CHAPTER 34

With so little activity on this end of town, the drive was mostly uneventful, at least at first; only a few people paused to point out the strange sight of Batman on a bike to their friends. However, as he neared the center of the city, Batman started coming upon roadblocks that he had no choice but to circumvent. He went up onto the curb and moved just fast enough to get people out of his way, but not so fast that he’d run anyone over. He rocketed down alleyways and side streets, and it wasn’t until he was passing by One Gotham Tower that the first sirens started trailing just behind him.

The word’s finally out, he thought. Batman was back in town, and cell phone users all around could update the police by dialing 911. Everywhere he went, the sirens were not too far behind him. Finally, when a pair of police cars shot around the corner of Barry Street to cut him off, he had his first engagement.

The Ultra was nimble enough to get him around a traffic-jammed street and onto the sidewalk. Using the GPS on his HUD, Batman was able to set waypoints and find the easiest side streets and back alleys.

The officers were just getting out of their cars and taking aim at him when he dipped down an alley littered with trash bags and one homeless man sleeping in a corner. He thundered his way through, coming out just a little behind the two squad cars, which had blocked his path to Barry Street. They were just diving back into their cars by the time he was passing the subway station on Paramount Boulevard.

His HUD alerted him to a helicopter in the sky, just at the periphery of his vision. It was highlighted on his eye-screen; a quick zoom-in revealed that it was a news chopper.

Three more police vehicles had joined the chase. They had come around the corner of Jade and Vermont, their sirens wailing while someone on the intercom announced that he should pull over immediately. He hit Harvey Dent Highway, and a highway patrol car was right on top of him when he merged from the on-ramp, no doubt having coordinated with police vehicles behind the Ultra.

Batman moved quickly between traffic, then went between the HOV and the fast lane and pushed the Ultra to speeds of 200 mph, blowing away the fastest highway patrol car, which could go a max of 144 mph. In his side mirrors, his pursuing vehicles vanished quickly, while the flesh on the exposed part of his face was pressed by the wind.

His HUD detected more movement up ahead, and a quick glance showed another helicopter, this one military, and another four blips that were surely fighter jets flying in tight formation, heading right for him.

Batman pulled up his GPS, and set a waypoint to MacFarlane Tunnel. The fastest route was set for him. Two exits up, at Exit 16, he could take a sharp left and essentially use the same technique the Molehill Mobsters had used after robbing the First Bank of Gotham. He got to Exit 16, only picking up one more highway patrol car that had moved to intercept him. Batman slowed down to around 150 mph and zipped right around him, then accelerated towards the exit. Once there, he took his turn, and MacFarlane Tunnel was only two miles west.

I can make it, he thought. I can make it.

* * *

WHILE THE LOVE Harley had felt for Mr. Jay hadn’t diminished the least bit, she was growing rather concerned that he might be letting others tell him what to do. It wasn’t until her love had sat her down inside the hideout he had secured for them in the culvert underneath Watson’s Bridge that she finally came to understand what he was doing.

“The bat an’ I have a kind of relationship,” he explained, while bringing in the guns he’d gotten from someplace—he seemed to be able to materialized parts and weapons out of nowhere, and Harley hadn’t thought to inquire about this talent yet. He set the guns down on the wet floor. The culvert had several offshoots that led to vast chambers within the Gotham sewer system, only a few of which Harley had started to explore. Mr. Jay checked the ammunition in an AK-47 while he went on, “The relationship we have doesn’t include these other morons. This Riddler and Penguin, they’re jokes themselves. They don’t even realize it, but that only makes sense because if they did realize it then they wouldn’t be jokes, now would they?”

“So…I see. Then, you’re just using them, isn’t that right, snoogums?” she said. Harley was sitting on a crate full of dynamite—again, she didn’t know where he’d found it—and was swinging her legs back and forth, cheerily watching what he was doing and learning such great things, like how to load various guns and even how to make napalm with basic, everyday materials.

“That’s right, sugar bumps,” said Mr. Jay. He had just set up a computer with wireless Internet service, which was streaming live footage of the day’s events on GCN’s website. On it currently was the replay of the mayor’s death.

Harley was proud of her part in Walden’s death. She had done Mr. Jay proud, having caused the necessary disturbance on the ground, screaming that there was a gun in the hands of a man standing next to her. It had called the attention of the police in street, including the two countersnipers Mr. Jay had spotted. When that happened, Mr. Jay had fired his sniper rifle from its tripod across the street, from the back seat of a dark van with tinted windows that Cobblepot and Nygma had loaned them. She and Mr. Jay had made their escape in another vehicle that Mr. Jay had boosted by using a remote antenna that accessed the signal from the car owner’s key fob.

Her Mr. Jay was so smart! There was nothing he couldn’t do, and nothing he didn’t plan for. He had contingency plans built on top of other contingency plans—or, rather, he had a lot of set-ups, no real plan, per se. He just set up various and...well, kind of just watched where the pieces fell. “What’s that, snoogums?” she asked, pointing to a long, wide barrel with a small handle.

“This, Harley, is called an RPG launcher.”

“What does RPG stand for?”

“Repels Pregnant Girls,” he said.

Harley laughed. “No, it doesn’t, Mr. Jay! You’re makin’ another funny!”

“You caught me again, dearest,” he said without looking at her.

Harley watched with pride and affection as her man went about arming the weapons and tossing them onto the ground. Cleanliness wasn’t important to him, he just wanted to ensure that each piece worked. Such a pragmatist, she thought, swooning.

Things had been good ever since she’d hooked up with Mr. Jay. He had included her in so much, asking her to do important errands, and allowing her to carry out important functions like going to retrieve the commissioner. The best thing was, ever since she had been marked by him, Harley hadn’t heard even a whisper from her mother or father. They’re gone. I don’t ever need them again, as long as I have Mr. Jay. He’ll keep me safe, and I’ll watch after him.

Mr. Jay was lifted up a rocket and arming it in the RPG launcher when something caught his attention. He turned and looked at the computer screen, and Harley did the same. In the dank, dark culvert, the only light they had was a small flashlight and that small computer screen. Mr. Jay’s eyes were affixed to the screen. GCN’s website had just cut away from coverage of the mayor’s assassination and was now showing live footage of a high-speed chase.

“Wow!” Harley shouted. “That guy’s really movin’, Mr. Jay! How fast d’ya think he’s goin’?”

But Mr. Jay didn’t answer, which meant he was deep in thought. Harley knew enough from interviewing her love, and from being so close with him over the last couple of days, to understand these quiet moments. “That’s a mile away from MacFarlane Tunnel,” Mr. Jay mused, standing up. “Not too far from here…” After a few seconds, Harley started itching her hands by reflex—the ants didn’t come around anymore, and she was starting to miss them. “If he’s goin’ for the Lounge…if he’s going for Nygma an’ Cobblepot…then he’ll take Ventura over to Feynbrook…”

“Where are all the ants now?” she asked, expecting Mr. Jay to have all the answers.

He looked at her. “Harley?”

“Yeah, Jay?”

“Get the car.”

* * *

HE MADE IT into MacFarlane Tunnel without picking up another police car. The Ultra was incredibly loud inside the tunnel, so he activated his noise dampeners. However, his police scanner picked up a message from Metro: “Tunnel control, this is Metro. We need camera link-ups with tunnel authority. We have reason to believe the Batman has entered MacFarlane Tunnel. Over.” There it was. The call. They’d be on him in less than a minute.

