by Jim McCann
No one was there.
T’Challa threw open a door and looked down a long hallway. To his left, to his right, there was no one. Nothing seemed amiss.
Except for a handful of fragments and shards of some sort scattered on the floor. T’Challa bent to pick one of them up. What he had thought were bullets raining down on them were, in fact, not bullets at all. But before he had time to examine it closer, a voice crackled over the comm link that Ross had given him.
“Talk to me, what do we have?”
Agent Ross.
T’Challa drew a deep breath, and then exhaled. “We have a ghost. There is no one here,” he said, staring at the fragment in the palm of his left hand. “The shooter is gone. Where, I cannot tell.”
“You can tell me, I’m a fully deputized agent,” Ross said, trying to inject a little levity into the situation.
T’Challa didn’t laugh.
“Sorry,” Ross replied. “I’ve lost track of Sund. Something’s interfering with the microchip. My team will canvass the area. Looks like we’re back to square one.”
“I said the shooter is gone. But she has left something behind.” T’Challa took another good, hard look at the fragment he held in his hand. Something about it looked familiar. Then he recognized what it was and could scarcely believe it.
It was made of vibranium.
T’Challa felt the throbbing in his left arm.
“You know, I have to admit, I’m disappointed. I was looking forward to a front-seat view of you engaged in some kind of daring chase with the shooter,” Ross said.
“Life is not all about the chase,” T’Challa said gravely, as he walked with Ross to a fresh black sedan that had seemingly appeared out of nowhere. “That is something my father understood.”
The local police had secured the area, and Ross’s team was sweeping the immediate vicinity of the State Opera, looking for additional clues.
“I understand that, too, believe me,” Ross replied as he opened the driver’s door to the new sedan. T’Challa got in and shut the door quickly.
“These fragments the shooter was using are made of vibranium,” Black Panther said bluntly.
“That’s how they pierced the armored car and your suit so easily,” Ross mused. T’Challa nodded. “Where did Charmagne Sund get vibranium?”
“There is only one source of vibranium in the world,” T’Challa said slowly. “Wakanda. And you know we did not provide it. There is only one man I know of who has dealt in vibranium.”
“Klaue?” Ross asked. He meant Ulysses Klaue, a disreputable, dishonest, often murderous arms dealer who had, among other things, stolen a cache of vibranium from Wakanda some time ago. The theft incurred the wrath of T’Challa’s father, and all of Wakanda. Klaue’s crimes against humanity were quite literally too numerous to mention. “Do you think Klaue’s behind this?”
T’Challa considered Ross’s question as the car started up and pulled away. “I do not. But I think some of the vibranium he stole has ended up with Charmagne Sund. The question is, who gave it to her? Find the answer to that and perhaps we will know to whom she plans on delivering the journal.”
“Your grammar is terrific,” Ross said, shaking his head as they swung a sharp left around a corner. “Mine, not so much. But yours? I wish I had your gift.”
To his own surprise, the thinnest of smiles crept upon T’Challa’s face.
“You are an interesting man, Agent Ross.”
Just drive.
Her breath was heavy, but measured. She had lost all track of time from the moment she’d grabbed the journal. Her mind raced as she did her best to get her bearings and keep calm.
A moment ago, Charmagne Sund had been at a window in the top floor of the State Opera, firing off rounds at the unmarked black sedan. She recognized the make and model immediately and knew it belonged to the agency. She had expected it, even counted on it.
After all, that was part of her plan.
What she hadn’t expected was a man with sharp claws and a skintight black costume to come bounding up the wall of the State Opera. She knew who it was. She had read Ross’s file on the man.
T’Challa, prince of Wakanda. The Black Panther.
She clutched the leather-bound book tightly in her left hand, and the steering wheel in the other. Sund had moved quickly the moment she saw Black Panther. Descending into the opera house itself, she made her way through the grand, ornate interiors to the street below, and then out a side door. From there, it was a simple matter to procure a parked car, hot-wire it, and drive away unnoticed.
For now, at least. At this point, Ross would have half the agency combing the streets of Berlin looking for her. No way could she leave the city undetected.
That was fine, because Sund had no intention of leaving Berlin. But she did have somewhere else she needed to be.
Sund wondered if she should have ever taken the journal in the first place. The agency would almost surely see it as an act of betrayal and send out assassination teams to terminate her. At least, that’s what she believed they would do.
Why had she taken the book? She didn’t even want it.
She was almost afraid of it, of the information it contained. Helmut Zemo was a bitter, twisted man who sought to bring down a team of heroes for… what? Justice? Vengeance? His family was dead. Zemo’s actions wouldn’t help them.
And yet, justice and vengeance were two emotions Sund could identify with strongly.
Very strongly.
So she knew that a person who would go to those ends for revenge could be capable of almost anything. Whatever else was in the journal, whatever plans Zemo may have had—may still have—would be inside. Though the pages were coded, Sund knew that any cryptographer worth their salt could decode it. And once they did, that information would be valuable currency throughout the criminal underworld.
People would come looking for it.
Zemo himself would come looking for it.
