Silver Shadow #1
"The Robbery"
by Aaron Baugh

The blue waters of the pool were pale in comparison to the ocean as Detective Harwell moved past the bikini-clad sunbathers and moved into the hotel proper. The receptionist greeted him with a smile.

"Good morning, sir, can I help you?"

Harwell gave her a smile in reply, then leaned against the counter to talk to the young woman behind it. A gunshot rang out, and the receptionist went down with a short scream, hit in the chest.

Pandemonium erupted around them as people screamed and dove for cover. Harwell spun, drawing his pistol. It was Sanders! The crooked cop had gone too far this time, and as Sanders fled up the wide lobby staircase, Harwell was in pursuit.

Harwell hit the top of the staircase just as Sanders went around the corner just down the hall. Cautiously, he moved around the corner, and bullets pockmarked the walls. The detective squeezed off a round in response, then got up to follow once more,
arriving just in time to see the doors to the fire stairs bang closed. Quickly following, he heard the pounding of feet on the metal stairs and moved up after Sanders.

As Harwell exited the fire stairs on the fifth floor, he heard screaming. Sanders held a young woman in front of him, his gun barrel pressed up against her temple. He was backing towards the glass doors of the balcony in his hostage's room, and Harwell leveled his pistol, bracing it with his off hand.

"Let her go, Sanders. No need to add another charge. C'mon...she's nothing, just an innocent. . .you don't need her. Just put the gun down."

Sander's face was covered with sweat. "You go to hell, Harwell. You go to hell. Now get out of my way. Get the HELL out of my way or she dies, you get me? She dies!"

"You aren't a murderer, Sanders. You took some money from the wrong people, and they're coming for you today. I know they are. They might be right behind me, for all we know. Come on, man, I can help, if you'll just let me."

Sanders looked for a moment like the words were getting through to him. He just might go through with it, but he moved his gun to point at Harwell, and so the detective was forced to fire. A neat red-rimmed hole appeared in Sander's forehead, and the woman he held screamed, then ran out the door as Sander's dead body moved backwards, smashing the glass of the
balcony doors.

Harwell holstered his weapon and sighed, just as he heard voices behind him. The click of an automatic weapon's safety and the feeling of cold metal between his shoulderblades told him that the men Sanders had stolen from were here.

"Nice and easy, pal," Came the voice behind him. "Nice and easy."

Harwell nodded, then whipped his left elbow back, pivoting away from the weapon. It discharged, spewing bullets into the walls and shattering the table lamp. Harwell's left fist struck out in a classic cross, taking the gangster on the chin and sending him into the doorjamb. Harwell hadn't planned on his buddies, though, and turned to dash through the broken patio door, leap up, and push off from the railing, five stories up.

The white-suited figure flew through the air, then landed with a terrific splash in the deep end of the pool.

"CUT!!! Great job, everyone. Terrific!" Came the voice over the megaphone.

Chuck Starling was happy with the stunt, and the scene in general. They'd gotten it on the second try.

As 'Harwell' got out of the pool with a broad smile on his face, it was clear that this was not him. "Great job, John," said an assistant as he handed the Asian man a towel. "Couldn't have done it better myself."

"Sure, sure," Said the stuntman. "What did Chuck think?"

"I loved it!" said the director as he approached from the direction of the camera. He slapped John on the shoulder as he peered skywards. "But that'll do it today. We're running out of light. Same time tomorrow, Johnny?"

"We'll see. But I'll take off early, get to my classes, if you don't mind?"

"Nah. Go ahead," said the taller man. "You! Hey, you! Get over here, and bring the script! And where is my ginger ale?" he said as he turned around, slipping back into his role as the director. With any luck, "Harwell: West Coast Detective" would spin off into a weekly series.

John Lee, movie stuntman, padded into the dojo where twenty young men and women were practicing their punches under the leadership of John's good friend, Zhao Fa.

"Punch!"

