by Jim McCann
“Two-for-one punch! Now what do you think of the suit?” Shuri asked, impressed.
“It is certainly battle-ready,” Black Panther answered. “Now, take me to Klaue.”
Shuri surveyed the virtual map on her table. “It looks like they are headed to the Gwangan Bridge. Yep, just turned onto Cheetah Street. Nakia and Okoye are closing in fast.”
“Black Panther can’t hog all the fun,” Nakia’s voice came through the comm as she inched closer to Klaue’s SUV.
Inside his vehicle, Klaue smiled. Turning to his driver, he said, “Time to lose our pestering Wakandan friends, don’t you think?” With that, he leaned out the passenger side.
Okoye pointed. “Eyes on Klaue.” She noticed the foe begin to raise his prosthetic hand. “Nakia!” Okoye shouted.
The Dora Milaje warrior’s cry came too late, as Klaue unleashed a sonic blast from his hand that smashed into their car. The vibranium casing absorbed the blast, but the car began to shake. Piece by piece, it began to dismantle in the middle of the street. Okoye and Nakia quickly unbuckled their seat belts as each grabbed on to their own car door. The doors flew off the car, and the warrior women rode on the debris like surfboards until they came to a halt. Looking ahead, they saw that Klaue’s SUV was long gone.
“You are on your own, my king,” Okoye radioed in as Black Panther sped past them in pursuit of Klaue.
Shuri looked at her map on the table. A new image had just appeared near the Gwangan Bridge. “It looks like he’s got aerial company. A helicopter just entered range. Ten to one says that’s his escape route,” Shuri informed her brother.
“There will be no escape,” Black Panther vowed as his car gained momentum.
Nakia and Okoye dusted themselves off as traffic zoomed around their dismantled car in the middle of the road. Suddenly, a sedan stopped next to them, and the passenger-side window rolled down. Agent Everett Ross was behind the wheel.
“You ladies need a ride?” Ross asked, flashing a smile.
“We’re teaming up now?” Nakia asked, climbing in.
Ross’s face darkened. “I’m just afraid of what your king will do now that he’s in the catsuit. We need Klaue alive.”
“Shuri can guide us there,” Okoye said.
“Who’s that?” Ross was confused.
“Ooh, he’s pretty cute,” Shuri’s bright voice piped over the comms. “Just tell the American to head for the bridge. I have my own car to drive.”
Okoye looked at Ross and tapped her ear. “Oh, just a little bug in my ear,” she said, smiling. “Head to the bridge.”
Ross gave Okoye a puzzled look, but hit the gas and followed her directions to the Gwangan Bridge.
A mile ahead on Cheetah Street, Black Panther’s car gained on Klaue’s SUV. The bridge drew nearer every second. “I need to get closer,” Black Panther called out.
“I’m trying my best. Jeez, everybody needs something,” Shuri said, turning her attention back to her table to try to give the car a boost of speed.
Black Panther’s car inched up closer and closer to Klaue’s vehicle. He saw his enemy lean out the passenger window and extend his arm. This time, Black Panther was prepared.
“Punch it fast, Shuri!” From her lab, Shuri pushed a button, and the car hit maximum speed.
“Are you going to ram him?” she asked.
“No, but we’re about to lose this ride,” Black Panther answered.
The car was feet away from the SUV when Klaue fired his sonic disrupter beam. As the sports car exploded, Black Panther dove toward the SUV, landing near the bottom of it. Extending his claws, he grabbed the back tire and pulled it with a mighty RIIIIIIIIP. Then he rolled off the car onto the street.
The SUV fell backward and swerved uncontrollably. It hit the sidewalk and started to flip over and over, coming to a stop near an outdoor café.
Klaue pulled himself halfway out the window and fired again at Black Panther. With a mighty leap, Panther dodged the blast, taking off at a run to reach the SUV before Klaue could escape.
Overhead, a helicopter hovered, Limbani piloting.
“Should I fire?” Limbani radioed.
Klaue chuckled. “Nah. I’ll take care of this.” He raised his prosthetic hand again toward Black Panther. “Here, kitty, kitty.” The sonic blaster began to whirl as it recharged and powered up, readying another blast.