The bright red arrows every fifty yards told commuters which lane they needed to be in if they wanted to be in the correct lane when the tunnel branched off in three different directions up ahead. The Ultra remained in the middle lane for the most part, zipping along at over 100 mph and riding the dotted line between lanes whenever necessary. He had his earpiece tuned in to police radio, so when the call came in for a roadblock at the other end of every possible tunnel exit, he knew about it at once.

But the Ultra was too fast, and Batman would be there before any such roadblock could be put together. And, for once, the paucity of GCPD officers and resources would actually work to his advantage—the lack of personnel, especially under these rioting conditions, probably meant he had little to fear.

No one has anything to fear from police right now, he thought. These streets are anarchy.

His eye-screen’s opacity allowed him to watch both the activity in front of him while also looking at his projected route on his HUD. The tunnel he wanted to take was on his right, which would take him straight across Ventura, and after ten miles he’d come to Feynbrook Ridge Road. From there, it’d be a quick zip to a dozen different roads that could get him to Cape Carmine, each of those roads having dozens more offshoots and alleyways for him to use for cover. He was pretty sure he could make it. Hopefully, Gordon had gotten his messages and would already be there.

* * *

GORDON HAD BEEN sitting patiently, waiting for his captors to bring him Sarah, unsure of whether or not she was going to be brought in alive and okay, or if these maniacs would bring her severed head to him and—No, don’t think like that. She’s okay. We’re all going to be okay.

But Jim Gordon couldn’t make himself believe that anymore. Then, a glimmer of hope. On the wall, the TV screen was showing a sudden change of footage. It was muted, so he couldn’t hear what the newscasters were saying, but he didn’t need to, because James Gordon would know that flapping cape and cowl anywhere.

The motorcycle was blazing down Harvey Dent Highway, far exceeding the speed of any all state patrol and highway patrol cars that tried to intercept him.

Cobblepot spotted it, too. He finished sipping from his wineglass, which was difficult because of his defective nose, and then said, “Are you watching this, Nygma?”

The Riddler had been standing at the other end of the room near a tall birdcage that housed three ravens. He had a cell phone up to his ear, and he was speaking to someone in what sounded like Russian. “Vy ne mogli by govorit pomedlennee. Spasiba, spasiba.” He turned around at Cobblepot’s beckoning, and lowered the phone when he saw the footage. He pointed at it. “Is this live, or footage from some other time?”

“I believe it’s live, my friend,” the Penguin said, sipping his wine and looking at him meaningfully..

Nygma nodded, and smiled. “Strange to see him in daylight, but good to see he made it out okay.”

That, Gordon thought, is the first time you and I are in agreement about anything, Mr. Nygma. He tried to keep a smile from showing, and felt hope bloom in his heart for the first time in several days.

“Perhaps he’s on his way here,” Nygma suggested.

“And why would he be on his way here?” Cobblepot asked.

“Well, if he’s alive, it means he stopped my worm, and if he did that, then he’s no doubt looked at the last riddle I left for him, which wasn’t a hard one to solve.”

The little fat man didn’t seem to like this at all. He rounded on Nygma, setting his wineglass on the desk. “And why would you give him a riddle that would lead him here?”

Nygma smiled patiently. “Relax, Oswald. If he’s on his way here, I’ve almost certainly lured him to his death, since no police officers can possibly be spared to come to this end of the city, and since he’ll likely have a gauntlet of law enforcement, rioters, and angry citizens to get through just to get here. If he arrives, we’ll finish him easily.”

“But why even give him the idea to come here? Why not lead him someplace else with your damn riddles?”

“Because,” the Riddler said, “he’s earned the truth.”

Cobblepot was astonished. “He’s…earned the truth?”

“Yes,” Nygma said, unapologetically.

A brief, quiet tension developed in the room, and Gordon remained still and observant.

For a moment, it looked like Cobblepot might have something else to say about all this, but right then his cell phone rang again. He answered it, “Yes?” A few seconds later, he said, “Good, bring her up.” He hung up and threw his phone on top of his large desk, and said, “She’s here, Commissioner. They’re bringing her up as we speak.”

Gordon nodded, and wondered what his next move would be once he had Sarah with him. Would he agree to take these monsters up on their offer of being their lackey once in office? Right at that moment, Gordon had not a soul in the world on his side. Everyone was everywhere else, quelling riots and dealing with looters, or else preventing nuclear meltdown while trying to make sure power was restored to the city and Mayor Walden’s assassin was captured. The last thing on anybody’s mind right now was the Iceberg Lounge, and why two FBI agents and James Gordon had all gone missing.

Gordon couldn’t even count on Batman helping him out, because there was no way the bat could know where he was, unless he had solved whatever riddle the Riddler had left him…and even then, he had to make it through a gauntlet of rioters and law enforcement.

* * *

BARBARA HAD REMAINED hidden in the space between the floor and the cutting board table. The chefs had come in and started working, and she had been lying there on her back, watching the feet of all the kitchen staff move about, thinking about coming out and using one of them as a hostage, and other ridiculous plans, when the back door suddenly opened and a woman was dragged in, kicking and screaming.

The woman sounded muffled, but Barbara knew at once who it was. A man shouted, “Everybody, get outta here!” The kitchen workers abandoned the area at once, most of them going out the back door. Barbara looked to her left, and saw what were obviously the feet of large men walking beside a woman’s smaller feet. “If I take this gag off, you promise to keep quiet?” said the same man as before. The hostage must have complied, because it sounded like the gag was removed when she took a deep breath.

“Move it. Through here. They’re waiting on you upstairs,” another man said.

Barbara didn’t know what to do. The hostage was surely Sarah. Who else could it be? The kitchen staff had been driven out, so nobody would spot her if she were to slip out right about now. But could she risk it?

Barbara thought about her children, and considered that her actions here could mean that they grew up without a mother or father. But then she considered the alternative, that she would feel like a coward for the rest of her life, unable to sleep at nights because she had left her husband to die, and had allowed the fear this city had created in her to fester. The city, and its monsters, would’ve won if she let herself be controlled by the fear. And, of course, there were at least government agents in serious trouble, a woman and a man who’d put their lives on the line just to come to Gotham and assist it in its time of need.

I can’t leave them. I can’t…but what can I do? What good am I to them? Barbara laid there for another minute, weighing her options. She had to make a decision.

* * *

WHEN THE BATMAN came rocketing out of the Ventura Street exit of the tunnel, he was mostly clear of all aerial surveillance. His HUD alerted him to a helicopter off in the east, but it was a military chopper headed away from him. Still, he knew that police vehicles would eventually be on him; there were only so many exits from MacFarlane Tunnel, they knew he was still out there, and plenty of pedestrians still had their cell phones.

The roads were mostly open here, there were no roadblocks, and it looked like no rioting had happened anywhere around this area. His police scanner picked up calls for squad cars in his vicinity, though. “All units in the vicinity of Ventura and Glades, please respond to a five-ten,” said dispatch. “Vehicle is described as a silver-and-black motorcycle, make and model unknown. This is the same vehicle that eluded police on Harvey Dent Highway. Suspect is believed to be the vigilante known as Batman. Please intercept at the corner of Ventura and Glades—”

Batman turned the Ultra away from Glades. He’d been planning to take Ventura all the way over to Feynbrook Ridge Road, but now it seemed better to take Hudson Parkway and make his way around Little Chinatown that way. Already, his HUD had reconfigured a new route, and the various new avenues available to him were highlighted.

