by Gene P. Abel
“Then shoot back!” Claire snapped. “You’re federal agents; you must have some sort of firearms on you.”
“It was not . . . mission parameters,” Agent Hessman stated. “David, we need to get down there.”
“Right.”
The big man looked around, saw a convenient wok, and pointed to it. At their rear, Captain Beck scrambled for the large metal skillet and handed it off to the lieutenant.
“This should be heavy enough for those old pistols,” he remarked.
“What’s the fool talking about?” Claire hissed into Ben’s ear. “Those look like top-of-the-line military revolvers they got out there. And what are Japanese agents doing with American guns, anyway?”
“Later,” Ben whispered back. “Firefight, remember?”
“What are you people doing in my kitchen? Get out of here before I roast you!”
As Lieutenant Phelps climbed out the window, he held the large metal wok in front of himself like a shield. Angrily stomping toward them came what appeared to be the head cook, a long white chef’s smock on his body and a large and intimidating meat cleaver raised in his right hand. Claire immediately leaped to the occasion, dashing over to meet the angry cook in a war of confusing words.
“Hi, Claire Hill, reporter. I’m also doing another piece on kitchen cleanliness, and did you know you have rats around here?”
“No rats. Just group of people ruining my kitchen. Out!”
“Oh, but we saw the largest rat, and I’m afraid that things just got out of hand. We thought we’d find and catch it before anyone in your event might spot him. Now, do you know if this could be a whole infestation or just a single intruder?”
“Get out of my kitchen!”
Out on the balcony, a shot rang off of Lieutenant Phelps’s wok as he stood on the upper landing trying to make his way down the steps, while Agent Harris had found a five-foot Buddha statue fixed against the center of the back wall of the courtyard to take cover behind.
“Ben, how many shots do those things carry?” Agent Hessman asked.
“About six each, I think,” he replied. “Of course if they have a gun each, then it’ll be a while before reloading. And that’s assuming that while they look like excellent replicas on the outside—”
“Right, they might have a few mods. Okay, no time to wait until they run out; start tossing out whatever those two can use.”
Behind them, Claire decided to hold out against the angry head cook with a last-resort tactic that women have used for centuries. With a firm stance, her chin thrust up, she called out boldly, “You wouldn’t hit a lady, would you?”
In reply, the chef stabbed his large knife into the wooden table next to him, reached out with both hands to grip her by both shoulders, and, to her dismay, bodily picked her up, moved her to one side, put her down, and retrieved his knife. “Now out of my kitchen!”
Meanwhile Agent Harris was trying to think of a way to get across to the Japanese team that would involve her actually making it over there alive. They had the bin for cover, and while she and Lieutenant Phelps could outflank them once he made it to the ground, they still had no weapons. “There’s got to be another way,” she said to herself.
Just as the lieutenant made it to the ground, a crash sounded, followed by two more. Both Harris and Phelps looked to see another wok come hurling out from the window to join the first two on the ground; then came a series of large kitchen knives.
“Take your pick!” came Agent Hessman’s shout.
“Nothing like service with a smile,” she quipped to herself.
She waited until the rain of kitchen implements stopped, and looked to where the nearest large wok had landed, but Lieutenant Phelps was ahead of her. The large man ran out, weaving from side to side, a bullet bouncing off his wok shield, hit the ground while grabbing up one of the other fallen woks, and threw it over to her. She caught it in a tuck and roll out into the open, then, with that as a shield, ran for one of the larger knives.
Back up in the window, Agent Hessman watched as Agent Harris grabbed one of the knives as she ran to one side, while Lieutenant Phelps snaked a hand out to grab one near where he lay and waited for another shot to dent his wok before leaping to his feet with a cry that sounded much like an angry bull elephant.
“Two against six,” Dr. Weiss observed. “They’ll never make it.”
“Don’t count Miss Harris out yet,” Agent Hessman corrected as he watched. “She’s special ops through and through.”
“Out of my kitchen!”
Dr. Weiss was the first to stand up and turn around to face off against the angry man, only to discover the other guy was about an inch taller than he was.
“I thought all you Japanese guys were short?”
“Out!”
Faced with an angry cook with a large meat cleaver, the physicist could think of only one thing to do. “Uh, Lou? I think the man wants to talk to you.” He stepped aside.
Clang!
To the sound of heavy metal meeting brain, the cook went limp and crashed to the ground like a rag doll. Standing behind him was Claire holding on to a large Japanese skillet with both hands and looking a little guilty. “There was one more wok left.” She winced. “I hope I didn’t hurt him too bad, but he manhandled me.”
“Things’ll get worse than that unless we can get down to that courtyard without getting shot,” Agent Hessman stated. “Beck, you bring anything?”
“Officially?” the captain replied. “No.”
“Unofficially?”
The captain reached into a pocket and pulled out a small gun no bigger than the palm of his hand.
“Derringer, 1875, mint condition, good for a single shot. Figured it would make for a good holdout weapon without standing out.”
“That’s a girl’s weapon,” Claire remarked. “It’ll never hit them from way up here.”
