Tales of the Red Panda: The Crime Cabal (17 page)

The Flying Squirrel was bound by the arms to a bar that ran along the
wall of the laboratory, six inches above her head. She had been left there in
semi-darkness for almost an hour, listening to the sounds of Professor Zombie’s
ghouls scrabbling in the shadows. She could see the forms of two more men, each
of tremendous size, strapped to some equipment on the other side of the lab.
She could tell by the pallor of their skin that the process that was to
transform them into soldiers of the undead army of crime had not yet been
completed. But she could also see that they were no longer what anyone would
call alive. She had cursed under her breath at having arrived too late to save
two more victims from Zombie’s clutches. And then she had bided her time.

Kit wondered if the silent treatment was meant to unnerve her, or if her
captors genuinely had no idea what to do with her. She had fallen through the
floorboards ahead of the explosion that brought down the ceiling. Fallen hard,
and hit the solid floor of the basement below with a force that had knocked her
cold.

She had no way of knowing how long she had been out, but when she came
to it was with a start, for fear that the fire was closing in. But wherever she
was, it was pitch black and there was no smell of smoke. The only scent was
that of the odd funk given off by Professor Zombie’s undead playmates. Even in
the darkness, it was not hard to work out that two of the great beasts were
carrying her, bound hand and foot, through a series of underground tunnels.

“These tunnels must stretch
right into the basement of the building they blew up,”
she had thought.
“I’ll bet they’re bringin’ me home to meet Mama!”

She had resisted the urge to try and break free of her captors. Even if
she could escape those two without being killed – no mean feat, as she
was deep underground in pitch darkness, with who knew how many other enemies
around – better to play possum and let them reveal the location of their
own secret headquarters.

“Won’t the Boss be peeved when
I get there before him?”
she
had thought, and then with a pang realized that she had no way of knowing if he
were free, or even still alive. She found it hard to imagine that they could
trap or kill him with such a device, but on the other hand, it had worked on
her. Her heart beat hard at the thought that he might be somewhere right now,
in need of her help.

She had smiled a little in the darkness at the thought of that.
Helpless he wasn’t, even with his broken ribs, which history suggested he would
never mention again no matter how much they hurt. Besides, she was the one
being shanghaied by two undead minions of organized crime. She thought it best
if she tried to worry about herself, and let him do the same. If he knew she’d
been taken, he would find her somehow.

“If
he knows,”
she had thought.
“He might think I’m…”

The image of the Red Panda thinking her dead was almost too much for
her. She had almost betrayed herself with her gasp, but her captors had
lumbered on at tremendous speed through the pitch darkness. Kit wondered if
they could see in the blackness, or if they had the route memorized, like
automatons.

“I’ll bet these tunnels lead
straight to their headquarters.”

She had almost betrayed herself again when she had realized she was
wrong – when her captors had pulled a canvas bag over her form and
carried her like a sack of potatoes up a steel ladder and onto street level. If
she broke for it now…

“We’d be no closer to ending
this,”
she had thought.

And so she had done something that the Flying Squirrel was unaccustomed
to: Nothing. But it had taken even more bravery than it would have to fight her
way out, regardless of the odds. For Kit Baxter was not one to shrink from a
fight. But she had to believe that if they had kept her alive, it was for a
reason. They must want–

“Insurance,”
she had thought.
“Insurance against the Boss!”

And at that, her heart had sung. Surely he must still be alive if they
were prepared to take her captive. If he were killed, or captured himself, why
go to all this trouble?

She had decided to accept this theory without further thought, before
she could talk herself out of it. She had felt herself thrown heavily into the
back of a truck. She had tried not to move, lest she was still being watched as
the truck lurched forth. Within the bag, she had moved very slowly and
carefully, reaching for her right hand with her left. She might not be able to
use her Radio Ring to send a message, but she could activate her locater
beacon…

She had groaned inwardly as she realized to her horror that the device
was not on her hand! It couldn’t have been taken. Who besides her and the Red
Panda knew what it was? It must have been lost in the fall. The truck had
turned a corner, hard. Nothing to do now but wait.

And wait she had. The ride was not long, and at its end she had been
lifted and carried again. As she heard great steel doors closing behind her,
she couldn’t help but wonder if she had done the right thing. Almost an hour
later, as she hung from the bar in the laboratory, she was still wondering. She
could hear some kind of hubbub, echoing down the concrete halls, but for a long
time she could make out nothing more. At long last the voices seemed to be
drawing nearer. The voices of dozens of men raised in anger, and getting
closer. Within the great swell of voices, Kit could make out phrases that were
clear,

“…This isn’t how we do business!”

“…Could’ve been any one of us!”

“…Who’s next? That’s what I’m saying!”

From her vantage point at the back of the lab on a raised level, Kit
couldn’t quite see the great, swinging double doors of the laboratory that she
had seen through her lashes when they brought her in, but she could tell that
the voices were getting closer. At last, with a clatter, the doors had been
flung open, and the throng of voices charged into the room. At the head of the
crowd, pursued by the other shouts, a single voice rang out in protest. Clear
and carrying, but somehow childlike in its protests. It was a voice the Flying
Squirrel remembered only too well.

“Now see here! Quiet down, you lot, and I mean it!”

The voices of the gangsters quelled reluctantly. The intimidating
atmosphere of the laboratory saw to that more than the orders of the protesting
voice.

“You all suffer from the illusion that the Crime Cabal is a democracy
of some kind!” the voice continued to a chorus of angry grumbles. “You’ve been
spoiled by weeks of having zombies do the heavy work and take most of the risks
while we reap the rewards! That’s the promise of this gang my friends, but
don’t let it make you go soft!”

