Who is the Black Panther? E-Book

Jesse J. Holland

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: Marvel novels
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Seitenzahl: 393

Beschreibung

Third title in Titan Books' Marvel fiction reissue program, featuring the Black Panther.HE'S KNOWN AS THE BLACK PANTHER.HIS HOME IS WAKANDA.WELCOME TO T'CHALLA'S WORLD.The African nation of Wakanda stood alone as an unconquerable land filled with incredible technological advancements for ten centuries. T'Challa, the latest in a lineage of warrior-kings, is the Black Panther, endowed with enhanced speed and strength, along with a suit made of the indestructible metal that secured his country's future: Vibranium. Now, outsiders have returned to plunder Wakanda's riches–including its store of the rare metal.CAN THE BLACK PANTHER PREVAIL AGAINSTSUCH A MASSIVE INVADING FORCE?

Leseprobe

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

About the Author

Coming Soon from Titan Books

Who Is the Black Panther?

Print edition ISBN: 9781785659478

E-book edition ISBN: 9781785659485

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

First Titan edition: April 2018

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

© 2018 MARVEL

Black Panther created by Stan Lee and Jack Kirby

Interior art by John Romita Jr. and Klaus Janson

Cover art by Gabriele Dell’Otto

Editor: Stuart Moore

VP Production & Special Projects: Jeff Youngquist

Assistant Editor: Caitlin O’Connell

Manager, Licensed Publishing: Jeff Reingold

SVP Print, Sales & Marketing: David Gabriel

Editor in Chief: C.B. Cebulski

Chief Creative Officer: Joe Quesada

President: Dan Buckley

Executive Producer: Alan Fine

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

For Carol, Rita and Jamie.

The best is yet to come…

CHAPTER ONE

A TRIO of black SUVs rumbled down a dirt road. The late fall wind whipped leaves out of the swaying trees and across the road, the fluttering yellows and oranges contrasting sharply with the gray, billowing clouds racing across the sky.

The trucks kicked up a cloud of dust behind them as they cruised down the lonely Virginia road. Other than the occasional curious look from a grazing cow, the SUVs were alone and out of place in the remote countryside. After cresting a couple of hills and maneuvering around potholes in the road, the SUVs one at a time swerved sharply into an opening in the trees, where the road looked more like dual indentations in the grass. Branches whipped the sides of the SUVs until they entered a clearing with a small, ramshackle farmhouse. Slowing to a crawl, the trucks followed the grassy path around the house to a massive antique barn and slowly drove through a set of open double doors.

Shielded from the sky by a canopy of enormous oak trees, the brown- and-green dappled barn blended in perfectly with its surroundings…except for the satellite dish hidden under a back eave of the roof, and the surveillance cameras hidden in the overhanging branches and around the perimeter.

Inside the barn, the SUVs idled. Trios of dark-suited men disembarked, looking around at the banks of high-tech monitor screens hung around the multilevel structure. Surrounding them on ground level, in what apparently were former horse stalls, were overall-clad men, some with dirty-blond or red beards, assembling and mock-firing rifles, AK-47s, and other weapons.

In the back of the barn was a makeshift firing range, where other men in jeans and T-shirts discharged bullets repeatedly at dark-colored mannequins. One of the black-suited drivers nodded at his compatriots and slowly walked up to one of the men on the firing line. Tall, with a scraggly, reddish-blond beard, the man’s body shuddered as he fired repeatedly at the target dummy, shredding the head and shoulders. While his clothes were quaint—his jeans were torn, his sweaty T-shirt declared “The South Will Rise Again,” and a Confederate-flag bandanna around his head kept his eyes clear of sweat—his intelligent eyes shone with a frightening intensity.

The black-suited man considered this as he adjusted his Armani tie. Luckily, in the arms business, those kinds of men didn’t haggle over price.

When the clip was finally empty, the dark-suited arms dealer tapped him on the shoulder. “Carson Willabie III?”

Willabie slowly turned around, his eyes giving the man a clear once-over before speaking. “Could be. And you are…”

“Someone who doesn’t have time for games, Mr. Willabie. If you have my cash, I have your order.”

Willabie smiled an enigmatic grin, a piece of hay dangling from his mouth. “There’s always time for games, Mr. Blackthorne.”

Blackthorne snorted, and then coughed as the rancid scent of mansweat and gunpowder invaded his body. Breathing out of his mouth, Blackthorne retorted, “Find someone else to play with, then. I don’t want to be out here any longer than I have to be. Give me my money, get your merchandise off my truck, and let me get back to my city.”

Willabie laughed, his Southern drawl becoming more apparent as he talked. “You hoity-toity city slickers have never been able to stand the appearance of a real man, have you? You make all of this noise about making this country great, but when it comes time for the dirty work, you can’t do anything but get out of the way of real men.”

