Fan Fiction: First-Hand Accounts
The Life of an Agent

  New York City - April 1932

  The Russian man in the brown trench coat had moved through the city at a very uneven pace, as if he knew he was being followed. He was definitely a killer and, as near as the man following him could figure, he was heading somewhere important, a meeting perhaps. The night was nearly black as pitch as the tall, suspicious looking man walked along the cold sidewalk and crossed the threshold of a privately owned pizzeria on 9th Street.

  Another gentleman, a tanned skinned, clean-cut Caucasian in a dark gray overcoat and matching fedora hat, had been tracking the Russian all evening. He lit a match and put it to his watch. It was near 11:00 p.m. He hurriedly but cautiously followed the Russian looking gentleman and casually entered the pizzeria.

  The place was warm and smelled of fresh breads, premium cheeses and the finest Italian meats. But it was also empty save for the establishment's owner who was indulging in a late read of the day's news via The New York Classic. The Russian was nowhere to be found, but his brown trench coat was hung on the back of a chair near a rear exit. Moving effortlessly through the place, the man in the overcoat approached the food counter and spoke to the proprietor.

  "A man came in here a few minutes ago. Can you tell me where I can find him?"

  "Look, pal, nobody's been in my place for hours," the owner barked angrily. "Now do you want a late night snack or you wanna get the hell out?"

  "I'll take a fresh slice of your spinach pie," the visitor in the overcoat consented with a malicious smile.

  In a few moments the balding, smelly pizza vendor came back to the counter with a hot metal plate full of delicious, cheesy spinach pie. Quickly the man put on a pair of black leather gloves, grabbed the hot plate of spinach pie and hurled it at the owner. The poor man attempted a shriek as the hot food scalded his body, but before he could make a sound, his patron slammed the metal plate hard into the man's head. As the man was knocked unconscious, his motionless body fell to the floor.

  Wasting no more time, the man entered a small back room, stumbling upon a meeting between six shady looking men who were sitting at a large table. Noticing his coatless quarry among them, he pulled his weapon of personal choice, a .22 short automatic pistol.

  "Who the hell are you?" one of the other men demanded, looking up at the trespasser. "This is a private meeting."

  "This one's been following me," the coatless Russian declared. "I've noticed you all day. You've got about 10 seconds to get your ugly, yellow, no-good keester outta here, before my boys pump your guts full of lead."

  "Not before I get some information," inisted the Caucasian man in the overcoat, aiming his gun.

  "Oh?" the Russian mocked. "He wants information boys," he continued, laughing towards his colleagues. "We've got a hot tip for you," he declared, swiftly clapping his hands.

  Suddenly, the thugs picked up crowbars from a back table and moved towards the intruder, backing him into a corner. He got off one shot, striking a man in the head, but before he could fire again, another goon lunged for him, butting the gun from his hands. As the gun soared from his hands, the Russian man he had been following all night caught the weapon almost effortlessly. The man in the overcoat looked on, wide-eyed, as the four remaining thugs moved closer towards him with their armaments, ready to kill their intruder.

  From out of nothingness came a shape that appeared in a dark corner of the backroom. It stood, frozen and unnoticed. As the man in the overcoat tried to fight off the armed thugs, he was beaten and bruised until finally the shape interfered, standing up straighter than an arrow, revealing itself to be a man, The Shadow, dressed in a black cloak and broad-brimmed slouch hat. With two large.45 automatic pistols in hand, the mysterious figure opened fire on the entire room. Every thug contorted and cringed as such high caliber ammunition hit them, until ultimately they all collapsed to the floor.

  "Whoa!" the man in the overcoat and fedora exclaimed. "That was impressive."

  "What is your name?" The Shadow questioned, staring purposefully at the man.

  "I go by the alias, Hawkeye. It was a name given to me years ago by a notorious mobster."

  "I have watched you work for some time, Mr. Hawkeye. You have a quick wit and are an excellent man hunter," The Shadow complimented.

  "I had some pretty good training," Hawkeye acknowledged with a grin. "Why exactly did you kill these guys but spare me?"

  "I wish to recruit you," The Shadow informed.

  "Me work for you?" Hawkeye was intrigued. "Go on."

  "I will use your talent for tracking as a weapon against the underworld of this city and the world."

  "Hold on a minute. You do realize that I am actually a reformed spy, right? I have connections."

  "Exactly," The Shadow affirmed.

  "So, are we talking strictly undercover work? You're just one man. Shouldn't I work for an organization? I'm sure the pay would be better."

  "You will become one of many in my network of agents. It is not a question of money. You will be rewarded handsomely for your endeavors. Of course if you would rather be stuck laboring for the mafia then so be it. I will bring you down eventually. The choice is yours."

  "I never said I wasn't interested. In fact, I'm in."

  "Good. All that is required now is your pledge of full obedience to The Shadow."

  "Is that what you call yourself? Did you get your name from a mobster too?" Hawkeye joked.

  "If you would rather joke, then you are wasting my time," The Shadow stated sternly, turning to walk away.

  "Okay, fine. I pledge my allegiance to — ".

  "Very well. I will contact you soon enough with instructions."

  "How will I know what to look for?"

  "You'll know," The Shadow promised. "As for now, I must go. The night is young and there's work to be done."

  "Well, then before you go, I guess I should thank you for saving my life," Hawkeye suggested.

  "Don't thank me now; just give me your best work when I require it."

  "You got it," Hawkeye assured, shaking his new master's hand.