Web hosting Custom Email SiteBuilder

* * *

"That's the third victim in five days!" Mary Margaret Skalany threw the file down on Peter's desk with disgust.
The young Detective took the creme colored manila folder and opened it. "Sarah MacIntosh, 45," he read. "Married, one child. Sold clothes in a designer shop." He laid the file down again. "Anything?"
The dark-haired woman shook her head and slumped down in a chair standing beside Peter's desk. "No, nothing. Just like the other two. She had no enemies, led a normal life, had her share of parking tickets -- which she all paid --," Skalany shrugged, "everything was normal."
Peter Caine frowned. "Well, this isn't normal. Why should someone kill a woman who sold designer clothes?"
"The same goes for an insurance broker and a bus driver, Peter. They were all killed in the last five days, apparently by the same man, with the same weapon, but nobody sees a connection between them."
Peter nodded and went through the data in the file again. "Except maybe for that," he suddenly remarked.
"What?" Skalany leaned forward and had a look at what Peter was reading. "The list of the victim's possessions?" she asked.
Caine nodded. "Yes. Look, it says here: 'silver ring with red ruby inserted'."
She snapped her fingers. "Hey, that's what the other two victims were wearing on their fingers, too."
He nodded. "Yes. Let's go and get a look at those rings. Pathology still has the possessions."
Both Detectives rose and went down to pathology. Since Nicky Elder, the pathologist wasn't in, they asked the assistant. The assistant handed them the three boxes with the objects and jewelry the victims had carried. Peter took the rings out of the plastic bags and laid them on a table.
"Looks like they're all the same," Mary Margaret remarked, examining the three rings one after another. "No inscriptions, no stamps, no marks of any kind. They look handmade."
"And those rubies look like they're real." Peter turned the silver ring in his hands. "Maybe we can get an ID on who made those rings." He tossed the ring to Skalany, who caught it easily.
The female detective raised an eyebrow. "And what will you do while I try and get someone to tell me who made that thing?"
"I'll go interview the family and friends of the victims again. Maybe they know something about that ring." Peter waved good-bye and left Skalany alone in pathology.
The woman sighed, took one of the rings herslef and then put the other one back in the box. A few minutes later she, too, left the pathology rooms.

* * *

Peter sat on the chair in the living room, elbows resting on the table, feeling uncomfortable. This part of his job always made him feel uncomfortable. It was hard for him, personally, to bring the bad news to the relatives and family of a crime victim, but to come here again and question the family was even worse. Dr. Erika Nathaniel, widow of Barry Nathaniel, the insurance broker, sat opposite Peter, her hands in constant motion. Her face showed signs of crying and even now she was hard pressed not to break down, as the young detective saw. Her husband had been murdered only three days ago and he knew that it would take a long time for her to get over the loss, since they had been married only two years.
"I'm sorry to bother you again," Peter apologized sincerely. "We think that we might have a lead and I need your help, Dr. Nathaniel."
The woman nodded. "I'll help you in any way I can, Detective Caine," she said and there was a lot of force behind that statement.
"Thank you." Peter got out the little plastic bag with the silver ring. "We found that on your husband's body," he began, handing the bag over to her. "Do you recognize it?"
She looked at the ring, then nodded. "Of course. Barry wore it all the time, wherever we went. He had it when we met and I never really asked where he had it from." She played absentmindedly with the little bag. "I suspected it was some family inheritance or something."
"So he never mentioned anything at all?"
She shook her head. "No. Is it important?"
Peter shrugged. "We don't know. A similar ring was found on the bodies of all three victims of the killer. It might be a lead."
Erika Nathaniel stared at the ring again. "Maybe someone else in his family knows, but they all live in New York. He moved here five years ago, half a year after we met." Tears started to gather in her eyes again. She wiped at them. "I'm sorry," she whispered.
"It's okay," Peter said awkwardly, wishing he had Skalany with him. She would be able to comfort the woman. "Listen, I'll keep you informed, okay?"
She nodded, drying her eyes with a handkerchief. "Thank you," was all she managed.
Peter decided to go and talk to the other two victims' family.

 * * *

There was a certain beauty to the city at this time of the year. Summer was already over, but most of the flowers and trees still showed life in abundance. Autumn was getting a hold, but it would still be some time until Winter broke in with heavy snow and icy cold. The man in the business suit stood at the hot dog stand, chewing at the sausage in a bun, his eyes wandering over the busy streets. Everything looked perfectly normal, just like on every day. No signs of the murders, rapes and thefts occurring every hour, every day, every year. But he could feel it. He felt that someone was here, someone powerful and .... murderous. Taking another napkin he began to walk from the hot dog stand down the street, looking like just another pedestrian.
He passed several shops and then stepped through a door into one of the many small malls. There he threw away the stained napkin and then looked around, his blue eyes searching specifically for one person. He found that person in form of an artist, sitting on a chair in front of his canvas, painting. He walked over to the man, glancing at the picture. It was a landscape, fantastic and mysterious, with a great waterfall and a flock of birds in front of a morning sky. A cloud shaped like a dragon passed the blue sky.
"The sun is shining," the man said when he saw that no one was close enough to overhear them.
"But the ice is slippery," the artist replied immediately, never ceasing to paint. He dipped his brush into a pot with blue paint and started to outline the lake at the bottom of the waterfall more clearly.
The man in the business suit didn't move from his position behind the artist's shoulder. His senses strained to keep track of the people around them, of someone who might listen in to their conversation. But at this time of the day, just after the midday wave of workers with some free time, the mall was quiet.
"Someone is stalking you and the other agents," the business man said neutrally.
Another stroke of blue, then the artist took a new brush to continue with white. "You heard about the murders?"
"Yes."
"It's a bit disconcerting."
The other man frowned, knowing what his contact said, though he didn't put it into clear words. "What is the word on the street?" he wanted to know.
The artist brushed some of his long, blond hair out of his face. "Police is at a loss," he said. "No leads. Word on the street is, it's a madman, killing aimlessly whoever he wants -- using a three-bladed knife." One corner of his mouth twisted into a wry smile. "Wish I could believe the same. He's after us, right?"
"No, not really."
The artist raised an eyebrow and turned to look at the man. "Who?" he asked.
"The Shadow."
"Oh." The artist leaned back a bit, studying his work from a distance. "He knows it?"
"Yes, he is informed. That's why I'm here. Has anyone of you been threatened in any way?"
The blond shook his head. "No." He dipped the brush into the white paint again. The artificial light of the mall caught in the red ruby, inserted in the silver ring, on his left hand. "Two days before Barry died I talked to him over the phone. He said he was fine. No threats, no problems, nothing at all."
There was a lengthy silence. "Be careful," the business man then said and turned to go. The artist went on painting.

* * *

Kwai Chang Caine stood on his balcony overlooking part of the city. The plants all around him gave the balcony a look of a small forest. The sounds coming from below didn't penetrate much and it was like a small island of serene tranquillity. But right now Caine didn't feel so tranquil and calm at all. Something was bothering him and had been for the last week or so. He hadn't been able to pinpoint what it was that disturbed his meditations from time to time or entered his dreams. He wasn't even sure whether it was really threatening or just a feeling of something new and unaccounted for in the city. Until early this morning.
Someone had been murdered; brutally and in cold blood; senselessly. Not that there was ever a sense behind a murder, but this time it was different than most. Caine felt no connection between the murderer and the victim. And now that he had 'witnessed' this murder on a level closed to most people, he became aware of the three other murders, which had occurred the same way. Someone was stalking his victims, singling them out precisely, then hit.
Caine closed his eyes, inhaling deeply, stretching his senses and searching for a lead on the killer. He felt the victim again, an old man, surprised and shocked; he felt the coldness of the killer; he felt ...... The priest's eyes snapped open and widened in recognition. He knew that aura!
"You are here," he whispered.

* * *

Mary Margaret Skalany was already in the squad room when Peter entered. The young detective was feeling frustrated since nothing had come up on the rings. Skalany raised an eyebrow as he flopped down into the chair.
"Nothing," she guessed and he nodded.
"All three victims had the ring before they were either married or engaged," Peter said. "They never mentioned where they got it from, nor did they ever take it off. I asked every member of the families I could reach. It's a dead end. You?"
"A bit more good news, though it's not much," she answered. "The ring's solid silver, the ruby is for real." She held up one hand. "Yes, I know that we knew that before, but .... the ruby is something very special. The stone is called Tibetan Red, rare and expensive. You won't find it on normal jewelry. It's also called The Telepathy Stone."
"Telepathy Stone?" Peter echoed.
"Yeah, I thought the same. The guy from the jewelry store told me that this is the name. He said to go and see someone called Ricky Lee Chang, owner of an Asian jewelry store."
"So?"
"So I found out that the ruby comes really from Tibet and it's said to have occult powers. All stones are connected to each other and glow when a telepath uses them."
Peter groaned. "Give me a break, Skalany! That sounds more like something my father would say!"
The dark-haired woman smiled. "Well, we could ask him for his opinion, couldn't we?"
Peter sighed. "Anything beside that mumbo-jumbo mystic stuff?"
"Well, I didn't magically find a stamp, but Chang thinks that the rings were all handmade and they look Asian to him. He thinks he might be able to get a lead on the maker if we give him some time."
"You don't have that time," a voice broke into their conversation and a manila folder landed on Peter's desk. Chief of Detectives Frank Strenlich looked at them. "He was found today."
Peter took the folder, read over the data, then looked at Skalany. "He wore a silver ring with a red ruby," he informed her.
"Damn!" was all the female Detective answered.
"You two have something?" Strenlich wanted to know.
"Except for the fact that the victims seemed to have the same taste in jewelry ... no." Peter shrugged. "We're working on it."
"Then do some working, Detectives," the chief ordered and then walked back to his office.
Peter shot Skalany a look. "So? You want to interview the family or you want to take a look at the body."
She simply grimaced.

*

"Hey, Pete!" Nicky Elder, chief pathologist of the 101st precinct smiled at the dark-haired detective and shook his hand. "Nice of you to drop by, though I suspect you're coming because of the latest victim of that mysterious killer." The pathologist grinned. "But since you're here, let me ask you something: what do women prefer, red roses or something sweet?"
"Nicky," Peter started, but was immediately interrupted.
"I know, I know, it's quite old-fashioned, but women seem to love those little tokens, don't they."
"Nicky," Peter repeated, this time more forcefully. "The latest victim."
"Oh, yeah." The pathologist gave him a sign to follow him and walked over to the stretchers, where two bodies were lying. Both were covered by white blankets, only their feet sticking out. "I just finished him." Nicky elder took out a chart from a drawer. "Grant Keith, 67, widowed. Lived on a small pension and had an additional income as a radio man. He read children stories over radio."
"Cause of death?"
"Like all the victims: stabbed right through the heart with a very sharp and very smooth object."
"Knife?"
"Pete, you always ask me that and I always tell you that I can't say." The pathologist shrugged. "The wound doesn't look like a normal knife wound. It's triangular and I've never heard of a three-bladed knife. And there's the bruise at the neck again. Somebody struck her down, quite hard I've to add, and then killed her. The blow to the neck didn't damage any bones, just bruised the tissue."
"So the guy was a professional," Peter muttered.
"Looks like it."
Peter sighed. "Possessions?"
Nick got out a small box and shoved it over to Peter. The detective took it and found the ring he was searching for a few seconds later. It looked like all  the other three rings: silver, with a ruby inserted in it.
"I'll take this, Nicky. I need to run a check on it, okay?"
The pathologist nodded and gave Peter the appropriate paper to sign. Then the detective left the morgue. Maybe it wasn't really such a bad idea to go visit his father.