“This is car sixty-six,” an officer was saying over the radio. “I’m in the vicinity of Vasquez and responding.”

Vasquez Street, Batman thought, zipping up onto the sidewalk because of another traffic jam. That’ll put him just up ahead, coming around the corner any second.

People screamed and leapt out of his way as the Ultra zigged and zagged around a few tables of an outdoor café. Near the end of the sidewalk, Car 66 suddenly rounded the intersection, its siren wailing and its brakes screeching once the cop in the driver’s side spotted Batman coming up the sidewalk directly at him. The officers had just hopped out of the car and the first one was drawing his weapon…when the squad car suddenly exploded. Batman had just been about ready to turn the Ultra back onto the street and do a U-turn when it happened. He put on the brake, and watched as people dived for cover. The two officers had thankfully gotten clear of the car, but the explosion had knocked them to the pavement.

Batman was only thirty feet away from it when it happened, a small shard of glass nicked him on the chin. What in hell…?

Two seconds later, he got his answer. Coming up right behind the squad car, say about thirty feet, was a four-door, black sedan. A spider-webbed windshield and a dented hood showed that it had essentially been used as a battering ram to get through the dense traffic. The woman leaning out the passenger’s side window wore a jester’s hand, which flapped in the breeze, and her face was painted pale white. She had an RPG launcher in her hands.

Batman revved up the Ultra and blasted across the street, reaching out to lift one of the officers by his collar and drag him across the road before he was run over in the middle of the street. As the sedan went by, it slowed down just enough for the Dark Knight to get a look at the driver.

The clown had an ironic smile smeared across his face, as usual, and looked at the bat only long enough to get his attention. Then, he threw his head back and cackled. He floored it, the sedan rocketing through the intersection and slamming into a van and a truck before the Joker managed to squeezed his way through. The clown’s message was clear: Catch me if you can.

Batman now had another choice to make. Was the information waiting for him at the Iceberg Lounge worth leaving the Joker and his new murderous lackey to rip apart the city, killing more innocents? Cops were on short supply now, and the National Guard didn’t have a sizable presence in the streets yet. The painted-faced woman appeared to be reloading the RPG with half her body still hanging out the passenger’s side window…

He made his decision.

The Ultra spun quickly in place, the tires burning and sending out smoke as he aimed himself at the sedan, and went after the clown.

* * *

GORDON STOOD UP when he saw Sarah being half dragged, half pushed through the doorway. She was dressed exactly as though she were going to work, only her hair was in a bit of disarray, and she was handcuffed. She looked horrified to see him, insulted. “Jim!” she admonished. “I told you not to come here! I told you not to do anything these people said!”

But the police commissioner’s attention was on another issue. “Where’s Gary, Sarah?”

“They killed him, Jim! Just like they’re gonna kill us!”

Gordon looked at Nygma, then at Cobblepot. Neither man moved for a moment. Then, Cobblepot sighed and said, “You wanna handle this?”

Nygma nodded. “Mr. Carlisle’s involvement in all of this was unfortunate,” he said. “We intended for Agent Essen to be taken alone, but the clown, it seems, figured the best way to get her was through her associate. I would’ve disagreed, but he never ran that by Oswald or any of his people before he went ahead and did it. He fulfilled his part. You had gotten the warrants necessary to come in here and basically ransack the Iceberg Lounge, so you’d put us in a pinch. Time was short, and the clown appeared to complicate things, until we gave him a purpose.”

Gordon shook his head. “This is inexcusable. Once you had Sarah and Gary you didn’t have to—”

“Conspiracies don’t work too well when there’s too many people,” Nygma said. “He’d seen and heard too much by that point. This deal we’re prepared to offer, it’s only open to you and Agent Essen.”

Sarah wrenched her arms free of the thugs carrying her. “What is he talking about, Jim? What deal?”

Nygma looked at Gordon. “Do you want to tell her or should I?”

Gordon said, “Sarah…they’re trying for a regime change in Gotham. They want me to be their guy in politics…and I guess this deal extends to you, also.”

Sarah looked between them all, then finally spat in the face of the Riddler, who looked humored as he wiped his face slowly. “That’s what I think of your offer?” she hissed. “I’ve seen the TV, I know what you did to Walden, so I’ve seen what you do to your friends in high places once you’re through with them.”

“Walden was corrupt, you knew it yourself,” the Riddler said. “Don’t pretend to care half a hump about that man’s life.”

“He had a family!” Sarah shouted.

“So do you, right? A beloved stepmother in New York? A favorite aunt in Phoenix, Arizona, yes?” The Riddler spoke of it all as though it were light conversation, but the veiled threats were definitely there, and the tension in the room was enough to make Gordon’s stomach queasy—he honestly didn’t know where this thing would go next. “And Commissioner Gordon here, he has ‘Barb’ and the children. Both of you have so much to live for, and you would also be great leaders in the aftermath of the corruption Walden leaves as his legacy.” He spoke sagaciously, indicating his words ought to be weighed very seriously.

In that moment, Gordon knew the Riddler was prepared to kill him and Sarah both if they didn’t consent to what he was asking, right then and there.

As if he’d been waiting for some kind of cue, Nygma stepped over to the commissioner, and reached into his pocket. He withdrew a Glock pistol, and for a moment Gordon thought they had changed their minds and decided that neither he nor Sarah was worth the trouble to them. Then, Nygma spun the gun around and handed it to him, grip first. “There’s one bullet in the chamber.”

Gordon looked at the gun. “What do you want me to do with that?”

Nygma shrugged. After a moment of hesitation, Gordon reached out to take it, and Nygma stepped away, lifting his cane up from where he’d last laid it on Cobblepot’s desk. Maurice, Judd, and the other thugs in the room all produced their guns, too. “Your wife is in town, and your children are just outside of the city with your wife’s mother,” Nygma said. His next words came out just as casually as any others he’d spoken. “They’ll be dead by tonight, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it. Unless,” he said, “you show your commitment.”

Gordon looked at him. He knew what this meant. It was a criminal tradition as old as time itself. They needed him to kill someone important to him, to create the solidarity necessary for a conspiracy. They had him hemmed in, with no place left to turn, giving him only one option for the survival of himself and his family. If he gave in to fear and killed Sarah, they expected his guilt, and the fear of it coming back to haunt him in the media if anyone ever found out, to be the leverage they’d need to keep it forever over his head.

He then looked at the thugs in the room, then at Sarah, who looked at him desperately. “You don’t have my wife,” he said.

“No, but we will,” Nygma promised. “Just like we got hold of the city’s most important FBI agent there.” He pointed at Sarah with his cane. “And just how we suckered you here. Just like how we got to Walden without anyone being able to stop us. You need to understand something, Gordon, we’re unafraid. Supremely, absolutely unafraid of you and your cops and your pet bat. What we’ve done here in Gotham City is immutable, the power we’ve flexed incontrovertible. Look at me,” he said. “Do you seriously think we can’t bring your wife here and execute her right in front of you?”