"Ki-yah!"

"Punch!"

"Ki-yah!"

"Punch!"

"Ki-yah!"

"Very good, class," Said the instructor as he paced in front of them. "Very good indeed. Several of you will be ready for your belts soon enough. Now, take a seat, everyone," He said as he spied John in the back. "Your master has arrived."

John clasped his hands behind his back as he walked barefoot up to the front of the room. "Teacher, Master Zhao. I am their teacher," He said with a broad grin. "I am very proud of all of you today. I look forward to seeing you all in the next city-wide
tournament next week. I have the privilege of being a judge for the beginning and intermediate classes, and competing in the breaking contest, although any prizes I win will go to charity. I hope to see you all when that time comes. As for now, though, back to your feet. Assume your stances."

The class, nearly as one, hopped to their feet and got set for practice once more. "Zhao, you will lead the count, and I will correct. Begin!"

"What about Millennium Man? Do you think he'll come here?" Asked the mouse-faced guy as he looked upwards towards the sky.

"Nah, he's got a day job, right? He's probably asleep. And take this thing, man, it's heavy!"

"Oh, right. Sorry," said mouse-face as he turned to take the box from his partner.

A new voice came to the pair from the darkness of the warehouse they were robbing.

"Keep it moving, boys," Said the face. "And be on time for once. I've brought two of mine to help you out." Out from the
shadows stepped two large men, definitely brusiers by their look, and experienced. The one on the left still had a crooked nose from where some unfortunate had broken it once.

"Ah, yes sir, Mister Lazzarini. No problem. We, ah, could use the help. Thanks."

"Oh, we ain't helpin' ya," Said the bruiser with the crooked nose. "We're just watchin' you, make sure you don't screw up."

"Oh, yeah," Said mouse-face as he bent to pick up another crate. Mr. Lazzarini had disappeared.

Outside the warehouse, a figure crouched on the roof of the warehouse across the way that faced the truck dock where the thieve's getaway van sat as they loaded it. He could make out four men from behind his mask, and underneath it, John Lee smiled. Eight minutes until the police arrived. More than enough time.

He leaned forward, exectuing a forward flip and landing on his feet with barely a whisper of sound. He ran across the pavement, then leapt into the air at the front of the truck, going up and extending out his right foot, catching one of the big men in the side of the head. He went down like a felled ox.

The others turned as their comrade fell, seeing only a brief blur of gray. The other large one drew a weapon, only to suddenly see his opponent drop in front of him.

John reached out with his left hand, immediately going for the nerve cluster in the wrist. His fingers found it, causing enough pain that the large man dropped his gun.

The man's left hand, though, came around and down, aiming for the side of John's head. Ducking down and away, John rolled to his feet and popped up into the air, snapping a side kick to the chest of the mouse-faced man on his right.

Broken-nose charged, swinging wildly as John blocked the first two attacks, then launched a knife-hand strike into the man's solar plexus. Broken-nose doubled over, out of breath, and John's hands went wide, then came down on his opponent's temples. Broken-nose fell to the ground, unconscious.

There was still a fourth, though, and John looked around for him, nearly catching a tire-iron in the head as the fourth man came out of the truck, screaming wildly and swinging his weapon desperately. John ducked the first three swings, then dropped and
pivoted on his left heel as his right leg shot out, taking his last opponent behind the knees and dropping him to the ground. He started to get up, but John was suddenly above him, one hand grasping his shirt collar and the other pulled back into a fist.

The criminal shook. "Who are you?" He asked, his voice shaking.

John leaned down to whisper in the man's ear, then his hand went to the man's neck, manipulating his nerves and knocking him out.

When the police arrived, they found the four men, all laid out neatly side by side, their hands clasped over their chests. The van behind them held a small fortune in electronics.

From the roof across the alleyway, the Silver Shadow smiled, then got to his feet, running forward and making the long jump to the next rooftop, before turning east and heading for home.