by Gregg Taylor
The thought was forced from his mind as she threw herself upon him, her bare right hand reaching for his face as if to claw his eyes out. He grabbed her wrist on impulse, but after an instant, as her hand shook with the inner conflict, he relaxed his hold, letting her hand creep towards his face as he held her wrist loosely as a safety. The hand paused and hung in the air for an instant, then suddenly plunged to grip his mask, tightening her fingers round it as if to tear it from his face.
She screamed as she tripped the safety device in his mask. Meant to prevent enemies from unmasking them when vulnerable, her insulated gauntlet might have protected her from the charge were she still wearing it. Electricity coursed through her body and she continued to scream in pain. From somewhere far down the empty halls of the Westing mansion, the Red Panda could hear another voice screaming in equal torment: that of Ajay Shah.
And instant later her body fell limp, draped across him. He rolled her to the right and lowered her gently to the ground. He checked her pulse quickly and found it strong. He pulled her goggles from her face and looked at her in a moment of quiet amazement. The shock was high in voltage and low in amps – she would recover quickly.
In that instant she stirred, just slightly. Her eyelids fluttered and her large brown eyes revealed themselves in the moonlight.
“Boss,” she whispered.
He shook his head slightly. There was no time. He leaned close and whispered,
“Our men must be in the cellars. Get them clear. I’m going to end this.”
She smiled and closed her eyes.
“Yes, Boss.”
Thirty-Seven
A single, bare bulb hung from the ceiling of Westing’s wine cellars. They were dry and clean, not at all like the dungeons they were now meant to be, but the rat-faced gunsel still shivered as he waited. He looked around him. Nine other gunmen stood crowded into the small space, each well armed, all watching the single door that was the only point of entry to the cellars. The odds that an enemy could survive a direct assault were less than zero, and yet the man with the thin rat-like face knew that every one of his confederate’s hearts was as full of cold dread as his own was.
For a dozen minutes only silence hung between them. Locked behind the door at the other end of the narrow passageway were three men, bound hand and foot. The gunman did not know who they were or why the masked do-gooders should be concerned with their fate, but he knew that was part of Ajay Shah’s plan. Ten men, waiting in the one place the Red Panda was certain to come. It was nuts.
“I don’t like this,” he said at last.
There was no reply from the other men, but several of them exchanged glances. He wasn’t the only one. Encouraged, he spoke up again.
“Look at us, crammed in here like sardines. And for what?” he said, lighting a cigarette with a long wooden match.
“Quiet, dummy. You want the man in the mask to hear you?” a voice near the rear piped up.
Rat-face shook his head. “You’re not hiding, stupid. You’re standing in the one place in this whole blasted city where the Panda is sure to come. Nice sort of hiding place.”
There were murmurs among the other men. They were feeling as he was, but none of them were ready to speak up. The slim gunsel was not about to wait until it was too late.
“The Master told us to stay down here.” It was the man at the back speaking again. “And that’s just what we’re gonna do. You heard him, he’s going to take care of the masks himself.”
“Sure, that’s what he says,” Rat-face said, flicking the spent match towards the stone wall. “Takes himself a couple of bodyguards and moves fast. Leaves us to take the fall.”
The murmurs of discontent grew louder. Only the big man at the back seemed unconvinced.
“If Mister Shah says he can take out the Red Panda, then that’s just what he’ll do,” the big man said, brandishing the modest hand-cannon he carried. “I seen him do some pretty amazing things.”
“Sure, kid. We all did,” Rat-face nodded gently. “But getting inside these rich folks’ heads is one thing. Taking out the man in the mask is another. Already this ain’t exactly going to plan, is it? It was supposed to be all them rich swells that took the beatings today. Not ten of us crammed into a cellar.”
The murmurs grew more confident. The man with the rat-face had almost won the day. “You know what I think? I think that Shah was in our heads, too. Think about it. Is there any man Jack here that’s been paid a dime yet? When’s the last time you worked so long for so little?”