As Willabie talked, the bustling activity around the barn halted. Men shuffled toward their leader, who grew more animated and wild as he spoke. Flecks of spittle gathered on his ragged beard as his arms began to flail about.

“We’re the real Americans! Us! And we’re gonna take our country back from these foreigners and immigrants! No one’s gonna put up a temple to them in my country if we have anything to say about it, right, boys?”

A ragged cheer and whoops from his men led Willabie to raise his hands as if he were a prizefighter celebrating a victory. Blackthorne just looked bored. Willabie exulted in the praise for a few seconds, then nodded his head toward a secluded stall that had been converted into a makeshift office. He wandered over, followed by the still silent Blackthorne.

Willabie sat down behind an antique desk and propped his boot-clad feet on top of the dirty surface. “Shut that door so we can have some privacy to conduct our financial dealings, will you, Mr. Blackthorne?”

Blackthorne hesitated outside the door for a second, wary of the situation. Taking out a radio earpiece, he coiled it around his ear and spoke into the microphone. “If I’m not out in 15 minutes, go to plan Omega 5. Full sweep. Maintain radio silence until I return.”

“Don’t trust me, huh?” Willabie cackled, hocking a huge glob of spit onto the dirty floor.

“Just keeping my options open,” Blackthorne said. He pulled the door closed and yanked his radio out of his ear. Silence filled the room for a couple of seconds. Then Willabie slowly stood up and walked around the desk to look directly at Blackthorne, who set his feet and curled up his lip in a sneer.

The two men then laughed as they hugged each other.

“Johnny-boy,” Willabie patted him on the back. “Good to see you in person again. How’s the arms business going?”

Blackthorne chuckled. “Just about as well as the secret-agent business, Car. Have you talked to Dad lately?”

Willabie snorted. “That old coot? The last time he deigned to talk to his youngest child, he was still Scrooge McDucking his way through the Fort Lauderdale social scene.” He held up his hand and sat back down in his desk chair. “And before you ask, yes, we’re still cut out of the will.”

“Damn.” Blackthorne pulled a rickety chair out of the corner and brought it up to the desk. “I was hoping he had dementia by now and forgot he’d disowned us.”

“No such luck. We’re on our own for a while longer. You bring the goods?”

“Yep. It took a little doing, but our Belgian contact came through. Got some machine guns, a few grenade launchers, and some older Brownings from the gray market. All dirt cheap, but pretty good profit margin on the resale market. Your men ready?”

Willabie leaned back in his chair, chewing on his straw. “Those idiots? They’re as ready as they’re ever going to be. All you have to do is mention the white man is losing in America, and they’re willing to do any old stupid thing I can think of. And this one will be a doozy…”

Blackthorne chuckled. “Whatever. Just get them down to the Mall and kick up a ruckus. I’ll take care of everything from there. We need to get people riled up—and hell, if this doesn’t do it, then I don’t know what will.”

“Don’t worry, bro. I’ll get them fired up and ready to go.”

“Be sure you’re not down there, okay? In case things go sideways.” Willabie chuckled again. “Believe me, when I’m done they’ll be begging me to stay behind to carry on the glorious fight. Mix a little racial pride with a lot of disoperation, and you’ve got a ready-made army, bro.” He sighed and sniffed at his clothes. “Now I have to get back in character, bro. I just wish I didn’t have to get so…fragrant on this gig. Put your secret-agent face back on, and let’s get underway.”

CHAPTER TWO

DEVONTE Wallman ran as fast as he could, darting around people on the Washington, D.C., sidewalk, all seemingly more concerned with their daily lives than his urgent mission. He was late, and the doors would be locked soon if he didn’t hurry. And these tourists—with their Witness Protection T-shirts and smartphones and stuff—were in his way. But an elbow here, and a shove there (and a couple of words that would make Gramma tan his hide if she heard them coming from his mouth), and he could see clear space in front of him. His goal was in sight: the entrance to the Smithsonian National Museum of African Art.

He could see that security was tighter than normal, even for the nation’s capital. Men with earpieces wandered the perimeter, and news crews jostled for position near a microphone stand on the sidewalk, as if they expected someone important to give a speech soon.

Normally, Devonte would hang around to see whether the person speaking was famous (he’d gotten to see his favorite wrestler, The Rock, that way before the guy started making Disney movies). But today was too important. Two more steps, and Devonte burst through the door, panting hard. An elderly lady at the front desk smiled bemusedly at him as he bent over trying to catch his breath, his chest heaving as sweat dripped from around the drenched New York Yankees baseball cap he had stuffed around his unkempt dreadlocks.

“You okay, hon?” She peered over the desk as Devonte struggled to stand upright again. Unable to make his lungs and mouth work at the same time, Devonte waved his ticket frantically at a poster on the wall.

“Ah, the Wakandan exhibit. Downstairs, son, and hurry. They’re starting any second now.”

