He tipped his cap to Mrs. McGreavy as she entered the bank, carrying a small paper bag filled with coins. She came in every Wednesday at 4:30, creeping along at a snail’s pace. She smiled at him, her wrinkled face brightening when she saw him. She took a spot in line just behind another regular, Larry Thompson. Mr. Thompson was a stock broker, one who’d nearly lost his shirt during the Big Crash of a few years back, but he was slowly crawling out of the hole he’d found himself in—just like the rest of the country was doing.
Merv chuckled a bit as he leaned back against the wall. Life was good, he had to admit—the ache he used to get in his leg was almost gone and he’d become enough of a fixture at the bank that he didn’t worry from month to month about keeping his job. He reached out and picked up a newspaper from a nearby table, scanning an article about the notorious Moon Man and the police force’s ongoing attempts to capture the criminal. Merv’s uncle knew the man in charge of the investigation—tough as nails Detective Gill McEwen—and it was common knowledge around the Sanford household that the Moon man’s days were numbered.
Merv coughed as he turned the pages, eager to see whether or not the Great City baseball team had righted themselves after their last three-game losing skid. Before he’d even reached the sports pages, another cough had wracked his body… and this one hurt. Merv looked around and noticed that others in the bank were beginning to double over, hacking like a bunch of sick cats. Mrs. McGreavy fell to the floor, clutching at her throat and wheezing.
Merv’s vision began to cloud and a terrible heaviness settled in his chest. It felt a bag of lead weights had settled into his lungs, weighing him down.
As the war veteran turned bank guard slid down the wall to the floor, his head beginning to throb painfully, the doors to the bank flew open. Several men wearing gas masks ran in, dancing amidst the fallen bank tellers and customers. Each man wore all-black uniforms and carried small sacks in one hand, while the other brandished dangerous looking rifles.
Merv struggled to reach his gun, despite the fact that he never kept the revolver loaded. It was used mainly to give little boys a thrill when Merv would show it off to them… but as he felt his life ebbing away, Merv had only one thought in his mind: stop these thieves from looting the bank.
A final figure emerged into the guard’s fading vision, a figure draped in a form-fitting black suit and a long cloak that swirled about glossy leather boots. This figure, too, wore a gas mask, which looked all the more bizarre with the wide-brimmed hat he wore above it. “Excellent work,” the man said, surveying the grim scene.
Merv groaned in fury. How could anyone call this ‘excellent’ in any form? Men and women were dying!
As his men set off small charges around the vault in the back, the black-garbed figure caught sight of the determined guard. He strode towards Merv, kneeling when he was within an arm’s reach of the guard. He watched Merv’s fingers trembling helplessly on his holster’s latch.
“You’re a strong one, aren’t you?” the stranger said, his voice distorting strangely within the gas mask. “I think I’ll let you live… a witness to the glory of what is to come.” The man reached into a pocket and withdrew a syringe, checking it briefly before inserting the needle into Merv’s neck. “Tell them who did this. Tell them that Prof. Lycos is about to claim ownership over Great City!”
Merv moved his lips gamely, trying to utter some sort of angry retort… but he grew weaker by the second and with the madman’s words echoing in his brain, he passed out.
CHAPTER II
The Night Terror
The ballroom was packed with Great City’s finest, all decked out in their finest splendor. Debonair Steve Thatcher stood near the punch bowl, wearing a dapper black suit that emphasized his lean physique. Young and handsome, he had received a number of appreciative glances from the various ladies in attendance, but the detective-sergeant had eyes for only one woman tonight: his date for the evening, Sue McEwen.
Sue was at his side, her hair cut very stylishly and her complexion looking attractively peaches-and-cream. The daughter of Stephen’s good friend and direct supervisor, Gill McEwen, Sue was one of the few people who shared in both aspects of Thatcher’s life. She was a steadfast ally in his duties as a police officer… and she was also keenly aware of his nocturnal habits as the Moon Man.
“There’s James Craddock,” Sue whispered. Her hand felt light on Steve’s arm.