The man near the back rose to his feet. “The Master has a plan, pal. And if you wanna do crime in the city, having a plan means having a plan to deal with the nutjobs in the masks.”
“Don’t you talk to me about having a plan, buddy,” Rat-face snapped, sure that he had the backing of the crowd. “I worked for the Golden Claw’s outfit. Now there was an organization! Ran the whole city, she did. But it wasn’t enough when the masks came callin’. And I pulled henchman duty for Captain Clockwork on the museum job! A genuine certified genius that man is, and still those two made him look like a fool. This Ajay Shah’s got moxie, I’ll give you that. And he’s got some game. But it’s one thing to have a plan for dealing with the Red Panda, and it’s another to build your whole plan around calling him out. That does nobody any good. I’m out.” He threw the remnants of his cigarette to the floor and turned towards the door.
“Nobody’s out until the Master says he’s out,” the big man’s voice boomed.
“Nuts to you,” Rat-face sneered. “Dontcha get it? He was inside our heads. But with all them rich birds to control, and whatever he’s got going on topside with the heroes… he’s spread too thin. He can’t pull all of our strings at once.”
The big man at the back raised his gun hand and fired a single shot without another word. The small stone chamber made the blast seem painfully loud, and the assembled underworld toughs held their ears and gaped in amazement as the gunsel crumpled to the floor, his rat-like face augmented by a gaping bullet hole in the middle of his forehead. The big man lowered his gun hand.
“I did not need to pull all of your strings at once,” he said in a voice that every man recognized as that of their dark master. “One would suffice.”
The room hung with a silence paralyzed by fear. The big man looked around.
“I trust I make myself clear?” he said.
The eight men still standing all nodded silently. The big man smiled.
“Excellent,” he said, and then just as suddenly as the big man had fired his weapon, his head slumped forward on his chest and he wobbled slightly on his feet. An instant later he raised his eyes and looked at the body on the floor without comprehension.
“What happened here?” he said in his own voice.
No man had time to speak, or to consider what he had seen, for at that instant something small and metallic rang off the stone walls and ricocheted through the single light bulb swaying overhead, shattering it in a hail of glass and sparks.
“Oh no,” said the big man quietly.
At that moment, laughter began to echo around the narrow stone room. A laugh that told of glee at the coming combat, a laugh that the underworld had come to fear as strongly as that of the Red Panda’s.
“It’s her!” a voice called.
“I can’t see!” cried another.
“Blast her! Don’t let her take you!” shrieked a third, firing his .38 twice towards where he knew the door to be.
That was the spark that set the blaze of panic, and for the next minute, the air was torn with the roar of gunfire. Every moment, the voice of the Flying Squirrel came from a different direction, but the muzzle flashes and ricochet sparks revealed nothing, only open space and faces of crazed, panicked gunmen falling under their own hail of bullets. At last, all was still.
The wooden door at the top of the steps creaked open, and little could be heard above the moans of gangsters felled by friendly fire. Then there came a sharp h
iss as a flare was lit and a small series of bumps as it rolled down the stairs. The Flying Squirrel stuck her head around the corner, taking in the corridor as she moved down the stairs. It was easy at a glance to distinguish between the dead and the dying, and those that might yet prove a danger were disarmed quickly.
She heard the crunch of the glass from the light bulb under her feet and smiled. Taking out the bulb with the dart had been a lucky shot, but in the panicked state her foes were in, it hadn’t taken too much more. She didn’t like to settle things that way, throwing her voice with the Ventrilloquator built into her cowl and letting her enemies finish one another off as they gunned for her. It seemed unsporting somehow; besides, she liked to get her hands dirty, it was how you earned this kind of reputation. But her right arm was still nearly useless after the electrical charge it had absorbed, and she was none too steady on her feet. And there was no time to waste.