“No, I don’t think you can.”

Nygma smirked, cocking his head to one side curiously. “And why not?”

“Because I’m standing right here,” Barbara said. She put the Beretta to the back of Judd’s head. Gordon had watched his wife approaching, had seen her peek her head just around the doorframe while everyone else in the room had their backs to it, focusing on Gordon, who stood at the center of the room.

Nygma turned quickly to see her there. He only looked a little surprised, but not the slightest bit concerned. “Well, here’s a riddle. How did you get here?”

“Never you mind,” Barbara said through gritted teeth. She nudged the gun into the back of Judd’s head. Judd stood frozen, but he too didn’t look all that frightened. He hadn’t even raised his hands in surrender. “Let my husband and Sarah go,” she said. “We’re leaving.”

* * *

THE JOKER WAS as careless about pedestrians and bystanders as he’d ever been. The sedan roared down the street, sometimes mounting the curb, and sometimes driving off of it. Twice he’d knocked over a newsstand, and he’d crashed into a hotdog stand just as the owner and a customer leapt out of the way.

Batman could hear his endless cackling, even over the screeching of tires and the gunfire that was aimed at him. The white-faced woman leaned out of the car and fired several rounds from a pistol at him before running out of bullets. Batman zoomed his HUD in on the front seat, and saw through the back windshield as the Joker handed her one gun after another. The woman brought out a pair of Uzis next, and unloaded all of them, only two of the bullets hitting Batman, who felt almost none of it thanks to the Tango armor.

He moved around to the driver’s side once they hit Babin Park Road. The Ultra had no problem with speed or maneuvering into position. However, the Joker suddenly aimed the RPG launcher out of the driver’s side window, forcing the Dark Knight to put on the brake immediately. Batman gritted his teeth in anger and frustration as the missile swished by him and destroyed a car parked on the side of the street. It didn’t appear that anyone had been close enough to be hurt, but that was only by chance.

Batman sped up again, this time getting to the driver’s side quick enough to reach in and punch the Joker in the left side of his face just as he’d been about reload the launcher. “Ya damn vigilante drivers!” the clown cackled, blood coming from his nose. “Where’d you get your license? Wahaaaahaahahahaaaaaaaaa! You’re driving like this, and they call me batshit crazy!” He was loving every minute of this. This was what the clown lived for. This was his drug.

In the passenger’s side seat, the white-faced woman fired at the bat, straight in front of the Joker’s face, and the clown didn’t seem to care. The bullets had virtually no effect against the improved batsuit, and when she ran out of bullets she flung the gun at him, laughing and even kissing the Joker on his scarred cheek while Batman readjusted himself to come in for another attack.

But up ahead at the next intersection, three cop cars suddenly burst around the corner, tires screeching as civilian cars pulled out of their way.

Batman broke away from the sedan to go onto the curb. He slowed down to avoid hitting anyone, and got around the squad cars as the Joker and his woman ducked behind the dashboard at the onslaught of bullets going through the windshield as they slammed through the barricade. The Joker either knew that the best place to hit a vehicle to move them out of the way was the rear, or else he’d gotten plain lucky—either way, he was mostly free and clear as the Batman rejoined the sedan in a race a block ahead.

* * *

AT THIS POINT, Cobblepot had started walking slowly around his own desk. In his right hand, he had an umbrella. Gordon remembered clearly what Batman had said about the surprise the Penguin kept inside that little device. “Mrs. Gordon,” Cobblepot said harmoniously, smiling an affable smile. “I’m humbled to meet your acquaintance, and to have you in my establishment. It distresses me that we should meet under these circumstances. I’d like you to understand that what’s going on here is—”

“Don’t patronize my wife!” Gordon said. “And don’t you make one more move with that umbrella. Your friend here made a big mistake, he gave me a gun, and I’ve spent hundreds of hours at the firing range—I may only have one bullet, but that’s all I need, Penguin.”

Cobblepot’s ire couldn’t have shown in a more contaminated, disgusted look. It was the nickname that had removed the amicable smile from his face.

“Barb,” the commissioner said. “Stay where you are.” He looked at Nygma. “Tell them to let Sarah go. Let my wife take her out of here. Once they’re both free and clear of this place, you and I can talk.”

But Nygma, that supremely confident son of a bitch, looked at Gordon as though he had said the silliest thing. “Commissioner Gordon, I wonder if you’ve truly taken leave of your senses.” He chuckled. “You’re a smart fellow, and so you know I can’t just let any of you walk out of here. The choice still hasn’t changed. Kill Sarah Essen, or we’ll kill your wife. You have one bullet, and you can take your pick of who you want to die, but my associates have Agent Essen as a meat shield and your wife may kill one, possibly two of our people before the rest of you are mowed down. If she’s lucky,” he added.

Gordon looked around the room. Besides Judd, Maurice, and Hank, there were four other thugs in the room. And, though Barbara had had some training firing the Beretta, it was abundantly clear that she was not capable of taking out multiple targets in such tight confines, especially since all of them were armed, had their weapons already in hand, and were undoubtedly well trained. All Nygma or Cobblepot had to do was give the word.

“Commissioner, you still have a choice to make. All you’ve done by bringing your wife here is made it easier for us to make the threat we previously made,” said the Riddler. “You have the gun. Now, make a decision.”

“Don’t do it, Jim,” said Barbara.

“Please, Mrs. Gordon, this is going to be hard enough for him as it is.”

“Jim, don’t you do it!”

What does she think I am, a monster? We’ve been married for over a decade. Even so, Jim Gordon had to admit that he no idea what he was going to do next. It seemed that they were trapped on all sides, there was no way out. Gordon looked down at the Glock in his hand, and then looked up at Sarah. He looked next at his wife, and saw his children’s faces in those eyes. “Barb…Sarah…I’m sorry…I’m so, so sorry…” He raised the gun a hair.

“Oswald Cobblepot?” a voice said. It was a small voice, a young voice, one that James Gordon had never heard before in his entire life, and cut through the fog in his mind.

Everyone turned to look, including Gordon, who froze in utter astonishment when he saw the small figure sitting on the ledge of the large, floor-to-ceiling window at the far end of the office. It was a boy, maybe thirteen or fourteen years of age, with short black hair and wearing a black jacket over a brown hoodie. His eyes were red, as though he’d been crying. In his hand, he had a small pistol, a six-shooter of some kind with a short barrel.

Everyone in the room appeared to be as put off guard as Gordon felt in that moment.

“What…the hell…is this, now?” That was the Penguin, looking about as perplexed as Gordon had ever seen him. The quellazaire in his mouth had gone slack, and he looked at Nygma, whose cold, even face suggested he knew nothing of this, either. Then, he looked at the commissioner. “You brought a kid with you too, Gordon?”

The commissioner shook his head. “I don’t know who this is.” To the boy, he said, “Get outta here, son.”

Cobblepot looked back at the boy. “Uh, can we help you, my boy?”

“Where is he?” the boy said, his voice quivering as much as the gun in his hand. His lips were sometimes trembling, and sometimes pressed tightly together in rage.

Cobblepot looked once more at Nygma, who again had nothing to offer him. “Where’s who, boy?”

“Zucco. Tony Zucco. I hear you know him.”