* * *

The dark-haired man with the bright blue eyes and the handsome features lifted the fragile Chinese cup and sipped at the greenish liquid. His eyes wandered over the room, noting every presence. There was no one conspicuous here, only normal day-to-day customers. The man's name was Lamont Cranston, owner of several companies all over the world, billionaire and a known playboy in New York. But this was only the outer shell; the man beneath the shell was someone completely else. And right now this other man was scanning for something; anything. Cranston didn't really know what he was searching for. Whoever was killing his agents, he left nearly no traces. And the traces he left were too faint to be of any use, except for one -- the murder weapon.
An old man entered the tea shop and walked over to the counter. Cranston followed him with his eyes, noting the strong aura around this inconspicuous, little man, who looked like he wasn't strong enough to lift a tea cup, but Cranston had learned early enough that appearances were never something to judge a person from. This man was more than just a frail old man. Much more.
The old man bought some tea leaves from the man behind the counter and exchanged some niceties with him -- in Chinese -- then left. As he passed Cranston's table he looked at him out of deep brown eyes. No muscle moved in the wrinkled face and the glasses obscured any expression Cranston might have caught in those eyes. Then the old man had passed him, exiting the tea house. Lamont Cranston stared after him, then returned to sipping his tea, but he was occupied by the aura of the old man.
Shaolin, his mind suddenly supplied the missing word. The old man had been a Shaolin ... and more. But whatever else he was, being a Shaolin was worse enough for Cranston. If this Shaolin had felt his aura in any way .... it would be very dangerous.
"Hey." Someone sat down on the chair opposite his.
He looked up, a little bit startled. "R.C.," he greeted the young woman and raised an eyebrow as he noticed the small cup of tea standing in front of her. "Tea?" he asked, putting just enough surprise in his voice. "You? Are you feeling okay?"
She scowled at him. "So what's cooking?" she asked instead of a sharp reply.
He shook his head. Not here; not now. This place was too open and too public to talk. R.C. understood and sipped at her tea, grimacing.
"Oh, yeach!" she muttered. "How can you stand to drink that stuff."
"Other people prefer sticky, sugary sodas with tons of calories in one sip," Cranston said with a fine smile.
"At least I don't feel like throwing up when looking at a soda," R.C. shot back with a good-humored smile. "That," she pointed at the greenish liquid, "looks like some seawater experiment gone very wrong -- and it tastes like it, too."
Lamont peered closely at the tea. "Oh, now that you say so ....."
She muttered something uncomplimentary under her breath and peered into his cup. It was empty. "Come on, let's leave before I really drink the whole cup of that tea," she said and rose from the chair.
He followed her example, leaving the payment for the two cups on the table. When they had gone down the street for about five minutes R.C. glanced at him.
"So?"
"So nobody knows anything about the killer," he answered.
She frowned. "Police?"
"Nothing we haven't read in the computer files." He shoved his hands down into his pockets. "They don't have a lead and word on the street is that the guy is a homicidal maniac. Nothing we didn't know," he added wryly.
"What about that knife he uses?"
A dark cloud seemed to cross his features. "Yes, the knife." He frowned. "The wounds are triangular, which points to a three-bladed knife." He hesitated briefly and she raised an eyebrow, prompting him to go on. "It looks like he's using a phurba."
"A what?"
"A ritual dagger; mostly used by magicians. Its blades form a triangle. A very deadly instrument."
"Daggers always are," she reminded him with a smile.
"This one's even more." He didn't add anything to that, but R.C. got the idea that there was more to that phurba than he wanted to tell her.
"So what do you want to do?"
"Our agents have been warned and are keeping a low profile -- as much as possible anyway. Most of them said they would leave the city for the next few days."
They steered toward a dark blue BMW standing on the curb. R.C. slipped into the driver's seat while Cranston took his usual place in the passenger seats in the back of the car. Then R.C. started the engine and drove the car away from the curb.
"You want to keep an eye on the remaining agents, right?" she guessed, knowing she was correct. He was much too worried about their safety to let the agents out of his sight.
"Yes," Cranston answered. "Only two more are still here tonight. All the others will have left town until the danger is over by the end of the day. I made sure they understood the danger they're in quite clearly."
"Sounds like we're gonna have a fun night."

* * *

Peter didn't bother to check if the door to his father's apartment was locked; he knew it wasn't. He simply knocked and then entered. "Pop?" he called as he walked inside the large room. A soft sound to his left made him turn. "Yikes, Pop!" he gasped. "One day you'll give me a heart attack!"
Kwai Chang Caine merely smiled slightly and gestured for Peter to follow him. They walked out onto the balcony, where Caine started to work on one of the small trees.
"Pop ..." Peter began, but stopped when he saw his father's slight scowl. "Dad," he corrected and grinned a bit. "Listen, I need your expertise help in something."
Caine raised an eyebrow. "Expertise ..... help?" he echoed.
The young detective held the silver ring out to his father. The Shaolin laid down the scissors he had used on the tree and took the jewelry. As he examined it, Peter saw a change in his father's eyes.
"Well?" he prodded.
"I have seen such a ... ring before," the older Caine answered slowly, still regarding the object with a puzzled expression. "But it has been a long time since then."

The City of New York was an overwhelming sight for an out-of-towner and Kwai Chang Caine felt as a such. He had just arrived in this gigantic city, following his Path to find the essence of his son, who had died three years ago. The Path had lead him here and he trusted the Way to guide him further. Wherever he had gone in the past, there had always been a reason for him to be in a certain place at a certain time. Now, close to eight in the evening, he was strolling through the streets of Chinatown, nodding toward the people smiling at him. Some recognized him, some merely smiled politely as he passed, and others simply ignored him
Suddenly he felt a shifting in the harmony around him. Something harmful and dark was passing through the fabrics of space all around him, leaving a painful trail of coldness. Caine decided to go look who was radiating such a dark aura. He walked down the street and then turned to enter an alley. The moment he stepped into the alley he heard a cry of pain, followed by a muffled sob. The weak light of the street lamps reflected off something, possibly a knife. Another cry echoed through the alley.
Caine made out three men standing and one man lying on the street. The three standing men were all dressed in black, their faces covered. Two were holding knives, the third had a gun, which he was now pointing at the man lying on the ground. The Shaolin stepped behind the first of the three attackers and touched his neck. The man gave a startled grunt and then collapsed. The other two whirled around, weapons ready. Caine stood like rooted to the spot, watching their every movement. When the first one struck, he deflected the attack, as he did the second and third to follow. He struck one of  the attackers squarely in the chest and the man fell down on the ground beside his already unconscious friend. The third attacker hesitated, unsure what to do, when suddenly a cold wave of blackness washed over Caine.
Someone emerged from the shadows around him. It was a man, dark-haired, with Asian features, dressed in a richly decorated garment. His nearly black eyes looked dispassionately at the Shaolin, then he lifted one hand. Caine was forcefully thrown back, his back connecting with the wall of one building. He caught himself from falling and stared at his attacker. This was the man he had felt; this was the disturbance of the harmonies.
"You have come to the wrong place, Shaolin," the Asian man said coldly. "Too bad." With that he lifted his hands.
And something else shifted in the darkness. The shadows uncurled and yet another figure stood in the alley, but this one wasn't like anything Caine had ever felt or seen. The figure was dressed completely in black, a cloak billowing around the slim, but strong looking body. A broad-rimmed hat hid the eyes and a blood-red scarf covered his mouth. As the stranger came out of the shadows, the Asian man gave a startled grunt and turned to face the new arrival.
"You!" he whispered and to Caine's eyes it sounded like he was afraid.
"I told you I would find you, Lo," the dark figure said, his voice deep and threatening.
Lo chuckled nervously, but nevertheless took a stance of attack. "You won't get me, Shadow. I told you so before! I'm a Master now!"
"A Master of your own Fate," The Shadow replied. "You can still turn away from your dark side. Surrender yourself to the police."
Lo laughed contemptuously. "The police?" he asked shrilly. "Don't be foolish. I have the powers of my ancestors at my disposal! I can rule the world!"
The Shadow looked sadly at the man. "You are a child playing with a dangerous toy, Lo. You never mastered those powers; they mastered you."
The Asian hissed in anger. "We will see!" With that he attacked.
To Caine it looked like the man was as fast as lightning, his hands a blur, but the dark clad stranger, The Shadow, deflected the blows with ease, never moving too much. Caine recognized some of the moves, some others were completely new to him. And as the fight continued he was quite well able to distinguish between the absolute blackness of Lo's power and the shadowy power of the stranger. It was as if he used both light and darkness in some kind of balance; as if he was both.
Suddenly Lo was thrown back against the building and crumbled down to the ground, panting and whimpering in pain.
"Give yourself up, Lo," The Shadow repeated.
Lo looked around. His henchmen had fled, as had the victim of their attack. Caine had seen them leave, but had not bothered to restrain them. It would serve no cause. The defeated Asian cursed in Chinese, spitting at The Shadow. Then he attacked one more time. The Shadow lashed out, caught Lo straight in the chest and when he fell to the ground this time, Lo stayed down.
The Shadow made one step forward and Caine saw how he swayed. Only now could the Shaolin see the knife wound in the man's shoulder. Blood glistened in the street light. He walked quickly over to the wounded man.
"You are hurt," he said softly.
Black eyes fixed on him and Caine felt the aura of the man flare in defense. The Shaolin met the dark gaze and suddenly the other man relaxed a bit.
"Shaolin," he said, a bit surprised. Caine bowed his head in acknowledgment..
Sirens could be heard in the distance and The Shadow looked slightly alarmed. He moved back toward the pools of darkness of the buildings. He swayed against a wall and Caine heard rapid breathing. This was more than just a flesh wound, he realized. A police car pulled up in front of the entrance of the alley and two officers got out.
"Come," Caine whispered.
He had been in New York for just a short while, but he found his way unerringly through the streets, all the while supporting The Shadow. The man was close to loosing consciousness.
"In here," the cloaked man whispered and pushed weakly toward what looked like a side entrance to a building.
Caine complied and found that the door was open. He dragged the man inside and closed the door after them. The Shadow sank to the ground, trembling with exhaustion and pain. His facial features were changing, as Caine saw. The hawk-like nose and the piercing black eyes disappeared, transforming the features into a smooth and youthful face. Blue eyes looked up at the Shaolin.
"You have been poisoned," Caine stated, recognizing the symptoms. "He used a fast reacting contact poison."
"I will be fine," the man said, his voice as changed as his appearance. "I just ... need some .... time." His speech sounded labored and Kwai Chang Caine heard the pain in the tone.
The priest knelt down beside the blue-eyed man and examined the shoulder wound. It wasn't very deep, but still bled copiously. As he touched the torn flesh he felt the poison coursing through his system. Caine took some dried leafs out of his bag and applied them to the wound. The Shadow hissed in pain and panted heavier. The scarf had fallen down around his neck, revealing the lower part of his face. His lips were a thin, white line.
"The pain will go in a few moments. You need rest, my friend." Caine gestured around the empty and semi-dark room. "Somewhere more ... relaxing."
A wry smile tucked at the corners of the man's mouth. "Give me a few more minutes and we can move somewhere safer."
Caine wasn't overly happy to hear that The Shadow intended to move so soon. The wound might be closing and healing, but the poison was still there and it would affect him further in the next few hours. The Shadow pulled what looked like a beeper of some kind out of his voluminous cloak and pushed a button. Caine noted the silver ring with the red ruby on his hand.
"This will alert one of my agents," the injured man explained, biting his lip as another wave of pain hit him. He moaned softly, clutching his shoulder.
"The leafs can only help the healing process, not neutralize the poison," Caine said softly, wishing he had something for relief of the pain.
"I ... know. And I'm ... grateful .. for that." The Shadow sank against the wall, closing his eyes.
Caine didn't know how much time had passed when the door to the room suddenly opened and a woman stepped in; no, Caine had to correct himself, it looked more like a girl, maybe 18 or 19. She was dressed casually in jeans and a baseball jacket, her dark-haired head covered by a matching baseball cap. She took in the situation in one look and walked quickly over to the injured man in the black cloak. Examining the wound she smothered a curse.
"Can you walk?" she asked briefly.
He nodded, but to Caine it looked like he wouldn't be able to make another two steps. The Shaolin took one arm, the woman another, and they both pulled him to his feet. The Shadow moaned softly, slumping; he was barely conscious.
The woman took the lead and they half carried, half pulled the unconscious man through the alley, which was now deserted. She led them to a dark car, which seemed to be a Buick or something, and opened the door. That was the moment Caine discovered the ring on her hand. It was an exact double of the one The Shadow was wearing.
The Shaolin stepped back when she closed the door behind The Shadow. She looked warily at him.
"Thank you for your help," she said carefully.
Caine only bowed. Then she got into the car and drove away.

"Okay, so you met some guy in a black costume wearing the same ring," Peter concluded. "The question is, is he responsible for the killings?"
Kwai Chang Caine shook his head. "No. The men and women killed were The Shadow's agents."
The detective frowned. "His agents," he repeated thoughtfully. "So somebody kills off all the guy's agents. Why? And who is the killer, Pop?"
The priest shrugged. "I do not know, my son. I only felt the death of the last victim. The killer ... stalked him ... watched him. He knows exactly what he wants."
"And that is ...?"
"The Shadow."

