something completely new in the Midnight War. The Sceptre. Occult experts say should have leveled our house, no one knows why the two power sources started to work together."

Pulling the device from her pocket again, Laura regarded it thoughtfully. Down one side was a series of five ivory buttons, and a rawhide strap had been added to its flat end to serve as a loop around her wrist. "Ray swore he should be able to move instantly from one place to another with it, but he never had the chance. So far, I've managed to make it emit different forms of energy... visible light, heat, even a concussion effect from kinetic energy. No teleportation, as the funny papers say. But I keep experimenting."

"If you do not mind unasked-for advice, great power should be used sparingly."

"Oh, that's true enough," she said. "Ray kept the Sceptre pretty much a secret. After his death, though, I was looking for some purpose in life. My family is comfortable, you might even say well off, so I didn't have to work. And Ray left me the house on Staten Island, so I could have been idle. But the way the world is going... I kept reading about 'mystery men' in the newspapers. Mark Drum. The guy named Sulak. You and your partner. And here I had this miracle in my hand."

Chen slowed and pulled over to an empty space at the curb. They were near the corner of Mott Street. "Chinatown seems oddly deserted tonight, Laura. Even deserted. We should take that as a warning."

"Like when you're out in the wilderness and the birds suddenly go silent," she said.

( the rest of the story )

"Spirits of Steel"

9/18-9/21/1942

I.

"I never thought it would come to this," Robert Hawk said from the back seat.

Chen pulled their leased Lincoln four-door sedan off the side road and turned off the engine. He stared at the scene without comment, then just as silently slid out from behind the wheel.

In the late afternoon sunlight, they saw that every window of the little white bungalow had been smashed. The wooden picket fence had been bodily torn out of the ground and scattered over the closely-trimmed lawn. Hanging by one hinge, the front door had the words REMEMBER PEARL HARBOR crudely daubed in red paint. In front of the house was a tin sign which read SOLD - VALLEY REALTY.

Chen Lee-Sun was wearing a standard chaffeur uniform with its button-flap jacket, thin leather gloves and peaked cap. He was young and fit, hopping out of the sedan and swinging around to the other side where his partner had just stood up. Robert Hawk had reached his mid-forties, with a narrow alert face marked by years of stress and tension. At five feet eight, he was not much taller than Chen but wider than the wiry Chinese man. Hawk wore a tailored business suit of fine dark brown material, with a white topcoat over it and a crisp fedora. He raised one hand in reaction at the sight of the vandalized cottage but let it fall again.

"I had heard about the forced relocation, of course," Hawk said. "But somehow, to actually see it..."

"Ahhh," Chen made a disgusted noise which suggested he wanted to spit on the ground. "If you ask me, America has finally learned what China has always known through bitter experience. The Japanese are no good! I hope this country kills as many of them as possible."

Hawk waited a few seconds before responding. "Daijiro is an American citizen, Chen. He was born in Oakland, he grew up here. I've known him for years. I would trust him with my life."

"Come now. I have told you what happened to my family three years ago. The same day that your Pearl Harbor was attacked, the Japs rampaged through Hong Kong. They're a living plague, they leave nothing but death and horror wherever they set foot." He turned to study his partner's face. "But I do not wish for us to argue, boss. Our work is more important than our personal feelings."

"I wouldn't dismiss your grievances," Hawk said. "Or your loss. But finding Daijiro is urgent."

Chen Lee-Sun tilted his cap back on his head. He was a good-looking young man with a square-jawed face and intense dark eyes that had a single fold. "The Sting, the Dragon of Midnight...they have come to mean hope and justice to many who have otherwise lost hope."

"Let's roll then. From what the War Department told me, the nearest relocation camp is in Gloverton, maybe an hour north of here." Hawk shook his head again. "Daijiro never married. At least he has no wife or children to go through this with him."

When they were back in the Lincoln, Chen started it up and swung around on the road to go in the direction from which they had come. "Wish we had the Dragonwing," he said.

"Oh, I was thinking the same thing," Hawk replied. "Flying out here in a rush. Only being able to bring a few of our gimmicks and gadgets hidden in the luggage. I would rather be riding in the Dragonwing with its armor panels and bullet-proof glass and gas nozzles. But we'll have to get by on quick thinking this time."

"Boss, I've been meaning to tell you. I don't think I will be using the ultra-violet goggles any more. They actually reduce my night vision now."

"Really. I've seen the changes that Dragon Pendant is making in you." Hawk dug through a satchel on the seat beside him. "Let's see. Roast beef, ham and Swiss, tuna fish..."

"I'd like the ham and cheese, if you don't mind."

"Sure, here you go. Plenty of mustard," Hawk passed the wax paper-wrapped sandwich up to his partner. "Looks like a bag of maybe a dozen hard-boiled eggs, too. So, Chen, how well can you see in the dark now?"

Finishing a bite before answering, the Dragon of Midnight said, "Almost as good in darkness as in daylight. Colors are washed out. Everything looks grey or white. I'm developing some sort of, I don't know the English word... extra sense to tell when something is next to me."

"Proximity."

"That's it. When I'm wearing the Pendant, I can mov through rooms I've never been in before and not bump into anything." Chen sighed. "I wish I had a wise old Sifu to explain all this. I am learning by experiment."

Finishing his sandwich, Robert Hawk wiped his mouth with a paper napkin and put the satchel back down on the car floor by his feet. "Hah. Well, I wish there were two of those pendants you won from the Brumal. Being able to walk through walls seems like a useful ability for the Sting to possess."

"We turn up here, right? Heading north?" Chen asked.

"Yes. I wrote down directions when Major Kadish phoned, but of course I had to burn them after we both got a look. Only a few of the top Army brass know they have two New York mystery men working for them now. As long as we can keep our double lives secret, we definitely should."

After a few minutes of silence, Chen Lee-Sun asked, "You want the radio on?"

"Eh? Oh, no thanks, Chen." Hawk was leaned back in the deep plush seats, rubbing his chin. "I'm thinking about our assignment. We know the underworld back home. We understand the local mobsters and the occasional lone wolf crook. But out here, we have no connections. I'm worried we may be out of our depth, Chen."

The Dragon scoffed. "I think our record speaks for itself, boss. Right now, any spies or saboteurs in Northern California have just felt a chill run up their spines without knowing why."

( the rest of the story )