was empty, but the scream sounded again. They stopped for a moment.
“This,” said Cole in a low voice, “must be an egress that leads to the world outside.”
“Listen to that,” said the little blonde. “Someone shouting, others chanting.”
“I don’t think this is the weekly meeting of the Browning Society we find ourselves underneath, princess. It’s tonight’s Black Mass.” He broke into a jog again.
“We’ve got to stop that sacrifice,” said Nellie, catching up with him.
“Tread softly now,” he cautioned as they reached the dead end of the tunnel. “We don’t want to spoil Richard’s play. If all went well, he’s up there mingling with the Lucifer fans right now.”
“Weil, at least let’s get into a position to lend a hand, if need be.”
Cole was stretching up, exploring the ceiling with the flashlight. “Ah, here’s a trapdoor,” he announced.
The chanting above them grew louder, more frenzied.
“Must be a way into their meeting hall,” said Nellie.
“Climb upon my hand, pixie, and I’ll boost you up.”
“Let’s hope I don’t emerge smack dab in the middle of the sacrificial altar.” She placed a foot in Cole’s interlocked hands.
“Going up.”
“Ouch.” Nellie’s blond head had tapped into the wood boards of the trapdoor. “Okay, there’s a bolt to throw. There. Now, I’ll ease this darn thing open. Stand by to duck.”
She had raised the door a cautious inch when a single shot rang out in the barn above.
Then a voice commanded, “Kill him!”
Smitty, as the time since the Avenger’s departure lengthened, grew more and more impatient. Normally the giant could sit calmly for hours working on some mechanical problem in the lab. But when he sensed a brawl might be in the offing, he was restless until he was where it was going to be.
And it wasn’t going to be out here, he didn’t think. Not hunkered down here among the trees with the collar of his overcoat getting soggy and the rain spilling down off his hat brim.
Dick Benson had been gone over ten minutes. Smitty was getting that itchy feeling. Something was going to happen, and he wanted to be there.
He left the shelter of the woods and trotted in the direction the Avenger had gone. A few moments later, as lightning obligingly lit up the countryside, Smitty saw the old barn where the witches were meeting.
“Not so much as a dab of light showing,” he said to himself. “They must have their blackout curtains up good.”
He worked his way across the rain-washed field, stopping behind a collapsed cultivator rig which looked now like the huge skeleton of some long-extinct beast.
After watching the barn for a minute, the giant ran to it. He was crouched outside, his face near the wide door, when he heard a single shot from inside.
And a voice ordering, “Kill him!”
“You ought to wear a hat,” suggested Chief Storm as he and the federal agent slogged along the muddy midnight beach. He tapped the stiff oilskin hat on his own head. “That’s what causes colds and the grippe, not wearing hats.”
“Never liked hats.”
They’d already passed two of the men Early had watching the harbor. He’d signaled them to follow him, at a distance.
“All coming back to me,” said the chief. He gestured, pointing through the rain. “Ought to be right up here.”
“What would these tunnels have been built for in the first place?”
The chief shrugged, and rain spattered off his glazed headgear. “Most likely it was the smugglers who used this port back in the 1800s. See, the nineteenth century was a more leisurely time, and so folks had time to build all kinds of things.” He halted, frowning around. “This ain’t quite right.” After glancing back at the foamy sea, he began walking up the scrubby hillside. “Yep, this is the way. And that should be one of—”
“Down!” Early tripped the chief and threw himself to the ground beside him.
Machine-gun fire raked the place where they
“This,” said Cole in a low voice, “must be an egress that leads to the world outside.”
“Listen to that,” said the little blonde. “Someone shouting, others chanting.”
“I don’t think this is the weekly meeting of the Browning Society we find ourselves underneath, princess. It’s tonight’s Black Mass.” He broke into a jog again.
“We’ve got to stop that sacrifice,” said Nellie, catching up with him.
“Tread softly now,” he cautioned as they reached the dead end of the tunnel. “We don’t want to spoil Richard’s play. If all went well, he’s up there mingling with the Lucifer fans right now.”
“Weil, at least let’s get into a position to lend a hand, if need be.”
Cole was stretching up, exploring the ceiling with the flashlight. “Ah, here’s a trapdoor,” he announced.
The chanting above them grew louder, more frenzied.
“Must be a way into their meeting hall,” said Nellie.
“Climb upon my hand, pixie, and I’ll boost you up.”
“Let’s hope I don’t emerge smack dab in the middle of the sacrificial altar.” She placed a foot in Cole’s interlocked hands.
“Going up.”
“Ouch.” Nellie’s blond head had tapped into the wood boards of the trapdoor. “Okay, there’s a bolt to throw. There. Now, I’ll ease this darn thing open. Stand by to duck.”
She had raised the door a cautious inch when a single shot rang out in the barn above.
Then a voice commanded, “Kill him!”
Smitty, as the time since the Avenger’s departure lengthened, grew more and more impatient. Normally the giant could sit calmly for hours working on some mechanical problem in the lab. But when he sensed a brawl might be in the offing, he was restless until he was where it was going to be.
And it wasn’t going to be out here, he didn’t think. Not hunkered down here among the trees with the collar of his overcoat getting soggy and the rain spilling down off his hat brim.
Dick Benson had been gone over ten minutes. Smitty was getting that itchy feeling. Something was going to happen, and he wanted to be there.
He left the shelter of the woods and trotted in the direction the Avenger had gone. A few moments later, as lightning obligingly lit up the countryside, Smitty saw the old barn where the witches were meeting.
“Not so much as a dab of light showing,” he said to himself. “They must have their blackout curtains up good.”
He worked his way across the rain-washed field, stopping behind a collapsed cultivator rig which looked now like the huge skeleton of some long-extinct beast.
After watching the barn for a minute, the giant ran to it. He was crouched outside, his face near the wide door, when he heard a single shot from inside.
And a voice ordering, “Kill him!”
“You ought to wear a hat,” suggested Chief Storm as he and the federal agent slogged along the muddy midnight beach. He tapped the stiff oilskin hat on his own head. “That’s what causes colds and the grippe, not wearing hats.”
“Never liked hats.”
They’d already passed two of the men Early had watching the harbor. He’d signaled them to follow him, at a distance.
“All coming back to me,” said the chief. He gestured, pointing through the rain. “Ought to be right up here.”
“What would these tunnels have been built for in the first place?”
The chief shrugged, and rain spattered off his glazed headgear. “Most likely it was the smugglers who used this port back in the 1800s. See, the nineteenth century was a more leisurely time, and so folks had time to build all kinds of things.” He halted, frowning around. “This ain’t quite right.” After glancing back at the foamy sea, he began walking up the scrubby hillside. “Yep, this is the way. And that should be one of—”
“Down!” Early tripped the chief and threw himself to the ground beside him.
Machine-gun fire raked the place where they
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