* * *

The Shadow stood motionlessly in the shadow of a building, merging with it so no one would be able to really see him. Their minds wouldn't even register his presence. He was watching a family through the partially open curtains of their window. Two people were sitting in front of the TV, a man and a woman. The man was about 50, the woman slightly younger. There was a talkshow on the program.
The Shadow wrapped his cloak tighter around his body as if he was cold; but he wasn't. He knew the couple very well; they were both his agents. James Keller had been an assistant director of a large freight company a few years ago, when The Shadow had saved his life and made him his agent. Now he was the manager of the Eastern Division of this company. His wife had found out about his 'second' job as The Shadow's agent one day and had offered to use her connections to the Worldwide News Net, where she had once worked, to help the mysterious Shadow. Reluctantly he had accepted. Now both were in danger of being killed by some maniac, who was out to get The Shadow. But the crimefighter had no intention to let anyone else get killed because of him. There had been too many deaths in the recent and long gone past because of someone's association with him; there would be no more!
Keller switched off the TV and he and his wife rose from the couch. He said something and she smiled, both of them getting ready for bed. It was after eleven p.m. and Keller had promised The Shadow to leave as early as possible tomorrow morning.
Suddenly there was a strange feeling coursing through him. It wasn't anything definite, something he could put into words. It was just a feeling .... a warning .... something was happening. And then he felt the strange presence; a presence that didn't fit into this city. Dark, foreboding, dangerous ..... the killer. All of a sudden he was hit by a wave of emotions, mainly fear and defiance and he was acutely aware of who the victim was this time. The dark clad man whirled around, leaving the Kellers to spend their evening without a watcher, and raced back to the BMW, which was parked several blocks away. This couldn't happen!

* * *

R.C. sat behind the wheel of the modified, specially designed BMW, drumming her fingers on the expensive leather wheel, and watched the people in the streets. The Shadow had left the car about half an hour ago, prowling the streets. She didn't know who those two still remaining agents were, nor did she know where they lived. She guessed that at least one of them had to be somewhere in Chinatown, since she had parked the car close to this part of the city, and when he had left the car, The Shadow had disappeared into the rough direction. R.C. watched an old woman cross the street and then hobble down the next alleyway. Some street kids were watching the woman, but then lost interest.
It was close to 11.30 p.m. now and though the night life of the city wasn't any different from New York, R.C. saw less people here than she would have expected. Maybe she was just parking in the wrong spot. Yawning, she tried to stretch a bit. Watching and waiting was always hard, and knowing that The Shadow was out to search for some guy who killed all of his agents wasn't exactly something to make her relax. Well, okay, he hadn't exactly said he would search for the killer; he was more likely to watch the last remaining agents, but that didn't change anything.
Suddenly she discovered something odd. She had been watching a young couple, both Asian, coming from a restaurant when her eyes caught a glimpse of some dark pool of blackness. At this time of the day, pools of blackness were nothing uncommon, but to her trained eye and mind this was more than just a shadow. Someone or something was generating this blackness; it was artificial. She had been around her boss long enough to know that it wasn't him. Not that she was able to see him when he was really hiding, but this didn't look and feel like him.
Carefully she exited the car. R.C. was curious by nature, something which had her brought in contact with Lamont Cranston over twelve years ago, but she wasn't foolish either. Checking her weapon she locked the car and then strolled down the street, roughly toward the unusual black spot. The closer she came, the stronger she felt that this wasn't The Shadow. She couldn't put that feeling into words and she also couldn't tell if there was really someone there, but all in all this was unnatural and ....dangerous.
The thought of her recklessness struck her and she stopped, apparently studying the lay-out in a window of a small Chinese shop. What the hell did she think she was doing? She wasn't The Shadow; she wasn't as trained as he was in combat. Of course, she had some experiences, but mostly how to fight her way out of a quarrel without getting her share of bruises, and she had learned a few dirty tricks for defense.
Okay, so what now? Before she could consider the option of just returning to the car and waiting for The Shadow, the darkness moved. And out of the darkness came a human figure, dressed in what looked like some kind of silk pajamas and with a yellow headband. Long hair flowed down his neck and his face was clearly Asian, though she couldn't tell from which country. R.C. moved back, hands raised in defense. She noticed briefly that the street was empty of people and she guessed that even if there had been someone there, he or she wouldn't have come to her help.
The figure in the silk pajamas didn't utter a sound, simply jumped at her with the speed of lightning. She dodged the attack, barely able to evade the strike. A sharp pain hit her shoulder and she gasped. Another blow made her stumble forward and the third attack left her lying on her back, staring right up at the attacker. Her body was radiating pain from the blows and she knew she'd pass out any moment. Concentrating, she tried to hold on to her consciousness; that was when she saw the glint of light on a reflective surface. Her attacker had pulled out a knife, now raising it above his head. For a second, R.C. could get a glimpse of the knife and saw the three blades, which merged into one, very sharp point.
Shit! Was all she could think of, and, Lamont will be really pissed off now. She wasn't afraid of her death; she was afraid of what The Shadow would do if she was killed now. He'd go ballistic; and that was a mild way to put it.
Then the knife descended.
"Police!" a voice suddenly shouted. "Hands up where I can see them!"
The attacker whirled around and R.C. felt herself breathe a sigh of relief. Thank God for little miracles. She turned her head and discovered a man, dressed in civil clothes, weapon in hand. Right now he was slowly coming toward them, his gun never wavering.
"Put down the knife," he ordered.
But the silk clad attacker had no intention to do that. He moved back into the shadows of the building and disappeared.
"Hold it!" the officer yelled, running after him, but R.C. knew he wouldn't find a thing. Which reminded her .... She had to disappear from here, too.
She tried to get to her feet and found she was swaying badly. Her head hurt abominably and stars kept exploding in front of her eyes. She leaned against the wall, covering her eyes. Oh, damn!
A hand touched her shoulder and she flinched. Then she looked up, right into the brown eyes of the police officer. He looked worried and slightly annoyed that he hadn't caught the attacker.
"Are you all right, Miss?" he asked.
She nodded. "Nothing a couple of aspirins won't cure," she replied, trying to get a hold of herself. She had to get back to the car and find The Shadow.
"Do you know who he was?"
"No. Thanks for the rescue, Mr.....?"
"Caine. Detective Peter Caine." He smiled at her and she found he had a really handsome smile.
"Looks like there's an exception to every rule, huh? Normally there isn't a police officer around when you need one."
His smile grew a bit warmer. "I'll get you to the precinct so you can file a report. And you should see a doctor."
She shook her head -- carefully -- and declined. "Thanks, but no. This was just some crazy guy and I really have to go. A friend is waiting for me."
"I don't know who that guy was, but he sure as hell wasn't simply attacking you. He was trying to kill you, Miss ...?" he looked quizzically at her.
"Christopher," she gave him her last name. "Listen, I'll drop by your precinct in the morning, Detective, but right now all I want to do is pick up my friend and get home -- in my bed."
Caine drew back reluctantly, nodding. Then he gave her his card. "There's my phone number on it. The precinct is the 101st. Come by tomorrow and we'll see if we can get a lead on that guy, okay?"
R.C. took the card; she had no intention to do so. "Okay." Then she straightened and walked back to the car, which was parked a bit further away than she had thought. The officer was watching her and when she had closed the door and started the car, he was walking slowly back down the street. R.C. drove the car around two or three corners, then parked it again. She slumped back in the driver's seat. Her head was pounding and everything hurt. She blindly reached for the glove compartment and got out some painkillers.
A hand closed around her wrist and she gave a startled yelp. "Don't do that!" she called, then closed her eyes in pain as the sound of her own voice made her head start to pound viciously.
The black gloved hand let go of her wrist and she fell back in her seat, her head threatening to burst.
"What happened?" The Shadow asked and there was true concern in his normally emotionless and cold voice.
"I had a run-in with some guy in pajamas," she muttered, massaging her temples. "I think we should pick up on that defense training again. Gawd, my head's gonna kill me."
"Move over. I'll drive." It wasn't a suggestion; it was an order.
R.C. moved over to the co-driver's seat, watching as Lamont Cranston slipped behind the wheel. He had removed the cloak, hat and scarf, wearing only the black pants and shirt. Nobody would give him another look. He started the car and drove expertly through the streets. R.C. tried to keep track of where they were going, but the headache was mutating into a full-blown migraine attack and she merely closed her eyes.

* * *

Peter stared after the BMW as it disappeared around a corner and frowned. He didn't know what had really happened, simply that a woman had been attacked by a crazy guy with a knife, and he had acted. He had expected her to break out in tears or hysterics, but she had been very calm for such a close call; and she had refused to make a report. He had met a lot of people since in his years with the force who had refused to make a statement or a report, but somehow he had the feeling that this was different.
And then it struck him.
The ring! The woman had worn a silver ring with a red ruby! Damn! Of course she wouldn't make a report! She was one of those Shadow agents his father had talked about!
Peter ran after the BMW, but when he had reached the corner it was gone. He cursed again. His one and only lead and she was gone.

*

Lamont Cranston watched as his agent -- and friend -- rested her head back against the pillows of the couch and sighed softly. R.C. had taken some pain killers while she had told him of the attack and about the man in silk. She had also described where exactly she had been hit. Lamont looked at the dark purplish bruise on her neck and knew she had been lucky. Headaches would have been the least she'd have to worry about if this strike had been any harder. The attacker hadn't planned to kill her with his blows, but with his knife, which she had seen only too clearly, as she had reported. The Shadow had been a second too late to intercept the killer and he hadn't dared to leave her alone to pursue him. Something had kept him back and again Lamont Cranston wondered if these emotions wouldn't mean his death one day. Maybe ....
He sat down beside her on the couch and regarded her with worried eyes. "How do you feel now?"
"Not any better, but also not any worse," she replied tiredly. "I don't think it can get any worse."
He touched the bruise and followed its ugly line down to her shoulder. She sighed in relief as he exerted a bit of his power to take the pain away. Cranston then rested his palm on the injured area and felt her relax. She trusted him enough to let him do what he was doing without questions, and that gave him a lot of comfort.
"Do you know who this guy is?" she suddenly asked, her eyes still closed.
He gently massaged her temples. "I have a suspicion."
Her eyes opened, locking into his with an intense gaze. "Well?"
"I suspect he is a Yellow Dragon."
She raised a quizzical eyebrow.
"A sect," he explained further. "Very secretive, very deadly ..... and very fanatic. They take offense in everything that appears more powerful than they think they are. I suspect they monitored my activity and now try to get me out in the open for a battle."
She batted away his hands. "They want a tournament?" she asked, incredulous.
"In a way."
R.C. struggled into a sitting position. "And that's why they kill the others? That's sick!"
Cranston settled back against the back of the couch as she pulled her legs up, and shrugged. "The one who does it is a loner, as are all of them. He's fixed on the idea of competing with me and it seems like this is the only way he can think of drawing me out."
"He still is a sicko."
"You said so of me when we met the first time," he reminded her with a smile.
"I still think you're not exactly normal, Cranston, but that guy's a maniac. He could have challenged you some other way."
"He could have," he agreed. "But he hasn't. Now I have to deal with it."
"*We* have, Cranston. Don't forget it; I'm in on that, too."
He gave her a stern look. "*You* will get a rest, R.C."
She stared back defiantly. "Not if you plan to go out tonight."
He sighed silently. R.C. was as stubborn as he could be and she also held such endless power that even when she was down, she was always a match for him in the verbal department. She wasn't likely to back down and if he did the same, they'd clash -- as always when there was a heated argument. He wondered if he could ever tame that defiant and stubborn streak or if they'd always have to fight to settle an argument.
"Word of honor, I won't," he replied. "The last two agents are safe for tonight and they'll leave tomorrow morning." Then you're the last one left I've to worry about, he added silently.
The dark-haired woman looked at him for a long time, then nodded carefully. "All right." She cast a glance toward her bedroom, decided it was too far a walk in her condition and settled back against the couch. "Don't stay up too long," she advised and then closed her eyes.
Lamont Cranston gave her a smile, which she didn't see, and then rose from his position, walking over to the door, which connected his room with the living room. When he had closed it after himself he walked over to the window overlooking the city. A Yellow Dragon and a challenge. He should have known. And he also should have known that R.C. was a target just like the agents living here. She was a part of his organization, too, a part closer to him than any other agents. He only hoped that the Yellow Dragon didn't know that.
Leaning against the cool surface of the window he contemplated what to do next. He had told R.C. the truth that he wouldn't go out tonight. There was no reason to do that. He had to find the Yellow Dragon -- fast. His agents were now out of town, he was here, and the time when they would meet for their confrontation was getting closer. But before he confronted the Dragon, he wanted to know what was really behind this challenge. He had told R.C. only half the truth about these warriors. They never evaded a battle of skills, but they also never challenged without a very good reason; so, what was this one's reason? Cranston couldn't remember ever quarreling with a Yellow Dragon; at least not as long as he had been The Shadow now. And before that .... no, not really.
Lamont sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He'd go to Chinatown tomorrow, searching for the one man he knew was here. Kwai Chang Caine had settled down in this city, and if there was a Yellow Dragon in this immediate area, the Shaolin might know. No, he would definitely know, he decided. And Caine was the only one who might be able to protect R.C. when it came down to a fight.