The Penguin shook his head. “Well then, you heard wrong, boy. I don’t know any—whoa!” The boy suddenly raised the pistol, and the rest of Cobblepot’s crew raised their own weapons in reply. Everything was happening so fast, Gordon was barely keeping up. He had lowered the Glock in his hand, and now started reassessing his options. He hadn’t truly been about to kill Sarah; rather, he’d just been about to shoot Maurice and hope that he could leap over to the Penguin to snatch the umbrella from him, and pray that Barb could do her part, but now the world had once again turned. “Son,” the Penguin went on, “you don’t want to do that. I don’t know who told you that Zucco and I are friendly, but they lied to you—”

“He killed them!” the boy screamed. “He killed them! He killed both of them!”

“Son,” Cobblepot said, raising his hand with the umbrella. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I can assure you that I’ve killed nobody, and that I don’t do business with those who kill—”

“He cut the wire,” the boy said, breathing heavily. “Didn’t he? Zucco cut the trapeze wire just before we started practicing. My mom and dad fell…they fell…and I know it was Zucco. He tried to extort Mr. Haley, I heard him talking to Mr. Haley last week…and I heard him make a threat about ruining Mr. Haley’s best act…”

“Boy, I don’t know any Mr. Haley. And I certainly don’t know you! Now, why don’t you put that gun down before you hurt someone?”

“I want Tony Zucco,” the boy said. “Just tell me where I can find him, and then I’ll leave.”

Cobblepot turned to look at Maurice and the others. “How the hell did he get in here?! First Batman, now a boy wonder swoops in out of nowhere. Do I even have security anymore?”

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The boy suddenly pulled the hammer back on his pistol, and Gordon felt time stand still.

It was Edward Nygma’s turn to talk some sense into him. “All right, son,” he said, “it’s obvious you’re in a lot of pain. You’ve obviously lost someone dear to you, and I can empathize with that. Hell, we all can.” The Riddler took a few steps around the desk, and Gordon watched his hands. In one, Nygma held his cane, but the other was in his pocket. Was he about to try something? “What’s your name, son?”

The boy swallowed a lump in his throat. “Dick…” he said, the gun still trained on Cobblepot.

“Dick what?”

At first, the boy didn’t want to answer, but then he said, “Dick Grayson.”

“Ah, I see now. Of the Flying Graysons, yes?” Nygma asked. The boy nodded. “Haley’s Circus, then. You’re a family of acrobats. Well, that explains how you got in here. You’re a clever little boy, aren’t you?”

The boy had nothing to say to that. He turned his focus back to Cobblepot. “Anthony Zucco,” he said. “That’s all I need. That’s all I want.”

The Penguin said, “You’ve obviously had a stressful day, son. You need to lower that gun—”

“You already said that and I’m not doin’ it,” Dick Grayson said. “I’m not moving from this spot, not until I get an answer.” At that moment, a robin flew in over the boy’s head. It fluttered right past his ear, and it must have frightened him because he jumped and fired the gun. The bullet clipped Cobblepot in the right arm, and he automatically fired off two shots at the boy from his umbrella, but the shots hit nothing because he’d already dived to the ground and rolled behind the desk.

Several things happened at once. Judd spun and tried to get the Beretta out of Barbara’s hand, but Gordon fired a shot into Judd’s back, his only bullet now spent. Sarah flung herself bodily into Maurice standing beside her, and put her DT training (defensive tactics) from Quantico to good use, reaching for his wrist and twisting it so hard it came free from his hand and she aimed it at Nygma, who had already taken cover behind one of the larger birdcages.

Barbara, now free of Judd’s grasp, turned to fire on Hank, who had turned to fire at Gordon. Hank went down, but another bullet from one of the other thugs hit Gordon in the leg and he went down while he rolled for cover behind a cage filled with scared, fluttering owls.

Birds! Birds all around the aviary/office took flight and filled the air with screeching and feathers. The swans in the little fountain took flight in different directions from one another. One thug had been taking aim at Sarah, but a raven slapped him in the face, allowing her a moment to take cover. Cobblepot fired shots from his umbrella into the desk, and the boy was firing wildly over the top of the desk, not even looking at his target but generally trying to hit Cobblepot.

Barbara landed beside her husband, and crawled over to him. She handed him the Beretta without question, and he rose up from behind cover to lend Sarah cover fire. Within a few seconds, the Iceberg Lounge had become a shooting gallery.

* * *

BATMAN PULLED OUT the GTEM gun and switched it to the grappling setting. He came within reach of the sedan’s left front tire and fired directly into it. The grappling claw at the end of the Dyneema cord hit its target, and the tire exploded immediately, although the cord got caught in the tire and it ripped the GTEM gun out of his hand.

The sedan lurched to one side, and the Joker overcompensated with the wheel. The sedan spun out of control, fishtailing and swerving like some animal that wouldn’t be broken before it slammed into the side of a bus, which unfortunately helped to correct its course. The Joker howled with laughter as he sped along another two blocks, sparks shooting from the wheel, which now ground against the pavement. He had no more maneuverability, and on another tight turn he lost the wheel.

Two more police cars had joined the chase behind them, and a chopper was now overhead, watching their every move.

The white-faced woman once again came out of the passenger’s side window, sitting on the edge of the window and firing another Uzi over the sedan’s roof directly at him. Batman held his right arm up around his face to protect it. The bullets splattered all against him, most of them disintegrating by the time they went half an inch through, only a couple of them knocking the wind out of him, but with his injured ribs he felt electrical tendrils of pain shooting across his chest with each impact.

“Just like old times, eh, Batsy?!” the Joker howled before taking another dangerous turn. The sedan crashed into a parked car, nearly sending the painted-faced woman flying from the window, where she still sat firing on the police cars trailing behind.

Batman made it up alongside the driver’s side, reached in, grabbed the Joker by the collar with one hand, and then pulled the Ultra away. The Joker cackled as he came halfway out of the car. His girlfriend suddenly threw away her Uzi and got back into the car, grasping onto the clown’s legs for dear life. “I’ve got ya Mr. Jay!”

“It’s good to feel needed!” he laughed. “People, people, there’s only so much of me to go around! Wahahahahaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!”

With no one actually driving, the sedan started to drift. With a quick look up ahead, Batman saw another crowded intersection. With one more quick jerk, his right shoulder singing in pain because of it, he pulled the Joker free of the window, his ridiculously obsessed lackey hanging onto his feet, her jester’s hat flying off as they both landed on the concrete going about forty miles an hour.

Batman tilted the Ultra slightly to the right, sidling up beside the sedan and reaching in through the window to grab the steering wheel. With the front wheel now giving so much friction and no one to press the gas, it was slowing down. He just turned the steering wheel one-handed, aiming the sedan at a large, steel lamppost. The car slammed into the lamppost at about ten miles an hour, shattering what was left of its glass, but otherwise hurting no one.

Batman put on the brake, then set the Ultra into reverse, which it did about as fast as any sports car could, and performed a perfect J-turn. The two police cars that had been closely following had stopped short of where the Joker and his woman had landed, and now the insane duo were already on their feet, hobbling down an alleyway behind Donovan’s Homestyle Eatery.

He thought he’d zip around to the backside of Donovan’s, to cut off their escape, but just as he was forming the plan, four military jeeps came buzzing around the corner. The National Guard had finally made it this far into the city. However, two of them were headed towards Donovan’s, while the other two broke away from the others and were obviously headed for him.

