towards Brody himself. Tank threw a punch that would have made Spiro
Pappas weep for joy had he seen it, a punch that should have crippled an
ordinary man. Tank cried out in pain. It was like punching a brick wall. But
the policeman was off balance now, and Tank hit him again to keep him that way,
and then again. Every blow sent waves of agony through his hands and arms, but
still he fought on, pulling the weapon from the officer's hands as he sent him
sprawling to the ground.
Brody had just reached forward to pick up the gun when he
heard the sharp sound of police whistles nearby and a brace of heavy boots
descending upon his position.
“Stop him!” a constable cried as he barreled into Tank full
force. The policemen piled on, in spite of the cries of protest from the men
and women in the alley. It took a dozen of them to drag Tank down, and another
ten to put him out, but the fires still raged in the city when Tank Brody knew
no more.
Seven
The Flying Squirrel slumped in a chair heavily and peeled
off her cowl with a sigh. She flipped it onto the wooden table before her,
which was strewn with test tubes and laboratory equipment, and leaned forward,
elbows on the table and cupped hands supporting her face. For a moment, she
closed her eyes.
It was the silence that got her attention. It shouldn't have
been that quiet, even within the
confines of their underground lair. Her big, brown
eyes popped open and scanned the room. She couldn't see anything, but that
never meant much where he was concerned.
“I know you're looking at my cowl-head,” she said in as
threatening a tone as she could manage without lifting her face from her hands.
As much as she loved the life of daring-do that her dual identity offered her,
Kit Baxter was always mortified by the unruly red mop that a few hours wearing
the cowl turned her hair into. She was even more mortified by the fact that it
seemed to fascinate the Boss. It came across as a sort of scientific interest,
such as one might bestow upon a bizarre natural phenomenon, but it was still
the only thing she did that seemed to catch his eye and that bothered her.
He stepped from the shadows to stand beside her, his own
mask in his hand and quite pointedly looking anywhere except at his partner.
“Hmmm?” he said, pretending not to have heard.
“You're not fooling anyone, you know,” she monotoned without moving.
He dropped his mask on the table beside hers and took off
his right glove. “It's just… this part,” he said, holding out his hand some
eight or nine inches above her head and touching a remarkable spike of hair
– like a stalagmite, he thought, though he kept that comparison to
himself this time. “I don't know how it does that.”
She stood and tromped wearily from the crime lab as he
called after her, protesting. “All right, all right,” was all she said.
He shook his head a little. He wouldn't even admit this to
himself, but he got a giddy thrill every time she took the mask off, as if he
was seeing something forbidden, which in a way, he was. The fact that it was
often tied to a moment of silly vulnerability in her “cowl-head” display made
it all the more difficult for him to resist. The Red Panda did try awfully hard
not to think of such things, but privately he supposed that she could sense his
interest at such moments and found it distasteful. It always drove him to
behave more strictly professional. Considering his reputation as one of the
world's greatest detectives, he could not have been more wrong.
When Kit returned a few minutes later, she had clearly
doused her hair in one of the sinks and wrapped it hastily in a towel. The
splash of cold water had woken her up a little and she was ready for a bit of
banter now, but he had settled down to work and appeared not to have noticed
her absence. She sighed and stood beside him at the workbench.
Sprawled across the table were the spoils of war: a large,
battered, man-like form of an automaton,
Pappas weep for joy had he seen it, a punch that should have crippled an
ordinary man. Tank cried out in pain. It was like punching a brick wall. But
the policeman was off balance now, and Tank hit him again to keep him that way,
and then again. Every blow sent waves of agony through his hands and arms, but
still he fought on, pulling the weapon from the officer's hands as he sent him
sprawling to the ground.
Brody had just reached forward to pick up the gun when he
heard the sharp sound of police whistles nearby and a brace of heavy boots
descending upon his position.
“Stop him!” a constable cried as he barreled into Tank full
force. The policemen piled on, in spite of the cries of protest from the men
and women in the alley. It took a dozen of them to drag Tank down, and another
ten to put him out, but the fires still raged in the city when Tank Brody knew
no more.
Seven
The Flying Squirrel slumped in a chair heavily and peeled
off her cowl with a sigh. She flipped it onto the wooden table before her,
which was strewn with test tubes and laboratory equipment, and leaned forward,
elbows on the table and cupped hands supporting her face. For a moment, she
closed her eyes.
It was the silence that got her attention. It shouldn't have
been that quiet, even within the
confines of their underground lair. Her big, brown
eyes popped open and scanned the room. She couldn't see anything, but that
never meant much where he was concerned.
“I know you're looking at my cowl-head,” she said in as
threatening a tone as she could manage without lifting her face from her hands.
As much as she loved the life of daring-do that her dual identity offered her,
Kit Baxter was always mortified by the unruly red mop that a few hours wearing
the cowl turned her hair into. She was even more mortified by the fact that it
seemed to fascinate the Boss. It came across as a sort of scientific interest,
such as one might bestow upon a bizarre natural phenomenon, but it was still
the only thing she did that seemed to catch his eye and that bothered her.
He stepped from the shadows to stand beside her, his own
mask in his hand and quite pointedly looking anywhere except at his partner.
“Hmmm?” he said, pretending not to have heard.
“You're not fooling anyone, you know,” she monotoned without moving.
He dropped his mask on the table beside hers and took off
his right glove. “It's just… this part,” he said, holding out his hand some
eight or nine inches above her head and touching a remarkable spike of hair
– like a stalagmite, he thought, though he kept that comparison to
himself this time. “I don't know how it does that.”
She stood and tromped wearily from the crime lab as he
called after her, protesting. “All right, all right,” was all she said.
He shook his head a little. He wouldn't even admit this to
himself, but he got a giddy thrill every time she took the mask off, as if he
was seeing something forbidden, which in a way, he was. The fact that it was
often tied to a moment of silly vulnerability in her “cowl-head” display made
it all the more difficult for him to resist. The Red Panda did try awfully hard
not to think of such things, but privately he supposed that she could sense his
interest at such moments and found it distasteful. It always drove him to
behave more strictly professional. Considering his reputation as one of the
world's greatest detectives, he could not have been more wrong.
When Kit returned a few minutes later, she had clearly
doused her hair in one of the sinks and wrapped it hastily in a towel. The
splash of cold water had woken her up a little and she was ready for a bit of
banter now, but he had settled down to work and appeared not to have noticed
her absence. She sighed and stood beside him at the workbench.
Sprawled across the table were the spoils of war: a large,
battered, man-like form of an automaton,
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