Steve glanced over, watching as their host for the evening made the rounds, shaking hands and making jokes. Craddock had made his fortune by buying up broken down tenement buildings, knocking them to pieces and then rebuilding whole areas as high-scale apartments. The tactics he had used in persuading the residents of said tenements to sell their properties could only be described as excessively shady. “He looks like a million bucks,” Thatcher said. “Too bad it took the blood and sweat of good people to line his pockets.”
“You’re still planning to go through with this?” Sue asked, accepting a cup of punch as they made their way to the front of the line.
Thatcher smiled in response. “Who? Me? I’m an officer of the law, you know.”
Sue laughed softly, looking back towards Craddock as the man stepped up onto a small pedestal and gestured for the crowd to give him their attention. She felt a flutter of nervousness, but excitement as well. It was such a dangerous game that her lover played, barely avoiding the daggers of both the police and the underworld. But it was such a necessary task, for even here in Great City, there was so much suffering on the city streets. Men like Craddock lived in luxury while others starved to death only a block or two away.
“I would like to welcome all of you to my home tonight,” Craddock began. “As many of you know, we’ll be opening the doors on Craddock Plaza in just a few weeks. Hard to believe that the Plaza was once a filthy cesspool, isn’t it?”
A round of laughter made Sue shiver in disgust. She turned to check on Steve’s reaction but found that she was now standing alone. Sighing, she crossed her fingers that all was going to go according to plan.
Stephen Thatcher, unseen by any of the partygoers, had ducked out as soon as all eyes were upon Craddock. In a darkened closet where he’d earlier stashed a small leather case, he set about transforming himself from an officer of the law to an enemy of it.
From within the case, he withdrew two ebon gloves. A long black cloak followed, which he wrapped tightly about his shoulders. The final component of his disguise consisted of two silvery half-shells, hinged at the middle. These shells fit together around Steve’s head, hiding his face behind an Argus glass orb. The helmet was mottled to resemble the moon, giving Thatcher’s alter ego his name. A special filter pushed his breath downwards to avoid fogging the inside of the glass, but there was nothing to provide additional support to the helmet. A lucky shot could tear right through the glass and scar him for life, if not kill him instantly.
The lunar-faced vigilante lifted out a small handgun from the interior of his cloak and crept through the mansion, taking note that the cost of the furnishings here could feed a family of four for the rest of their lives. It chilled him how anyone could ignore the plight of their common man, but Craddock had certainly done that—he’d profited from it, in fact.
The Moon Man made his way to a small hallway just behind the platform upon which Craddock was standing. True to the rumors he’d heard, the Moon Man saw that Craddock had revealed a small bag filled with stacks of money. The millionaire’s words burned into the hero’s mind: “And so, this amount before you is only the beginning. This money comes from those investors who have wisely chosen to invest in the Craddock Plaza project! Just think how much more we’ll all make once the Plaza is open for business!”
“Just like the idle rich—you have to boast about every little penny!” The Moon Man’s words were punctuated by his sudden appearance from the shadows, eliciting a flurry of screams from the crowd. Two armed men—private security for Craddock—moved forward but the Moon Man dispatched each of them with well-placed shots that knocked their guns right out of their hands.
Craddock remained frozen in place, the bag full of money held in one shaking hand. “No! This is my money! This is my house!”
“That money belongs to the good citizens of Great City,” the Moon Man hissed quietly. Realizing that the façade of the Moon Man carried great power, however, he shouted “I’m taking it for myself! Now fork it over!”
The Moon Man snatched the bag from Craddock, whirled about with his cloak billowing behind him. He charged from the room, leaping through a window that he’d noticed was left ajar. Outside the mansion, he found a waiting roadster, with the engine idling. A massive brute of a man, no-necked and bearing a cauliflower ear, leaned out from the driver’s side window. It was Ned “Angel” Dargan, a former prize fighter who had become the Moon Man’s ambassador to the poor and needy.
“Angel! Take this and go!” The Moon Man shoved the bag of money through the window, beginning to strip himself out of his uniform at the same time. Within seconds, the helmet, gloves and cloak were in the car, as well.
“What about your case, boss?”
“I’ll get it later, Angel.” Thatcher smoothed his hair down and stepped back. “I’ll meet you back at our base. Go ahead and start passing out the cash—the orphanage on Fifth Street would be a good place to start.”