After clearing security, Devonte staggered toward a set of stairs in the middle of the room and headed down two steps at a time, security guards glaring at him just in case he posed a danger. Skidding around a corner on the slick marble floor, Devonte saw a crowd gathered at the door of a gallery with a red ribbon blocking the entrance. At the back of the crowd, looking anxiously at her watch, stood his mom, who was in the process of pulling out her phone. She was tall and lean, with her long braids tied up in a halo around her head and secured with a white headband that contrasted with the mahogany color of her skin. Devonte thought his mom was the most beautiful woman in the world; at 10, his buddies had started teasing him about how cute his mom was. He didn’t like thinking about his mom that way, and he definitely didn’t like his friends thinking that way, even if they were right.

When she saw her son skidding around the corner, a look of exasperation flickered across her eyes before she sighed. “Why are you late?” she hissed good-naturedly as she gathered him in her arms and began a futile effort to try to straighten his clothes into some semblance of acceptability.

Devonte shrugged and squirmed, trying to free himself from his mom’s insistent efforts at grooming him. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see some girls about his age in the crowd, and he knew he was losing major cool points with members of the opposite sex by having his mom smooth down his shirt and use a baby wipe on the corners of his eyes. But he also knew she’d only get louder and more insistent if he fought against her mothering instinct, so he suffered through it.

“This is important to me, right?” his mom whispered in his ear, finally satisfied with her efforts. “It’s been years since we’ve seen the king, and after all of your grandfather’s stories, well, this is important. I need you on your best behavior, okay?”

Devonte smiled, knowing his mom’s moods as well as anyone else did. He gave her the puppy-dog eyes, knowing that would make her melt. “I promise to be good. And we’re going to the new museum next, right?”

She snorted and gave him a quick hug. “I know that look, mister. Better men than you, including your dad, have tried that with me.”

“And it worked, too, didn’t it, Mom?”

The sound of wood chimes cut off her good-natured retort. An elderly, gray-bearded docent shuffled in, escorted by two of the most powerfully built women Devonte had ever seen. One was tall and wiry with dark bronzed skin. She was built like a professional basketball player, but she moved impossibly light on her feet. A scowl seemed permanently imprinted on her face, and her dark eyes locked on each face in the entranceway from behind dark sunglasses, looking for danger.

Her companion resembled an Olympic gymnast, compact and quick. Her head moved from side to side, sweeping the room and casting quick glances at an impossibly thin, smartphone-looking device wrapped in a lycra-looking band on her arm. She was as dark as her partner, but her skin seemed to glow with her smile, as if she had a secret that would make her laugh out loud if she were to share it.

Both women were bald and dressed in matching skintight, blue-black pantsuits. Devonte could see the quiet communication between the two as the taller one nodded, then disappeared into a nearby anteroom. The elderly docent cleared his throat.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the Smithsonian is pleased to welcome you to the National Museum of African Art, and to the opening of our new Wakandan exhibit. This collection—whose pieces were empowered to counter physical, social, and spiritual challenges—were commissioned exclusively for this exhibit by our guest, who graciously took time out of his busy schedule to come join us here today.” The man coughed briefly, and grinned broadly, his white teeth shining brightly. “I could continue talking, but I’m just as excited to hear from our speaker as you, so I’m going to get out of his way. Ladies and gentlemen, I’m proud to present to you our benefactor: the Black Panther of Wakanda, His Royal Highness King T’Challa!” Devonte heard his mother’s sharp intake of breath. He desperately tried to stand on his tiptoes to see through the crowd, which burst into applause. As Devonte peered around arms and over heads, he could barely make out the slender dark-skinned man now walking next to the bald amazonian bodyguards. When he got a better look, Devonte was slightly disappointed. He’d been expecting a king. This man looked like a magazine model.

The man’s walk to a small dais set up in front of the ribbon was graceful, like one of those Harlem dancers his mom had made him see at the Kennedy Center. Instead of crown and robes, he wore what Devonte assumed was an expensive black business suit with a Kente-cloth sash draped around his shoulders and chest. In fact, now that the applause had died down, Devonte could see that King T’Challa wasn’t much older than some of the recently graduated teacher’s assistants at his middle school. A hint of a beard covered his face, and the smile he gave the crowd didn’t quite seem to reach his piercing brown eyes, which darted around the room, locking gazes with the adoring audience members.

T’Challa raised his hands for silence as he settled in next to the beaming docent. One of the bodyguards handed him a few notecards and whispered something into his ear, which made him smile, his white teeth contrasting with the darkness of his skin. He shuffled the cards for a second, and then placed them inside his suit pocket. As he leaned forward, a strong African accent infused his soft tones.