She shattered the heavy wooden door at the far end of the hall with a single kick. There, on the floor before her, were Andy Parker, Jack Peters and young Mac Tully, all trussed up like Christmas turkeys. They peered up at her, blinking in the red glow of the flare from the passageway behind.
“You all know, of course, that I’m going to lord this over each of you until the end of time,” she said with a smile, producing a small knife from her utility belt. She cut Andy Parker’s hands free first and slipped the knife to him, producing a second from her belt and getting to work freeing the others.
Parker pulled the gag from his mouth and set to work on the bonds that held his feet. “Where’s the Chief?” he asked.
“He’s at the grown-up table just now, Andy,” the Squirrel said as Jack Peters’ hands were freed. “I had to come down to look after the children. And don’t you imagine I’m not a little peeved about that.”
Peters pulled the gag from his mouth. “What happened to your arm?” he sputtered.
“Leave my arm out of this,” she said testily.
“I’d love to,” Peters said hastily. “But since you’re not usually left-handed, I’m a little worried that you’re going to sever a vein in my legs. Can I do that?” he asked, holding out his hand for the second knife.
“Knock yourself out, sister,” she said, leaning back against the wall.
“What do we do now?” Mac Tully asked as soon as he could.
“Now?” the Squirrel said, her arm settling into a hot throb as the adrenaline left her body. “Now I get you somewhere safe, and you come with and like it.”
“But…,” Mac Tully started to protest.
“Mister Tully,” she grimaced in pain as the pins and needles started flowing into her arm, “given the track record you boys have when you try and plan things for yourselves, what do you think the odds are that I want to debate this right now?”
“Not very good?” Mac said sullenly.
“Clever boy,” she smiled.
Thirty-Eight
The halls of the Westing mansion hung thick with unnatural blackness. It was darkness created by so much more than the mere absence of light. It was the creeping, impenetrable shroud of fear and ignorance that lived within the heart of every man. It was the primal terror of the night that had its birth a million years earlier as huddled proto-men gazed from their caves and waited desperately for each new dawn. It was an inky tomb of black that Ajay Shah pulled from the minds of those cavemen’s descendants and drew about himself like a cloak. He cast his spell throughout the great house, deeper and stronger than he had ever cast it before, and in what remained of his heart he knew it would not be enough.
He was breathing hard now, the pain in his arm burning like a knife of fire. He was as dangerous as a wounded animal, but he was not finished yet. Shah hissed sharply as he pulled in a long, slow breath and focused his mind to dull the pain. He might have only moments.
Suddenly he heard it, rising like a tide all around him. That laugh. There was no joy in it this time, not even cruel mockery. It was an announcement. A clarion bell.
“Hello, Shah,” the Red Panda’s voice rolled in like a whisper. “How’s the arm?”
Ajay Shah started. It had been many days since he had been approached by stealth. He saw the eyes of his enemy now, glowing like two merciless beacons, cutting through his own shield of darkness. But he felt nothing there, only the same cold nothingness his foe felt from him. The two of them stood together, their minds hidden from one another. But only one could be the true master.
Shah rose to his feet and tried not to favor his wounded arm. The eyes were joined by the gleam of a wide grin as the Red Panda’s face resolved itself from the shadows.
“She beat you, Ajay,” the Red Panda said through his smile. “And it looks like she hurt you in the process. How is that possible?” Shah could tell by the smile that his enemy knew the answer well enough. “You wanted to feel her kill me, didn’t you, Shah?” the masked man sneered. “You knew I couldn’t strike her down, and you wanted to feel her pull the life out of me with her bare hands.”
The Red Panda had stepped completely from the blackness now, the bright red of his mask and gauntlets the only point of color which could be seen against the hollow shroud of emptiness that surrounded them. “You are a fool, Shah.”
“Am I indeed, rich boy?” Ajay Shah reached forward with his hand in a sharp and sudden thrust towards the masked man twenty feet away. From the depths of the blackness a dagger came flying at terrific speed, a trophy pulled from the walls of the mansion hidden behind the spell of darkness. It hurtled towards the Red Panda, who had time to neither duck nor dodge before the missile struck him squarely in the chest!