It only took a few seconds to brake the Ultra, back it up, and perform another J-turn to get out of there. More sirens could be heard not far off, and his police scanner spoke of lots more on the way. With that many police, and the military here now, Batman felt confident leaving the Joker to them, especially since he’d cut off the clown’s mobility.

While it irked him not to be able to personally ensure the clown got taken down, he had to trust others to do their jobs at some point. So, he aimed his Ultra east, along Garrett Street, and made a beeline for Feynbrook Ridge Road.

* * *

GUNFIRE DIDN’T CEASE for a full minute. Cobblepot and Nygma had managed to make it to a doorway behind the canary’s cage, into what looked like a secret passage beside a bookshelf, while the remainder of Penguin’s thugs laid down suppression fire and fled out the door into the hallway. Gordon had noticed one of them injured, limping and clutching his side.

For his part, Gordon was hurt, too. The bullet had gone in the front of his leg and out the back. He had fired the Beretta until only two rounds remained in the clip. Four bodies lay on the ground, dead or close to it. Now all that was left in the aviary was Gordon, his wife, Sarah, and maybe the boy, if he had survived. “Hey, kid!” Gordon shouted. “You okay? You still with us?” No answer. “Damn it!” he hissed. “Sarah?! You okay?”

A few seconds passed in silence, then, “Yeah…yeah, Jim, I’m here. But…I’m hurt. I’m hurt bad. You?”

“Yeah, in the leg,” he said, taking off his left shoe, inside of which was the cell phone Barbara had tracked him by. “Hang on, we’re getting outta here!” He dialed 911, but all he got was a dial tone. The same when he called three different precincts and Chief Chapman’s cell. He cursed. “They’ve got the place locked down. They’re jamming us.” He recalled how difficult it was to get surveillance inside this place, and thought about the cameras and safes full of money Batman had told him about, and the secret passage Nygma and Cobblepot had just taken, which almost assuredly meant that that this nightclub was designed to be a kind of fortress. “Damn it, we’re cut off!”

Barbara said, “There’s a man…a man outside who gave me a lift. Lenny. I told him to call the police if he heard any gunshots.”

“Let’s hope he heard them, then,” he said. “Sarah! Sarah, can you move?”

“I’ll damn well move outta here!”

That’s good. She’s still got the fire. “All right, just stay put.” He looked at Barbara. “You stay here. Don’t come out until I holler for you and give the all-clear. You understand?”

“Jim, you’re hurt!”

Gordon leaned forward and kissed his wife on the forehead. “I’ll be all right. Promise me?”

Barbara nodded. “I promise. But, Jim?” She looked up at him with pleading eyes. “Please, be careful!”

He nodded, and gave her one more kiss before he leapt out from cover, limping and pointing the gun at their only exit, the office door. If they could just get out of this room and beyond the hallway outside, there would be plenty of cover inside the nightclub proper.

Gordon kept the Beretta trained on the doorway while he walked over to the large, kidney-shaped oak desk and peeked over the side. The boy wasn’t there, and there was no sign of him at all, no blood, no nothing. One of the swans landed back in the fountain behind him in a great splash, causing Gordon to jolt and turn his aim on the bird before looking around the rest of the office.

Two bullets had shattered the plasma TV on the wall, and there was a dead parrot on top of the big oak desk. A hawk flapped its wings behind him, startling him. He made it over to the bodies of the three dead thugs—Hank, Judd, and Maurice. He gathered up the Glocks from Hank and Judd, still keeping the Beretta trained on the doorway. He ran over to his wife and handed here one of the Glocks. “If I don’t come back, defend yourself until help arrives,” he said. She nodded.

He made his way over to where he’d seen Sarah dive, and lowered his gun to ready-low position when he found her. “Sarah?” he said. She looked up at him. Her back was pressed to the flat, metal wall of an owl’s cage, a blood-covered hand pressed into her side, where a red stain continued to spread across her white shirt. “Jesus…”

“Shut up, Jim, it’s not the end of the world,” she said, and extended one hand. “Here, help me up, and let’s get outta here.”

“You can’t walk like this.”

“Watch me.” She staggered when he tried to help her up, and fell back on her ass.

“You’re gonna have to stay here,” Gordon said. “Just give me that gun. I’ll come back for you.” The gun she had in her other hand was a Glock, the one taken from Maurice in all the fighting. To his great surprise, Sarah didn’t argue, and handed him the pistol. In return, he gave her the Glock he’d gotten off of Hank. “How many rounds left in it?” he asked.

“Six,” she said. “I checked.”

“There’s two in the Beretta, I think that’ll be enough to get me out. You just stay here, you and Barbara both. Defend this room if they come. I’ll be back.” He started to stand.

Sarah reached out to touch his arm. “Jim…don’t let ’em get you. We gotta make these sons o’ bitches pay.”

Gordon nodded, and, for once, he gave her a wink. He stood up, coming out from cover. A raven flew in front of him, and a couple of parakeets called out overhead. Other wings flapped, and feathers fell. He moved slowly up to the doorway, aware that both Barbara and Sarah were peeking out from behind their cover to watch him go. He did a quick check around the corner, and saw that the blood trail of the injured thug led to the other end of the hall.

Gordon took one last look around the aviary/office, wondering where the kid had gone. Then, he counted to ten, and went out into the hall, the Beretta in his right hand, the Glock in the other.

* * *

THE ULTRA EASILY outran the military jeeps and two other sets of squad cars that tried to engage him. Wherever he found relatively open roads, he pushed the bike up to speeds of 100 mph in no time at all, and wherever the traffic was clustered he was able to maneuver between alleys that only one police motorcyclist was able to fit through. But the maneuverability of the police motorcycle was dwarfed by the Ultra’s, and Batman soon lost the officer in a five-block chase that also shook the news chopper off his tail. More officers would catch up to him, as well as more military vehicles, of that he had no doubt.

Someone threw a lead pipe at him as he drove down Crakeview Avenue. A flash mob had suddenly materialized, and they were in the midst of throwing chairs through windows or smashing cars with baseball bats, golf clubs, tire irons, anything they could get their hands on. Some chased after him, a couple of rioters snatched at his cape, hoping to pull him off as he drove past. Most got out of his way or just flung trash at him from afar.

Riot police were directly ahead of him, walking in a line trying to stop the mob. One officer was knocked to the ground by three Suns who weren’t responding to his pepper spray. Batman hugged his bike close and sped towards them, and as they saw him coming two of them took off running. One of them tried swinging a crowbar at him. Batman raised his head to be a better target, but ducked at the last second, and just as the crowbar went over his head he clothes-lined the Sun across his chest, knocking him on his ass.

Every officer in the police line put up their riot shields when they saw him coming, but then a couple of them seemed to part just slightly, as though suggesting he had a clear path with them. Batman made for that opening, and even managed a wave of thanks as he passed through. They closed in tight again after he’d gone through.

Three blocks later, he was finally at Cape Carmine. Addison Street brought him straight by the Cosgrove Theater. Ahead of him was the Iceberg Lounge. The streets were empty, and not a single cop car appeared to be in the area.