Black Panther launched himself directly at the SUV, reaching for Klaue. Just before the thief could fire, Black Panther grasped the prosthetic and tore it off. With his other hand, he pulled Klaue out of the SUV and threw him onto the ground.
“Too long have your crimes gone unanswered for. My father hunted you for decades; now I shall finish what he started,” Black Panther snarled as he crouched above Klaue.
Just then, behind Black Panther and Klaue, a familiar-looking sedan skidded to a halt. Nakia jumped out of the car. “Stop!” she cried out.
Black Panther hesitated at the sound of his longtime friend’s voice.
“Think! Is this what your father would want? You said Klaue must face his crimes. He can’t do that if he’s dead,” Nakia continued as she approached Black Panther and Klaue.
Black Panther looked down at Klaue. He despised the man, reviled him; but Nakia was right. If he gave in to his impulses now, Klaue would never truly be brought to heel for all the pain and suffering he’d caused. “Blood for blood should not be our way,” he said aloud to himself.
“What I thought. You don’t have the stomach for it.” Klaue laughed at Black Panther.
With a single fluid gesture, Black Panther sheathed his claws and formed a fist. “For my father!” he cried as he swung down and knocked out his nemesis with a single blow. Above, Limbani angled the helicopter away from the scene and flew out into the Haeundae harbor, making his escape, seeing the fight was lost—for now.
Black Panther hoisted the unconscious Klaue up over his shoulder and walked toward Nakia, Okoye, and Ross. Nakia smiled, and Okoye lowered her head in a slight bow to her king.
“You may interrogate him, but I wish to be present. After, he comes with us back to Wakanda,” Panther said to Agent Ross. “And we keep the vibranium.” He pulled the brown paper bag out of Klaue’s jacket.
Ross chuckled. “Details to be worked out. Important thing is you got our man.”
T’Challa gave a slight smile in return and thought of his father, how long Klaue had evaded T’Chaka. “Yes. I got him.” For you, Baba, he thought.
As T’Challa loaded Klaue’s limp frame into the waiting sedan, he caught sight of Nakia, still smiling proudly. He suddenly realized this was more than just tracking down a foe and capturing him. T’Challa had made a promise to the tribal elders, his first as the new king, to capture Klaue, and now he was successfully delivering on that promise. He looked to the sky and imagined his father’s spirit looking down, smiling as well. For the first time since being declared king of Wakanda in the Challenge Pool, T’Challa finally felt confident he could lead. T’Challa finally felt worthy of the title of king.
Vengeance.
Vengeance for his father.
That’s what was on Black Panther’s mind as the snow crunched beneath his boots. He removed the fearsome helmet he wore as part of his uniform, set it on the ground, and drew in a deep breath of crisp, cold Siberian air. In front of him, sitting on a rocky cliff, was a quiet, unassuming man. The man didn’t move. He didn’t seem to notice the cold, and he didn’t seem to notice Black Panther.
Every instinct T’Challa possessed screamed at him to despise this man. And yet, for a reason he couldn’t begin to fathom, he could not bring himself to feel hatred.
“I almost killed the wrong man,” T’Challa said, his voice slow and steady.
“The wrong man” had been Bucky Barnes, aka the Winter Soldier. Decades ago, Barnes had been fighting the good fight against the forces of Hydra in World War II. He fought valiantly against the enemy, alongside Captain America—his best friend, Steve Rogers. He w
as presumed dead during the last days of that war. It was only recently that Rogers learned otherwise—that Barnes had, in fact, lived but had been brainwashed somehow, turned into a lethal assassin.
T’Challa had believed that Barnes was responsible for the death of his father, T’Chaka.
But he now knew otherwise.
The man responsible sat on the cliff, looking into the open air before him. He didn’t flinch at the sound of T’Challa’s voice. It was as though he had been expecting him.
“Hardly an innocent one,” the man said. He didn’t turn around to address T’Challa. Instead, he just sat there, staring into the open expanse.