That’s right, Sund thought to herself. Zemo will come. Did Ross really think the agency could hold Zemo? He had already masterminded a mind-bogglingly complex scheme involving an electromagnetic pulse that depowered the agency’s headquarters in Berlin, shutting down all power, allowing the Winter Soldier to escape. That was how Zemo’s plan to destroy the Avengers had reached its next level.
Could anyone truly believe that Zemo was no longer a threat?
Sund didn’t think so. And she meant to neutralize the threat before it could do any more damage. After all, it was what she’d been trained to do. She owed it to the world.
Most important, she owed it to the people of Sokovia—a country she loved, a country whose name would be forever linked with Zemo.
Unless she did something about it.
As she sped down Unter den Linden, away from the State Opera, she listened to the sirens wailing in the distance.
Vengeance.
EVERETT ROSS’S OFFICE, THIRTY MINUTES LATER.
The agency was mostly empty. Most of the personnel had been called to the State Opera and were conducting the investigation under Ross’s orders. Ross himself had returned to headquarters with T’Challa, trying to make sense of everything that had happened.
T’Challa stood in front of Ross’s desk, his black-gloved fingers sifting through an unmarked file folder that was spread out before him. There was a file photo of Charmagne Sund, along with her biographical information. T’Challa held the vibranium fragment in his left hand, rolling it around his palm as he read the file.
Ross split his attention between T’Challa, the Sund file, and the phone glued to his ear. He was in the middle of a conversation that appeared particularly one-sided, evidenced by the way he held the receiver a good six inches from his ear.
“Yes, sir, I—” was all Ross managed to spit out before the shouting on the other end of the phone commenced again. “Yes, sir, I know, you need to be involved in anything relating to the Avengers, but—” The angry voice picked up steam. All Ros
s could do was roll his eyes and wait for the tirade to finish.
T’Challa looked up at Ross as the agent covered the mouthpiece of his phone.
“Believe it or not, this is pretty standard,” Ross said, grinning. “Always a pleasure to receive a dressing-down from the secretary of state.”
The secretary of state was a different Ross: Thaddeus Ross—or “Thunderbolt” Ross, as he was known in his army days. He had spent years spearheading a top-secret project that sought to re-create the Super-Soldier experiment that transformed frail Steve Rogers into the incredible physical specimen known as Captain America. Except Ross’s experiments ended a little differently, resulting in a scientist named Bruce Banner becoming the rampaging Hulk, and Ross’s own man, Emil Blonsky, transforming into the Abomination.
T’Challa suppressed a chuckle. “Why does the secretary of state waste his time calling you, when you have an investigation to run?”
“Exactly,” Ross shot back, hand still over the receiver while the screaming continued over the phone. “Ever since Sokovia and the Accords, Ross wants to be looped into anything remotely involving the Avengers. In this case, it means you, and the shooting at the opera house.”
“I am not an Avenger,” T’Challa contested flatly.
“Try telling that to ‘Thunderbolt’ Ross. To him, anyone wearing fancy pajamas is an Avenger.” Ross sighed heavily, and then sat in his chair. “We’re not related, you know. In case you were wondering.”
“Really? I am surprised. In Wakanda, we assume that everyone with the last name Ross must be related,” T’Challa said. His eyes never left the file in front of him.
Ross looked at T’Challa, and then pointed at him, accidentally uncovering the receiver. He started to shake his finger. “Wait, was that—did you just make a joke?” he asked excitedly. “Did the prince of Wakanda just make a joke? I think that was a joke.”
Violent screaming erupted from the phone, causing Ross to grimace.
I forgot about the darn phone, Ross thought.
“No, sir, I didn’t think you were joking,” Ross said into the phone, his tone placating. “Of course not. Nothing you say is a joke, and I take every word with incredible importance.”
As T’Challa continued to scan the Sund file, something caught his eye.
“Sokovia,” he said.
Ross tilted his head. “Sokovia?”
More screaming over the phone.
“No, sir, I don’t want you to go to Sokovia. It’s just, I really need to get back to this—”
T’Challa spoke over Ross. “Charmagne Sund is from Sokovia. That explains how she obtained the vibranium.”
“How?” Ross asked, puzzled.
“Klaue turned a supply of vibranium over to Ultron to use in perfecting his robotic form. After the Battle of Sokovia, there would have been vibranium fragments left behind. She could have gathered the bits and pieces.”
“And what, forged bullets?”
T’Challa shook his head. “That is doubtful. But she could be firing the shards and fragments, like shot in a shotgun. Just as deadly.”
At that moment, a junior agent appeared at Ross’s door, panting. “Sir, explosions all along Unter den Linden,” she blurted out.
“You’ll have to yell at me later, sir,” Ross said into the phone, hitting the END button. He nailed the junior agent with a hard gaze. “Okay. Tell us everything you know.”
The junior agent standing in Ross’s doorway delivered an incredible amount of information in an equally incredibly short amount of time. Ross was flat-out impressed. Or he would have been impressed, if he wasn’t so angry.
The explosions began around three o’clock that afternoon. They occurred all along the busy Unter den Linden, stretching from the Schlossbrücke at the east end to the Brandenburg Gate to the west.