* * *

THE PAIN IN his leg was excruciating, but there was nothing he could do about it. Gordon limped down the hallway, which so far was clear. At least, nobody was shooting at him. But cameras posted on both walls every twenty feet indicated that he was probably being watched by someone somewhere. Gordon couldn’t do anything about that, he just had to keep moving.

He froze at the doorway into the vestibule, where the falcon had eyed him so closely when Judd and the other thugs had brought him up. A peek inside the small room revealed that it was in exactly the same state as before. The falcon was still in its cage, and was looking at him as though it had anticipated his return. Gordon moved quietly inside, wincing at each step, and silently despising every little creak from the floor wherever he stepped.

The door that led into the upstairs VIP area of the Lounge was parted, and he nudged it open with his gun, emerging beside the booth where he’d first met Cobblepot. He immediately took cover behind that booth, and looked at the floor. The blood trail had almost vanished; the last few drops were around the large, open animal containment area for the penguins and the seals. The animals seemed to know something was going on, because they were honking and calling to one another excitedly, which frustrated Gordon to no end because he couldn’t hear if anyone was moving around him.

The nightclub was still freezing, and most of the lights were switched off. The only way down was the narrow spiral staircase at the other end of this floor, but once he started down that he would be an incredibly easy target to hit. They’re in here somewhere, taking cover and waiting for me to expose myself. Cobblepot and his people knew he couldn’t just wait here forever, especially now that Sarah was so badly injured. What was worse, any number of cameras were probably monitoring him right then, and someone was probably watching for when he made his next move.

I might as well stop pretending that my position is unknown to them, he thought, going ahead and moving to the next piece of cover, which was another booth, this one overlooking the large, rotating ice floor down below.

Gordon hopped to other cover a few times before he made it over to the spiral staircase. His right leg protested every movement he made, and was becoming stiffer because of the swelling, making it hard to even stand up now. He peeked over the top of a table briefly, but panicked once he saw a red laser dot strafe up his arm.

Gordon threw himself back on the floor. That’s when he heard the call from Cobblepot. “My friend, it isn’t possible to get out of here alive.” The voice came from an intercom, integrated into the walls somewhere. “You’re obviously hurt, and you’re obviously surrounded. Your wife is counting on you to make the right decision here. You need to lay down that gun, and reconsider our offer one last time. Agent Essen is already almost dead. At this point, you’d just be putting her out of her misery. You were close to a decision before the boy’s interruption.”

But it wasn’t the decision you thought it was going to be, nutjob! Realizing just how boxed in he was now, Gordon peeked one eye around the side of the table. He could have possibly made a run for it if not for his leg. Gordon could only hope that someone had in fact heard the shots, and had called the police. Shots are being fired all over the city, he thought. Riots are probably still going on, and we’re short on cops. The response time to a 415 or a 417 right now is going to be at least double, if not triple normal response time.

Gordon shivered in the cold room, watching his breath come out in great puffs of cloud. He had more decisions to make. Did he stay here and hold his ground, waiting for the police? Cobblepot and Nygma won’t wait forever. They know police will eventually show up. They’ve got to dump the bodies and do something about all the bullet holes in his office. So, what to do, then? Sarah was bleeding out, and time was short.

Something else occurred to him. Cobblepot had been shot, and Gordon had seen it clearly. He’s gonna need medical attention, too. He can’t just sit tight and hunt me forever inside this club. That means they’ll have to close the net on me soon.

As soon as he thought it, it happened. He heard footsteps downstairs. He peeked around the side of the table, and looked through the banister at the icy dance floor below. He spied two men moving for cover, one of them with a small handgun, the other holidng a shotgun. There were sounds of other movement throughout the club, but it was so dim in here that it he couldn’t make out where it was coming from.

He sighed, and said a silent prayer for his wife, kids, and Sarah, then he pushed himself to one knee and aimed around the side of the table. When that happened, gunfire erupted, but none of it aimed at him.

* * *

BATMAN HAD USED a number of dead spaces as soon as he entered the club. Dead spaces were those areas most people never thought to look. The study of dead spaces was vast, and involved a look into both geometry and psychologically, and in how the human and animal brain responded specifically to its environment. For instance, walking in through the back door revealed a large, open kitchen with various nooks and crannies that would make it natural for someone to glance right over. A person that knelt beside one of those spaces would be virtually invisible; that is, invisible to the perception of the viewer.

He’d come in from the rear entrance, and the hallway beyond the kitchen was dark and narrow, providing little cover. However, once he’d come to the other side and into the nightclub’s party area, he’d slipped into an area just beside the performance stage. The lights coming off the stage were aimed out towards where the audience would be, meaning that as long as he stayed in the shadows behind the lights, he would be concealed in far deeper shadows than anywhere else in the room—once again, his knowledge of chiaroscuro aided him.

Here, he’d waited, because he had heard a great deal of commotion starting all around him, and with the night-vision setting on his eye-screen, he’d spotted three gunmen taking cover behind tables across from him. Up on the stage itself, there was a man with a silenced Heckler & Koch machine gun, taking aim at an unknown target upstairs.

What’s going on here?

Presently, he sat watching them from the shadowy corner beside the stage. When the first one raised a SOCOM pistol with a silencer and laser sight, Batman craned his neck so that he could see what he was aiming at. He zoomed in, and on his HUD he spotted a familiar face peeking around a table upstairs. Jim.

Exhausted from the day’s trials, the Dark Knight wasn’t at all certain he could handle much more. But he had to. There was no other choice.

He moved silently from cover, and was just coming up from behind one of the larger thugs, the one holding the SOCOM, when the one with the H&K shifted his aim. Upstairs, Gordon suddenly came out of cover to take aim. They would’ve shot and killed him instantly if Batman hadn’t reached over the biggest one with his left arm, wrenching his head back while hammerfisting straight down on his wrists braced against the SOCOM. The pistol came flying out of his hand, but his friends turned and fired at the bat, who rolled away and ducked behind a row of tables.

Gunfire erupted from all around him! Thankfully, none of them had NVGs on, and his own night-vision setting allowed him to see them in great detail. Three bullets went into his chest plate, but disintegrated almost immediately. Still, the initial force of each one spread across his body, slowing him down a bit as he reached out to wrench the pistol from one of his targets. Batman head-butted the large thug before he turned and kicked a table into the midsection of the man wielding the shotgun. The shotgun thug had risen to take aim, but now he fell over and fired into the floor.

Batman turned his attention back to the thug with the pistol. Half blinded in the dark, the thug already couldn’t see well as it was, but he certainly didn’t see the punch that knocked him out at all, because Batman flung his cape into the man’s face a second before delivering the blow. The bat whipped around and flapped his cape into the face of the shotgun thug, who was recovering and cocking his weapon again. He fired wildly a second after Batman had moved off the line of the shotgun’s barrel. Batman committed his whole body to a rising elbow, which, in one motion, knocked the shotgun upwards and then slammed into the thug’s jaw, sending him to the floor.

The gunman on stage with the silenced H&K fired off a barrage of bullets, obviously not even caring if he hit his comrades. Batman dashed across the room, dived behind a row of tables and ran around the bar. The gunman continued firing in his general direction, shattering wine and champagne bottles over Batman’s head.