* * *

Peter paced up and down in his father's room. The Shaolin watched him with patient eyes and waited for his son to calm down.
"It was practically right under my nose, Pop!" the young man said, enraged. "That woman was an agent of The Shadow and she was attacked by this serial killer maniac! I had him, Pop!"
"You could not have .... held him, my son," the priest said calmly. "He would have killed you, too, if you had tried anything but what you .... did."
Peter had arrived a few minutes ago, his angry aura preceding his entry. It was just after ten in the morning and Caine had been prepared to go visit some friends in the community, but when he had felt Peter's anger, he had taken off his coat again and had waited.
"But he will kill again!" the young detective said.
"The Shadow .... has removed all his agents from the city, Peter. There won't be any more murders."
Peter shoved back some hair. "How do you know?" he asked.
"I simply .... know," Caine answered.
"Of course," Peter snorted. He resumed his pacing. "I had a witness and I had the murderer!"
"You will meet her again," his father said.
"What?"
"They will come here."
Peter sighed. "I don't want to ask, but ... how do you know that?"
The priest simply shrugged.
"Okay, so he will come here. When? How? Why?"
"I do not know." Suddenly Caine listened as if he heard something. Peter, knowing his father, merely looked quizzically at him.
Someone knocked, then the door opened. Peter turned to see who entered and was greeted by the sight of a man in dark winter coat. Since the weather had abruptly turned really cold this morning, that was nothing unusual. What was unusual was the man. Peter couldn't put his fingers on it, but something was wrong here. The man appeared to be in his early or mid thirties, with black hair and clear blue eyes. The coat was expensive, Peter noted, as were the shoes and the pants. All in all the man made the first impression of some rich industrialist or maybe even a playboy.
The man's eyes took in the room, scrutinizing Peter as if he was a lab specimen, and then coming to rest on Kwai Chang Caine.
"Shaolin," he said and it sounded like an honorary greeting. He bowed slightly.
Caine returned the bow, his hands clasped in front of him. "I was .... expecting you," he said softly.
The man nodded. "I need to talk to you." He looked at Peter again.
"This," Caine said and indicated slightly, "is my son." The man raised one black eyebrow in surprise and Caine smiled slightly in return. "Peter, this is ..." Caine cocked his head, "Lamont Cranston?" Peter noted the questioning tone when he said the name.
The man nodded again.
"Mr. Cranston and I met when I was searching for you, my son, when my Path led me to New York," Caine explained
Peter eyed the man again, still wondering what made him itchy about the guy. And then he saw the ring; silver with a red ruby. His eyes widened and rose to meet those of Cranston.
"Pop," he began.
But Caine raised one hand and he stopped. "You have come because of the .... murders," the Shaolin said.
Cranston nodded. "It is a challenge; from a Yellow Dragon."
Peter saw by his father's reaction that whoever this Yellow Dragon was, he wasn't one of the normal homicidal maniacs.
"What's a Yellow Dragon, Pop?" he asked.
"Yellow Dragons are ..... warriors not unlike the Shadow Assassins," his father explained carefully. "But they can't be hired to kill. Their aim is to rise to superior .... strength by absorbing their opponent's .... Chi."
"Absorbing?"
"They kill their opponent in the belief that the death liberates the Chi and that they can devour it then," Cranston explained with disgust. "They don't kill for pleasure, but for power. And they pick their victims."
"Then why's this Yellow Dragon killing innocent people?" Peter wanted to know.
"Because they are associated to someone he is ...... challenging," Caine explained.
"Me," Cranston added.
Then it hit Peter. "You are ....?" he began, then stopped.
Cranston smiled a bit, but didn't say anything to confirm Peter's suspicion. He turned to the priest. "Have you heard about a Yellow Dragon here in Chinatown?"
Caine shook his head. "No. There have been unusual activities in the harmonies around us, but there is no disturbance great enough to show the appearance of a Yellow Dragon." He shrugged.
"Well, he is here. The Yellow Dragon attacked one of the last agents still in this city last night and I think I have to thank your son that she is still alive," Cranston said, nodding toward Peter. "I know that she won't leave voluntarily and I can't force her to. I want to ask you to keep her here; to keep her safe."
Caine raised an eyebrow. "You will ..... accept the challenge?"
"I have to. The Yellow Dragon will keep on killing if I don't. That my agents have left the city doesn't mean anything. He might move on, to another city and resume his 'task'; he also might stay here and keep on killing, even if those he kills are only innocent bystanders and not the least bit connected to me." The man hesitated. "I know I'm still in your debt and it's a lot to ask, but will you do me this favor?"
The Shaolin bowed his head. "There is no debt," he said softly. "And I will be honored by her presence."
"But I won't!" a female voice suddenly said and Peter saw how Cranston rolled his eyes.
A woman stepped into the room; it was the woman he had met last night. Only now had Peter the opportunity to get a better look at her; it had been pretty dark in the alley. She appeared to be in her mid-twenties, with long, dark hair, which she had bound into a loose pony tail. She had a slim figure and eyes that looked a hint too large in her face. Though she couldn't be described as stunningly beautiful, there was a certain attraction to her. She was wearing a long winter coat, too, and a scarf was wrapped around her neck. Right now the woman appeared to be more than just a little bit angry as she stormed into the apartment of his father. She was furious.
"If you think you can get rid of me just like that, Cranston, then you're dead wrong!"
Cranston turned. "I won't risk your life by letting you run around as an open target, R.C." he said quietly.
"I think I can take care of myself, don't you think?" Her hands rested on her hips and there was a dangerous glint in her green eyes.
"Not against a Yellow Dragon. He was close to killing you last night; next time he might succeed." Cranston shook his head. "You won't accompany me tonight."
She crossed her arms in front of her chest, a dark shadow crossing her features, but she didn't reply. Cranston turned back to Caine.
"Don't interfere, Shaolin; this is my fight," he simply said.
Caine bowed his head, acknowledging it, then Cranston turned to go. As he passed the woman he muttered, "For once, behave."
Her brows gathered into a steep line and Peter was sure she'd have belted him right there if he hadn't moved on. When the door had closed after him, she turned to look at the two Caines.
"Hi," Peter said and smiled. "Looks like we meet again, Ms Christopher."
"I could have gone without that," she snorted and leaned back against the wall. "If he thinks he can get away with that ..." she muttered angrily.
"He is trying to ..... protect you," Caine said calmly.
"Protect me? *He's* the one who needs protection right now! That Yellow guy is out to get him! I learned to protect myself when I was able to walk!"
Caine cocked his head. "I agree, but right now we should ..... do what he wants. It is his challenge and his fight. I honor this."
"And you didn't look too good last night," Peter added, reminding her of her near-death experience.
"He surprised me," the woman snapped.
"He nearly killed you," Peter replied. "You need some protection since you are the only witness we have right now."
R.C. sighed and pushed away from the wall. "For now," she said reluctantly. She looked at Peter. "You're his son?" she suddenly asked.
Peter nodded.
She shrugged and walked over to the balcony. When she had stepped outside, Peter turned to his father. "Gee, how do you want to keep her here, Pop? The way she looked when he told her to stay here I think she's gonna jump off the balcony."
"She is .... worried and .... stubborn." The priest shrugged. "As is he." A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.
Peter looked through the open door onto the balcony and tried to spot R.C., but she seemed to be somewhere between the plants.
"What will you do now?"
"I will protect her."
"And what if I don't want to be protected?" R.C. asked and reappeared in the room. She was visibly calmed down and her voice was more quiet. "Cranston's in danger, Caine. *He* needs help. He thinks he can take on that guy, but this wouldn't be the first time he's wrong. He needs someone to set his head right; he's not all powerful. You know it," she added softly.
"I do," the priest said evenly.
"So I'm gonna walk out of here and you won't be able to stop me." She went over to the door.
Peter decided it was time to take control here. "Wait up!" he called and shot his father a quick look. Caine only nodded and the younger man hurried after R.C.
Peter caught up with her when she stepped out onto the streets. "What do you plan to do now?" he asked.
"Find Cranston."
He pushed his hands into the pockets of his jeans. "How?" he simply wanted to know.
She stopped, frowning. "Good question." She looked around, then sighed. "Okay, Caine, you're the police man here. Got an idea?"
He stared at her, incredulous. "Me? He's your friend!"
"True." She scratched her head. "If we find that Yellow Dragon guy, we find Cranston. I don't think your father would be of any help, would he?"
He shook his head. "He thinks that this is a fight between Cranston and the Yellow Dragon. We have to revert back to gold old police work. We ask our way around."
She smiled at him. "Then what are we waiting for?"
Peter grinned. "By the way, call me Peter."
"R.C." she said.
"Does that have a deeper meaning?"
"Nope. It simply means that I don't like to be called Reeva."
He raised an eyebrow as they arrived at the car. "It's a beautiful name."
She snorted. "Yeah, right. Reeva. Sounds like a cheap soft drink." She sat down on the passenger seat. "Nice car. Where'd you steal it, Detective?"
Peter only grimaced and started the engine.

* * *

Kwai Chang Caine watched his son leave with The Shadow's agent. He had recognized her as the young woman who had been there when The Shadow had been poisoned by Lo, and he was sure that she had recognized him, too, though she had not shown it.
"You will let him fight this battle?" a frail voice asked.
Caine turned and the Ancient stepped out of the adjoining room. He had his hands hidden in his large sleeves and looked quizzically at the younger Shaolin.
"It is his battle. He would not .... want me to fight it for him," Caine said carefully.
"He is old; very old. But he is no master, though he has ... mastered a lot of powers. His dark side is keeping him from truly finding the way of the Shambala Masters."
"You know him?" Caine asked, a bit surprised.
"The Shadow is known among the Shambala. He is the first and the last of the .... Dark ... Shambala to still walk this earth; and he was the only one ever to rise to the level of the ... Light while still using the darkness inside of him." The Ancient smiled. "I felt his coming. His aura proceeded him."
"If you have felt his power then you know why I can't help him."
The older Shaolin shook his head. "You can help him; help him find the Yellow Dragon before the Dragon finds him. This isn't just a physical fight, Kwai Chang Caine, it's a ... psychological battle as well; one that started with the murders of his agents. The Yellow Dragon first attacked his psyche, now he will kill his physical shell." The Ancient cocked his head.
Caine submitted to his words. "I .... understand.  Where will I find him?"
The Ancient smiled enigmatically. "You will find a way." Then he left the other Shaolin alone.

* * *

Peter drove to the precinct, R.C. in tow. He had to talk to Skalany to tell her about the latest incidents -- as much as he could really tell her -- and then he wanted to visit Kermit. R.C. had told him enough to suspect that she could give them a good enough description for the computer to piece together a phantom picture.
"Yo, Peter!" Skalany greeted him. "Dispatch told me you were in early this morning and then left again. Where've you been?"
"I picked up a potential witness." He indicated at R.C., who had agreed to submit to the status of mere witness. She shouldn't be associated with The Shadow right from the beginning.
"You saw the killer?" the female detective asked.
"In a way, yes. It was pretty dark," R.C. said evasively.
"I'll turn her over to Kermit and his computer. Maybe the two of them can put together a picture." Peter indicated R.C. to follow him. "Be back in a minute," he called to Skalany.
Kermit's office was partially open and Peter knocked slightly at the milky window saying 'Detective Griffin'.
"Come in, come in, the party's still going like crazy," a jovial voice called.
Peter smiled and stepped into the cubicle. R.C. followed. As always, the computer was running and right now the printer was busy as well. Kermit Griffin, ex-mercenary and now-hacker for the police precinct was torturing the keyboard a few more seconds, then turned.
"Hey, Pete," he greeted his friend. Then he peered over the rims of his green glasses. "Who's your lady-friend?"
"Ms Reeva Christopher, this is Kermit, our computer expert," he introduced her.
"Miss." Kermit gave a little nod.
"R.C," she corrected and threw Peter a dirty look.
"R.C," he acknowledged. "What can I do for you, Detective?"
"R.C. is a potential witness who's seen our mysterious serial killer. I'd like you to work on a picture." Peter raised an eyebrow. "If you can spare the time."
Kermit grinned and made an inviting gesture. "No problem. Ms R.C. and my little self will work real close together."
R.C. smiled. "I bet we will," she said and flopped down on the second chair without waiting for another invitation.
Kermit rubbed his hands together and then let his fingers hover over the keyboard like a piano player ready to perform. "Okay, Ms R.C, give me a first."
Peter closed the door after he had left the office and then walked over to Skalany. R.C. was taken care of for now; all he had to do was to satisfy his partner's need for information about the case.