As he listened to the man’s voice, T’Challa thought of his father. He was a good man—the king of Wakanda, an almost completely hidden African nation that had been taking its first tentative steps on the world stage when the United Nations had come together to sign the Sokovia Accords. The Accords would establish international controls over the Avengers, deciding where and when they would intervene. The principle was simple: to prevent a tragedy like Sokovia from happening again.
“Is it all you wanted?” T’Challa asked as he continued to walk toward the man on the cliff. “To see them rip each other apart?”
“Them” referred to the Avengers. Specifically, Captain America and Iron Man. Steve Rogers and Tony Stark.
The man on the cliff was Helmut Zemo. He had manipulated the Avengers into fighting against one another, pitting friend against friend, ally against ally. It was he who had led the Winter Soldier, Captain America, and Iron Man to this remote Siberian location. He who had orchestrated a bitter fight between the heroes. He who had hoped that they would destroy one another.
But why? For what? T’Challa fought back his own surprise when he discovered he needed answers to those questions.
T’Challa had traveled with his father to Vienna, where the summit had taken place. It was there that Zemo had set in motion his plan to pit Avenger against Avenger. There that Zemo’s plan of retribution and revenge would take root. He’d bombed the meeting and made it appear as though Barnes had been the terrorist behind it.
The bombing had its casualties, of course.
Casualties like T’Challa’s father, King T’Chaka.
That was why T’Challa had followed Cap to a remote location in Siberia.
Vengeance.
To confront Zemo. To exact revenge in the name of his father.
“My father lived outside the city,” Zemo said slowly. He didn’t look up as T’Challa drew closer to him. “I thought we would be safe there.”
“There” was in Sokovia, or rather, right outside the capital city of that country. The place that became ground zero when the Avengers fought a last-ditch battle against Ultron, the artificial intelligence created by Tony Stark and Bruce Banner that had gone awry and decided the only way to protect humanity was to destroy it completely.
Ultron tried to use vibranium stolen from T’Challa’s native country of Wakanda to raise a part of the capital city into the sky and bring it crashing down upon the earth—causing an extinction-level event.
The Avengers fought to save the citizens of Sokovia and, indeed, the world. As the landmass came falling toward the earth, Stark and the Asgardian Thor used their might to shatter it to pieces. The world was spared Ultron’s intended fate, but it came with a terrible cost.
Human lives.
For though they had saved the world, the Avengers had been unable to save everyone in Sokovia. It seemed that someone—or someone s—close to Zemo had been among those lost.
“My son was excited,” Zemo said, a faint smile crossing his face. “He could see the Iron Man from the car window.” In his right hand, Zemo held a loaded pistol.
He shook his head. “I told my wife, ‘Don’t worry. They’re fighting in the city. We’re miles from harm.’”
T’Challa stood next to Zemo now, hanging on his every word. A part of him said, Take your vengeance. He is yours. But Zemo’s voice somehow spoke louder to him.
“When the dust cleared,” Zemo said, his tone soft, “and the screaming stopped, it took me two days until I found their bodies. My father… still holding my wife and son in his arms.”
Zemo shook his head again, his voice choked with emotion. “And the Avengers? They went home.”
T’Challa looked at Zemo with a mixture of hatred and… something else. He couldn’t quite put his finger on what he felt toward this man who had killed his father. All he knew was that the voice that called for vengeance was growing softer still.
“I knew I couldn’t kill them,” Zemo continued, his voice becoming stronger, more strident. “More powerful men than me have tried. But… if I could get them to kill each other . . .” His voice trailed off.
And there it was.
Vengeance.
The whole motivation behind Zemo’s plan. He blamed the Avengers for the deaths of his beloved family. His revenge? To have the Avengers destroy one another, and barring that, themselves.
T’Challa moved in closer, his eyes fixed on the man he had pursued from Vienna to Siberia and on the weapon Zemo clutched tightly in his hand.
“I’m sorry about your father,” Zemo said. His voice sounded sincere. Remorseful, even. “He seemed a good man.” For the first time, the sad man with the pistol in his right hand looked over his shoulder at T’Challa, and then returned his gaze to overlooking the cliff. “With a dutiful son.”
