by Gregg Taylor
“Good,” the Red Panda said. “I think I can get these off.”
“You can’t,” the Stranger said sadly.
“Yes, all right,” the Red Panda said, a smile playing about his lips, “we’ll call it a bet. But I need some equipment. Can you hang on here until tonight?”
“Where else have I to go?” Falconi asked.
The Red Panda smiled. “How quickly will you be able to trace the Eye once we have those bands off?”
Falconi shook his head. “I will need to be very close. If it were a simple matter, the Eye would have been traced centuries ago.”
Fenwick smiled at Kit. “I was going to take you across the river this afternoon,” he said, “but the Valley of the Kings is so beautiful at night.”
“Good times,” she grinned.
Sixteen
“The roof is clear,” the Flying Squirrel called, “you ‘bout ready to go?”
“They didn’t have a man up there?” he asked, surprised, as he fussed with his suitcase.
“They had two men up there,” she said, “but they’re gonna take a little nap now.”
“Did they see you coming?” he asked, removing a long, flat pouch from his gear.
“Do they ever?” she asked. “Besides, they were watching the stairs, not the hatch. I gassed ‘em and trussed them up like Christmas turkeys. What’s the hold up?”
“Those bands Max is sporting are well-made, but once you find the seams, the locking mechanism seems simple enough,” he said, opening the pouch and rolling it out. It held variations of some of their regular equipment – throwing stars, throwing knives and combat boomerangs lined with a metal edge.
“The lock is magic,” Kit said, confused.
“No,” he said, “the lock is a lock. It’s just protected by magic.”
“You say potato,” she replied with a very slight roll of her eyes.
“That’s where this comes in,” he said, holding aloft a lockpick set that looked identical to the one that she knew was in the inside left pocket of his coat.
“Lockpicks?” she asked. “Did you forget the protected by magic part?”
“I did not,” he smiled. “Do you remember how our old friend Doctor Chronopolis tries to hide the energy signature of the mystic items in his museum collection?”
She nodded. “Sure. He developed a special alloy that… I don’t know. Blocks magic.”
“It is highly resistant to the energy wavelengths associated with mystic powers,” he said.
“Right,” she replied, her brows furrowed. “That’s kind of what I…” She trailed off. “Are you telling me that those lockpicks are made of anti-magic metal?”
“Well,” he shrugged, “magic-resistant alloy, anyway.”
She frowned. “You keep saying the same thing as me but using different words.”
He thought about it for a moment. “I suppose that’s true,” he said in what Kit supposed was supposed to be an apology. “It occurred to me that the metal might have uses in practical crime-fighting, should we ever face another occult threat.”
“Hey!” she said excitedly, looking at the rest of the gear in the pouch he had just rolled open. “Aren’t you taking these?”
“I wasn’t planning on it,” he said.
She was flabbergasted. “Are all these goodies made with anti-magic whatsit?”
“I love it when you talk technical jargon,” he said in his best Kit Baxter voice, which was disturbingly good.
“Okay,” she deadpanned, “I deserved that. Answer the question.”
He shrugged, but nodded. “Yes,” he said, “but we haven’t had a chance to test them.”
She started emptying her utility belt of similar items. “Tonight sounds like a real good chance to me,” she said with a grin.
He frowned. “Don’t rely on them too much,” he said. “They may not do anything.”
She was filling her belt pouches as quickly as she could. “They’ll still do whatever a regular boomerang’ll do, right?”
“Yes,” he admitted, “but this doesn’t mean we can go toe-to-toe with a spell-caster.”
“Well, you can’t,” she grinned.
“Kit, I mean it,” he said gravely. “Until we know otherwise, the best policy is to avoid magic as much as possible, and when you can’t, duck. We have no evidence that this alloy will have any practical effect.”
“Yes, Boss,” she agreed. “Let’s go get some.”
They raced over the low rooftops of Luxor through the cool desert night, Static Shoes firing, propelling them over vast gaps in the buildings. They were more familiar with the territory now, and took a winding route that kept them mostly above street level through the city center and back into the slums where they had left Max. They moved fast through the district, knowing that every step on the rooftops of the small dwellings would be heard by someone within, no matter how quietly they travelled. At last they dropped into the space below, concealed in the dark of an alley just steps from Max’s door.
“See anything?” she hissed.
“We’re clear,” he said, “unless they can conceal themselves in the infra-red spectrum.”
“Let’s not start second-guessing ourselves,” she said, “it ain’t healthy. Besides, why would they conceal themselves in the infra-red spectrum if they don’t know that we have infra-red lenses?”
“It’s an interesting point,” he said. “Sorry. I’ve never been entirely comfortable with magic.”
“Right,” she said, “so let’s go kick its fanny.”
They moved into the small back room silently, giving even Falconi a start, though he was watching for them.
“We should move quickly,” Falconi said. “Thatcher and Pavli won’t be happy about losing you today.”
“They should be getting used to it by now,” Kit grinned.
“Quite the opposite,” Max replied. “If they become personally involved in trying to keep track of you, or if they suspect that you may already know where I am, they may use a tracking spell.”