*

Lamont Cranston sat in a mediation pose, his mind open, his body relaxed. He stretched his senses, trying to find the attacker and also broadcasting his own presence in  the city. There was no time to play hide and seek. This had to stop here and now; tonight. Like a flash out of nowhere, the response hit him and he gasped, his eyes flying open. The Dragon had received the invitation.

*

"Not bad," Peter said. "Not bad at all. And you're sure you saw him only briefly?"
R.C. shrugged. "Kinda. You don't see much when you're only half-conscious and it's dark."
Peter looked at the computer drawn picture again. It looked more like a photo, than just a few computer drawn lines. And it was more than he had expected from someone, who said she had had only a brief look at her assassin.
"And I had help," R.C. added, pointing at Kermit.
"Magic fingers," the detective replied with a grin and flexed said digits. "But your lady-friend here had a pretty good memory."
"Anything on who that guy might be?"
"It's still running, Pete, but the picture should be through the program in a few more minutes." Kermit checked the computer's status.
"Have you ever heard about a sect called Yellow Dragons?" Peter asked while they were waiting.
Kermit shook his head. "Not that I can say; why? Are they responsible for the murders?"
"One of them at least. My Dad's mentioned them and a friend of R.C. is trying to find one." Peter shrugged, uncomfortable with the fact that someone else was on the hot trail.
Kermit frowned. "I could run the name through the system and see what I come up with...." he started when there was suddenly a small beeping sound coming from the computer. "Aha! Got one!" he triumphed and changed the program. A new menu lit up the screen and Peter saw the picture he was holding in his hand. Beside the picture was a whole bunch of information. "That's your guy."
Peter read over the information. "Harry Kai Xing."
"Wanted in New York, Chicago and Boston for harassment, murder in two cases, and robbery." Kermit raised an eyebrow. "For a possible warriors sect member he's pretty down below surface," he said. "Robbery? Harassment?"
"Well, Tan wasn't holding back in that department either," Peter reminded him. "Only because they think they're warriors of some higher order doesn't keep them from robbing stores. Can you print that?"
"Of course."
The printer came to life and a sheet of paper appeared seconds later in the output tray. Peter took it.
"Nothing in here to tell where he might be or if he really is that Yellow Dragon," he muttered. "We only have an address from three years ago." He sighed. "Not much, huh?"
"Better than nothing," Kermit said philosophically. "I'll work on getting something for you on those Yellow Dragons. I'll page you when I've got something."
Peter nodded. "Thanks."
R.C. looked around. "You got a coffee machine around here somewhere? I could use one right now." Peter gave her directions to the coffee machine and she left him and Kermit.
"Kermit, I need another favor," the detective said when she was out of ear-shot.
"Shoot."
"Check some guy called Lamont Cranston for me; and someone who calls himself The Shadow."
Kermit's eyebrows rose a bit over the rims of the glasses. "The Shadow?"
"Yeah. Ever heard of him?"
"I sure have." The ex-mercenary frowned. "I just never thought he'd still be in the business."
Peter gave him a prompting look. "Well?"
"I heard about The Shadow when I was still a freshman and had some business in New York. My senior partner told me about him. Crimefighter of the supernatural kind, as he always said; uses ancient magic and stuff, he told me. I never believed the stuff until I saw the guy. Pretty awe-inspiring. All dressed in black. He took out some gangs in no time and the ones he didn't catch ran screaming and terrified from the city." Kermit looked at his younger friend. "Why are you interested in him? He isn't a local; his home turf is New York."
Peter shrugged. "Looks like he came here -- because someone if killing off his agents."
That made Kermit sit up straight. "What?"
"Yeah, that's what my Dad said. Now this Lamont Cranston character showed up and as far as I can tell from how my Dad behaved and from what R.C. let slip, he's The Shadow." Peter scratched his nose. "I need some more info on that guy, Kermit. Can you do it?"
"Sure." The hacker looked thoughtful. "Be careful, Pete. The Shadow is no one to take lightly. If this man is the one I think he is, he's pretty dangerous."
"He can't be the same man, Kermit. Lamont Cranston doesn't look a day older than maybe 35," Peter objected.
The older detective merely shrugged and turned back to the computer. "I'll keep you informed," was all he said.
"Okay." Peter left the office and closed the door after him; then he looked for R.C. After he couldn't spot her anywhere in the squad room he walked over to Skalany, who was working at her computer.
"Hey, Skalany, have you seen the woman I've arrived with?"
The dark-haired detective looked up from her work. "I saw her leave Kermit's office, that's all. Why?"
Peter cursed, a suspicion rising inside of him. "Nothing," he said and left the room. If he got hold of that woman he'd .... he didn't know what he'd do with R.C. but she sure as hell wouldn't dump him again!

* * *

Kwai Chang Caine sat in a lotus position, meditating. All his senses were strained for even a glimpse of the Yellow Dragon. That was when he felt the presence of the warrior. He was close, but he wasn't aware of Caine; he was simply waiting, watching for The Shadow. Caine homed in on the aura and took a closer look.
The Yellow Dragon warrior was young; very young. And he was also ambitious. The ambition radiated off him like a beacon. He wanted to rise in power and prestige and that gave him away.
He was here in Chinatown.
Caine dove toward the Yellow Dragon's presence and found himself in one of those outer parts of Chinatown which was mostly abandoned. There were several buildings around him, which had been empty for years and were marked for demolition -- some time in the future. Here the presence was the strongest. Caine moved through the dark buildings, his vision slightly blurred at the edges, but still clear enough to make out the sole person sitting in the middle of one of the many rooms. The man was wearing black silk and a yellow belt and headband. His eyes were closed and his position told Caine that he was mediating. Weapons lay around him in a ritual setting.
The Shaolin pulled back before the Yellow Dragon would be able to sense him. Now he knew where The Shadow was heading; he just had to follow.

* * *

Peter had driven right to Chinatown, the most likely place to find R.C. and maybe Harry Xing. She knew his last address and she knew he had to be somewhere here if he had arrived in the city. All Peter had to do now was find R.C. before she found Xing and did something foolish. Well, he mused, she'd sure as hell do something foolish. He guessed that she was prone to get into trouble; and it was his task to find her before she did.
About two hours after he had arrived and asked his way around, he come upon someone who had seen her. She had asked a lot of people for Harry Xing. Peter thanked the old woman for her help and walked over to the small cafe where she had told him R.C. had gone to only a few minutes ago. As he entered, he discovered her sitting alone at a table, drinking something, a half eaten sandwich in front of her. Peter walked over and sat down in the other chair.
R.C. looked up from her studies of the sandwich, her eyes widening in surprise.
"Detective .... how'd you find me?"
"A lone woman asking in Chinatown for a known criminal isn't hard to follow," he said and scowled at her. "I should cuff you right here and now and take you into custody. What the hell were you thinking?"
She looked him straight in the eyes, her green gaze unnerving him a bit. "I was trying to find my friend!" she told him forcefully, but keeping her voice down.
"And I told you we'd do that together. You won't get far on your own."
"Oh, and you think both of us get any further?" she asked, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
He scowled even more. "I know some people in Chinatown, you're just a stranger."
"Yeah, but you're a cop."
"And my father's a Shaolin and he's well-known in the community," he countered. "There are people who can help us."
She snorted and returned to stare at her sandwich. Peter decided it was a good time to get something to eat as well and ordered a coffee and a sandwich. The waitress brought it to him a minute later and he paid right away.
"I don't believe it that no one has seen that guy," she muttered and played with the spoon. "He can't be hiding that well."
"Maybe you asked the wrong people."
"Yeah, maybe, but it would be easier if your Dad wasn't so close-mouthed about the whole thing. He knows something, I'm sure of that. It's just that honor crap that keeps him from telling."
Peter nodded, understanding her frustration With his father's refusal to tell them anything, he had to revert back to the long and hard way. "Yeah, but we'll find the guy."
"It'll take more than the rest of the day to question everyone in Chinatown, Detective; and even then we can't be sure that anyone knows anything about that Xing character. He might not be here." She removed her scarf and hung it over the back of her seat.
Peter discovered the ugly, purplish bruise that peeked out from under her sweat shirt. "What happened?" he asked and pointed at the bruise.
"I didn't duck fast enough. It's from last night."
Peter looked at her in surprise. The guy must have hit her harder than he had first thought; she'd looked all right when she had left him. "Oh."
"It's okay. The headaches gone and the bruising doesn't count. It just reminds me that I should have listened to Cranston when he said we should continue those defense tactics." She gave Peter a wry smile. "I never thought I could use those lessons. I'm not into the whole kung fu stuff and he's not a very good teacher when it comes to the patience stuff."
"What's your relationship with him?" Peter asked curiously, knowing he was terrible straight-forward, but he needed that answer. "Are you two ... I mean .... engaged?"
R.C.'s eyes widened and then she sputtered into laughter. "Engaged? God beware! He's my employer, that's all. If he were anything else, I'd constantly whack him over the head with a baseball bat."
Peter smiled, but he was sure that though they weren't physically close, she cared a great deal about Lamont Cranston.
"And I'd constantly get fits," she added after sipping her coffee. "He's too selfish, too self-assured and too moody. He thinks he can watch out for himself, but there are times when he's too caught up in his own misery and self-doubt that someone else can take advantage of that." She looked forlornly at the table. "You'd think someone his age would finally get his act together, but he's too convinced that he'll never get rid of his own inner darkness, as he calls it, that he doesn't listen to anything else -- or anyone."
"So he has you around to get him back to reality?" Peter asked, somehow understanding what she said.
"Yeah, I guess so. I'm also his driver, pilot and part-time secretary, though he doesn't pay me enough to do that." Another wry grin. "You could call me a handyman ... or a sidekick."
That made Peter grin broadly. "How long have you been working for him now?"
"Since I was sixteen and stumbled over him -- literally. He saved my life when I got caught in a drug situation. It was an accident that I was there, since the warehouse was one of my favorite places when I wanted to be alone." She saw his questioning gaze and shrugged. "I ran away from home when I was fourteen, lived on the street, had my share of criminal activity and had only a few weeks before that evaded becoming a hooker. There was a deal going on in the warehouse, he was trying to stop the guys and I was right in the middle. I came out of it all with the scare of my life, he left with a few scratches. I fled from him -- I can tell you he's pretty scary when he's The Shadow." R.C. bit into the sandwich and chewed. "Well, he found me anyway and gave me a chance: let him take over my education and training, or die on the streets. I took the first option, and here I am. Looks like I made the better bargain, though I sometimes wonder if it's really worth it. He can be a real jerk." When she saw Peter's expression she added, "Twelve years."
The detective raised an eyebrow. "Quite a career," he commented.
She shrugged. "Yeah. But this work's not only fun and games; you're prone to get either stomach ulcers or nervous break-downs when he's in those moods. He needs someone to set his head right now and then."
"And that's you."
"Right now, yes. We clash quite often, have arguments and fights and stuff, but we mostly get things settled quite quickly. That's  why we need to find him. The death of his agents made him psychologically vulnerable, Detective. He'll make mistakes which might cost him his live. I won't let that happen." A determined line appeared around here lips.
Peter nodded, understanding what that meant. The Shadow Assassins had once killed people close to him, had even attacked his foster father, just to get to him and his father. It was straining and nerve-bending and it got to you. He emptied his cup.
"One last question," he said. "The ring." He pointed at the delicate silver ring.
"Courtesy of The Shadow," she said with a smile. "He gave it to me when I said yes." The smile spread. "No, not what you think!"
"I didn't!" Peter protested. "It's just that my father said it is a sign that the wearer is the agent of The Shadow and my partner found out that the stone is called a Tibetan telepathy stone. I just wanted to know what's it with this ring."
"Well, first of all you recognize an agent because of it, but it also allows him to contact us." She hesitated. "It's like ... a feeling you get. Hard to describe. You wouldn't believe in it anyway, right?"
Peter thought about his hunches and the feelings sometimes, the sense of his father's presence near-by, and he remembered the time when his father had transferred his Chi in his son's body. "Well, I don't believe in telepathy -- telepathy like in 'reading thoughts' -- but I think that empathy is possible; as are other things."
"Uuhhh," she made. "Pretty deep for a cop."
He grinned. "I'm a pretty deep guy," he said and gave her a charming smile. "There are things people can do which others would never even begin to understand. Looks like your boss falls into this category."
"Yeah, kinda. His abilities are sort of supernatural, especially when he's The Shadow. Spooky."
Peter nodded, again thinking of his father. "Come on, let's hit the streets," he said and rose from the chair.
"You got an idea where we can find the Yellow Dragon?"
Peter shook his head. "No. But my Dad has and I intend to make him tell. I'm fed up with this honor stuff! There's a life in danger and I just won't sit by and wait!"
R.C. grinned. "Now you're talking!"
They left the cafe. Outside, the wind had died down a bit, but it grown darker.
"Hey, Pete!" a voice suddenly called and Peter turned, a surprised smile on his lips.
"Donny Double D!" he exclaimed.
The small man with the dark hair and the nervous looks grabbed Peter's arm and pulled him over to where the blue metallic Stealth was parked. R.C. followed warily.
"I heard you're looking for Harry Xing."
Peter raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, that's right. How ...?"
"I've ears everywhere." The contact looked nervously around and his eyes stopped at R.C. "Is she okay?"
"Yes, she's okay. Now what do you have?" Peter wanted to know.
"Word is that Xing is back in Chinatown. He's up to something and I heard that he's probably responsible for the murders."
"Then why're you telling me that now?" Peter asked incredulously.
Donny shrugged. "Was safer that way."
R.C.'s temper boiled when she heard that. "It cost lives!" she accused and made steps toward the contact. "Those murders might have been prevented!"
"Hey!" Donny protested and went for cover behind Peter's back.
"R.C.," the young detective warned and held up a hand. She stopped, but not without glaring at Donny first. "Where is Xing now?" Peter asked.
"They say he's hiding in the condemned blocks. You know, the buildings which should have been demolished last year?" Donny glanced nervously at R.C.
Peter nodded. "I know. Thanks." He turned to R.C. "Let's go."
R.C. kept on glaring at the hapless Donny until Peter pulled away from the curb. "Can you believe that!" she then hissed. "A lot of lives could have been saved if he had just told you what he knew!"
"I know what you feel, R.C. I feel the same, but we can't change it," Peter tried to calm her.
She crossed her arms in front of her chest, still boiling inside. Peter sighed.
"I'll just give the precinct a call, okay? And don't run off without me again, understood?"
"Yes, Sir, Mr. Detective-Sir," she snapped readily and closed the door after her.
Peter sighed again and walked over to the next phone booth. He could have called from the car, but he didn't want R.C. to listen to his conversation with Kermit. Keeping an eye on his car -- and his passenger -- he dialed and told the dispatcher to get Kermit on the line.
"What can I do for you, kid?" Kermit's voice came over the line.
"Anything on Cranston?" Peter asked.
"Well, he's one hell of a rich guy; that's the first thing I found out. Lamont Cranston -- the third, Pete. Billionaire. Big shot in New York, owns several companies nationwide and his connections go world-wide," Kermit told him. "Does some social stuff like all the rich guys, but that's all I found. Looks like most of his money came from inheritance, like all the companies, and that he expanded his empire."
"Hm," Peter made. It wasn't much. "Anything on my companion?"
"Ms R.C.? Well," Kermit said slowly, "her name's not in the system and when I ran her picture through it came up empty. Never got arrested, never had a parking ticket. She's a no-name, Pete. Sorry." He chuckled. "But she's a good-looker."
Nothing on the files? Peter thought. R.C. had confessed to a criminal past, then why was there nothing in the police Internet? Maybe she had changed her name ...... But then again, she had told him that she didn't like 'Reeva'. Why get a new name you didn't like?
"Thanks, Kermit," he said, a bit thoughtful.
"Anytime, kid."
Peter hung up and got back to the car. R.C. was really still there and waiting. When he got into the car she gave him an expectant look.
"Nothing new," he said and steered the car down the streets to where Donny thought the Yellow Dragon had his lair.
She only nodded.