“Thank you, my friends, and thank you to the Smithsonian for inviting me here today for the opening of this exhibit. As some of you may know, I recently ascended to my honored father’s throne in our homeland of Wakanda. But even before becoming king, it was my fondest wish that our country become a more active participant on the world stage, and I can think of no better way to introduce ourselves to the world than through the glory of art.” T’Challa turned and gestured smoothly at the gallery behind him. “In here you will find representation of some of the greatest artists and craftsmen of our country, commissioned by me for the royal palace in Wakanda while I was still crown prince. But I thought it would be a better gift to the world and to our friends here in the United States to share them, as a sign of friendship and honor.

“For decades, we Wakandans have embraced isolationism, content to let the rest of the world live as it would. But we have only one Earth, and her children can little afford not to share the glories and the tragedies of our collective existence much longer. I hope these small tokens of Wakandan culture will signal a greater openness and a renewed partnership between our two countries, a partnership that will lead our world into a better future for all mankind. Thank you.”

Applause filled the room as the young king stepped away from the podium and approached the red ribbon. The docent produced a large pair of silver scissors, leading the taller of the king’s guard to move protectively toward her charge while the smaller one placed her hand on the elderly man’s arm. His eyes widened when he realized what he had done, but an easy grin from T’Challa put him at ease.

“We won’t need those.” The king pulled some kind of black glove from somewhere inside his suit. With a single swipe, the ribbon fluttered to the ground, and the crowd cheered again.

The old man waved his hands at the crowd again. “When you registered for this opening, several of you were specially chosen to tour the exhibit with the king and his retinue. The ones who were chosen were contacted by phone earlier. I need you to step forward with a photo ID if you’re part of today’s party.”

Devonte felt his mom’s hand on his shoulder. “That’s us, kiddo. Surprise!”

His eyes widened in shock. “We get to meet the king? Too cool, Mom!”

“I knew if I told you before today, you’d have bugged me about it all week, baby boy.” She chuckled as they moved toward the front of the crowd to be wanded at a security line. “I don’t know if we’ll get to meet him, but we’ll be in the same room. That’s still cool, right?

Devonte and his mom made their way through the extra security and wandered into the new gallery. Even though his mom endeavored to direct his attention to the fine art, Devonte spent most of his time spying on the king. T’Challa walked with his two female companions, the elderly docent, and a couple of business-suited white men, conversing about each piece they passed. Occasionally, they would be joined by an African woman or man—the artist or craftsman, who would take over the conversation about the piece.

Devonte didn’t hear any of his mother’s lectures about the pieces. Once, while peeking around his mother’s back, he noticed the shorter of the two women was looking right into his eyes. He blushed and turned away, only to peek back to see a wide smile on the woman’s face. She winked at him, and turned back toward the king and whispered quickly in his ear.

Devonte froze as T’Challa turned to look at him. His mother was still talking about the statue in front of them, oblivious to the movement behind her as the king and his companions approached them. Devonte had to tug on her jacket to get her attention, and she froze as well when she saw T’Challa.

“Beautiful, is it not?” T’Challa’s soft voice was comforting yet commanding at the same time. He held out a hand. “King T’Challa of Wakanda. And you are?”

Devonte had never heard his mother stutter before. “S-Synranda Wallman, Your Highness.”

T’Challa locked gazes with Devonte, a small smile on his face. “And this young gentleman?”

His mom nudged him forward. Devonte gulped and held out his hand. “Devonte Wallman, sir. Nice to meet you.”

The taller woman frowned. “Address him as ‘Your Royal Highness.’”

T’Challa waved her off as he shook Devonte’s hand. “No need to stand on ceremony with the young, Okoye. So, Mr. Wallman, what do you think about the exhibit?”

Devonte looked down at his shoes bashfully and eked out a quiet “It’s okay.” His mom gave him a no-nonsense nudge.

“Ummm, I think the art’s great. My mom says I need culture and need to know where I came from but I wanted to go to the new black museum and see the music exhibit and we made a deal to come here first and see this and then we can go to the museum and…”

Devonte saw the look in his mother’s eyes and trailed off. T’Challa saw the unspoken communication between the two and laughed. “Yes, mothers can be trying sometimes, can’t they? But believe me, a mother’s wisdom is irreplaceable.” T’Challa leaned over and whispered in Devonte’s ear. “Even though I am king, I still have to listen to my mother. That’s how I keep out of trouble.”

T’Challa straightened up. “I suppose this could be a little boring for a child. I assume by ‘new black museum,’ you’re talking about the Smithsonian National Museum of African American History and Culture? Nakia, is that on our itinerary?”

The shorter of the two women tapped at her arm, which Devonte could now see bore a glowing keyboard and miniature screen. She spoke a few words to T’Challa in a language Devonte didn’t understand before T’Challa stopped her. “In English, please. Let’s not be rude to our hosts, Nakia.”

Nakia grinned. “We have a few minutes after this event before our appointment at the White House, your highness.”

T’Challa rubbed his hands together. “Then it’s settled. Devonte Wallman, Synranda Wallman, would you like to be my guests at the ‘new black museum’? It would be my honor to experience this museum with you.”

