Chapter 8. The Red Panda's Days Are Numbered, boomed a voice from the darkened stage.

The echo played around the walls, revealing the room to be large and open. The murmur of voices

in the room beyond stilled quickly as the speaker stepped into the small pool of half-light.

The murmur began anew as the assembled

men scattered in the dark in space recognized the speaker. He was less immaculate than had once

been his custom and bore a long scar running the length of his face, but it was unmistakably

Malcolm, formerly the right-hand man of the Sclerrelli crime family.

Once that position alone would have cowed the thugs assembled in the darkness,

but now that Vic Sclorelli had joined his uncle Tony in a federal pen along with most of the

surviving members of the gang, there were derisive snorts at this bold statement.

Malcolm called to a lieutenant on the catwalk above.

Simon, a little light on this subject, if you please. A thin voice protested from above,

but Mr. Malcolm, the heat, you let me worry about the police, Simon. You just worry about me,

Malcolm clipped angrily. It would be impossible for him to impose discipline on the loose

assembly and the darkness beyond if he were contradicted by his own men. Yes, sir, the voice called,

and with a clunk the lights sputtered and buzzed back to life, revealing a crowd of 50 thugs in the

great hall of the high hat club. It had only been two weeks since the capture of Big Joe

Tenuti, but they had not been kind to the once opulent club. Little was left intact following the

police raids and subsequent searches, tables were smashed and overturned, and the long bar had been

broken apart by police sledgehammers, supposedly searching for hidden panels.

The club had been seized, boarded up, and put on the market at once. But even with the dearth of

gangland leaders left at large, few in the city would have dared to purchase and occupy the former

...