Callsign: King II- Underworld

Dodge glanced at the street again, but the signposts were obscured by the film of rain on the glass. He lowered his window, taking the full fury of the storm on his face as he stuck his head out and squinted at the street marker they had just passed. He didn’t recognize the name on the cross street, but before he could ask the driver about it, the headlights of the vehicle directly behind the taxi, abruptly receded as if the driver of that car had been spooked to find Dodge leaning out into the night.

He drew back inside, but continued to gaze through the small rear window at the trailing vehicle. There were hardly any cars on the streets tonight; sane people had returned to their homes hours before to batten down the hatches and ride out the storm. While there was nothing inherently strange about two cars sharing the same destination, Dodge had an uneasy feeling about the car that had dropped back half a block.

"Hey," he said without turning. "Can you take the next right and circle the block?"

"Are you serious?" answered the driver.

"Do it," Dodge affirmed. "I just want to test a theory."

"It’s your money." The cabbie whipped the car around down a side street and accelerated toward the next intersection.

Dodge held his breath as the other car reached the corner behind them and then made the same turn. Once is coincidence, he thought, but what had been a nagging suspicion now reached the level of a claxon ringing in head. The taxi made another right hand turn and a few seconds later, the headlights were back.

"That car is following us," observed the driver, peering into his side mirror, and stating what Dodge now believed to be the absolute truth. The man’s comment was strange, almost emotionless, but Dodge’s attention was fixed on what he perceived to be the more immediate concern.

Okay, he’s following us. And I thought I heard someone call my name back at the Clarion Building. But why did he pull back when he saw me?

He thought about Pendleton’s telegram: "Urgent I see you." What if the urgency of the situation owed, not to some breakthrough discovery, but a threat to the Outpost’s security? Dodge contemplated trying to find a policeman, but quickly discarded that idea; they would have their hands full with the hurricane. The headlights continued to illuminate the taxi from behind.

He leaned over the back of the driver's seat. "Just take me the museum. I'll handle it from there."

"I'll take care of him," the driver grunted, and punched the accelerator.

The sudden burst of speed threw Dodge back into his seat momentarily. "Hold your horses!" he shouted. "I don't need any heroics from you. Just take me to the museum..."

His voice trailed off as he realized the taxi was now moving south—downtown, away from their destination. Over the driver's shoulder he could see the speedometer needle quivering at fifty miles an hour. With virtually no traffic to evade, the taxi raced away like a meteor, into the unknown. A chill crept up Dodge's back that had nothing to do with the storm raging outside.

He didn't waste breath inquiring about the driver's intentions; it was clear enough that this was no ordinary taxi ride. That this abduction should occur on the heels of an urgent summons from Prof. Pendleton could not be a coincidence.

So what about the car following us? Friend or foe?

He considered trying to assault the driver or wrestle control of the car, but discarded both courses of action as too dangerous given their present speed. Nevertheless, he had to do something to take control of the situation and quickly; the taxi driver would certainly have confederates waiting at the end of the line. Dodge gripped the door handle waiting for circumstance to force the driver to reduce speed enough that a desperate leap from the moving vehicle might be survivable. A traffic signal loomed ahead, flashing a red stoplight, but the taxi did not slow. The Checker cab blew through the intersection heedless of cross traffic. The pursuing vehicle was matching their speed and likewise ignoring the signals.

"Okay, time for plan B," Dodge muttered. "Whatever that is."

The taxi whipped hard to the left, making a sharp turn without slowing, and Dodge was thrown against the passenger side door. The vehicle fishtailed and nearly spun around, but the driver calmly regained control, and steered and accelerated out of the skid. When Dodge lifted his head, he saw that they cab was now charging onto the Brooklyn Bridge.

In desperation, he snatched up the discarded newspaper. He made a tight roll with the damp pulp—tight enough to simulate the barrel of a gun, he hoped—and jabbed it forcefully into the back of the driver's head. "Pull it over friend, or I'll blow your head off."

The driver seemed completely oblivious to the threat; he did not flinch or start, did not even glance in the mirror to see if the object pressed against his skull was indeed a weapon. Dodge pushed the rolled newspaper forward again, hoping to elicit some kind of reaction.