Shot on Location by Helen Nielsen Page A

and low like a football player heading for the goal line. He was coming straight towards Brad, and then, from the garage behind him, moving without lights, roared a small car that screeched to a halt at the entrance to the street. Brad clung to the wall for safety. It wasn’t the car that hit him when something collided against his jaw and sent him sagging to the pavement; it was the fist of the running man, who had stopped in front of the car, had seen Brad in the light of the fire, and attacked without warning. He fought for consciousness as he fell to his knees. He tried to rise and was pulled up bodily by a pair of arms that seemed as strong as a vice. Stunned, he tried to focus on the face in front of him. Sweaty, excited, bright alert eyes—small, neatly trimmed beard.
    “Stephanos, get in the car!” cried a woman, from inside the car.
    He saw the door swing open. The woman was sitting behind the steering wheel.
    “Who is that?” she called.
    Brad expected another blow. He ducked his head, involuntarily.
    “I don’t know,” the man gasped, “but I can’t leave him here. We’ll have to take him with us.”
    “Hurry then—”
    He was forced into the front seat beside the girl. He could taste blood on his lips but he had no opportunity to fight back. The man squeezed into the seat beside him and slammed the door. Gears shifted and the car swung into the street—turning away from the direction of the lighted square. Still without lights, proceeding only by the light of the burning building, the woman drove at top speed. One block, two blocks—the firelight faded behind them as she turned into a small cross street and switched on the lights. Now the speed slackened. She drove carefully for two blocks and cut back towards the square. They reached a broader avenue, fully lighted and continued at a normal speed, as the familiar sound of the klaxons began a wailing chorus in the distance. Now they were just another vehicle driving in regular traffic.
    Brad turned his head and looked at the woman. It was the tour guide, Katerina. At almost the same instant she recognized him.
    “You—?” she gasped.
    “Do you know this man?” Stephanos demanded.
    Brad turned his head and looked at the man. He was young—no more than a boy. The brother. Brief, basic thoughts arranged themselves neatly in Brad’s confused mind.
    “Yes,” Katerina said. “I mean, no. I don’t know him but I have seen him. This morning at the Hilton.”
    “I saw him this morning too. He was standing just about where he was standing when I hit him. Who are you, Mister? Who are you working for?”
    “Stephanos!” Katerina scolded.
    “He must be working for somebody, to be hanging around that corner all the time.”
    Brad wiped the corner of his mouth with his hand and drew blood. Shock was giving place to anger. He had been slugged without provocation and he wanted to slug back. It was impossible in that crowded front seat.
    “I’m a tourist,” he said. “I’m an American tourist and I can stand on any damn corner I please. Who the hell are you?”
    He expected to get hit again—Stephanos had a more advantageous position. Instead, the boy laughed.
    “You’re a cocky one,” he said.
    “You stop this car and get out on the sidewalk with me and I’ll show you how cocky I am.”
    “And you like to fight. I, too, like to fight.”
    “Stephanos!” Katerina cried.
    “Stop the car at the next corner.”
    “I will not!”
    “Stop it. I’m not going to fight anyone. I don’t have time. Until we know who this American is I can’t have the others coming to the apartment. I have to warn them.”
    Reluctantly, Katerina slowed the car to a stop.
    “Be careful, Stephanos.”
    “I’m always careful. Go home and wait. You’ll hear from me within an hour for sure.”
    Stephanos opened the door to get out. Then he swung around and slapped his hands quickly over Brad’s pockets.
    “No pistol,” he said. “He may be telling the