Devonte’s eyes widened. He looked up at his mother, who was just as astonished. “Please, please, please,” he silently mouthed to her.

“Your highness, we wouldn’t want to impose on your time…” his mother began.

T’Challa waved his hand. “It wouldn’t be an imposition at all. In fact, I insist. Nakia will take care of the details, and we’ll meet at the museum. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to continue with my tour before my countrymen start painting pictures of me with devil horns for ignoring their fine work.”

T’Challa winked at Devonte, kissed his mother gently on the hand, and was escorted off by the docent, artists, and museum officials. Devonte and his mom looked at each other in astonishment. “What just happened?” she whispered.

“He does this all of the time. Just roll with it,” Nakia grinned at them. She thrust her hand out toward Devonte. “I am Nakia of the Dora Milaje. I am pleased to meet you. If you would follow me…”

She escorted them to the door and back up to street level. The afternoon sun was beginning to set as the three of them wandered across the National Mall. Devonte, hanging on his mother’s arm, was bursting with questions for the young Wakandan woman, but he knew his motormouth would get him into trouble with his mom. But after a couple of steps, Nakia’s twinkling eyes caught him trying to be on his best behavior. “My elders tell me that I don’t take things seriously enough sometimes, but I find that an open mind makes interesting times, don’t you? So go ahead and ask, young man. I won’t be insulted.”

Devonte looked up at his mom, and she nodded. “What’s the king like?”

Nakia laughed. “King T’Challa…” she hesitated for a second, as if trying out unfamiliar words on her tongue. “I’ve known His Royal Highness my whole life, and I still wouldn’t be able to describe him properly in just a few sentences. He’s…intense, but kind. He’s one of the smartest men in the world, but so gentle…”

Nakia trailed off, lost in thought for a second before snapping herself back to formality. “King T’Challa is the heart and soul of Wakanda. It is an honor for the Dora Milaje to serve him.”

Devonte looked at her questioningly, rolling the unfamiliar words off his tongue hesitantly. “Dora Milaje?”

Nakia ruffled Devonte’s head. “What’s the best way to explain this to you? We are like—what’s the English word?—bodyguards for the king, chosen from the many tribes of Wakanda. We receive special training and live in the palace with the king to serve his every need.”

Synranda quirked her eyebrow. “His…every need?”

Nakia’s dark skin flushed. “Nothing like that. He says we’re more like…daughters to him than anything else. Okoye and I, we won the honor of representing the Dora Milaje in public with the king, while the rest of our sisterhood trains for their day.”

Devonte wrinkled his nose. “All girls?”

Nakia chuckled and patted him on the head. “All girls. Someday, that’ll sound good to you.”

As she talked, Devonte could see the Smithsonian National Museum of African American History and Culture looming before them, its multi-tiered, bronze-colored walls reflecting the setting sun. Devonte’s mom excused herself to make a phone call, and Nakia and Devonte stepped off the sidewalk to wait and watch the people queuing up for tours. The museum had been open for months, but there were still lines of people trying to get in. Cars and taxis drove by as commuters made the evening rush out to the suburbs, while tourist buses slowly meandered by in the setting sun.

“We don’t have anything like this at home,” Nakia whispered. “This is so…cool.”

A chirp quietly sounded on Nakia’s arm wrap, and she spoke in an unfamiliar language into her wrist as they joined the lines heading into the museum. “The king will be joining us soon. Tell me, Devonte, is there something we should be sure that the king sees before he leaves?”

Devonte had studied the exhibits online for weeks, and he had an entire itinerary ready for his visit. He started to answer when he felt Nakia’s hand tighten quickly on his arm.

“Ow,” he complained. But Nakia didn’t seem to hear him. Her eyes were locked on a white tourist bus that had just pulled up across the street from the museum…

* * *

THE EVENING sun reflected off the window, preventing Nakia from seeing anything more than the driver’s outline, but something felt wrong. It was a Friday, but she was sure their security brief said buses weren’t allowed to unload in front of the museums…

“Move!” Nakia screamed as she threw Devonte to the ground and covered his body with her own. The bus’s doors opened, and two men in full ski masks charged out, firing assault rifles into the crowded sidewalks. Pandemonium ensued. The masked men rushed across the street, pushing screaming people aside as they riddled a nearby guardhouse with bullets, killing the unsuspecting man inside.

Across the street, two guards ran out the door of the museum, both holding Uzi submachine guns. There was noise and confusion as people ran for cover inside the museum and ducked behind walls. The guards tried to site the attackers through the crowd. They crossed the lawn, expertly hurdling the people huddled on the ground, but they never had a chance. From 50 yards away, shooters from the bus aimed and fired, smashing out the windows and dropping both guards.

Nakia pushed her young charge as close to the ground as she could. She peered up to see another of the bus’s windows smashed out, a shoulder-mounted grenade launcher being prepped on the inside.

