Tales of the Red Panda: The Crime Cabal (11 page)

Sampson reached for the .45 from the back of his belt. An instant
before he could draw, the inevitable happened. One of the giants swung his arm
in a mighty uppercut. Sampson could tell from the reaction of the arm that the
massive guard had connected with something. An instant later, the form of the
Red Panda became visible to his eyes, arcing through the air. A hundredth of a
second later the chief’s body slammed against the wall with terrible force and
slumped to the ground.

Sampson heard a gasp behind him and turned quickly. Forty feet away, he
could see the mental projection of the man in the mask fade before his eyes as
the real Red Panda struggled with consciousness. But the gasp had come from
twenty feet back and to his left. It was the stranger in the waiter’s uniform
who had attracted so much attention earlier. Before Sampson could move to
intercept him, the stranger raced forward, drawing a .38 revolver and calling
at the top of his voice as he did so,

“Hey, you! Hold it right there!”

The massive forms of the bruisers stopped in their tracks. They looked
back at the charging form of the supposed waiter, and two of them broke towards
him. The other two carried on towards the helpless form of Sampson’s
crime-fighting chief.

The Red Panda struggled gamely to his feet and managed to dodge one
crippling blow from the first of the gargantuan gangsters, but was not so lucky
with the second. He was struck a glancing blow that nearly put him through the
wall. Another ham-like fist was thrust at him at terrible speed. This one he
managed to parry with a judo-throw, forcing one assailant into the other and
sending both off-balance.

The Red Panda seemed in control for the moment. Sampson halted his
charge and turned to the stranger. As the two giants barreled down upon him,
the waiter stopped and leveled his .38 at the first charging brute. He did not
aim for the man’s centre mass, or for his head, but with the cool air of one
that had seen such creatures before, he aimed and fired at the man’s left
kneecap.

Sampson could not believe his eyes. The stranger’s aim was true, but
the creature charging him barely slowed down, in spite of what must have been
unbearable pain. The stranger fired five more shots in rapid succession at the
same target, and each found their mark. At last, when the sixth bullet collided
with the huge leg, there was not enough of the bone left to support the weight
of the great man. He fell to the floor with a crash, though Sampson could see
that the giant was still crawling, still trying to reach this mysterious new
ally.

The second giant vaulted over the crippled form of the first without a
glance back. The stranger was racing to reload his pistol. Too late he thought
to turn and run, and he was hurled across the room with a mighty blow, crashing
against one of the support pillars with a sickening thud. Still the second
giant raced on towards the unconscious man. Sampson knew that the man didn’t
have a chance. The Red Panda was on his feet at least. Sampson made his choice.
He pulled something from his jacket pocket and raced straight towards the
oncoming freight train of a man. He could see only cold fury in the man’s eyes
as they closed at top speed. He could not even tell for certain if the man saw
him, so intently was he focused on destroying his target. Sampson passed the
prone form of the stranger just seconds before colliding with the giant. At the
last possible second he dropped and rolled, somersaulting between the onrushing
feet of his attacker. As he came up behind the man, who had hardly slowed down
at their near-collision, Sampson turned his body and clipped the device he had
pulled from his pocket on the back of the giant’s belt.

Sampson scurried away as the big man turned, baffled at the agent’s
disappearance. Gregor struggled to his feet, fumbling for the switch in his
pocket as he did so. With his right hand he hauled forth the .45 and pumped two
bullets into the chest of the giant man. What he saw was exactly what he
expected, but still it shocked him. The man took the bullets with no reaction
at all, beyond a small shrug in response to the concussive force of the blow.
The giant seemed only confused between his two possible targets. Sampson
decided to make his choice easy for him and began to run back onto the open
floor of the ruined gambling den.

As he had hoped, the moving target became more interesting to the
beast-like instincts of the giant, and he lurched after Sampson’s retreating
form. The giant man never heard the words that Sampson was quietly counting
down as he ran.

“Three… two… one.”

At last, the backup explosive device that Sampson had brought with him
on his mission exploded, tearing the giant man in half as it did so. Sampson
could hardly bear to look as the form of the mighty combatant slumped to the
floor, but it seemed to him the man was still conscious, still aware… still
struggling to reach him somehow.

A cry from across the room drew his attention away. The battle was not
going well for the Red Panda. Weakened by the initial attack and hurt since
then, he was playing a losing game of tag with the two superhuman giants that
remained. Sampson began to charge anew to his chief’s aid, but what he could
possibly do against such odds he could not begin to imagine.

