Double Trouble! 7.

I changed into my Girl in Grey costume in the secret base, which is concealed inside an apparently abandoned building around the corner. My computers were working furiously as Scruff did her stuff with the databases. I wonder how I managed without her. All that computer stuff takes up so much time when I could be training or fighting crime. Scruff just loves it. I hoped she'd be able to hack into the Black Kitten's Blogger account too. Yes, I was still feeling catty.
"So, where to?" The Outsider asked.
"My choice. I don't let you drive unless I can't. You don't have a licence."
"I'm black and smoky and officially dead," Emily pointed out. "I can't get one."
"Point taken," I agreed. "But you're also about twelve."
"I can still drive. Where are we going?"
"After the Black Kitten."

The powerful grey car roared out into the night. The radio bleeped and I pushed a button on the ultra high-tech dashboard.
"Hello?"
"Hi, Grey, it's Scruff. I just thought you might like to know that Mr. Moriarty's vowed vengeance on the Black Kitten. He's threatening to do all sorts of nasty things to her."
"Par for the course, I suppose. Any progress on identifying her?"
"Three possible candidates, Belle Olivers, Wendy Sanders and Pat Malone."
"You're kidding me about the last one?"
"No, Pat Malone. Patricia..."
"I know, but still. Just three?"
"Just them."
"Great. Who lives closest to us?"
"Wendy Sanders. I'm sending her address to you now."
That's what I love about computers. And with my state-of-the-art navigation system, Scruff could just send me the address and the computer would tell me where it was.
It told me. I drove there as fast as I could, only to see three huge East End toughs pile out of a car parked outside the building in which Miss Sanders lived.
Apparently Mr. Moriarty had the same idea I did. Only he was a whole lot less subtle than I am.
One of the ape-like thugs pushed a button on the intercom. I quickly parked and juped out of the car.
"Are you boys looking for someone?" I asked seductively, strolling up behind them.
The thugs whirled. Clumsy, I thought, former boxers who couldn't cut the mustard in the ring.
"It's 'er!" one cried. The smaller, intelligent man who was directing them shook his head.
"No, you idiot, that's the Girl in Grey."
"Just as you say," I affirmed. I felt rather annoyed that they'd speak of me like that.
"'Ere!" another thug suddenly cried. "Ain't she the enemy too?"
"Yes," the intelligent-looking man agreed. "Take her to pieces."