“Is that what happened to Palmer and Bermel?” a voice called angrily.
“Did you reckon they’d gone soft?”

“Is that why you blew them to pieces?” called another.

“Palmer and Bermel knew what was at stake,” came the response. “It is
the sad nature of this line of work. Through no fault of their own, they had
become the weak links in our great chain. Those masked menaces knew of their
connection with the late, lamented Satchel Braun. And sooner or later that
knowledge would have been exploited to our mutual destruction! They knew…
knew
… that it was up to them to make the
situation right, or to die trying.” He finished on a somber, almost
grief-stricken note. “They gave their lives, that our enterprise may thrive.”

“Kind of leapin’ to conclusions, aren’t you, sir?” another voice came
to Kit’s ears. “The police band radio said there were bodies, but never how
many or who. How do you know Mitch an’ Case are dead? Unless you know full well
that nothing an’ nobody could have survived that blast.”

There was another general murmur.

“Of course,” the childlike voice protested in a note of panic, “I live
in hope that our comrades in arms will return to us unscathed. But in the end,
I was only following orders, just as each of us must.”

“Orders? What orders?”

“…And look what a marvelous prize we have taken in return for our
trouble! Why, gentlemen, I have no doubt that our worries are over from this
moment on!”

At that instant, the little man who was speaking moved into view,
followed by a crowd of angry toughs who gaped at the girl in the catsuit,
suspended as she was and bound at the hands. If he was expecting her to be
quietly unconscious, he had another thing coming.

“Well, well, well…,” she opened with a sneer, “Kid Chaos. You walking
tub of doughnut batter. I should have known.”

Chaos’ face fell, and he tried to ignore the snickers of the assembled
goons.

“My dear Flying Squirrel. I trust you slept well?” he smiled.

The reaction of the crowd was not quite what Kid Chaos had hoped for.

“Chaos, you idiot!” a voice called.

“How could you bring her
here
?”
cried another.

“Try to hold your water, gentlemen,” Chaos said sardonically. “The big,
bad small girl is quite securely tied.”

“Even if that’s true,” a man Kit recognized as “Legs” McIntyre
protested, “her boyfriend’s got an over-protective streak a mile wide, an’ a
tendency to get cranky. He’ll stop at nothing to get her out!”

“That’s just exactly right, Legs, my boy,” the little man smiled,
immensely pleased with himself. “We won’t know when, and we won’t know how. He
is who he is, after all. But when he does come for her, we’ll have him dead to
rights, in the one place in the world where we hold every card. This has always
been a fight to the finish, boys, ever since that very first meeting at the
High-Hat Club. For the enterprise of crime to thrive in this sordid little
burg, the Red Panda must die! And we will be the ones to do the job. Tonight!”

If Kid Chaos expected cheers, he was disappointed.

“You idiot!” one gangster yelled.

“You’ve murdered us all!” another said, fingering his pistol.

Kid Chaos raised his hands in protest.

“I was only following orders!” he cried.

“Orders? Whose orders?” McIntyre shouted.

“My orders!” came a voice from the catwalk above.

There was a collective gasp as the members of the Crime Cabal looked up
into the dim lights and flickering shadows of the laboratory’s upper levels and
saw Malcolm glaring down at them. At his right side stood Professor Zombie, a
smile playing about her face. At Malcolm’s left was Hook Henderson, his hand
resting inside his vest where he wore his heater, looking for all the world like
he had been promoted from malcontent to trusted lieutenant.

There was a buzz in the room below. Few had seen their chief since the
confrontation in this lab days before, and fewer still had heard his voice, but
it rang out now, calm and even, across the lab.

“I ordered that the prisoner be brought here,” Malcolm spoke again.

“But- but Mister Malcolm–,” McIntyre was startled. “Won’t this
just bring the Red Panda down on our heads?”

“I ordered that the prisoner be brought here,” Malcolm said again. “I
ordered the trap that finished Bermel and Palmer. It was the cost of doing
business.”

There was a smaller, discontented buzz amongst the crowd of toughs.
Finally one lanky young gangster in the crowd stepped up on the platform.

“Well, if that’s the way it is,” he said, drawing close to where Kit
hung, “I’m gonna see what this little gal’s real face looks like.”

Before anyone could cry out to stop him, he had drawn close to the
Flying Squirrel and laid his hand roughly on the front of her cowl. He meant to
tear the mask off and keep it as a trophy, but got a rude surprise instead.

As he tripped the security device in her mask, a powerful electrical
charge ripped through the young gangster’s body. Protected by the shielding
built into her costume, she only laughed in delight as the racketeer screamed
in pain, smoke rising from his hand and arm. At last, the charge cut out
automatically to conserve power, and the lanky young man fell to the floor in
agony.

“You should at least buy a girl flowers first,” she grinned.

“Why, you little–,” he said, springing to his feet, intending to
do her injury. He never had a chance. Her left leg shot into the air, wrapping
his left arm as he reached for her. She pulled his arm across his body and used
the motion granted to her by the slackening of her bonds to bring her right
foot across, shattering his arm at the elbow. The young gangster shrieked and
fell to the ground, having fainted from the pain. The assembled crowd of toughs
advanced on her, menacingly.

Suddenly a gunshot rang through the air. The members of the Crime Cabal
looked up at the catwalk to see that it was Hook Henderson who had fired.

“That’s enough!” he cried. “Isn’t it, Mister Malcolm?”

“Yes,” Malcolm said evenly. “That is enough.”

The crowd backed down, murmuring. Kid Chaos sauntered up to her,
smiling. He made sure to stay just beyond the reach of her legs.