The story about the miraculous reappearance of the plane ran in the evening edition of the Clarion, but because the airline spokesperson had kept the more salacious facts of the case out of public circulation, the item was relegated to a few column inches, half way down page four.  The article stated only that the plane, which initially had been feared lost in the storm, had arrived safely after a brief delay.

David Dalton—known to friends, co-workers and thousands of American readers of the syndicated weekly feature "The Adventures of Captain Falcon" as "Dodge"—had not yet read that item or any other headlines in the evening edition as he stepped from the Clarion Building and into the storm-swept streets, but he was certainly making good use of the tabloid; he held it open, over his head, to deflect some of the torrential rains that had already soaked through his shoes.  He wasn't terribly worried about getting wet; the urge to shelter himself was mostly automatic.  If he'd stopped to think about it, he would realized how foolish it looked and simply endured Mother Nature's assault, but his mind was a million miles—or more accurately, eight thousand miles—away.

The telegram was crumpled in his pocket, but its message had been burned into his memory: URGENT I SEE YOU...AMNH TONIGHT...CONCERNS OUTPOST...A. PENDLETON.

He knew Augustus Pendleton—Professor Augustus Pendleton—by reputation only, but that was enough to pique his interest.  Pendleton, an expert on pre-Columbian archaeology, was one of a select group of scientists that had been made privy to the discoveries Dodge and his associates had made at the bottom of the world—a remote ice cavern in the permanent winter wilderness of Antarctica.  They had taken to calling the place "the Outpost," but that name said little about its true function; in fact, the purpose intended for the cavern by its designers, like the identity of those architects, was one of the mysteries being pursued by Pendleton and other members of the U.S. government's brain trust. The actual location of the Outpost was known only to Dodge and three other souls, but they had provided the scientists with detailed descriptions of the cavern and some of its artifacts.  Dodge could not imagine what news Pendleton might have that could be so urgent as to require a late audience at the Museum of Natural History, but he was eager to find out.

As he reached the sidewalk, he caught a glimpse of a Checker Cab sidling along with its flag up.  Dodge thrust out a hand to hail the taxi and hurriedly opened the door, but as he started to get in, someone called his name.  He drew back and peered in every direction through the watery veil.  There wasn't another living soul for blocks.

Shrugging, he got inside.  Must be hearing things.

The rain was drumming a staccato pattern on the metal roof, making it difficult to hear his own voice, much less the sound of someone calling for him.  "Museum of Natural History," he shouted over the back of the driver's seat.  The fellow in the front of the cab nodded and pulled back into the deserted streets.

The headline on the sodden newspaper was still visible, HURRICANE BEARS DOWN ON CITY, but the interior of the cab was too dark to read the smaller print below.  Dodge tossed the tabloid aside and gazed out the window, thinking more about Prof. Pendleton and the Outpost, than the imminent storm.

Dodge, along with Brian "Hurricane" Hurley, Father Nathan Hobbs and Miss Molly Rose Shannon, were together the de facto owners of the Outpost, though it was situated in a place where land deeds had little value.  Those among the scientific and military communities respectively who knew of its existence had demanded that such a prize must be shared, but the four people who actually knew where it was had demurred.  There were things in the Outpost that humans were not meant to see; technologies that might be used for evil purposes by nefarious men, or even by well-intentioned souls who could not see past their immediate concerns to the future peril that possession of such awesome power might awaken.  Dodge, as spokesman for the group, had offered to share some of the knowledge with the scientists, in exchange for custodianship of the Outpost.  The deal had received unexpected support from the highest authority in the land; the President had been the victim of a plot by the first discoverer of the Outpost, and had been rescued from certain death by Dodge’s last-second heroics.  Not only did he owe Dodge and his companions an enormous debt, but he also knew firsthand how the ancient science locked away in the Outpost might be perverted.

The taxi stopped at a traffic signal and Dodge glanced up to see where they were. He noticed that the meter on driver’s side fender was silent.  He leaned over the seat.  "Hey pal.  I don’t mind if the ride’s free tonight, but I’m only paying for what’s on the meter."

The driver grunted as he fumbled for the lever that would activate the device for tallying mileage.  Something about the scene struck Dodge as odd, but his musings about the Outpost and Pendleton’s summons quickly drew him back.

A lot had happened in the weeks since they had rescued the President from the diabolical schemes of a madman who had, in discovering the secrets of the Outpost, believed himself a god.  Dodge and Hurley, already public figures because of Dodge’s weekly feature—an adventure serial based loosely on the real exploits of Hurley’s Army unit—had received the lion’s share of the acclaim.  Father Hobbs and his adopted daughter Molly had also been briefly thrust into the spotlight, until the fickle attention of newspaper readers was distracted by something newer and shinier.  None of them missed being a celebrity one bit.  Dodge and Hurley went back to work on the Falcon stories, newly inspired by recent events, while Father Hobbs contemplated his next move.  Prior to the crisis, he had supervised a Congo River mission for the better part of a decade, but all that was gone now, destroyed by a fiendish river pirate.  Now that his daughter had grown into a lovely young woman, the idea of returning to a life of austerity on the Dark Continent was not quite so appealing.  For her sake alone, or so he claimed, he had elected to take a teaching position at the St. Joseph’s Seminary in Dunwoodie, exchanging the rough life of a missionary for the cerebral challenges of academia.  Dodge however wondered if the man they called "the Padre" didn’t have a different motive.

