by Jim McCann
He sat on the hard-backed chair they’d provided for him, staring up at the ceiling, which he could not see because of the darkness. He thought it odd that no one had come to check on him, to make sure he wasn’t trying to escape. Then again, it seemed especially strange to him that he should hear almost no commotion whatsoever.
What was Ross up to?
That’s when the door to his cell opened. Zemo could hear someone breathing, but in the darkness, he could not see who it was.
“Helmut Zemo?” a voice rang out through the void. “Come with me.”
Zemo didn’t recognize the voice except that it was female. But he understood the tone.
It was the same tone that Zemo had in his voice when he spoke to Captain America and Iron Man in the cold silo in Siberia.
He had no choice. Zemo stood up and followed the voice through the inky blackness and out of his cell.
Before Ross could say anything else, T’Challa raced down the hallway in pursuit. Thanks to the heart-shaped herb he ingested as Black Panther, he could see in the dark as if it were daytime—even better, in fact. His unimpaired vision and the unique properties of the vibranium woven into his suit rendered even his footsteps mute. Here, in the darkness, Black Panther maneuvered like his namesake: silent, stealthy, and ready to pounce.
Behind him, he could hear Ross calling through his comm for agents to return to the facility.
They won’t get here in time to make a difference, T’Challa thought.
Less than a minute later, Black Panther arrived at Zemo’s cell. He saw the door was open. Careful not to make a sound, he ducked his head into the cell.
Empty.
“They are gone,” Black Panther said into the comm link. There was a brief hiss of static.
“Gone?” came a voice over the link. Ross. “What do you mean, ‘gone’? Gone where?”
Black Panther looked around the cell and saw nothing amiss—not counting an absent Zemo as “amiss.” He thought for a moment, trying to imagine what Sund would do, seeking vengeance.
He thought of Zemo and the cliff.
Then he had it.
“The roof,” Black Panther said, and he was off.
There was a helipad atop the agency, but the altercation between the Winter Soldier and Captain America had damaged it. While it wasn’t functional at the moment, the roof itself was still accessible through a rooftop entrance.
That was exactly where Zemo found himself at the moment—on the roof, and about to go over the edge and plummet to the ground far, far below.
A woman stood in front of him, the disembodied voice from his cell come to life, her jet-black hair blowing in the wind as she trained her weapon directly at Zemo’s heart. Zemo’s leather-bound journal was clutched under her left arm.
If Zemo was concerned for his life, it wasn’t readily apparent.
If he was afraid, he showed no sign of it.
“Am I to die?” Zemo asked without any trace of resistance. His voice was cool and emotionless. “Please, tell me why so I can thank you.”
Charmagne Sund drew a slow breath, exhaled, and then renewed her grasp on the weapon in her hand. “I am from Sokovia, too,” she said.
Zemo said nothing in reply. He didn’t feel the need.
The Black Panther climbed up the side of the building using his suit’s built-in vibranium claws. He’d thought about taking the stairs but had decided that bursting through the door on the roof not only eliminated any element of surprise but could also endanger Zemo’s life.
Zemo’s life.
It struck T’Challa as the height of irony that he of all people should be so concerned about the life of Helmut Zemo.
And yet it was so.
As he made his way up the wall, to the corner of the roof, Black Panther peered over. He saw Charmagne Sund, her back to him. She had a weapon pointed at Zemo, who teetered on the edge of the roof. It was clear to him what was about to happen.
“Bast, no,” T’Challa whispered.
It was all happening so fast. Too fast.
Charmagne Sund, weapon in hand.
Zemo, on the edge of the roof.
Black Panther, creeping silently toward them, just out of sight.
“You and your plans,” Sund spat at Zemo. “This book of yours.” She shook the journal she still clutched in one hand. “You have ruined the name of Sokovia for all time. When people think of our country, now they will think of a madman. A maniac. A murderer.”
Zemo stood in his spot on the roof and said nothing. What was there to say? Anything? Nothing he could say would change the past. It wouldn’t bring the dead back to life.
“And don’t tell me that killing you won’t solve anything,” she said, her voice tinged with barely concealed anger. “Because it will. When the world learns that Zemo is gone, then Sokovia’s good name will be restored.”
“Not this way.”
Sund whirled around, startled to see Black Panther standing only five feet behind her.
She fired her weapon.
Black Panther leaned back, very nearly falling over, before catching himself. The fragments of vibranium exploded past him, but a small piece caught him on his right side, just below his ribs. It tore through his own vibranium suit as if it weren’t there, leaving a bright red gash. He righted himself and held his left hand to his right side, squeezing tightly. Beneath his helmet, he grimaced.
Before he could make another move, Sund whipped back around and turned the gun on Zemo, striding over to him and grabbing him by his neck. She shoved the weapon into Zemo’s chest.
“Not this way,” Black Panther repeated, panting. With his right hand, he grabbed his helmet and removed it.
“You don’t know what this monster has done,” she shouted, her face a frozen mask of anger.
“I, of all people, know what he has done,” said T’Challa calmly. “That is why I, of all people, am telling you that you must let go of your need for vengeance.”
“All those people!” she screamed, and grabbed Zemo’s throat even harder. She threw an accusing look at Black Panther. “Your own father! How can you let him live?”
“His life is not yours or mine to take. We are not gods,” Black Panther said, walking forward slowly. “We do not sit in judgment. Put your weapon away.”
“Don’t come any closer!” Sund shouted, and shoved the barrel into Zemo’s chest so hard the man grunted in response.