At that instant, a mighty swipe from the larger of the two caught the
Red Panda in the side of the head and he staggered back. He struggled to right
himself, but it was to no avail, and he slumped to the floor, helpless.

Gregor Sampson was beside himself. He was still too far away to intercede,
except with his .45 which he knew to be useless. He raced as fast as he could,
knowing he could never get to his chief’s side in time to save him, even if it
were in his power to do so. Suddenly, he heard a familiar voice calling from
nowhere.

“Hey, Fatty!” the Flying Squirrel’s voice rang. “Over here!”

Both giants paused, confused at this voice that seemed to come from the
corner of the room, which they could plainly see was empty.

“What’s the matter? Too slow to take on one little girl, or just too
stupid?” the voice taunted. “Too much pie, that’s your trouble, Tubby!”

Whether these beasts of men understood her words or not, it was
impossible to say, but they each lumbered forth to see where the voice had come
from. Still it called to them, always just a few feet out of reach. Behind the
next chair, or from a shadow nearby. Twenty seconds after they had heard the
voice for the first time, both giants found themselves in the corner of the
room. They stood there an instant, too baffled to react. Then they heard a
rolling noise from behind them. One looked to his feet and saw the three hand
grenades she had thrown after them. The other looked back and saw the lithe
form of the Flying Squirrel blowing them a kiss as the grenades detonated and
tore them both to pieces.

The Flying Squirrel turned like light and raced towards the unconscious
form of the Red Panda.

“Sampson!” she called to the agent. “Help me with the Boss!”

Sampson raced towards her. “Is he all right?”

“When he’s all right he doesn’t usually lie on the floor, Gregor. Let’s
get him out of here!” She struggled to pull the big man to his feet. “Those
pineapples blew a hole in the wall… we’ll take him out that way! Come on,
before this place goes sky-high!”

“What?” Sampson was stunned. “You rigged the place to blow?”

She gave him a withering look. “I don’t usually do that without an exit
plan, Gregor. It’s more of a guideline than a hard and fast rule. Come on!”

Sampson suddenly remembered the stranger who had stood with them
against the attackers. “Wait!” he called. “That other fellow!”

“What other fellow?” she snapped.

Sampson turned and spotted the man struggling to his feet.

“Him!” he said, pointing.

The Flying Squirrel’s mouth dropped open in surprise as she recognized
the bruised and battered form of Constable Andy Parker.

“What’s
he
doing here?” she
roared. “Never mind! Get him!”

Sampson turned and raced back to help Parker.

“The whole place is wired top to bottom!” she called after him as she
struggled to hoist the Red Panda to her shoulders in a fireman’s carry. “I
managed to cut the remote detonators, but I think there was a backup timer. We
have to get outta here now!”

Sampson hauled Parker up like a sack of potatoes. “This whole thing was
a setup!” he called.

“Ya think? Get him outta here!” She disappeared through the smoking
hole in the wall opened by the blast, carrying the chief with her.

Sampson pulled the half-stunned Parker along with him, up the main
staircase and out through the once-grand ballroom of the Golden Goose, which
also lay in ruins. He heard men’s voices calling behind them, yelling for them
to stop. They struggled on. As they neared the side door into the alleyway,
Sampson fired twice blindly over his shoulder, the roar of the mighty .45
sending their pursuers scurrying.

He slammed against the door, the force of the contact knocking the
breath out of him for a moment. The alley was dark and quiet, the whine of
police sirens approaching from far-off. The man he was pulling along seemed to
be regaining his senses. He tried to pull away from Sampson for a moment.

“Don’t get any ideas, kid. If we’re gonna get out of this, we’ve got to
stick together.”

“Where are we going?” the man protested.

Sampson suddenly heard a series of powerful roars coming from the top
of the building they had just left.

“Away from here!” he answered. “Come on!”

The two men raced on together into the darkness of the alleyway as the
once-grand Golden Goose nightclub burst into pieces around them.