The shout of triumph died on Ajay Shah’s lips in astonishment as he heard the blade clatter to the floor far beyond the target, the smiling form of the Red Panda which stood before him unhurt.
“You didn’t really think that I would give you that soft a target, did you?” came a voice from behind him as another Red Panda stepped from the darkness.
Shah hissed as he turned quickly, instinctively keeping both figures in his sights as best he could, a task made impossible as another Red Panda stepped from the shadows behind his new position. And then another, and another, and another. The laughter from their lips rose like a crescendo and echoed through the empty halls of the Westing mansion.
“You hide like a coward,” Shah spat.
None of the masked men said a word.
“I will drink your blood. I will be revenged on you and all those like you!”
Two more Red Pandas stepped from the shadows, each of them smiling and saying nothing.
“Your city will bow down to me! Worship me!” Shah shouted, his voice ringing in hoarse echoes cast from unseen walls.
There were twenty or more Red Pandas now, on every side, all mocking him with silence.
“And when you are dead the girl will suffer a thousand deaths at my hand,” he growled in fury.
The smiles disappeared from twenty masked faces in an instant. Shah’s fury cooled into a cruel, vulture-like sneer. “So. There it is,” he nodded. “I might have known. Your feelings betray you, old friend. She is very strong, and very brave. And very beautiful too, please do not pretend you had not noticed. She fought me once, will she have the strength to do it again, do you think? Without you to guide her, how long can she resist my power?”
Each of the Red Pandas shifted uncomfortably. Shah carried on, emboldened. “She will be chief among my entertainments,” he sneered. “She will suffer pain and debasement as no creature ever has, I promise you that. And I will force her mind to love every moment of it – to love me, her master. I will kill her a hundred times before I finally let her die!”
At that, nineteen images of the Red Panda faded back into the nothingness that surrounded them, like statues made of sand dissolving in a sudden windstorm. Nineteen Red Pandas gone, and one pair of red-gauntleted hands reaching out for Ajay Shah’s throat…
…and passing right through him as if he were air.
The Red Panda had no more than an instant to gape in astonishment before he heard the voice of Ajay Shah coming from everywhere and nowhere.
“There you are,” it said.
The Red Panda was struck in the chest by an invisible wall of force – the pure, raw mental energy of Ajay Shah, smashing against his ribs, throwing him an impossible distance through the air to collide with the unseen walls beyond and then to crash into the floor below.
Gasping for breath, the Red Panda clawed at the floor, struggling to reach his feet. Another blow of mental energy struck him in the face, spinning him around and sending him back to the floor. The shroud of blackness was gone now, as was the illusion he had thought was Ajay Shah. The real Shah was throwing every scrap of mental energy into his attacks as he walked along the cool, tiled floor of the great hall in which they fought He paused a moment to smile at his enemy’s struggles, but only a moment.
Another wall of mental force hit the Red Panda as he tried to push himself to his feet. He could feel the grip of power around him, but there was nothing there. Nothing to fight against. With the slightest motion of Ajay Shah’s hand, the Red Panda was thrown twenty yards, into another high-speed collision with the far wall.
Ajay Shah, the Unconquerable King, smiled. His enemy was sputtering now, and there was blood coming from his nose and mouth. “You wanted to do it with your bare hands, didn’t you?” Shah taunted. “You revealed yourself to me like the arrogant whelp that you are. That you always were!” He struck the Red Panda again, the force of his mind dragging the Red Panda across the floor and then dropping him suddenly. The masked man managed to raise his head just enough to see what Shah had avoided throwing him into at the last second. It was a large crate, open at the front and lid. There was a control panel at the top, and the great mass beneath was largely hidden from his view by the padding which had softened the transit for the contents of the wooden box. The Red Panda did not have to see it to know the crate contained a massive amount of high explosives. He gasped a little through the pain in his side, his arm.