“If they were starting from the hotel,” the Red Panda said, “we still have some time.”
“Nothing beats traffic like a run over the rooftops,” Kit said sweetly.
“First things first,” the Red Panda said. “Let’s see those arms.”
Falconi sighed and raised his left arm, extending it palm up to the younger man. “I keep telling you, old boy, you won’t be able to-”
“Now the other one,” the Red Panda said wryly as he pulled the first band off. “Squirrel, take this one. Don’t let it close.”
“But that’s impossible,” Falconi sputtered. “How on Earth did you do that?”
“Now, now, Max,” the Red Panda replied, “a magician never reveals his secrets. How are you doing, Squirrel?”
“Pretty good, Boss,” she replied. “These things kick like a mule trying to get back together, but I jimmied one of the special throwing knives between the two halves of the lock, and that seemed to calm it down.”
“Good girl,” he nodded, handing her the second one. “Do the same with this, then tuck them in your belt. Those could come in handy.” He looked at the Stranger, who was still standing dumbfounded. “How do you feel?”
The older man nodded. “Weak,” he admitted. “It may take some time before I can summon a proper field. But better now, thank you.”
“Excellent,” came the reply.
“You really do still have the power to surprise me, dear boy,” the Stranger said, straightening his back and appearing years younger than he had just moments ago. “I knew that I could count on you.”
“Okay,” Kit interrupted, securing her new burdens in the back of her utility belt, “what’s the plan? I mean, technically, we’re kind of done, aren’t we? We came for Max, we’ve got Max, and they all lived happily ever after? Yes?”
“No,” the Stranger shook his head sadly, “if our enemies reach the Eye of Anubis before we do, there will be very little ever after-ing and a
lmost none of it will be happy.”
“Right, Boss,” she said without skipping a beat, “what’s the plan?”
“We need a boat,” the Red Panda said simply.
“A boat?” she asked. “Where are we supposed to get a boat?”
He shrugged. “I thought we’d try down by the river.”
Her eyes narrowed and her lips pursed tightly to the side in a mock-pout. “You’re making this up as you go along, aren’t you?”
“Indescribably so,” he said, beaming at her.
Suddenly, the still of the night was broken by a short cry, high, but mournful. And then another.
“What the heck is that?” Kit asked, her voice suggesting that perhaps she did not really want to know.
“Just a jackal,” Falconi said. “Nothing to worry about.”
There were several more calls in rapid succession. Between a howl and a bark, in multiple voices. It was clear that there was more than one animal nearby.
Kit eyed the exits, in as nonchalant a manner as she could. “Guess you’ve been hearing them every night, huh Max?” she offered.
“Well now, that is interesting,” Falconi said quietly. “I would have to say this was the first time.”
The high wails rang out as if coming from everywhere.
“Geeze,” Kit admitted, “those guys are giving me the creeps in a pretty serious fashion. Think we can make tracks before the whole pack drops by?”
“I have one problem with that,” the Red Panda said grimly.
“Only one?” she asked, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“The Egyptian Jackal is not a pack animal,” he said. “It is a solitary hunter. Pairs at best.”
“Don’t tell me,” the Flying Squirrel said, “tell them.”
The Red Panda looked at the rickety door that led back out to the alley. “I suppose one of us really should,” he sighed.
The door creaked on its hinges. The narrow laneway was flooded with a darkness that seemed too deep to be entirely natural. From that expanse of black, a dozen pairs of eyes flashed their cruel intent. The chorus of wails grew in intensity, and with every moment that passed, another pair of eyes flashed from the cover of the night.
“How are we doing, old boy?” Falconi called from within his room.
“Oh, about what you might expect,” he replied, touching the side of his mask and switching to nightvision, if for no other reason than it made his own eyes flash back at the predators surrounding them. The new setting of his mask lenses turned the world a grainy black-and-white and made the shapes of twenty more jackals clear to him, drawing ever closer under the cover of creeping darkness.
“We’re in a certain amount of trouble, aren’t we?” the Flying Squirrel asked, trying to sound calm.
The Red Panda stood tall in the doorway, and carried himself like a tiger, a prince among hunters, beset by lesser creatures far out of their depth.
“Well, someone certainly is,” he said with a cold smile.
Seventeen
Kit Baxter brought the ceiling down with an explosive roar. Dust and debris flew everywhere, but as it cleared, the night sky could now be seen through the new hole in the roof.
“What are you doing?” Falconi roared, his ears still ringing.
She leapt up onto an old countertop, more or less directly under the gap she had just created.
“He told me to get you up on the roof,” she said, “and he forgot that we got nothing to hook a Grapple Gun onto, and I am not the half of the equation known for heavy lifting. Get your fanny up here, Max.”
Falconi could see the plan now and did his best to hurry. In his current state, still unable to make proper use of his powers, it was quite clear that he was the weak link in the chain, and he did his best to overcome his limitations. He hauled himself up onto the rickety counter and moved towards the hole in ceiling, with Kit steadying his arm.
From outside, there were still the howls and cries of the wild animals that had descended upon them, mixed with sudden, startled yelps that obviously came when one of them drew too close and the Red Panda was forced to deal with it. The plaintive cries were coming faster now, and it seemed clear that the jackals were not getting the hint.