Angel nodded and pressed the accelerator, roaring away in a cloud of dust. Thatcher, meanwhile, moved to join the large crowd of frightened people that were gathering on the front lawn of Craddock’s expansive property. He pushed through them until he was inside, finally locating the party’s host. The terrified millionaire was still standing right where the Moon Man had left him.
“Mr. Craddock! I’m with the Great City police!”
Craddock stared at him, his shock slowly replacing with anger. “Did you catch him? That damned thief made off with my money!”
“We’ve been after the Moon Man for ages, I’m afraid. I took off after him but he had a car waiting.”
“Worthless police!” Craddock exclaimed. He shoved Thatcher aside, moving towards the exit. “I’ll take care of him my own way if I have to…”
Thatcher watched him go, feeling quite satisfied. He’d gained a good bit of loot tonight, enough to help a lot of needy people… and he’d been able to stick it to a slick operator like Craddock while doing so.
“You look like the cat that ate the canary,” Sue whispered, sashaying up beside him. “My dad’s on his way—I called in the tip.”
“Good girl,” Steve replied. He put an arm around her shoulders and gave her a squeeze. “Let’s go greet him, shall we?”
CHAPTER III
The Golden Dagger
Max Davies perilously balanced on a thin stretch of rock, while the ocean waves crashed down below. He wore the long black cloak of the Peregrine, which was flapping wildly in the strong winds, making it difficult for him to maintain his balance. From the direction he’d come he heard the sounds of pursuit: Nazis, at least four of them, each armed with automatic weapons. They had zealously guarded the prize which Max now clutched against his chest: an ancient manuscript describing, in detail, the treasures of the Knights Templar. Though some of the details within could have increased his wealth immensely, Max had no interest in such. He had stolen the book from the German occultists because it held the true origins of a golden dagger that he had held in his possession for several years.
Max had a slightly olive complexion to his skin and wavy black hair, the sort that made women want to run their fingers through it. He favored well-tailored suits and wide-brimmed hats, but today his handsome features were hidden beneath a billowing cloak and a small domino-style mask that ended in a bird-like “beak” over his nose.
The Peregrine moved forward, trying to make it to the other side of the mountain before the Nazis caught up to him. He took his steps cautiously, aware that there would be no hope of survival if he fell the more than two hundred feet to the surf below. The jungles of Brazil were not his usual stomping grounds and they came with dangers that he was not normally faced with in Atlanta.
He had just stepped foot on the other side when a voice bellowed after him. “Thief!” the man yelled in German. Max understood him well enough, for he was fluent in almost every language on Earth.
Replying in the man’s same tongue, the Peregrine answered, “This book doesn’t belong to you either, my friend! Just be glad I didn’t kill you when I had the chance!”
The scarred visage of his opponent darkened in rage. “I will hunt you down, Herr Peregrine! I will make sure you die—slowly and painfully!”
The Peregrine turned, ignoring the threats. He had heard similar things before and never paid them any heed. The scar on his left palm burned incessantly, but that was nothing new either. He had received it as a parting “gift” from a demonic entity three months ago and its presence had made his work all the more difficult. Those with occult senses could now trace his movements, making it nearly impossible for him to sneak up on them. That had led to a bout of gunfire earlier in the evening, but he’d escaped unscathed.
At the base of the mountain, he found one more disappointment, however. Two of the Nazis had found his modified car, a pitch-black vehicle that made no sound whatsoever and which could travel several hundred miles on a single fueling.
The first of them, a broad-shouldered brute with a short, bristled haircut whirled to face him. “So! This odd car does belong to you…”
“Brilliant deduction, Mr. Holmes,” the Peregrine taunted. He slipped the manuscript into the folds of his cloak, pulling forth two pistols of his own. “Why don’t you and Fritz back away from the car?”
The second man sneered, but waited for the first to give the order to fire. The broad-shouldered man merely smiled, keeping his gun pointed at the Peregrine’s chest. Overhead, the moon hung full in the sky and the hot, humid air seemed particularly oppressive.
“Herr Peregrine, we have no desire to kill you… but we will, if need be. Who do you work for? Some Zionist guild, perhaps?”