* * *

The Shadow entered the condemned building and looked around. He moved like his proverbial name, becoming one with the night. Only the shadow he cast was visible and since it was a cloudy night, not even that part of him could be distinguished from those shadows cast by the buildings. He felt the presence of the Yellow Dragon and he knew that his opponent was waiting for him. He wouldn't disappoint him. Moving further into the building he entered a large, hall like room.
"Welcome," a slightly accented voice echoed through the dark hall.
The Shadow stopped, merging even further with the darkness around him. His eyes penetrated the night and he made out the silk clad figure of the Yellow Dragon. His yellow sash and headband were the only colorful spots, just like the red scarf was the only not black spot with The Shadow.
"I expected you, Shadow," the Yellow Dragon went on, walking into the middle of the hall.
"You killed four people," The Shadow said coldly.
The Yellow Dragon laughed. "Oh, yes, I nearly forgot. I stopped counting."
The Shadow felt his temper rising. He knew the kind of man the Yellow Dragon was because he had been like him long ago. Then he had been Ying Ko, another man. He stared at the other man, who was younger than himself, but that wasn't hard. Everyone was younger than him. But this man was even younger than he had been when he had gone to Tibet to take over the opium empire.
"Are you ready for this, old man?" the Yellow Dragon taunted him. "I know who you are, Ying Ko, the butcher of Lhasa, the despoiler of Barga, The Shadow ..... a lot of people fear you." He chuckled. "I don't."
"But you should," The Shadow growled and whipped out his nickel-plated automatics, aiming at his opponent.
The other man laughed even louder. "You want to scare me with that, Shadow? Guns? You insult me!"
The dark-cloaked man leveled the guns at the Yellow Dragon and simply pulled the trigger -- but the Dragon was gone. He made some lightning quick flick-flacks backward and landed a few feet behind his former place. He grinned broadly and opened his arms wide.
"Missed!" he chuckled and then he disappeared into the shadows.
The Shadow kept his guns ready and turned, looking for his opponent. The Yellow Dragon struck with a speed that astounded The Shadow. He was barely able to evade the blow and lost one gun in the process of dodging the blows. Then he began to fight back.
The battle had begun.

* * *

Peter stopped the car in front of one of the condemned buildings and looked through the windshield. Everything was very quiet and lonely out here. The few street bums who passed by throughout the day were either in their shelters or had left for the night. It was never safe here. Last year, just before the demolition should have been, a rapist had killed three young women here and had buried them in the buildings. It had been one of Peter's cases, which he had solved together with his part-time partner Jodie Powell. Now the buildings were still standing today and there was no saying when they'd finally go.
"Well," he said. "Here we are. The only problem is, where's your friend?"
R.C. got out of the car and looked around. She pulled her coat tightly around her slight figure since it had grown even colder. Peter got out, too and walked over to her.
"I can't feel him, if that's what you wanted to suggest," she said. "He's the one who always gets feelings and hunches." She smiled wryly. "He doesn't even wear a beeper. Can't tell you how often I tried to convince him to carry one along."
"Sounds like me and my Dad," Peter muttered, which drew another smile from her. "So," he continued louder. "Where do we start?"
She let her eyes swivel over the assortment of run-down and broken-down buildings. Before she could say anything, two shots rang through the night. Peter pulled out his weapon with trained professionalism and ducked slightly behind the car. R.C., her eyes wide, stood where she was.
"That's him!" she said.
"How'd you know?"
"It's not the first time I hear those guns, Detective." She looked around, trying to get a fix on where the shots had come from.
Peter pointed at the building farthest away from them. "Sounded like it came from there." He had barely finished the sentence when she was on her way. He cursed and ran after her, gun ready.

* * *

The fight had reached a down to dirty quality and the Yellow Dragon was attacking furiously, never leaving The Shadow a moment to breathe. When the dark-clad crime-fighter stumbled back under a very vicious blow, the Dragon whipped out a knife. The Shadow recognized it immediately. A phurba. There was no mistaking ceremonial knife. Like the phurba he had battled in Tibet, when he had started his unwilling apprenticeship with the tulku, this one had three blades, which ran down into one sharp point. It was of a darker golden color than the one he knew and the head looked different, too. The Shadow had never known that there were was more than one phurba, but it seemed like he had been wrong.
The Yellow Dragon stabbed at him, missing him only very closely. The knife ripped through the fabric of the cloak, but it didn't draw blood. The Dragon jumped back out of reach and grinned.
"Wonder where I got that from, huh?" he asked temptingly. "Well, I studied you, Shadow. I knew about the phurba, but you hid the dagger well. I never found it, until I stumbled over an ancient scroll, one the tulku had written. He mentioned the twin knife." He lifted the dagger. "And that's it! Mine!"
He attacked again and this time he released the dagger when he charged. The knife, which had a life of its own, flew straight at The Shadow, cutting through the cloak and this time it was drawing blood. The Shadow grunted in pain.
The phurba described an arc and attacked again. This time The Shadow evaded its murderous intent and grabbed the hilt as the dagger passed him. He felt its power the second he touched it. It wasn't unlike the phurba he had encountered years ago; it was wild, untamed ... hungry. The head of the hilt looked Asian, though it had female features. The long, flowing hair was intricately carved and the full sensuous lips where more life-like than anything The Shadow had ever seen. Delicate eyebrows swerved up and the high cheekbones gave the face an aristocratic look. The other phurba looked crudely done compared to this one. And then its eyes snapped open, two blue sapphires in a bronze-golden face. The mouth opened into a snarl and the vampire-like teeth snapped for him. The dagger vibrated and began to moved toward The Shadow's heart, pulling his own hand with him. He was about to impale himself. With an immense power of will he managed to hurl the dagger away, his hand hurting, his breath coming in gasps.
The Yellow Dragon stretched out one hand and the phurba flew straight to him. "You see," The Shadow's opponent mocked, "I told you I had mastered it. You were never able to do so. This shows I'm superior. Your Chi will be mine and when I've defeated you I will rise in esteem and strength! My brothers will respect me again."
That was a clue, The Shadow thought. So this Yellow Dragon was an outlaw within his own sect who thought he could buy the respect of his brothers by killing The Shadow. It made him even more dangerous.
"You are a madman!" The Shadow growled, straightening a bit.
The Yellow Dragon bowed. "Why, thank you!" Then his eyes narrowed. "It's time to end this charade." He opened his hand and released the phurba. The dagger hovered in front of him, it's sapphire eyes fixed on its victim, The Shadow. "I find it only fitting that you die like your agents," the Dragon said and spread his hands. "They were easy to kill, their Chis weak, but you .... you will be a tasteful difference." Then he closed his eyes.
The Shadow felt the power transfer even before the phurba gave a satisfied hiss. It attacked almost immediately after that and this time The Shadow's reflexes were too slow. The combined power of the Yellow Dragon and the ancient, ceremonial dagger where too much. The phurba embedded itself deep into the flesh of his left thigh and he screamed, clutching the hilt, trying to yank it out. It had hit right the spot where the other phurba had hurt him on the day of his first encounter with the tulku. The scar that had been there afterwards had always been a reminder of it.
The knife shot away, leaving The Shadow half kneeling, half standing, clutching the copiously bleeding wound. He concentrated briefly to stop the flow of blood, then straightened. The dagger was hovering only few feet away from him and it seemed to taunt him, waiting for him to move so it could have some more fun before it finished him off.
Suddenly there were steps and then he became aware of another presence. Peter Caine. The detective stormed into the room, gun ready, aiming at the Yellow Dragon, who still stood where he had when he had launched the phurba at The Shadow.
"Police!" the young man yelled.
The Dragon merely raised an eyebrow and then waved with his hand. Before anyone could do anything, the phurba hurtled toward Caine and a pain-filled scream told The Shadow all he needed to know. The gun cluttered to the ground and Peter held his bleeding hand. His dark eyes were filled with anger and pain as he tried to reach for his weapon again, but it moved away from him like magic, coming to rest in front of the Yellow Dragon.
"So you have brought some back-up? Police?" the silk clad man asked The Shadow. "Foolish. I  kill him just like I will kill you."
Peter Caine was fuming with anger at the words. "I think you need more than just a few cheap magic tricks to do that, Xing!" he told the Yellow Dragon.
The Shadow straightened and tried not to put too much weight onto his injured leg. This was bad. He had been prepared to fight the Yellow Dragon alone, now he had to protect the cop, too. And how the hell had the young man found him anyway?
"So you know my name? Well, you are a detective, as I understand. Very well done." Xing sneered. "Then you will die knowing the name of your killer." He lifted one hand and the phurba vibrated expectantly, then the dagger flew straight at Peter Caine.
The Shadow reached out with his mind and took hold of the dagger, trying to master it like he had mastered the other phurba when Shiwan Khan had attacked him with it. But this one was stronger, much stronger than he had expected. It was full of angry, dark power, twisted and evil. It wasn't like its twin; this one was truly evil. Channeling more power into the one thought to try and prevent the knife from impaling Peter Caine, The Shadow gritted his teeth and reached inside himself, accessing the last reservoir of power.
Suddenly a shot rang through the room. The phurba was hit by a bullet and thrown off course, slamming blade first into the wall, where it stuck, still vibrating, but apparently dazed. It's hilt showed signs of a bullet grazing it. The Shadow looked around and his black eyes widened as he saw the slim figure, legs braced, both hands steadying the weapon -- which was the automatic he had lost earlier. R.C. The young woman had a determined expression on her face and her finger was still tightened around the trigger.
The Yellow Dragon turned and looked at her too, a small smile crossing his features. "Well, so now we're all here," he said pleasantly. He glanced at The Shadow. "I told you I'd kill all your agents."
Before anyone could react, Peter Caine's weapon, still lying at the Dragon's feet, flew right into his hand and without hesitation he pulled the trigger. The shot echoed loudly through the room and R.C. was thrown back against the wall.