Hobbs had also been one of Captain Falcon’s soldiers; a member of a special unit nicknamed ‘the Fighting Falcons’ whose mission had been to stem the rise of criminal empires in aftermath of the Great War.  Hobbs had walked a fine line between soldier and priest during those years; though he had eschewed the use of weapons, his actions had nonetheless contributed to loss of life, both of the enemy and his own comrades.  When the Great Depression ended the mission of the Fighting Falcons, Hobbs had immersed himself in helping the oppressed natives of the Congo Basin, a desperate attempt to atone for his perceived sins.  But Dodge had shown him that there were other ways to find solace and better ways to make use of the superior intellectual gifts which God had granted him, for Nathan Hobbs knew more about ancient religions and the occult world than anyone.  In the tapestry of myths and superstitions, Hobbs had glimpsed a more credible origin for the Outpost than anything proposed by the President’s brain trust; given the choice, Dodge would rather have the Padre at his side than any of those eggheads.

And then of course there was Molly.

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.

The driver abruptly stomped on the brake pedal and Dodge was hurled forward.  His shoulder struck the back of the cabby's head, but the man was as rigid and unyielding as a tree trunk.  Dodge's momentum pitched him over the seat and headlong into the windshield.

His next memory was one of pain; half his body slammed into the dashboard, delivering what felt like a head-to-toe bruise, while the rest smashed through the thin windshield, stabbing splinters of glass through his suit pants and jacket.  He clutched ineffectively for a handhold as he bounced up and onto the hood of the cab.  Before he could shoot forward onto the rain swept bridge deck however, a powerful hand closed around his biceps.

The cab lurched forward again and Dodge was hauled unceremoniously back inside to lie in a heap in the floor well beside the driver.  After a few seconds of pure agony, Dodge managed to raise his head and gaze up at the other man.  The driver's expression was as impassive as a dead man's, but there was something familiar about the face that stared unblinkingly forward as the vehicle accelerated into the driving rain.

"Hey!  You're—"

Dodge didn't get a chance to put his revelation into words.  The cab driver, almost without looking, drove a fist into Dodge's upturned face.  Dodge twisted his head at the last instant, taking only a glancing strike on the cheek that nonetheless rang through his head like a bell.  This time however, he was ready.

He didn't attempt to fight the driver; recognizing the man had been indication enough that such a course of action would be a waste of effort.  His only priority was getting out of the car, and to do that, he had to slow it down.  Even as he recoiled from the man's punch, Dodge jammed his right hand against the gearshift stick.  There was a shriek of metal grinding at high speed, and then the engine revved loudly.

A perplexed look crossed the ersatz cabby's face as he tried to comprehend what had happened.  In the two seconds it took for him to realize that the car was no longer in gear, Dodge scrambled away from any further retaliation and gripped the door handle.  When the driver dropped his free hand to the stick shift, Dodge bought both feet up and stomped his heels into the man's face.

To his credit, the driver did not even flinch.  One of Dodge's shoes gouged a bloody weal along his cheek but the assault was equivalent to scraping the bark off an oak tree.  Nevertheless, it did have an effect; the driver's attention was distracted for one moment more, long enough for the speedometer needle to creep down to thirty-five miles an hour.  Dodge knew he wouldn't get a better chance.  He turned the lever.

The driver saw it and reacted immediately, but not as Dodge expected.  Instead of trying to get the vehicle in gear and resume accelerating, the man suddenly cranked the steering wheel and the cab swerved to the right.  Still coasting at more than thirty miles and hour, the Checker plowed through the river of water streaming down the gutter then jolted into the curb.

The door latch clicked but even as Dodge started to push it open, something slammed against the exterior of the vehicle, crushing the metal back into its frame.  The car crashed through the guardrail, sacrificing the last of its momentum, then the front end dropped with a lurch as the cab bottomed out on the edge and ground to complete halt.

For just a moment, Dodge thought the peril was past.  The impact had tossed him alternately into the dash then up against the headliner and back again, but he had fared better than the driver.  The man groggily raised his head, blood streaming from his brow, but was unable to move his lower extremities; the steering wheel had snapped off in his hands and a piece of it had driven through his abdomen to pin him to the seat.  Yet, despite what surely had to be a mortal injury, the man remained inhumanly focused on keeping his passenger from escaping.  A beefy hand stabbed out for Dodge's throat.

Wincing, Dodge pulled back and the fingers closed only on the fabric of his jacket, still much too close for comfort.  Dodge tried to wrestle free of the grip but there was nowhere to go; the door was jammed shut.  Unable to get out of the front of the car, he shifted his weight planting a foot against the floor and tried to propel himself over the back of the seat.

In the instant that he thrust down with his legs, Dodge got a glimpse of what lay beyond the front of the taxi—or rather, the nothingness beyond the shattered windshield.  The Checker protruded from the breach in the guardrail of the Brooklyn Bridge more than a hundred feet above the turbulent storm tossed surface of the East River.  Then, with a noise that sounded more like a rusty hinge than a harbinger of doom, the cab began to tilt forward.