“True,” Agent Hessman admitted, “but they don’t know that. We just need it for the noise. Here.”
Captain Beck handed the small pistol over; then Agent Hessman carefully leaned out the window . . .
The shot nearly caught Harris and Phelps by surprise, and certainly the Japanese team. In the confines of the small courtyard, it echoed until it sounded like a much bigger gun than it actually was. That was all the other team needed to hear. After a quick discussion among themselves and a last shot to keep the two pinned down, they made a break for it, running straight for the alley exit and the freedom of the Japanese section of the city.
Freedom for five of them, at least. The minute they broke, Lieutenant Phelps bolted to his feet, dented wok in one hand and large knife in the other, and charged straight at the nearest team member. Covering him, Agent Harris broke into a run herself, electing to give her own wok a toss like a Frisbee, followed by a thrown knife as she neared.
At the top of the fire escape, the others saw their chance, and Agent Hessman led the way as he nearly ran down the metal steps, followed in turn by each of the others. He hit the ground just in time to see the rearmost Japanese team member raising his pistol as a hurled knife from Agent Harris cut into his hand. A scream and the pistol went flying, followed quickly by the man himself as the lieutenant slammed into him.
The man hit the ground, the lieutenant’s knife in his chest. The rest didn’t stick around but ran off down the alley as fast as they could.
Agent Harris was the first to the body after Lieutenant Phelps, and quickly checked it.
“Dead,” she announced as Agent Hessman came running up to join them.
“We need a prisoner to question next time,” Agent Hessman snapped. “Okay, the two of you go after the Japanese team. The rest of us will be here looking for clues.”
“Got it,” Agent Harris said with a nod.
By the time Ben and Sam came jogging up behind Agent Hessman, the ot
her two were already running down the alley after the Japanese team. Claire approached, saw the bleeding body, and swallowed a lump in her throat, while Captain Beck reached an arm around to turn her away.
“Perhaps the lady should not see this.”
“No,” Claire said after a moment. “Nellie Bly saw much worse in her career. I can do this.”
“Well, I’m not sure if I can,” Ben stated. “I didn’t think there’d be bodies on this trip.”
“A man admitting he’s afraid of a little blood?” Claire teased. “Didn’t you see any in the war?”
Professor Stein stammered for a moment, then changed the subject by shifting his full attention to Agent Hessman, who took the hint.
“We won’t have much time before they come back here to see what all the fuss is about,” the team leader stated. “Assume we have no more than five minutes. I’ll check out the body. Ben, you see if they dropped anything of interest over where they were hiding behind that garbage bin.”
Grateful to have both the subject changed and an excuse to avoid picking around a freshly dead body, Professor Stein hurried over to the bin while Agent Hessman bent down for his examination.
11
Times Square Chase
Agent Harris and Lieutenant Phelps ran down the narrow alley, sight of the Japanese team all but lost to them. In fact, all they could see ahead of them as their alley intersected with a small street was an overturned garbage bin, followed by a man who sounded like he was cussing in Japanese next to a recently knocked-over crate of ice-packed fish. Then another garbage bin farther down the alley on the other side of the small street was dislodged.
“Nice of them to leave us a trail trying to slow us down,” Agent Harris said as they ran.
She leaped atop the first bin and down to the other side, barely breaking stride, while Lieutenant Phelps shoved hard with both hands to push the thing out of his way. Then Agent Harris spun her way around the fallen crate and jumped over the second bin, with Lieutenant Phelps hot on her heels as he crashed his way more forcefully through.
“Too bad the slowing-down part of that’s not working out too well for them,” she said, once past the obstacle course. Ahead of them she could see only a pair of running legs and what looked like the back of the head of one of the men who had shot at them. They were bolting straight for a much bigger street than the last one. “We’ve got to get them before they lose themselves in the crowd.”
A loading ramp appeared ahead, with steps leading up for pedestrians on the near side, the other side ending abruptly where a truck would back up. She took the steps two at a time, and at the other end of the ramp, leaped through the air, aiming true for one of the trailing members of the Japanese team. Lieutenant Phelps, meanwhile, continued straight on down the alley.
Agent Harris flew as her target glanced back over his shoulder. A quick glimpse of the descending angel of death was all he needed to spin himself quickly aside and jog backward to let Agent Harris land on the sidewalk instead of on top of his back. She did a tuck and roll back up to her feet, launching herself straight at the man.
Her opponent went from jogging backward to facing her, then winding up into a roundhouse kick that caught her in the side, though even then she nearly caught his foot in the process. He resumed running away, having delayed Agent Harris just enough to gain a couple of precious seconds. By that time the lieutenant had caught up to her, and the pair found themselves racing side by side after the Japanese team.
“Okay, so he knows a little martial arts,” she remarked as they ran. “I’ll still stuff his karate chop straight down his gullet with a couple of spin kicks once I catch up to him.”
“Looks like they ran out of room to run,” Lieutenant Phelps stated. “Look.”
