Secret Agent “X” – The Complete Series Volume 2

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Secret Agent “X” – The Complete Series Volume 2 Page 59

by Paul Chadwick


  She made a sound like a moan then.

  “These chains!”

  The Agent clutched her slim wrist, looked down at the metal that circled it. Small, compact locks showed in the steel that formed a tight-fitting bracelet. The Agent had files and tools with him. He could pick the locks or cut through the chains—but that would take time—and time was precious.

  He turned then to the man he had knocked out and perhaps killed. Quickly he bent down, went through the man’s pockets and drew out a key ring. His expert eye saw a key here that looked as though it would fit. But as he picked the key up, examined it, a hoarse voice spoke in a whisper from the doorway.

  Agent “X” looked up. Jim Hobart had come into the room. His face was even whiter than before. There was a look in his eyes that “X” had never seen before—not fear so much as resignation. The lanky operative’s lips moved again.

  “I guess it’s curtains, boss. They’re coming—the DOACs! There’s a bunch of them down the end of the long hall, now!”

  Chapter XXI

  The Call to Arms

  THE Agent did not try to verify Hobart’s statement. He knew that the operative was telling the truth. “X” leaped to the blonde girl’s side, thrust the key he had found into the locks on her wrist, turned it and unsnapped them.

  He poked his head out the door. The DOACs were running around the corner from the far end of the hallway. “X” pulled the girl out of the room, and shoved Jim Hobart after her.

  “Hurry!” he cried frantically. “You can make it! You’ve got a clear field. Get her out of here, Jim. Take her away from Meadow Stream. I can hold these dogs. Don’t talk! Run!”

  The girl gave “X” an appealing look. Whatever her impulse, she was ready to obey orders. Hobart grabbed her arm, hurried her down the hallway. The DOACs uttered shouts of rage, and cried for a halt. But the two kept on. The Agent followed closely behind. But instead of continuing, he darted suddenly into the arsenal.

  He was out again before the DOACs could reach him. They came to an abrupt stop, cursing and fuming, then shrinking back in stark terror.

  “X” had both hands raised overhead. In each hand was a mangling, destroying vacuum bomb. He came nearer to them, step by step. He made as though to hurl one of the containers of concentrated death. A DOAC shrieked.

  By this time Jim Hobart and Betty Dale were out of the sub-cellar, on their way to fresh air and safety. That problem was cleared away. “X’s” job now was to prevent the fatal broadcast, to stop the Master from sending out the command that would usher in an era of tragedy and oppression.

  Suddenly the DOACs turned and ran—far enough to get out of range of those terrible bombs. Then one hooded man swung around again, and opened up with an automatic. Leaden pellets of death screamed above “X.” The man was trying to make “X” surrender. His first shots were high, but any second the Agent knew he was liable to lower his aim, and shoot to kill. “X” dashed for the door of the arsenal.

  The killers roared savagely, and came on. A fusillade of bullets spouted from flaming guns. “X” got half across the threshold of the arsenal when a slug nipped the back of his coat. He slammed the door and bolted it. DOACs were swarming in the corridor. They came up to the metal door of the arsenal, beat upon it. One, a sub-leader, spoke sneeringly to “X.”

  “You’re through, stranger,” he said. “If you’re Agent ‘X,’ you’ve lost, and we are the victors. The Master is on his way. He’ll be here any minute. The DOACs are as good as rulers of the country already. Nothing you can do will stop us now. But surrender—and perhaps the Master will be lenient with you. The strong can afford to be lenient with the weak.”

  The Agent didn’t answer. His mind was in a turmoil. How was he going to get by that mob of killers to the signal room? The fate of thousands depended on the next few minutes. It was nearly midnight. Possibly the Master was standing by the microphone now, ready to issue his orders. Because of that handful of murderers outside, was the whole nation to become a thieves’ paradise, a haven for homicidal maniacs?

  He thought of hurling a bomb over the transom. That would slaughter the cluster of fiends. But would the explosion blow up the entire arsenal, and send this sinister house scattering to the skies? He was willing now even to sacrifice his own life. But the bomb might only demolish this section of the sub-cellar, killing those DOACs and himself, and leaving the signal room unharmed. That wasn’t the way. If he had to die, he wanted to go out knowing that the DOACs had been beaten.