“If you kill him, it will bring no honor to Sokovia,” Black Panther reasoned. “Your country has suffered. Your people have suffered. What happened in Sokovia was a tragedy. But this man has suffered, too. He chose the path of vengeance. You are continuing his path. Do not.”
Then a shot rang out in Black Panther’s ears.
Everett Ross stood in the rooftop door, weapon in hand.
He had fired the shot. It found its mark in Charmagne Sund’s right hand.
Sund stood near Zemo, cradling her wounded hand. There was blood. She had released her grip on Zemo. Zemo stood on the edge of the roof, unmoving, looking into the vast depths that spanned beyond the building.
With blinding speed, T’Challa zoomed past Sund and grabbed Zemo before he could jump. T’Challa rolled to the side, and the two men tumbled to the tarmac.
“Now that wasn’t so bad, was it?” Ross said.
An hour later, something approaching order had been restored to the agency headquarters. Zemo had been returned to his cell and left with an armed guard.
Meanwhile, Charmagne Sund sat in a chair in Everett Ross’s office. Ross himself stood outside the closed room, clutching Zemo’s journal in his hands. T’Challa was with him, holding his Black Panther helmet tightly.
“I told you this would be easy,” Ross said. He wasn’t laughing—his voice was dripping with irony.
“So much pain,” was all T’Challa could think to say. “The cycle of vengeance. It destroys everything.”
Ross nodded.
“What will happen to her?” T�
�Challa asked, motioning with his head toward Ross’s office, in which Charmagne Sund waited to hear her fate.
“We’re in uncharted territory here,” Ross said, shaking his head. “I’ve never had an agent try to take revenge on behalf of an entire country before.”
“She was only doing what she thought was right,” T’Challa countered. “She’s a victim in all this, too.”
“She is,” Ross said, a trace of sympathy in his voice. “She’s lucky she didn’t hurt anyone. I’ll see that she gets help. It’s the least we can do for her.”
Ross pointed with his hand toward the hallway. T’Challa started to walk, and Ross followed.
“We made a pretty good team, you and me,” Ross said as they walked.
“A team?” T’Challa questioned. “Where were you while I was on the roof, trying to save two people?”
“Staying out of the way of you saving two people,” Ross quipped.
T’Challa nodded. “So you are more helpful when you are not helping.”
Ross thought about that for a moment. “Well, when you put it like that, it sounds like I did nothing.”
For all his uncertainty, T’Challa was beginning to realize his father’s wisdom. While he still believed that Wakanda must remain hidden, remain safe, he knew that the world at large needed protecting. It needed Black Panther. If nothing else, his time spent in the company of Everett Ross had proved that to him.
With men like Klaue and Zemo, whether Wakanda liked it or not, the world was out there, life was happening, and the lives of innocent people would always be at risk if brave people who had the means and technology to protect the world and rid it of evil did nothing.
He could not sit back and pretend that the violence was not happening.
Wakanda no longer had that luxury.
T’Challa no longer had that luxury.
From the cockpit of the Royal Talon Fighter, T’Challa gazed out at the clouds above which he flew. He was finally headed home.
The call came in a moment later.
“Prince T’Challa,” came a voice over his comm. “I need to ask for your help. It’s about the Winter Soldier.”
T’Challa recognized the voice immediately. It belonged to Steve Rogers.
Captain America.
“What can I do for you, Captain?” T’Challa asked.
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The costumed hero known as Black Panther is on the prowl. Dangerous smugglers are moving through the jungle, hoping to transport their cargo under the cover of darkness. Black Panther will not allow that to happen.
With the help of incredibly high-tech gadgets and a suit interwoven with rare and impervious vibranium, Black Panther is able to take down the criminals without any casualties. He removes his fearsome helmet to reveal he is T’Challa, future king of Wakanda.
After convincing his childhood friend Nakia to join him, T’Challa boards their futuristic ride to t he self-isolated but extremely technologically advanced nation that he is bound to rule as warrior-king.
Safely home, T’Challa greets his mother, the queen, Ramonda. Since the death of T’Challa’s father, T’Chaka, and T’Challa’s fight with the Avengers, Ramonda has been worried about her son—but she is also proud of the man he’s become.
As is tradition, T’Challa will have to prove his right to rule in a formal ceremony in which he must best any challenger for the throne in combat.
Most of the clans in Wakanda are happy with the Black Panther clan’s rule, and they concede the throne. M’Baku, leader of the Jabari clan from the mountains, is not. He will confront T’Challa.
T’Challa prepares to battle the much larger warrior without his Black Panther gear—and stripped of the super strength and speed that he is normally granted.
The High Shaman Zuri, T’Ch alla’s good friend, watches the struggle unfold. He is a font of wisdom about Wakanda and its customs.
Nakia, Okoye, and Ayo, a member of the Dora Milaje, also watch the two warriors anxiously. The Dora Milaje are the royal guard of Wakanda and are among the best fighting forces in the world.
After a brutal fight, T’Challa is victorious! He prepares himself physically and spiritually to assume his throne as king of Wakanda and the protector of his nation—the Black Panther.
But the peace his victory has brought to Wakanda is short-lived. International terrorist and thief Ulysses Klaue has resurfaced and has nefarious plans to steal precious vibranium.
This is not an attack that T’Challa takes lightly. He gathers his most trusted warriors and prepares to intercept Klaue at an illegal casino in Busan, South Korea.
Of course, nothing can ever be easy for a warrior-king. Soon, Black Panther leaps into action, racing across the city to bring Klaue to justice. He’s not sure what Klaue has planned, but he knows he is duty bound to stop it.