“Stay low,” she hissed at Devonte. She began to speak into her communicator in Hausa, a language only spoken by the Dora Milaje and their king. “Okoye, keep Beloved away! Several armed men in body armor are attacking the museum from the east.”

Nakia knew that if she did nothing, the boy might be safe from bullets, but a destroyed building could still fall on their heads. As Devonte squirmed on the ground, Nakia heard screams piercing the air around her as vacationing parents threw themselves down to the ground hoping to shield their children. She saw one mother frantically crouch down behind her child’s stroller with a baby in her arms, as if the massive black plastic conveyance was going to provide any protection. Nakia looked again at Devonte, who was old enough to follow instructions to stay down, wasn’t he? Someone had to do something, and there was no one there but her. “I’m about to engage the heavy artillery, located on the east side of 14th Street inside a bus.”

“Nakia, are the boy and his mother okay?” She glanced down at her communicator, surprised to hear the king’s voice.

“I have the boy, but I don’t have eyes on the mother.” Nakia looked around but could not see Wallman among the people covering their heads on the ground. The guards were clearly dead, but as far as she could tell, there were few fatalities among the civilians so far.

“Find her. She and the boy are under my protection. I will take care of the rest.” Nakia could hear the soft whine of machinery in the background.

Nakia began to argue. “Beloved, our first concern is your safety…”

A silence permeated the line. “That is an order from your king, Nakia. No harm is to come to the boyand the mother. Use whatever force necessary. Okoye and I will take care of the rest. On site in five.”

Nakia looked down at her charge. “Yes, Beloved.” Switching to English, she nudged the boy underneath her. “Everything’s going to be okay, Devonte. How are you doing?”

Devonte whimpered slightly, a hint of tears welling in his eyes. “Where’s my mom?”

“We’ll find her in a minute. She’ll be fine. The king will handle everything,” Nakia hoped she was telling the truth. She watched the men assemble the rocket through the bus window.

All of a sudden, screams could be heard from inside the vehicle, as a black shadow appeared within. Bodies were flung around, and Nakia could hear the telltale crunch of bones, followed by unheeded pleas for mercy. One by one, three men were thrown from the broken bus window into the street—long, bleeding scratches across their faces and chests. They writhed on the street, moaning and holding broken arms and hands, as their weapons, including the grenades, followed them out of the bus.

The two gunmen who had killed the security guard froze and looked back at their comrades in shock. The bus door slowly opened, and a cowled man wearing an all-black, tight-fitting bodysuit gracefully stalked off. The dark, cloth-like armor rippled around his muscles as it seemed to absorb the fading light. His hands were gloved in the same hue, and he flexed metallic claws at the tips of his fingers. His face was concealed in a catlike helmet with glowing white eyes, leaving no indication of his identity or intention. Silver, metallic lines covered the entire suit, running through the mask, over the chest, and down to the boots, which made no noise as the Black Panther stalked across the street toward his masked prey.

The two remaining gunmen looked at each other, then whipped up their machine guns and fired at the Panther. Sparks shot off the Panther’s costume as the bullets fell at his feet, their momentum halted upon contact with his armor. The Panther’s cold white eyes turned to the men, and he leaped across the street with effortless grace toward the nearest gunman. Crouching down, the Panther sprung up at the gunman, slamming his fists into the man’s chest, knocking the gun free. He raked back down with his claws, shredding the gunman’s chest armor, sending blood gushing through the cracks. A black-gloved backhand drew blood from the man’s jaw, spun him around, and dropped him to the ground.

* * *

THE PANTHER stretched gracefully, looking around for the second gunman. He stepped over the prone body at his feet, sunlight glinting off of his polished black armor, and stole a quick glance at Nakia, still crouched on the ground protectively over Devonte and trying not to bring attention to herself. A quick nod from her assured him of her safety, and he began to scan for the remaining gunman among the screaming and moaning people strewn about the landscape.

A soft growl emerged from his throat as he saw the gunman drag a terrified man to his feet and jam his gun into the back of the man’s hair. The Panther took a couple of steps across the street, toward the gunman. The man swung his hostage around between himself and the black-clad hero, attempting to shield himself from the Panther’s wrath.

The man moaned, leading the gunman to shake him roughly. Spittle flecked out of his ski mask. “Another step, and he’s dead, Cat-man.”

The Panther took a couple more steps forward. The gunman jammed the weapon even harder against his hostage’s head, pushing the man’s head sideways. “I mean it, dammit,” the gunman insisted. “You’re killing him.”

The Panther never stopped, spitting out words in a slightly modulated tone through the helmet. “Kill him, then. You will join him shortly, but your death will not be as quick.”

“You won’t kill me, hero. Your kind don’t do that.”

“Your life means nothing to me. I am a king. I can kill you here in the middle of the street and be at home in Wakanda by sunrise.”

The gunman shook his hostage. “What about his life?”