The Red Panda’s eyes opened slowly. He struggled to focus on the
unfamiliar ceiling for a moment, to recall just why he–

He sat up with a start and immediately wished he hadn’t. His head
throbbed and he felt a hot rush of blood to his cheeks. He felt a sharp pain in
his side that made him gasp a little for breath and a rush of nausea set in. He
steadied himself with his hand against the mattress beneath him and pushed
himself further up. He had to try and remember what had happened, where he was…

He stopped suddenly as his eyes focused on Kit, sitting in a hard
wooden chair at the end of the bed. Her feet were propped up on the end of his
cot and she looked for all the world like she had been in the same position for
hours, which he supposed she probably had. Her chin was resting in the palm of
her left hand, which covered most of her mouth, but not enough to hide the
crooked half-smile that played about her face as he rose. She was wearing an
oversized black sweater, rolled up at the sleeves. Her large, brown eyes seemed
to look straight through him, unblinking. Her hair was piled atop her head in a
shape something not unlike a red mop. It was a phenomenon she called
“cowl-head,” and it happened whenever she’d had the costume on for a long
while. She did her best to keep him from ever seeing it, mostly because she
didn’t have a clue how appealing he found it.

At last she blinked slowly. “You’re looking at my cowl-head, aren’t
you?”

He sighed and fell back onto the hard cot without a word.

“This is the thanks I get,” she smiled.

He stared at the ceiling, hoping quietly that it would stop spinning
soon, and began to quiz her, rapid-fire.

“Where are we?”

“One of the safe houses.”

“Which one?”

“Above the Black Horse.”

“How long was I out?”

“About seven hours. Feel fresh as a daisy?”

“No.”

“Me neither.”

“One of those monsters knocked me out.”

“I noticed that.”

“How did I–”

“I carried you. And you might want to think about ditching some of the
anvils in your pockets if we try that again. I’d look lousy in a truss. It’d
mess up the lines of the suit.”

He groaned a little. “Did you sleep?”

She still hadn’t budged. “Me? Like a baby.”

“Really?”

She looked at him like he was a small, dim child of whom she was
inordinately fond.

“No,” she said at last and got to her feet.

“You hungry?” she said, padding off to the other room.

“Coffee,” he said out of need more than enthusiasm.

“No coffee,” she called. “Doctor Carlson said you might be dehydrated.”

“Doctor Carlson was here?” he seemed surprised.

Her head popped back around the doorway. “Have you ever noticed me
sneaking away to medical school in my many leisure hours?” she said, batting
her eyelashes.

“Not as such, no.”

“Then can we assume for the moment that I called the Doctor?”

His hand felt for the bare skin of his face, more by instinct than
conscious worry. She smiled again.

“And can we also assume that I made him leave your mask on while he
examined you? Just on account of my not being an idiot.” Her head popped back
around the corner.

“What did Doctor Carlson say?” guessing she was enjoying the banter and
not actually offended by his gaffe.

“You mean besides the usual warnings of our inevitable and gruesome
demise if we keep this up?” she called from what he guessed must be the
kitchen.

“Yes, besides that,” he said, noticing his mask and gloves on the side
table, and hat hanging on a nail in the wall.

“He said you’ve probably got a concussion, and you’ve certainly got at
least two broken ribs, and we were lucky you weren’t killed or crippled and I
should keep you in bed for at least a few days.” She reappeared carrying a
large, steaming bowl. “I tried to explain that I wasn’t that kind of
girl–”

“Kit Baxter, behave yourself,” he said, raising himself up, slowly this
time.

“Yes, Boss,” she grinned, setting the bowl down proudly. She held out a
spoon.

“Soup,” she explained.

He regarded the watery concoction with suspicion. He looked up at Kit
with a raised eyebrow.

“I didn’t say it was good, I said it was soup,” she said. “Eat it or
wear it.”

“You missed your calling, Miss Baxter. You should have been a nurse.”

“Ya think?”

“Anything but a cook,” he said, grimacing as he pulled the spoon from
his mouth.

“I opened a tin. This is as domestic as I get. You want the complete
list of fellas I’ve ever made soup for?”

This thought seemed to intrigue him for some reason. “All right,” he
said.

Her cheeks flushed bright red. “It’s just you, dimwit. You were kinda
supposed to infer that… Your banter’s off this morning.”

“I was knocked silly by two ogres, remember?”

“Ah, yes,” she said. “I thought there was something.”

“What do we know that we didn’t yesterday?” he said between spoonfuls
of the much-maligned soup.

“Beans all. Once Doc Carlson said you were out of the woods, I started
going through the papers I cleaned out of the offices while you were playing
Boy Distraction.”

“Or in this case, Boy Punching-bag,” he said, wincing at another
shooting pain from his ribs.

