Tales of the Red Panda: The Crime Cabal

by Gregg Taylor

  “I’m sorry for what happened to her!” Parker called from the floor. “But a suicide mission won’t bring her back!”

  The Red Panda froze. “You’re making a rather large assumption, Parker. If she was killed, nothing else matters but making sure these savages never hurt another person. But I don’t believe that.”

  “You think she… That she could have…”

  “I don’t know.” The Red Panda turned his head. “The explosions at Northcott’s and the Golden Goose were massive. Beyond any reasonable scale, but without any finesse. Anyone with access to enough high explosives and no regard for human life could have set those off. But tonight? That was precision work. Both in the alley and in the house. Those charges were sequenced by a master.”

  “But… but why?” Parker stammered.

  “To drive us into that room, and knock the floor out from underneath us.”

  “And then drop the ceiling.”

  “To cover the trail, yes,” the Red Panda continued. “Which it did with great efficiency. But I’m inclined to think those charges were set with more in mind than murder. I think they were after insurance.”

  “That’s why you didn’t ask Bermel about the membership of this Crime Cabal, or for incriminating evidence?”

  “That, and the fact that the hearsay evidence of a dead man would be utterly worthless in a court of law, Constable. You should know that.”

  “What are you going to do? That headquarters Bermel described… It sounds impregnable.”

  “It was designed to be so,” the Red Panda said seriously. “But doing the impossible is only difficult if you insist on living through it.”

  “How can you joke about this?” Parker protested.

  “Constable Parker,” the masked man said, “I cannot impress upon you just how serious I am. If this Crime Cabal has taken the Flying Squirrel prisoner, they will have taken her to the most secure location they can.”

  “Right to their headquarters!”

  “God help them, yes,” the Red Panda said with a raised eyebrow.

  “I don’t understand,” Parker said.

  “I can’t imagine a worse mistake anyone could ever make than to assume that young woman to be helpless. Ever. But even she won’t be able to fight her way out of that fortress alone.”

  “Neither will you. What if she… what if she isn’t in there?”

  “Then it all comes down.” The Red Panda turned away.

  “I’m coming with you,” Parker insisted.

  The Red Panda seemed surprised. “You’re not invited,” he said seriously.

  Parker puffed up his chest. “You said it yourself, it’s my fault if she’s been taken, and it’s my fault if she’s been killed.”

  “That was unfair. The fault is also mine. And mostly theirs.”

  “I can’t live with my share of that.” Parker stuck his chin out. His eyes blazed.

  The Red Panda looked at the young police officer for a long moment. There was a strength about him, an air of nobility in sacrifice that he wore well.

  “You understand,” the Red Panda said simply, “that we fight to the last breath. That we never give up until the job is done. And that I don’t really expect us to come back.”

  Parker swallowed hard, but didn’t flinch. “I’m coming with you,” he said.

  “Fine.” The Red Panda turned and walked away, fast. Parker was so surprised he almost forgot to follow.

  “Do you know what we’ll be up against?” Parker asked as they hurried into the night.

  “I have a general idea,” the masked man said as he ran. “Those explosions can only be the work of one man. I don’t know how he can still be alive, but at last I know the identity of our Wild Card!”

  Twenty-Six

  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 care
fully, 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.

  “You are a lovely thing, you know,” he said, meaning it.

  “Thanks. I try and keep in shape,” she sassed. “What about you? You’re awful mobile for a dead man.”

  “Who said I was dead?” Chaos seemed genuinely surprised.

  “Well,” the Squirrel began, “last I’d heard, you’d stolen Doctor Chronopolis’ time machine and the Boss led a cadre of mystery men an’ heroes back in after you to keep you from rewriting history.”

  “Ah, yes,” he smiled, as if recalling a pleasant memory.

  “And they wrecked your machine and left you drifting between times. Which sounded kind of dead to me.”

  “Yes,” Kid Chaos agreed. “For quite a while I would have agreed with you. It took me longer than you could possibly imagine to get free and return home. Fortunately, since I was outside time, I did not age, and could not die.” His gaze turned darker. “I have had a long eternity to contemplate my vengeance against your Red Panda. And these bungling fools will provide me with that at last, beginning with you, my pretty. Beginning with you.”

  She smiled coyly at the supervillain. “I wondered why you were slumming like this.” Something caught her eye. A raised area under his shirt, near his heart. “You wearin’ some new costume jewelry, Chaos? Wired up to what passes for your heart for good measure?”

  “Such an observant girl,” he smiled. “You can’t imagine I’m going to tell you what it is for.”

  At that moment, Professor Zombie glided up alongside Chaos, and regarded the Flying Squirrel with a cold, passionless gaze. Kit met Zombie’s eyes and a smile began to play about her lips. She looked from Zombie, to Chaos, to the device hidden on Chaos’ chest. At last she began to laugh.