T’Challa had been consumed by the need for revenge. It gnawed at him. But now, in the present, looking at Zemo, listening to his story, T’Challa could finally identify the emotion coursing through him.
It was pity.
“Vengeance has consumed you,” T’Challa spoke quietly. “It’s consuming them,” he said, referring to Cap and Iron Man. “I’m done letting it consume me.”
Zemo stared over the cliff. If he had heard T’Challa, he made no sign of it.
“Justice will come soon enough,” T’Challa said.
Zemo’s response was a bitter laugh. “Tell that to the dead,” he said. He raised the gun as though to aim it toward himself.
But T’Challa reached out and stilled Zemo’s hand, hauling him up from where he teetered on the cliff. “The living are not done with you yet,” he said.
T’Challa realized he might as well have been speaking to himself.
LATER THAT DAY. MUCH LATER.
The flight back from Siberia aboard the Royal Talon Fighter had been dull, uneventful, and exhausting. The air inside the cockpit was dry, and T’Challa’s throat hurt. He was tired. His bones ached, his head throbbed, and his muscles were weary. So much had happened over the course of the last few days.
T’Challa realized that he hadn’t eaten since his father’s death. Nor had he slept. Even on this flight to Berlin, to remand Zemo into custody, he hadn’t so much as closed his eyes.
If he was being honest with himself, T’Challa would have admitted that a part of him was afraid to sleep. Not because he thought that sleep would elude him, or that he would have nightmares.
T’Challa was afraid that, if he closed his eyes, he would see his father.
His Baba, his closest friend and greatest strength, whom he had failed to keep safe.
How could he face him? What would his father say? And what would he say to his father? How would T’Challa explain that he had been unable to prevent his death?
Then his thoughts drifted to his country. What would his father’s death mean for Wakanda, for the people who had followed his father through fire and worse, to those who had believed in him?
What would it mean for T’Challa?
His heart ached with such loss as he had never experienced before, a void that could not be filled.
T’Challa felt utterly alone. Lost.
“What will become of him?” T’Challa asked, once he and Zemo had been escorted inside the Joint Terrorism Task Force government building. It was a black site in the city of Berlin, Germany—officia
lly, it didn’t exist. He inclined his head slightly toward the cell containing Helmut Zemo. The glass was a two-way mirror—Zemo could not see out of the room, but T’Challa could see in. Zemo wore the same sadly vacant expression on his face that he had back in Siberia.
In fact, for all Zemo had spoken in Siberia, he’d spent the flight to Berlin in complete silence. To be fair, T’Challa hadn’t engaged the man in conversation. Though he may have pitied Zemo, he could not bring himself to feel anything further for the man who had caused the death of his beloved father.
“What becomes of anybody?” was the reply that greeted T’Challa’s ears. The voice belonged to Agent Everett Ross, who worked for the Joint Terrorism Task Force, a multinational agency. A dapper man with perfectly kept hair, Ross wore a sharp suit and had a razor-edged attitude to match. The two men had met only recently as a result of Zemo’s plot, but T’Challa felt he had known the agent for far longer.
Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows, thought T’Challa.
T’Challa looked at Ross. He could have arched an eyebrow, but he didn’t need to. His silence and the stony look on his face told Ross what the son of the Wakandan king really meant by his question.
“He’ll be processed, we’ll see what he’ll tell us, if anything,” Ross said, shrugging. “Does Zemo have anything else planned? Any ‘Easter eggs’ that he’s hidden, surprises that we need to be worrying about? If he does, we’ll find them. Then we’ll take him to the Raft, where he’ll enjoy the hospitality of our agency until he grows old and dies.”
T’Challa nodded. He knew the Raft was an underwater prison, its precise location unknown. If a person was unfortunate or evil enough to earn a trip there, odds were the ticket was one-way. He looked over Ross’s shoulders, into the cell behind him. Zemo stared into nothingness. The man sat calmly, breathing in, breathing out. He looked harmless. It was hard to believe this man very nearly, single-handedly, took down the Avengers.