“As you say. They were phonies.”

His brows furrowed. “What were phonies?”

“The records. The papers. They look good, but they’re nonsense. All of
‘em.”

He held the spoon in mid-air as he wrestled with this. “Are they in
code?”

“You’re spilling,” she deadpanned. “And they’re not in code, they’re
gibberish. Back to front. The ledgers, the papers, all of ‘em.”

“They re-opened the gambling room at the Golden Goose less than a week
ago, and they’ve already cooked up a phony set of books?” he said in disbelief.

“They re-opened it a week ago and they closed it last night. In kind of
a grand fashion. The whole place was wired.”

“Wired? Bugged wired?” he said with a shake of his head.

“Kaboom wired,” she replied. “They blew the whole place to kingdom
come. Remote detonator with a timer backup. Eat your soup.”

“What are you saying?” He wondered if he was having trouble following
this.

“Eat your soup,” she insisted, “and I’ll sum it up. Someone re-opened
the gambling room at the Golden Goose at no small expense. It would have taken
maybe a hundred grand just to re-outfit the joint and make it look pretty.”

“At least,” he agreed.

She arched an eyebrow that dared him to stop eating again. “They also
would have had to buy off or muscle out the legitimate owners of the club. In
either case, nobody’s seen them for a couple of weeks, so they’re probably in
the lake somewhere.”

He nodded, but continued eating.

“They made this place all nice and fancy, put the word out on the
street, filled it up with rich swells and started raking it in. They laid out a
lot of coin, and put even more in the hands of the cashiers to run the place.
But they wired the place nine ways from Sunday. And it wasn’t a small ‘boom’
either. They blew up the building and started a fire that wrecked half the
block. This after they filled the offices with files an’ papers that don’t mean
a thing.”

“Well,” he said at last, “why put real records in a place you intend to
blow up at the first sign of trouble?”

“Why put
any
records in a
place you intend to blow up at the first sign of trouble?” she countered.

“It’s an interesting point,” he admitted.

“An’ that’s not all, Boss. You should’ve seen the safe they had laid
in. Brand new an’ fancy as all get out. Took me almost five minutes to crack.”

He gave a low whistle. Any safe that took his partner that long to get
past would be expensive indeed.

“Well might you whistle,” she smiled, “but when I got it open, that’s
all that was inside.” She pointed to her left at a not-at-all unimpressive pile
of cash on the table.

He raised an eyebrow. “How much?”

“Seventy-six thousand, three hundred and twelve.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s all. Just about the bare minimum you could run an operation
like that on, but not a quarter of what you’d expect to find.”

He smiled. “You carried that
and
me?”

She flushed. “There wasn’t time to pull the satchel from the harness.
Besides, that’ll feed a lot of orphans, even if it won’t break the bank for
these creeps.”

“It is still quite bit to lose if your intention was to blow it to
smithereens,” he frowned.

“It doesn’t play any other way, Boss. The phony records, the safe… They
knew our playbook backwards. They wanted to keep me busy while they sent the
goon squad out to deal with you. And then keep us there ‘til they could bring
the house down with us in it. This was the most expensive bushwhack in
history.”

“And we might infer that we were right to assume a connection with the
outfit behind the protection rackets. Their wrecking crews were… similarly
impressive.”

“Human dump trucks you mean. Yeah, I noticed that.”

“And they not only shrug off bullets, they seem to be invulnerable to
hypnosis,” he said, perturbed. “Not only were they not fooled by my mental
projection, they didn’t even seem to see it.”

She frowned. “They didn’t seem that bright. Besides, the
Ventrilloquator worked just fine. Doesn’t that seem funny?”

He shrugged. “The Ventrilloquator actually does throw your voice. My
hypnotic projections just trick the higher brain functions into ignoring what
their senses are saying.”

“So what are we dealing with here?” she said, running her fingers
through her hair in an unconscious effort to mend her cowl-head.

“Some kind of automaton,” he guessed, “or…”

A toothy grin spread across her face. “I love it when you trail off
like that. It usually means a crazy scheme is coming.”

“I might just
be
crazy for
thinking this, Kit. We need to go see Jack Peters.” He rose suddenly to his
feet, looking only slightly unsteady on his pins in doing so.

“No siree,” she protested. “No crime-fighting for you just yet, buster.
I’m taking you home. I’ll call Petey from the lair, and try again to get hold
of Sampson.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Try again to
what
?”