  Suddenly his keen ears detected a sound behind him. He spun around. A hooded figure was stealing down upon him. The DOAC held a gun. He didn’t fire for an obvious reason. “X” still clutched those bombs. The killer had come in by a rear entrance. The talk of the man outside had been a stall, to give this one a chance to sneak up from behind. “X” snarled and twisted his face in a threatening grimace.

  The same instant he thumbed down the light switch on the wall by the door, plunging the room in darkness. The DOAC uttered curses, threatening to blow the Agent’s brains out. “X” took advantage of the outburst to place the bombs carefully on the floor against the wall. Then he cat-footed toward the killer, gas gun in hand. The man was still muttering and mouthing oaths.

  “X” got to one side of him, fired, but the man ducked away from the cloud of vapor.

  “X” lashed out with the gun muzzle then in the general location of the hooded man’s head. The blow landed on the killer’s skull, but the rubber hood cushioned it The smash on the head rocked him on his heels, but didn’t send him to the floor.

  THE Agent closed in with the murderer. His hand groped in the darkness and clutched the automatic. He tried to wrench it from the hooded man’s hand, but the DOAC had an iron grip on the butt. Suddenly he got his other hand free and gouged “X” in the eye. It was a foul and brutal trick. The shock sent a shudder through the Agent.

  He relaxed his hold on the man’s gun a little. The DOAC forced the weapon down. The barrel was close to “X’s” face. The killer didn’t know how close, and that was what saved the Agent. Exerting all his wrought-iron strength, he began prying the automatic away.

  Then the DOAC tripped him. “X” fell backwards. The DOAC would land on top. The crashing weight of his body and the thump against the floor would stun “X,” give his foe a chance to shatter his skull with a bullet. But the Secret Agent was a skilled wrestler.

  In mid-air he swung his body sidewise, got his arm around the back of the killer’s neck, his hand under the man’s chin. He gave a violent snap which shifted the DOAC’s body under him. At the same time he jerked the man’s gun hand away from his body. It was all done in a swift moment. The howling DOAC, suddenly terror-stricken, pressed the trigger of his automatic. The bullet went wild.

  There was a terrific explosion, and the Agent himself gave a piercing scream. Then he fired his gas gun straight into the DOAC’s face.

  The DOAC had been sure of victory when he’d tripped the Agent. Now he sank to the floor, inert. “X” scrambled to his feet. He clicked on the electric switch and showered the room with light.

  “I got him! I got him!” he cried—for the benefit of those in the corridor. “I finished the Secret Agent—drilled him through the guts. He’s ready for sweet lilies and slow music, comrades!”

  The Agent took off the DOAC’s hood, and concealed his own face with it. Beneath the blue fabric, his eyes were burning. He had a desperate plan, a plan that might prevent plagues and epidemics, a plan that might cost his own life.

  He bounded across to an open case of time bombs. Quickly he set the detonating mechanism of one into operation, adjusted the clocklike dial. He contemplated his work for a moment, then glared in the direction of the DOACs on the other side of the locked door. Events were going to happen swiftly from now on. Those thieves, rats and murderers were going to be dealt with as they deserved, to save a nation from bloody catastrophe. These in Greta St. Clair’s house obviously formed the “inner circle.” They
were vicious criminals all, in on the most sinister doings of the DOAC organization.

  “Come on, comrade!” shouted a DOAC. “The Master has arrived!”

  A thrill of excitement went through the Agent. He rushed to the door, threw back the bolt, went out. His face concealed by the hood, he joined the DOACs, who were filing toward the signal room.

  Suddenly their hands were raised in a brisk, military gesture—the DOAC salute. From another door stepped a hooded man of stocky build. Across the forehead of his vivid blue hood was a mystic symbol—a clenched fist hurling a livid lightning bolt. This was etched in bright yellow. The man had an air of stern authority. His presence awed the DOACs into silence.