The shot echoed through the empty street. The Shadow whirled around and saw as Moe Shrevnitz fell down beside the late-model black and yellow Cord. The cabby gave a startled gasp and looked at the small, red hole in his chest, which was now oozing lots of blood.
"Shrevy!" The Shadow whispered, then turned to the shooter, a murderous glare in his eyes.
The man reeled back under the glare, loosing his weapon. He had just found out that he had made a big and deadly mistake; something he couldn't correct. He opened his mouth to tell The Shadow he was surrendering, when the twin automatics spat bullets and the shooter was felled by their deadly force. The Shadow didn't bother with checking the corpse; the man was dead. And if he wasn't, he would die in the next few minutes. His companion was already on the run and he would find him later. The only thing of importance now was Moe.
The cabby was still lying on the street, his white shirt already stained with blood. His dark jacket was open. When The Shadow knelt down beside him, he looked up.
"It's bad," he whispered before his boss even touched him.
"Lie still," The Shadow said, his voice emotionless, though inside of him there was a whole storm of different emotions. He lifted the shirt and looked at the bullet wound. It was a rather small wound, but it bled badly and Moe had already lost a lot of blood. "I will call an ambulance," he said nevertheless.
Shrevy grabbed his wrist, his grip stronger than The Shadow would have thought. "No, wouldn't ..... help anymore," he said calmly, his voice rough. "Too .... much blood .... loss."
The Shadow stared into the face of his trusted driver and closest friend. He knew that Shrevy was right; he knew the man was dying and no ambulance and hospital in the world would be able to help him anymore. The bullet had damaged too much. But he nevertheless felt he had to do something -- even if it would proof to be futile in the end. He didn't want this to happen. To lose a friend to old age was different than losing him because of such a violent and senseless act. It wasn't right!
"Shrevy ....." he began, not knowing what to say. This man had come closest to him in all the time they knew each other; he knew the secret of The Shadow; he knew Lamont Cranston .... He tried to get his emotions under control, but failed.
Moe smiled weakly, losing his battle against Death. "I know," he said, coughing a bit. "Just the wrong place at the wrong time."
He grimaced slightly and The Shadow closed his hand around the other man's wrist. The grimace of pain disappeared as the cabby felt the power of the other man. The Shadow didn't want Moe Shrevnitz to die in pain if he could help it.
"Take care .... of my wife. She'll be .... devastated."
"I will," Lamont Cranston answered. Blue eyes looked at the dying man, the red scarf slipping away from his chin. "I'm sorry it had to end this way, Moe," he added. "I truly am."
"You have .... to go, Mr. Cranston."
Lamont knew he was right. There were already sirens in the distance and soon the police would be here. And he was no longer The Shadow, merely Lamont Cranston in his alter ego's clothes.
"Good-bye, old friend."
 

The Shadow, his mind flashing wildly back to the dark street where Moe Shrevnitz had died a senseless death, was torn between running to R.C. and ripping the heart out of the man who had shot her. When Moe had died in his arms, he hadn't been able to take revenge on his killers; not really anyway. One had died through his bullets, the other one had been arrested and had later been killed in prison. Now he had R.C.'s killer right in front of him .... his darker side took over and he turned to Xing.
"That was a mistake," he whispered, his voice dead cold and completely without emotions. Only his black eyes seemed to burn with the hatred he felt.
Harry Xing had turned to face his opponent, a triumphant smile on his lips, but the smile was wiped off his features when he felt the first mental assault. He lost his grip on the weapon and hissed, reaching out for the phurba, his line of defense. The dagger began to vibrate, freeing itself from the wall.

*

Peter stared at the body of R.C., lying at the foot of the wall opposite him. They had separated when they had entered the building since this was the only way for them to cover more ground. He had heard the sounds of battle coming from this room and had followed the noise. As he had entered, he had only been able to stare at the two combatants. Sure, his father had mentioned that Lamont Cranston dressed in a black cloak to hide his identity, but Peter would never have recognized him. The facial features were completely different; the nose was hawk-like, the eyes black orbs, glinting in a silvery light, the mouth hidden by a blood red scarf. The dark cloak was only part of the costume, since the man was dressed completely in black, a broad-rimmed hat topping his head. It was an incredible disguise.
Then R.C. had shown up to help her boss and everything had gone too quickly for Peter to intervene. Now she was hurt, maybe even dead, and he was out of the action, too. His left hand was bleeding freely and hurt like hell; his gun was in the hand of the Yellow Dragon. Suddenly Xing let go of the weapon with a grunt of pain. Whatever was happening between the two men, Peter had no idea. It was on a level he didn't understand; maybe his father would, but Peter was a cop, no priest. Then he noticed that the dagger was beginning to free itself form its prison in the wall.
"Oh, no you won't!" the young detective muttered and reached for the dagger's hilt.
When he closed his bare hand around the smooth metal hilt he felt a strange warmth coming from it. The dagger vibrated even stronger and Peter felt every vibration running through his body to his very last cell. And then the eyes of the female head opened, the mouth gaping wide into a snarl. The sapphire glittered like the eyes of an animal and a growl emerged from its mouth. Peter could only stare at the dagger as he held it in his hands. He was mesmerized by the sapphire eyes and the vibrations coming from the dagger; he felt like he was drawn into that gaze and tumbled helplessly in the very blueness of the eyes.
A hand grabbed his wrists and twisted the dagger from his grip. The detective snapped out of the trance and found his father standing beside him. His father. Confused, he blinked and tried to clear his head. The dagger snarled in anger as its prey had been ripped from it. Kwai Chang Caine looked at the dagger, his dark eyes betraying no other emotion beside his disgust. The dagger screamed shrilly and tried to twist away from the steel-like grip of Caine's hand, but found it was unable to. It only screamed louder.
Caine covered the snarling features of the head with one hand, then twisted the hilt. Peter heard the sound of metal grating upon metal, and then the screaming stopped. When Caine removed his hand, the face was turned to the side, its eyes closed and the features peacefully relaxed.
"What .. what did you do? Kill it?" the younger Caine asked, still stunned.
"No. It cannot be killed, my son." The Shaolin slipped the knife into his bag and turned to look at the Yellow Dragon, who was barely able to restrain his anger.
Xing looked back at The Shadow, who had advanced toward him. "So you broke the rules of the Challenge!" he hissed in fury. "You brought help."
The Shadow regarded the Shaolin for a second and then shook his head. "No. I didn't bring any more help than you did. The phurba is not part of the battle."
The Yellow Dragon gritted his teeth. "I can kill you with or without the help of the phurba!" he cried and then launched his attack.
Peter saw that The Shadow was weakened from blood loss; he wouldn't be able to defeat the much younger and much stronger Dragon as far as the detective could say. There was a quick exchange of blows and strikes, where The Shadow lost his second weapon, too. He was quite good at self-defense, Peter discovered, but he was also slowing down. He turned to his father to ask him what they could do, but Kwai Chang Caine didn't even seem to be aware of his son. He was looking at The Shadow and though there were no words exchanged, Peter was pretty sure that there was still a conversation going on.
That was the moment the world seemed to explode. The two fighters had been locked in battle stances when The Shadow relaxed all of a sudden, closing his eyes. An unreal storm whipped up around them and tore at their clothes. Peter held up one hand to shield his eyes from the dirt flying around him and glanced at his father, standing erect and like a statue, hands folded in front of him, his eyes never leaving The Shadow. Peter didn't know what was going on here, but he couldn't do anything to help. His help was needed somewhere else. He raced through the strengthening winds to where R.C. was lying. A pool of red indicated the massive blood loss. The detective knelt down beside her and searched for a pulse. He found one, but it was very weak; her breathing was shallow, too shallow for his liking.
Lightning lit up the room and Peter turned his head to see what was going on. The sight mesmerized him like the dagger's eyes had moments before. The Shadow stood in what looked like the calm center of a storm of pure energy. His cloak moved ever so slightly, as if the storm was only a breeze for him. He had lost his broad-rimmed hat and the facial features had changed dramatically; now he looked like Lamont Cranston again. His eyes were close, the arms hung limply at his side. The Yellow Dragon was getting increasingly nervous, as he turned and twisted, trying to evade the lightning bolts. He made two or three half-hearted attacks, but was thrown back like there was an invisible shield protecting his foe.
Kwai Chang Caine watched the whole fight with an impassionate expression, but Peter thought he knew that his father played a very important role in this fight. And then The Shadow lifted one arm, his eyes snapping open. His hand hit Xing in the chest and the Yellow Dragon gave a cry of pain and surprise as he was thrown back against the wall -- where he crumbled down into a motionless heap.
The storm died down immediately and Peter saw how The Shadow sagged as if someone had removed every hold from him. Then he straightened under an immense effort, looking over to where R.C. lay beside Peter. He ran over to them.
Peter moved an inch away when the dark-clad man knelt down beside his assistant. The cop saw the pain and fear in the blue eyes and the now human looking features; the fear that she might be dead. Cranston's hands were shaking slightly, Peter noticed, as they touched the pale, sweaty face of his companion.
"She will survive," the Kwai Chang Caine said calmly and examined the bullet wound. "She is strong." He met the gaze of the other man with quiet reassurance and Cranston relaxed ever so slightly.
"I'll go call an ambulance," Peter volunteered, knowing he was one too many here now.