In each instance, the blasts themselves caused little damage. Surprisingly, no civilians had been injured. But they drew the focus of the police as well as Ross’s agency, when they were already stretched thin investigating the opera house shooting.
“What is going on here?” Ross asked out loud. He was met with silence. “No one answer—I wasn’t really asking; that’s just me thinking out loud.”
The junior agent hovered in the doorway, not quite sure what she should do now that her presentation was complete. “Do you want me to stay or… ?” she said, her voice trailing off.
“I want you to monitor this situation and report to me every five minutes,” Ross said. “How long have you been with us?”
The junior agent shifted on her feet. “Three months, sir.”
Ross nodded. “Three months. I can’t believe it took you only three months to get promoted.”
“But I—” the junior agent started to say, before realizing what Ross meant. She allowed herself a small smile, and then she nodded curtly and strode out of Ross’s office.
“What is the connection between the shooting and the blasts, and the theft of the journal?” Ross wondered. “It’s a whole bunch of seemingly unconnected stuff that is obviously connected, but it doesn’t make any sense. None of it does.”
T’Challa bit his lip, seeming just as flummoxed as Ross was by the random string of events. It was the first indication that Ross had yet seen that the prince of Wakanda was anything but entirely calm, cool, and collected twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.
“Charmagne Sund is the connection,” T’Challa suddenly announced.
Okay, maybe not.
“Charmagne Sund?” Ross asked. “I agree she was behind the shooting at the opera house. But the explosions, too? That seems a little too coincidental. Why would she do that? What’s the point? Wouldn’t she just escape with the journal?”
T’Challa stood up, shaking his head. “It is no coincidence. Charmagne Sund wants what Zemo wanted. What I, too, once wanted.”
Ross sat behind his desk, raising his eyebrows, shaking his head as if to say, “And that is… ?”
“Vengeance.”
And at that moment, for the second time in a week, the power went out, and Ross’s office was plunged into darkness.
From the moment the power went out and the facility went dark, T’Challa understood what was happening. He could sense it. Perhaps it was instinct, based on all those years of training under his father. Learning the art of combat, tracking and hunting from warriors like the Dora Milaje—the special forces of Wakanda.
Or was it something else? Something deeper?
Maybe it was the strange kinship he had felt with Zemo. As much as T’Challa didn’t like it, he had to admit the two men shared a terrible bond, one forged in grief.
Zemo had lost his family as the Avengers battled against Ultron in Sokovia. The loss he endured drove him to his incredible acts of vengeance.
T’Challa had lost his father to the bombing in Vienna, an unintended victim of Zemo’s wrath.
Two men, consumed by vengeance.
One had succumbed to the urge and, in doing so, had lost his soul, his essence, his very being.
One had overcome it, managing to save himself in the process.
T’Challa felt a chill at the thought of another victim in all this, another person consumed by vengeance, driven to destroy. Could this dangerous cycle of vengeance be broken? he wondered.
T’Challa believed that it was Sund—knew it was her, in fact. It had to be. She was Sokovian. She was seeking vengeance of her own.
The journal had merely been a ruse—a red herring. It wasn’t the endgame.
No, the endgame was vengeance.
And now T’Challa knew against whom. And he knew when and where.
It was here—inside the very headquarters of Ross’s agency—and now.
“She is here,” T’Challa said, his trained eyes rapidly adjusting to the darkness, pushing back from his chair and striding to the door of the office.
“What? Who?” Ross asked.
“Charmagne Sund,” T’Challa said quietly. “We have to get t
o Zemo. Now.”
“Why?”
“Because Sund is going to kill him.”
Like everywhere else in the agency, it was dark in Helmut Zemo’s holding cell. This genuinely surprised him. The last time he’d been inside the agency, he’d masqueraded as a psychiatrist to assess the Winter Soldier. When the power went out that time, it was a direct result of the electromagnetic bomb he set off.
This time it had nothing to do with him.
So if not him, then what? Or whom?
Zemo was resigned to the situation, sitting in his cell. He could do nothing. He wasn’t super-powered, like the Winter Soldier, so there would be no breaking free of his holding cell. And even if he could break free and flee this place, what would be the point?
His family was still dead.
“It should have come back on by now,” Ross panted as he and T’Challa raced through the darkened halls of the agency. “It came back on right after the pulse, last time.”
“This is not last time,” T’Challa said evenly. “You are dealing with someone who knows the inner workings of your system this time.”
“I don’t get it,” Ross said. “Why would Sund do this? Why take the journal? Why lead us on a wild-goose chase? Why set off those bombs?”
“To distract you,” T’Challa answered matter-of-factly. “To tie up your agents all over Berlin, have them chasing shadows… while she comes here, to a mostly empty building, to finish Zemo.”
“ ‘Finish’?” Ross exclaimed. “Hey, no one gets ‘finished’ on Joint Terrorism Task Force soil.”
“Your agency might not do this,” T’Challa said. “But a person from Sokovia with vengeance on her mind? She does.”
The cell was quiet and still, and the air was stifling.
Zemo didn’t care. Comfort was not exactly important to the man at the moment.