With a shrug, the Panther moved forward. “He is not Wakandan. His life is meaningless as well.”

The gunman began to shake as the Panther stalked toward him. Pushing his hostage toward the king, the gunman started to drop his weapon and raise his hands in the air. “I give up, I give up!”

But as soon as the gun cleared the hostage’s head, the Panther pounced around the sobbing hostage and landed on the gunman, dragging him to the pavement. Rapid blows to the head stunned the gunman, and a quick swipe across the face left blood dripping through the ski mask. The Panther grabbed the man’s head and pounded it into the pavement until he was clearly unconscious.

The Panther stood, cocking his head at the sirens starting to wail in the background. Looking around, he saw Okoye using plastic zip ties to bind the hands of the gunmen left behind in the street. Nakia slowly rose, Devonte clinging to her arm as she moved the terrified boy toward the Panther. The boy’s frantic mother rushed across the street, wresting her son from Nakia’s care and smothering him in kisses.

The Panther unbolted his helmet, revealing T’Challa’s concerned visage. He walked over to the still-sobbing man, knelt down next to him and placed his hand on his shoulder. Traumatized from his brief hostage experience, the man tried to rally himself, wiping his eyes and nose on his garish Hawaiian shirt. He looked up as T’Challa spoke with a kindly voice.

“Are you okay, sir?”

The man nodded a reply. “I-I think so.”

T’Challa smiled. “Good. Stay here, someone will be along to take care of you shortly.”

T’Challa started to walk away when the man spoke softly, voice betraying a slight Southern twang. “That was a bluff, right? You didn’t really mean that you didn’t care if I died, did you?”

T’Challa looked at him with a twinkle in his eyes. “What did you think?”

“I thought I was going to die,” the man admitted.

“That’s why I was successful in saving your life,” T’Challa said. “So did your attacker. Now sit still. Help is on the way.” As he watched the Americans, Nakia moved over to his side.

“The boy and his mother?” he asked the Dora Milaje agent in Hausa. “They are fine, Beloved.”

Scowling, Okoye walked up behind them. “Respectfully, Beloved, what passes for American police will be converging on the scene soon, and leaving will become a chore. We should return to the Embassy.”

“Not until we make sure the Wallmans are okay. Gather them and bring them with us. They will be treated with all due hospitality until they are emotionally ready to return to their domicile.”

The mother was still sobbing as Okoye hustled her toward the waiting Wakandan limousine. Devonte, however, was in awe as Nakia dragged him toward the car next to the Panther. T’Challa spared a second to smile at the boy before they hustled into the car and headed toward the Wakandan Embassy.

CHAPTER THREE

THE SUN was shining particularly bright this morning, General Willie “Bulldog” Matigan thought as his limousine crossed the 14th Street bridge out of the nation’s capital and into Virginia. From his seat, he could see the Washington Monument, the Jefferson Memorial—and there, just ahead, was his new home: the Pentagon.

Glancing up to make sure his driver wasn’t looking, Matigan quickly caressed the two stars on his new shoulder straps and smiled to himself. The short, stocky 62-year-old Oklahoman knew he was supposed to act like he wasn’t still excited about his promotion. But sometimes, even when he was in public, he just had to stroke his stars, to be sure they were still there. He’d wanted to find a second to do so while in the White House earlier, but there were too many cameras in the well-guarded mansion, and he didn’t want the embarrassment of some Secret Service jarhead watching him in the bathroom and wondering what the new co-chair of the Joint Task Force on African Affairs was doing.

The limousine pulled off the highway and eased its way through security. A lowly lieutenant—a bedraggled, limp-haired blond with a chunky, Iowan corn-fed look about her—scrambled up to the door and opened it for him. Matigan stepped out of the limousine and never broke stride, forcing the lieutenant to hustle to catch up. Matigan smiled to himself. His orders were to shake things up, and they’d better learn to move at his speed or get out of his way.

“General,” the lieutenant squeaked in a high-pitched voice, struggling to keep up with him and balance the massive notebooks in her arms. “I’m Lieutenant Carla Wilson, your new attaché.” Refusing to stop, Matigan waved his identification at a couple of guards, almost losing Wilson again as she reassured the already tense guards and caught back up with her new boss.

Matigan stalked down the massive corridors. “Are they ready for me?” he growled over his shoulder as he neared a pair of oaken double doors.

“Sir?” Wilson tried to maneuver in front of Matigan to steer him farther down the corridor. “Dr. Reece thought it might be best for you to take a few minutes and read the briefing books before joining the meeting.”

Matigan stopped, and froze Wilson with a glare. “Are you insinuating, Lieutenant, that I am not already prepared for the assignment my president has personally given me?”

The young lieutenant withered under his gaze for a second, and then rallied. Matigan was slightly impressed, knowing that his buzzcut and steely blue glare had intimidated much braver men than this pencil-pushing, horn-rimmed geek. He’d have to find some other way to make her knuckle under.