* * *

Kwai Chang Caine sat in a lotus position on the floor when he felt the approach of the man he had been waiting for. He opened his eyes and looked up; in front of him stood Lamont Cranston, wearing jeans and a warm leather jacket. It was an unusual sight to see him in those ordinary clothes.
Both men looked at each other for some time, then the Shaolin bowed his head. "I am sorry that I could not protect her to your satisfaction," he said softly.
Lamont was taken aback by the apology. He had never truly blamed Caine for what had happened. He was only blaming himself.
"It's not your fault, Shaolin," he told the other man. "I should have known that I couldn't keep her from following me by ordering her to do so alone." A humorless smile crept over his lips. "I should have tied her down."
Caine returned the smile. "She is a strong spirit with a mind of her own. She cannot be forced to do anything she doesn't want."
"I know, but I'll never give up trying." Cranston paced slowly through the room and Caine unfolded his legs and rose from the floor.
"She is fine," the Shaolin said softly. Lamont only nodded. "But you nevertheless blame yourself for her injuries," Caine added.
He sighed softly. "I could have intercepted that bullet. I had the power at my disposal. But I just watched ....."
"You had other matters to attend to first. The Yellow Dragon would have killed you had your concentration wavered." The priest spoke with absolute confidence and certainty.
Cranston was silent. Caine thought he knew his inner conflict. Was Cranston's life, one that had lasted for decades now, more important than that of a young woman, who still had her life to live? There was no easy answer to that question.
"You care for her," the Shaolin suddenly said and snapped the other man out of his thoughts.
"She is one of my agents," Cranston replied automatically. "It's my responsibility to take care of her as much as I can."
Caine cocked his head and a strange smile spread over his lips. "Yet she means even more to you than the others."
Lamont Cranston stopped his pacing and stared at the priest. They looked at each other for some time, then he smiled. "She reminds me a lot of myself before .... before I met my fate ... the Darkness. She's the most trustworthy person in my life ... like only two other people have been before. They're both dead now." His voice grew solemn with the last words.
Kwai Chang Caine sighed softly. "It's the burden of a long life .... and the price you have to ... pay. Loss."
"I have lost many friends to old age, Shaolin," Cranston said levelly. "I can deal with that aspect of my existence."
"I understand. Your other two friends were taken by .... force from this plane of existence?"
Cranston sighed. "Yes. One was ... murdered in front of my eyes. The other one ...." He hesitated. "She died in a car accident." He bit his lip as the unwanted memories flooded him and turned  away. "R.C. ..... I will never let her ..." He stopped.
"Get close to you?" Caine finished and knew he had hit the right button. "Close enough for a ..... loss to hurt?"
Cranston kept his silence, studying the plants on the work table.
"You cannot keep people away from your soul," Caine said softly. "They will find a way ... to come close; and if you lose them then, the loss will be even more devastating. Open your heart, mind and soul for the ones close to you; let them be a part of you." He shrugged. "Death .... however it may be, violent or not, is always painful. I ... lost my son and thought him dead. I had to go on and I did. It is hard, but a strong spirit won't surrender to the .... pain. You are strong."
Lamont sighed. "Your words have meaning, but ..... I can't follow their wisdom, Shaolin. Too much death occurred in my life; I've to deal with it my way, alone."
Caine rose from his position and walked over to where the billionaire stood. "No one has to walk a Path alone. There is always a .... companion to share the joys and pains with." He smiled. "You should go and talk to her. Tell her."
Cranston looked at him. "I don't think I can. I don't think she could live with ..... with the darkness."
"Has she not accepted you so far?"
"Yes, but ...." He stopped, again hesitating. "One day, maybe," he then muttered. "I've to go now. Thank you, Shaolin; thank your for help."
"I only showed you the way; the fight was yours."
"And it will always be." Then Cranston turned and left the apartment.
Caine looked after him, a sad expression in his eyes. "Not if you share the pain, my friend," he said silently, but Cranston was already out of ear-shot.

* * *

 The hospital was a light and clean place, too light and too clean for Lamont Cranston as he walked slowly down the corridor to the room occupied by R.C. He had seen to it that she received the best medical treatment and had one of the best rooms; but all of this was only a weak attempt to make up to her for the injury. He felt personally responsible for what had happened to her. Of course, he had told the Shaolin to take care of R.C. and to protect her, but he should have taken into account that she was a strong-willed and stubborn individual, and that she would take the first chance to follow him; to protect him. He didn't know when she had risen to the position of his personal bodyguard because he had never needed one. Well, most of the times. R.C. took it very personally when something happened to him and she was always worrying about his welfare. Now this worry had nearly left her dead.
Cranston bit his lip as he stopped outside the white door with the number 511, R.C.'s room. Inhaling deeply and settling a neutral expression on his face he stepped into the room. It was a beautiful room he discovered, with a window overlooking the small park behind the hospital. R.C. lay in the single bed, her eyes closed, a book resting across her chest. He took a second to look at her, noting her pale skin. The strange, unwanted feeling rose inside of him again. No, I can't. Too dangerous .... too painful. But his heart didn't listen to his reason. When he had met the dark-haired woman the first time, she had been something like a younger sister .... or a daughter to him. Then she had grown into a woman; an attractive woman with a strong spirit and full of life. He had trouble coping with the change, which had brought a change of his perception of her as well.
When the door had closed after him, she opened her eyes and turned her head. "Hey," she said and her voice was weaker than normally, though not much, but still making Cranston feel even more guilty. "Nice of you to drop by and give me the social call." She smiled.
He walked closer to the bed, but kept a certain distance between them. "How are you?" he asked the dumbest, but also most obvious question that came to his mind.
"Well, I've a hole in my body, I lost enough blood to feed three vampires and they pumped me full of so much drugs I can't even tell if I'm hallucinating that guilt in your face, but else I'm fine." She raised an eyebrow.
"I'm sorry about what happened, Reeva."
Her eyes narrowed as she looked at him and noticed that he wasn't dressed in his usual outfit, the business suit and the long overcoat. He wore casual clothes. Lamont Cranston was a man used to wealth and showed it; he was always in control. Now ... now he even called her by her given name! She had to set his head straight.
"Sorry? Don't make me laugh, because that hurts like hell, Cranston! Why are you feeling sorry? I ran into that situation head first, after I not only disobeyed your orders, but also dragged the Detective along with me to get his share of cuts and bruises!" She shook her head. "I should apologize to you, y'know."
He walked over to the window, looking at the park. "I endangered your life, though I knew that Xing was after every agent of mine. It was irresponsible."
"Shit it was, Cranston," she said forcefully. "Get off that guilt trip right now before I have to revert back to violence. You're not to blame for that. And why blame yourself for my injuries like that? I'm one of your agents; when the others died .... did you feel the same guilt? As strong as now? You could have prevented that too, you think?" She exhaled loudly. "You're taking this much too personal."
Her words cut into him and he was reminded of his brief conversation with Kwai Chang Caine.
"Maybe," he said softly.
The sound of the bed's motors whirring into life made him turn around. R.C. had brought he head part of the bed into a position that she now sat, looking at him. He carefully walked over to her and stopped at her bedside. She gazed intently at him.
"May fault, okay? My stupid mistake, right? If you start blaming yourself for every wrong step I take I'm gonna throw a fit in the near future, Cranston. I'm no longer sixteen, I'm a grown woman and I can take care of myself as well as I can take responsibility for my actions. You taught me to look out for myself and the other stuff I learned from my years on the street. It's -- not -- your -- fault. Okay?"
No answer.
"Okay?" she repeated.
"Okay," he answered slowly. His blue eyes rested on her for a second longer and R.C. felt a heat wave race through her body.
Damned, she cursed, get your act together. He isn't even remotely interested in you as a woman. You're his agent.
"The doctors said you could leave whenever you feel ready," he said all of a sudden, changing the topic. "I told him that I'd deliver you right to your physician for further treatment."
She grimaced. "I'm fine."
He smiled faintly. "I thought you had said something about a hole in your body and massive blood loss."
"Weeeell, it's a small hole and the blood loss wasn't that massive," she said slowly, a calculating look in her eyes.
He raised an eyebrow. "You want out of here or not?"
"One week in this damned hospital was enough already," she muttered with a sigh. "I'll be out of here the moment somebody gives me my clothes. I don't intend to leave in that thing." She pointed at the hospital gown.
He nodded. "I'll check with the doctor."
"Thanks."
He smiled at her and then left the room, trying to find the doctor. He had to find out if she was ready to fly or if they should take a train home. She'd need some extensive recovery from the wound and he didn't plan on letting her aggravate the injury right from the start. She was stubborn, but he could be stubborn as well -- very stubborn.

* * *

Peter parked his sports car close to his father's apartment and then walked up the stairs to upper floor. As most of the times, his father was busy with the plants.
"Hi, Pop!" the younger man greeted the priest and was rewarded with a scowl. He loved to tease his father with the nickname.
Caine nodded a greeting and Peter walked over to the garden. His left hand was covered by a white bandage and the doctor had told him he'd have to go easy on his hand for at least two weeks until the cut was healed completely; which meant he had all the time in the world to catch up on the paperwork.
Harry Xing had been arrested, charged with the murder of the four men and women and was waiting for his trial. Peter had written a preliminary report, explaining vaguely how they had been able to catch the guy, leaving out the parts about The Shadow and the phurba. Nobody in his right mind would believe him anyway.
The Shadow ..... now there was something he wanted an explanation for and his father was the only one to give it to him. R.C. had told him some things about Lamont Cranston, but not too much that it would be considered sensitive information. When he had paid her a visit at the hospital she had evaded every single question about the alter ego of her employer. That left Kwai Chang Caine as the only source of information. It wasn't important for the now closed case, it was important to Peter.
"You are full of questions, my son," the Shaolin said calmly as he tended to his garden.
"Yeah, you could say that. Mostly about this guy, The Shadow."
Caine shrugged. "He is ... a man like you and me."
Peter snorted. "Pardon my skepticism, but that isn't a normal man." Just like you're not a normal man, Pop. "I know you said that Lamont Cranston is The Shadow, but that guy didn't look an inch like him -- until he somehow changed and looked like Cranston. Who is this guy, Dad?"
Caine put down the gardening tools and looked at his son. "He is a very old spirit, troubled and torn between the good that was always in him and the evil that constantly tries to take over. The man you saw first, the man called Lamont Cranston, is the tamed spirit, the shell, of the soul that lies beneath. The Shadow is an expression of what share's his soul with him; the darkness."
Peter frowned. "Sounds like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde." His father looked quizzically at him and Peter waved the comment away. "So he's two persons?" he asked instead.
"In a way."
"Those powers he has ... it's like nothing I've ever seen," the younger man continued, raking his brain for the memory where he had seen such a display of power before.
"He is ... Shambala."
Peter snapped his fingers, remembering the encounter with Bon Bon Hai and the Shambala Masters. "Now I remember, but how can he be Shambala if he's on the dark side of the force?"
His father smiled at the joke, one he recognized because Peter made such comments frequently. "He never entered the ranks of the true Shambala Masters, merely rose in strength and power. He spent some time in Shambala, trying to tame the beast inside of him, but he never succeeded, mainly because his spirit is not at rest. As long as his darkness expresses itself in the form of The Shadow, he can never be at peace."
Peter leaned back against a table full of seedlings. "Sounds like one hell of a dilemma to me."
"It is; one that he will never be able to solve until he can find a way to be truly both, Lamont Cranston and The Shadow."
"Well, he is, isn't he?" the detective asked, a little bit confused.
His father nodded. "But both his personalities are too separate from each other. The young woman, R.C., she might help him if he lets her."
"She said she's been with him for twelve years," Peter told his father. "I wonder how you can lead such a life, being chauffeur and private pilot for such a man. And then take a bullet."
"She does what she thinks is necessary to keep him sane. And safe." Caine shrugged.
"Sane?"
"Time can do a lot to the human mind; and he is only human, though his spirit is ancient." Another shrug.
"Wait a minute, Pop!" Peter straightened a bit, remembering what his father had said about the 'old spirit' and also what Kermit had mentioned about The Shadow. "You don't really think that this guy's the one from the 1930's?"
The Shaolin stroked a fern and merely raised an eyebrow. "He is the man I met when I was searching for you such along time ago."
"That doesn't answer my question, Pop. You can't make me believe that this guy's nearly ninety years old! He can't be much older than I am!"
"Age is not measured by the looks of the body, my son, but by the soul."
"What about that dagger?" Peter wanted to know.
"The phurba has been returned to its rightful place," Caine answered. "It will be kept under protection of those who can master it."
Peter didn't quite understand the deeper meaning behind the words. The dagger had been only one of the man things he had thought about and had found no answer to. He had decided to banish the thought from his mind; it was better this way.
"Well, anyway, we nailed the killer and R.C. is recovering." He massaged his hand a bit. "I wonder why she takes all those risks for a guy like Cranston."
"She does it out of love."
The younger Caine looked at his father in surprise. "Love? You mean she's got a crush on him? Gee!"
The priest arranged the plants and then smiled at his son. "In a way. They both don't realize their feelings for each other, respecting a .... line neither one of them is willing to cross first. But they love each other."
Peter shook his head. "What a combination. You think they might come together?"
"That, my son, is not for any of us to tell."
Peter smiled at the answer and then clapped his father on the back. "How about lunch?" Caine raised an eyebrow. "No hot dogs, no burgers, no fries," Peter added. "Plain Chinese if you want to."
"Actually," his father said, "a .... hot dog ... sounds fine to me."