  Even “X” felt some of the magnetism of this man, the enemy of peace, decency and happiness. The Master paused for a moment, his bearing rigid, his glittering eyes piercing through the slits in his blue hood. He did not speak. The DOACs bowed humbly before this iron dictator who was about to touch off the spark of revolution in America.

  THE Master turned his back on them and entered the signal room. The DOACs stood motionless, as awed as peasants would be in the presence of an emperor. “X” waited a moment. He had to go into that signal room. Would the DOACs stop him?

  A clock began to bong off the hour of midnight. That decided “X.” He was going in. If they challenged him, he’d reach the Master before they could get to him. Probably every man in this sinister group was a murderer. They would not hesitate to kill him if they learned his identity. But what was his life compared to the thousands he would save, the millions he would protect?

  “X” pushed boldly through the cluster of hooded men. He got his hand on the door knob when one of the DOACs started to protest. The Agent raised his hand to silence the fellow. The gesture produced results. These killers belonged to a secret organization. They didn’t know each other even. How could the DOAC know that the man at the door had not been detailed to be the Master’s aide? He lapsed into silence. The Agent went into the room.

  The Master stood at the microphone. Only he and “X” were in the room. The ruler of the hooded hordes was engrossed in his speech. He saw the Agent and gestured for him to go out. Instead, “X” bolted the door.

  “Comrades,” spoke the Master in an impressive voice, “you are listening to your leader—the man you have sworn allegiance to, the man in whom you have vested your hope of happiness and prosperity. Many of you may think of me as a hard man. I have been hard, because my task has been hard. This world demands a violent change. Evil must be pulled out by the roots. To mend we must first destroy—and tonight—”

  That was the end of the Master’s speech. “X” lunged at him. His fist shot out. Behind his terrific swing was all the power of his body gathered together by the hate he possessed for this arch-fiend. He crashed his fist against the Master’s chin, and sent him hurtling backwards.

  The Master thudded to the floor and lay still. Who was he? The Agent had no time at the moment to find out.

  He grabbed the microphone. This was the big moment. He didn’t know how many were listening in. Maybe hundreds, maybe scores, maybe only a few. Whatever the number of DOACs, they constituted enough to spread the Master’s word to every section of the country. The Agent meant to continue the leader’s speech, but not as the chief had planned.

  “Tonight,” “X” spoke into the microphone, imitating with remarkable skill the impressive quality of the Master’s voice, “I had planned to issue an order which would overthrow the present government—and put the mighty DOAC organization into power. But, comrades, I have sad news. Our blow at the existing order must be postponed indefinitely. We have traitors in our midst!

  “My list of the state and district leaders has been stolen. It has fallen into the hands of the police and government operatives. They are ready for a gigantic coup. Every member on that list is known to them. At any moment they will close in. Possibly now they are hammering at your doors! So my message to you tonight is a warning. Flee! Flee, my loyal ones! Gather sufficient funds and get out of the country immediately. Drop your arms! Leave your equipment behind you. It will do you no good now. Hanging, electrocution, lethal gas await those who are caught. Without DOAC control of the government, all of you are murderers. So flee—before it is too late!”

  The Agent was throwing his whole dynamic personality into the speech to make it convincing, to drive fear into the hooded terrors. This was the only possible way to break up the widely scattered DOAC chapters.

  He knew that his words were taking effect in many far-off states. So intent was he that he didn’t notice that the hooded Master had recovered from the swift punch. The Master was crawling cautiously toward a small door in the far wall. Suddenly the hooded leader stood up, flung the door open. “X” saw the movement then, and cried out a command to stop. But the Master’s only response was a harsh oath. He bounded through the opening and was lost in the darkness beyond.

  Chapter XXII

  Tunnel of Death

  THE Agent dropped the microphone and ran after the hooded man. He had disrupted the DOAC organization, prevented a stupendous holocaust. Now he couldn’t let the founder of that fiendish legion get away. The Master must be trapped somehow. Free, he would still be a menace to the peace and safety of America.

  The Agent flung into the darkness and headed down a dripping tunnel. He was in Stygian gloom. The passage took a winding course. Once “X” crashed into the rock wall at an abrupt turn. He was stunned by the collision, but he reeled on. His footsteps resounded from the walls with thunderous reverberations. The walls were slimy. The ceiling dripped. The air was dank and chill.