“No, sir. But after the incident yesterday, Dr. Reece thought—”

“I don’t care what Dr. Reece thinks, Lieutenant. If the meeting has started, that’s where I need to be. If they knew what they were doing, the president wouldn’t have sent me over here.”

Smirking, Matigan pushed his way through the double doors into a massive conference room lined with monitors displaying cable news and satellite feeds from around the world. Sitting around the table were men and women from all the different branches of the military, some of whom he recognized. There were a smattering of business-suit-clad men and women sprinkled around the edges of the room, whom he assumed were either intelligence officials or subject-area experts. He felt free to ignore them, since they didn’t know the might of the military the way he did.

At the front of the table, a beautiful black woman peered at him over a pair of reading glasses, seemingly annoyed at his interruption. Long black hair with streaks of sliver cascaded down her shoulders and framed her attractive face while contrasting with her white business suit. Matigan smiled to himself. He had bought his stay-at-home wife the same Donna Karan suit the year before. The woman stopped mid-sentence and stared at Matigan as he walked around to take the seat nearest to the head of the table.

Reclining back in the chair, he waved his hand regally at the woman. “Continue, please.”

The woman calmly placed her laser pointer down on the lectern in front of her and stared at him, hands on her hips. “General Matigan, I presume? I’m Donde Reece, civilian chair of this committee. I expected you later today.”

Matigan locked gazes with Reece. “I bet you did. But given what happened earlier today, and my brief from the president, I thought it was prudent I give the committee the benefit of my experience in these matters as soon as possible.”

“Did you, now?” Reece looked over at Wilson, who shrugged almost imperceptibly. “And you feel you’re…up to speed on this area of the world?”

Matigan smiled, chomping down on an unlit cigar as he spoke. Like all other government buildings, the Pentagon was now nonsmoking, a point of contention for some of the older generals.

“Ms. Reece, you’ll find that there aren’t many problems that can’t be solved with the judicious application of American military might. All I need to know is who is causing the problem, how many assets I have under my command, and whether y’all need it to be covert or loud. The name and history of this Podunk little African country doesn’t mean a hill of beans to any decision I make here.”

“Hmmmm.” Reece adjusted her glasses and looked down at Matigan. “General, I feel that you would make a more…worthwhile contribution to this conversation if you availed yourself of the intelligence we’ve painstakingly gathered on Wakanda. But if you feel you’re able to keep up, by all means, feel free to listen in and share any thoughts you might have.”

Matigan snorted as Reece turned back to the screen. “And General?” she said over her shoulder. “It’s Doctor—not Ms., Mrs., or Miss. My rank was earned as well.”

Reece clicked her laser pointer back on and aimed it at the map of Africa on the main screen.

“As I was saying, since Wakanda is centrally situated in a crucial part of the African diaspora, their airspace would be the ideal place for sorties into several terrorist havens on the continent. Ideally, if we could get cooperation from the new Wakandan government or perhaps even establish a joint task force, we could strike a crippling blow against Hydra, Boko Haram, the remnants of Al-Qaida, or any of several other groups we know are trying to set up safe haven in Africa. The fact that King T’Challa is here and was willing to help means there’s an opportunity—”

“Excuse me, Doctor Reece,” Matigan interrupted with a frown. “I know I’m new to this committee and all, but when did the United States of America start asking for permission to use an African country’s airspace? We should tell them that United States military aircraft will be flying overhead, and that they should stay out of our way. End of story.”

Reece sighed. “General, I understand you’re trying to impress the president and your bosses. But if you’d read the briefing books, you’d know that you can’t treat Wakanda like that. They require a… special touch.”

Matigan chuckled and stood up out of his chair. “A special touch? The only thing special they’re going to get is the 12-man Special Forces outfit that we’re going to use to destabilize and overthrow their government if they don’t get out of our way. Am I right, people?”

Matigan looked around the room, expecting nodding heads and laughs. Instead, all he got were frowns on their faces and disapproving murmurs—even from Wilson, who should have known better.

“What?” he said, looking back at Reece. She was shaking her head sadly at him. He glared back at her and looked out across the conference room.

“We’re the United States of America, people. We break braggarts and spit steel. No one, and I mean no one, gets in our way for long.”

He looked derisively at Reece. “Just because she’s soft on her Af-rik-an brethren,” he spit out with emphasis, “doesn’t mean that we need to tiptoe around them and their grass huts in the name of political correctness and one-worldism.” He gave a mock bow toward Reece. “No offense meant, Doctor.”

The room went deathly silent. Eventually, Reece cleared her throat and placed her reading glasses on top of the lectern before speaking.

“Everyone, we’ll continue this briefing later today at 1600. I’ll want plans from your working groups on how to convince King T’Challa of the benefits of working with us or at least turning a blind eye to our operations—or maybe S.H.I.E.L.D.’s. Thank you, thank you all.”