The Flying Squirrel seemed impatient, and Falconi knew that it pained her to hear the Red Panda facing danger alone. He reached his arms high, found a section of roof that would support his weight and tried to haul himself up. He felt her grab at his feet and he straightened his legs to take advantage of the boost she was giving him. Over the brittle, broken edges of the hole, he pulled himself up until he could flop forward on his belly, his center of gravity now off the countertop, and wriggled forward in an undignified fashion. An instant later she was through the hole as if in a single, tremendous leap, landing in a silent crouch beside him.
The air was clean and fresh, with a slight breeze coming off the desert, but there were few lights from the buildings around them and no light at all from above.
“No moon,” she said, tapping the side of her goggles for nightvision.
“That would be Thatcher’s work,” Falconi said. “They hunt in darkness.”
“Swell,” she said. “Hold that thought.”
She produced a small, grey sphere from a pouch in her utility belt and detached a key-pin from it with click, followed by a very slight hiss. She leapt over the shattered section of rooftop and landed above the back door where she could still hear the sounds of a struggle.
She gasped in astonishment as she looked over the edge. She could not even count the number of animals that surrounded the doorway below, leaping at the man who blocked their path with a frenzy born of desperation. Something was driving them. Something unnatural. They leapt, sliding forward toward him, crawling on their bellies, each one a portrait of terror in action. Their desperate, lunging thrusts were met by perfect control. The Red Panda’s arms and legs moved in a blur, answering one assault while anticipating the next two, always in motion, always on the attack, even in defence. He was good. He was very, very good. But it was only a matter of time.
The Flying Squirrel flipped the gas grenade down to street level. She had been hoping for more strategic options than just dropping it at his feet, but she certainly couldn’t see one. The grenade burst forth with its cargo of anaesthetic gas, and she quickly followed it with two more, sent toward the fringes of the group that she could see. By the time she had released the third grenade, the gas had begun to affect the animals closest to the Red Panda and he leapt up, firing his Static Shoes as he did so, their raw power propelling him high in the air. He rolled his legs back, high over his head, and reversed the pull of his shoes as he did so, hitting the wall of the shack with enough attractive force to whip him around in the tight crouch into which he had pulled himself and throw him still higher in a rapid spin. As he reached the roof beside her he threw his left leg back behind himself and pulled down into a low, long crouch.
“You okay?” she asked without looking.
“Fine,” he said seriously. “Thanks.”
“Yep,” she said, watching the animals down below struggle against the gas’s effects, dropping one by one. Her eyes widened as she looked beyond the piles of sleeping jackals in the limited spill of light from the doorway. The night was teeming with still more of them, circling, closing in, watching the rooftops now.
“Boss?” she called. “I don’t think we’re done.”
The Red Panda was helping Falconi to his feet. He moved quickly to peer over the edge of the building’s front to the narrow street below.
“Here, too,” he called grimly, “and not just a few of them.”
“They ain’t magic,” she called. “Not if the gas can get ‘em.”
“Not magic,” Falconi said, “but driven by unnatural powers. Possibly tied to a tracking spell, as I thought.”
“Except that instead of the baddies following us, we’re just supposed to be dinner,” the Flying Squirrel called.
“They
may have simply been sent to corner us,” Falconi said. “Hold us in one place until we can be captured.”
“I’m no expert, of course,” the Red Panda said, moving back into the center of the roof, “but I’m fairly certain they were trying to eat me.”
Falconi shrugged. “It is possible that our enemies are tired of looking for me,” he said, “and are content to eliminate the competition.”
“I don’t think we have enough knockout gas for this,” Kit said.
“I don’t think there is enough knockout gas for this,” Falconi offered. “If I’m right about the class of spell in use, for the next hour or more, we will be magnets for every wild jackal that could possibly reach Luxor. The spell will drive them into a fury. They will be compelled to destroy us, whipped into a rage by terror.”
“It’s more beasts than I would have thought,” the Red Panda admitted.
“Bully for the local ecology,” Kit said. “And we’ve got more trouble.”
She pointed at a space several buildings away. The rooftops here were close together, most touching the one next to it, none separated by more than a foot. Falconi didn’t have nightvision goggles, but his ears told him what the Flying Squirrel was seeing. Somewhere down the alleyway the jackals had found a way up onto one of the rooftops. An instant later and Falconi could see the first of the glowing, yellow eyes emerge from the unnatural darkness.
“Stranger,” the Red Panda said, “have you got anything?”
Falconi shook his hands in frustration. “Nothing that will help us,” he said. “Those bands have left me weak. It might be hours.”
“Hours we ain’t got,” the Flying Squirrel said. “How are we for ideas?”
For a moment, only the jackals had anything to say to that, their cries filling the night air as more of them joined their fellows on the rooftops.
“Wait,” the Red Panda said, “you said this is a spell? To draw the jackals to us and compel them to attack?”
“Yes,” Falconi said, “of course, why?”
“And they couldn’t have cast it on you,” the Red Panda said, “because they didn’t know where you were.”