  Suddenly the sounds of running footsteps ceased. “X” hugged the slippery wall. Was the Master going to attack? The Agent expected to hear the thunder of an automatic. But no flames lanced the darkness, no bullets shrieked past him. Instead, he heard the swish and splash of water, the clank of metal against metal.

  The Agent rushed forward. He realized that he was out of the winding passage. He heard water slapping against rocks. He knew it might be suicide, but he flashed his electric torch.

  The Master let out a snarl at once. “X” turned off the light, and threw himself to the ground.

  A gun roared. Bullets screamed overhead. The Master pressed the trigger until the clip was empty. Immediately the Agent bounded erect, ran forward, keeping in a low crouch. Then he heard a triumphant snarl, the clank of metal again.

  Once more “X’s” flash pierced the darkness. His light gleamed on a long, metal tube, built much like a huge, fat cigar. Already it was sliding into water. On the rear end of this tube was a propeller, with a bronze guard over it.

  The Agent understood. This was a torpedo, a regular Whitehead used by the United States Navy. But a miniature hatch on its top was closing, held in place by inside clamps. It was being used as a one-man submarine.

  The torpedo’s bottom was secured by ringbolts to a cable which ran into the water. The propeller was going, and the torpedo was submerging. The Agent sped across a rocky ledge. The torpedo was disappearing. There was no time to lose. The Master was making his getaway.

  The Agent catapulted through the air. He hurtled downward, cut the water in a swift dive, came up in time to catch the bronze propeller guard.

  His hands were hardly more than an inch from the whirring, cutting blades of the propeller. If he stretched out his fingers, they would be chopped off in a split-second. From habit, the Agent had taken a huge breath before he dived. His lungs were full now, but he didn’t know how long it would be until he could take another breath.

  Suddenly he was going through the water faster than a man had ever traveled that way before. The torpedo, propelled by compressed air, sent up a steady stream of bubbles. The Agent had the protection of plastic material on his face. He was wearing clothes. This alone saved him. If he had been stripped or garbed in a swimming suit, the speed with which the torpedo shot ahead would have burned him so that sheer agony would ha
ve forced him to let go.

  Even now it was all he could do to keep his grip of the propeller guard. The torpedo dived into the depths, following the wire cable. The pressure was terrific. His eardrums seemed about to burst. His pulses throbbed like trip-hammers. His lungs were taxed to the utmost. His head began to whirl. He gritted his teeth and clung on.

  Most men would have been torn away from the torpedo the moment it had gathered full speed. “X” felt his grip weakening. The steel cut cruelly into his hands, but he only clung more stubbornly. He couldn’t let go, wouldn’t let go! Too much depended on his riding with this torpedo to its destination.

  HE couldn’t hold his breath any longer. He exhaled. His veins were swelling, his whole body throbbing in protest against this suffocation. His fingers were growing numb. They were slipping, slipping.

  Then—swish! The torpedo reared its nose upward, came to a jolting stop. “X’s” grip was broken. But his head bobbed above the surface, and gratefully he gulped air into his aching lungs. The torpedo was completely out of water, secured to a spring which had caught the tube when it shot above the surface. In the darkness the Agent silently trod water.

  The hatch in the long cylinder opened, and the hooded Master climbed out. “X” couldn’t see him, but he could hear the metallic sounds and shuffling footsteps on damp stones.

  The Master was cursing now, and “X” heard him moving away. He waited until the sounds dwindled, then muscled himself out of the water onto the rocky ledge, and stealthily followed the man.

  The footsteps receded still farther. “X” suddenly clicked on his torch, flooding the chamber with light. The Master whirled, saw the Agent, and shoved his hand in his pocket for his gun. “X” let him draw it, and then a vicious crack on the arm knocked it out of the hooded man’s hand. The Master snarled, and whipped out a ham-like fist.

  He had amazing speed for one so large. He dealt “X” a malleting blow over the heart. The Agent countered with a terrific hook that knocked his foe against the damp wall of the old underground cell in which they were fighting.

 

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