Ahead of them the alley came to an end at one of the more major streets, complete with a mixture of both horse-drawn and gas-driven vehicles, including turn-of-the-century taxis that resembled four-door yellow Model Ts and a double-decker bus, as well as plenty of foot traffic down the sides of the wide avenues. They could see the five members of the Japanese team coming to an abrupt slowdown as they pushed their way through the crowd.
When out of the corner of her eye Agent Harris saw the lieutenant reaching for something in his pants pocket, she stopped him with a hand to his arm and a word. “No. Not here in the middle of all of these people, and especially not with that gun you’re not supposed to have. We have to get them without attracting any attention, especially from the local cops.”
“Can I at least break their legs or something?”
“That you can do.” She shrugged.
They, too, dropped down to a rapid walk once they hit the crowd, shoving their way through the throng of humanity. Their act was greeted by many displeased looks and one remark from a well-dressed white man with his lady friend. “Know your betters, young negress! Lay hands on me or my wife again and I shall have you arrested and tossed into the dark hole in which you belong.”
Agent Harris looked ready to take out her frustrations from the chase on the couple before her, but this time it was Lieutenant Phelps’s turn to lend a restraining hand to hold her back while muttering his apologies, giving the first story that came to mind. “I’m sorry, but . . . my maid and I here were in a hurry and she got a bit overenthusiastic. Come on . . . Jemima, we don’t want to be late for that . . . prayer meeting you have with Tom and Huck.”
He pulled her away before the couple could do much more than glower at them. Once out of sight of the couple, Agent Harris shook off the lieutenant’s grip with a sour look. “Okay, so I forgot that a black person shoving her way through whites in 1919 is not a good thing to do, but do you know how many levels of wrong that line of yours had?”
“Sorry, but I’m not good at lying or making up stories. Now let’s hurry up before we lose the targets.”
After a last glare, Agent Harris was back on the job and quickly spotted one familiar head making its way around the other side of a passing taxi. “There,” she indicated with a nod. “Before we lose them.”
Their pace quickened, though Agent Harris was careful now to be far more polite in making her way through the crowd. She led the way across the street and down the walkway, around a final clump of people loitering in conversation, before emerging into a break in the surging sea of humanity. Several yards ahead of them, at the other end of the clearing, the Japanese team members were likewise race walking through the crowd.
“Quicker,” she whispered to Lieutenant Phelps. “Just no running.”
“Agreed. I imagine seeing a black person running down the street is not going to be taken any better by the cops in this year than back in ours.”
She shot him another harsh glare.
“Hey, I’m just sayin’. I mean, if we’re to blend in, then . . . that is, all I meant was . . . I’ll shut up now.”
“You’re actually right about what you mean,” she told him, “but absolutely wrong in the way you tried to say it. Stick with just being the muscle from now on. Now hurry up.”
Their chase became a walking war, their longer strides versus the shorter but quicker ones of the Japanese team, as each tried their best to keep from getting noticed by the general public. After a brisk walk down a street and around a corner, the five from the Japanese team were forced to wait while a double-decker bus passed by, the pair behind them nearly catching up before the five resumed once again. The Japanese men ducked into a crowd entering a theater for a play and nearly lost their two pursuers, but Agent Harris’s sharp eyes spotted them on the other side of the street.
Of course, five Japanese gentlemen moving through the herd as if they were intent on a criminal mission was almost as suspicious in the eye of the people of 1919 as a large white man and a slender young black woman dressed more as though they were going out together than as man and servant. Keeping track of the Japanese men’
s movements was turning out not to be too difficult a task for Agent Harris, though catching up to them was problematic.
“Those guys certainly walk fast,” she remarked as the street turned onto a much larger avenue.
“We’ve got another problem,” Lieutenant Phelps remarked. “How do we take them down once we catch up with them?”
“I think between the two of us we can take them.”
“Without looking like we’re criminals assaulting some Japanese tourists?” the lieutenant finished.
She considered that for a moment before giving a quick shake of her head. “Let’s just catch them first and worry about the rest later.”
The street they turned onto had more car and bus traffic than the other, and also a more X-shaped intersection topped at one end by a familiar-looking narrow building that had become iconic even in the year 1919.
“Times Square,” she said, realizing where they were. “We need to catch them now.”
“Too late. Look.”
Ahead of them the five had come to a stop in the middle of the walkway. Then one of them turned to face the crowd in the direction of their pursuers. He smiled briefly, while behind him his team dispersed—in four different directions. He gave a short bow at the waist, turned away, and made his way quickly through the crowd in a fifth direction.
Agent Harris stopped cold, an angry sigh escaping her lips as she watched their quarry drift apart like a dandelion to the winds.
“Which one do we follow?” Lieutenant Phelps asked.
“We don’t,” she replied. “We’d lose both them and each other in this crowd. Best we can do is report back to Lou and take it from there.”
She spared a moment to let her gaze follow the one who had smiled, until all view was cut off by an intervening taxi, and turned away feeling displeased with herself. Their walk back to the alley from which they had started would not be quite as fast, as Agent Harris silently berated herself.
12