“Whatchoo got, bat?!” the gunman screamed. “Huh?! Whatchoo got?! My name’s Stanley Sheffield, an’ tomorrow I’ll be famous! I took out the bat! That’s right!” He continued firing, and it sounded like he’d hopped off the stage and was running towards him, but Batman couldn’t tell because he needed to keep covered. His Tango armor had absorbed a lot of bullets so far, and Lucius had said the thing had an undetermined limit of impacts it could take before it was used up. The last few hits had convinced him that the Tango armor was approaching its limit. He had to think of something fast if he wanted to—

Gunfire sounded from somewhere else in the club. It was coming from up high, and the thug with the Heckler & Koch suddenly stopped firing on the bat and aimed to the top floor. Jim, he thought, and stood up. Batman leapt over the bar, just in time to see Gordon ducking back behind cover. Batman sprinted for the gunman, who turned at the moment the bat descended on him. With a hammerfist he slapped the machine gun down, the silencer flashing as it sprayed into the icy floor. Both Batman and the gunman slipped on the dance floor, the bat landing on top of the thug, his knee in his chest. Two quick hammerfists to the side of his face smashed his teeth in and put him out.

“Jim!” he hollered. “You okay?”

“Yeah! Yeah…but I’m hit in the leg! Barbara and Sarah are up here! Sarah’s been hit bad!”

“Just stay there!” he shouted. “I’ll—”

More gunfire, but this time it sounded like it was coming from outside. Batman stood up and ran for the front door of the nightclub, sprinting through the atrium with its posters promising the return of The Hurlihees next Friday and the windows so chilled that ice had collected on them. The door was locked, so he kicked it open and stepped out onto the street, just in time to see a black SUV peeling out.

Someone was firing on the SUV as it fled, though, a boy no older than fifteen years stood on top of a parked limousine, and emptied a pistol in his hand, shattering the rear windshield of the fleeing vehicle. He hopped down off the limo and started to run after the SUV, which now disappeared around the corner, when Batman grabbed him by his shoulder and flung him to the ground. The boy aimed the gun up at him, but the bat snatched it and twisted it from his hand.

“LET ME GO!” he shouted. “THEY’RE GETTING AWAY!” He clawed at the bat’s armor, punching at him, pulling at his utility belt, kicking him in his shin, all of it getting him nowhere at all. He was red-faced and tears were streaming down his face. “THEY’RE GETTING AWAY! LET ME GO, YOU BASTARD!”

Batman flung the pistol away. “What’re you doing here? You’re just a kid! You shouldn’t be firing guns! Let adults handle this. Go home to your parents.” He turned and started after the SUV.

The boy pushed himself off the ground. “They killed my parents!”

Batman had a moment of pause. He stopped, turned to look at the young boy, and, for a moment in time, he was instantly transported back…back…back to Park Row, back to “Crime Alley” when he had sat there, hovering over the bodies of his parents, crying and afraid, angry at himself and the whole damn world for what had happened. In that moment, he wasn’t Batman anymore, he was the creature of the night they all feared, he was just that frightened little boy. He had a moment of not-quite-nostalgia take him over, something dreadful that spat in nostalgia’s face and created nightmares. Months after the death of his parents, all he could think of was how much he wanted blood…and he would’ve easily killed in the crazed state he’d been in.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Batman finally managed to say, knowing it was not enough, and turned away.

“You’re…sorry? You’re sorry?! Yeah, sure, walk away! Just like everybody else has done! Zucco killed them! Zucco and his thugs killed my parents, and NOBODY CARES!” he screamed.

It tore at the bat to walk away. He knew how the boy felt, he knew what it was like to have people all around you showing that they were more concerned with other worldly matters than your little tragedy. He knew the helplessness, the cruelty of that moment in a person’s life, and he couldn’t do anything about it, not a damn thing.

His prey were getting away, and if he could stop them, then maybe, just maybe, he could prevent another boy from turning out like him, or like the one shouting at his back. That was what mattered. Sirens were closing in on him again. Once again feeling his exhaustion, he hobbled off to finish his work. The Ultra was parked in the alley behind the club, and he still had a job to do.

* * *

THE RIOTS WERE mostly controlled now, according to the news, but they still blazed in some areas. Some sort of crisis had been averted at ANGS, but no one was clear on what exactly had happened there. The Batman was dead, then he was alive, then he was dead again, and now nobody seemed to know what he was.

Alfred Pennyworth sat alone in the cave, hunched over the computer station, listening to the flutter of bat wings all around him in the darkness and watching the various news stations tell their conflicting sides of the story.

Alfred had been sitting here waiting for any word from his ward and young master. The initial news that he was dead had nearly brought him to tears, but his faith had carried him through, until he had nearly cried again once he saw that he was alive and racing through the streets of Gotham. Now, he worried again. Alfred didn’t really know why, but he believed it was because he had been anticipating the news of Bruce’s death for many years now. Every night that he went out, in fact, frightened him to the core. He had gotten used to it, the way a cop’s wife or husband got used to seeing them go out every night with a gun on their hip.

Unconsciously, Afred had pulled his cross necklace out from his shirt, and held it in his hands. He wasn’t even aware when he did this anymore, so often did he pray for Master Bruce silently to himself. Now, he spoke aloud, to the bats, to the cave, to anyone that would listen. “God in Heaven,” he said. “This is Your servant, Alfred Giles Pennyworth. I know I’ve often spoken to You about my young ward. I spoke to You about him at great length when he was just a boy, so that You might help him get through all the grief. I spoke to You about him again when he was older and had all of these…plans. I asked You what I should do…” Alfred looked up at the news footage of the Batman racing down the streets. “And I pray to You each night he goes out alone. I know that he doesn’t pray for himself, because it’s not his way—he believes in helping himself, and utilizing important, trustworthy friends around him, and I don’t believe You can fault him for that, it’s what makes him strong.

“You’ve been hard on the lad, You have to admit that. You have. But he’s also taken what gifts You gave him and he has not committed one single murder, he’s never killed in Your name. He’s never killed anyone at all. He’s done the impossible. He’s fought back against some of the most terrible monsters You’ve allowed to be unleashed on this beautiful earth—perhaps to test us all, I don’t know Your will—and he has met each of Your challenges head on. He has stood for something. All I ask…all I ask is that You allow him to stand a bit longer. We need him. Gotham needs him. Perhaps the world needs him.” Then, Alfred swallowed. “I need him. He has given me purpose, My Lord. A much greater purpose than any normal butler such as myself could have ever aspired to. If it is Your will, I will continue to serve him, I will continue to be there for him, as he has been there for so many. He stands for something, Lord. He stands for something we need. Please…please, let him stand.” He sighed a quivering sigh. “Amen.”

Alfred kept the cross clutched in his hand, and watched as a news update at the bottom of CNN’s screen said that the Batman had once again been spotted by police helicopters. Another update said that, so far, the Joker hadn’t been apprehended, though police had chased him into a suburb with a dead end, no way out.

* * *

A FLASH MOB had made it onto Feynbrook Ridge Road, and someone from the Molehill Mob had fired a gun at police, who had retaliated, killing the Mobster. The rest of the rioters, not really bothering to stop and understand the context of the shooting, had attacked. They now swarmed and assaulted police officers even as attack dogs pulled several of them down by their ankles.

Batman got all this information before he even arrived on the street, having chased the SUV into the middle of Feynbrook, where a mob swarmed on him and the SUV alike. Ironically, the very riots that the Penguin and the Riddler had helped create now hindered their escape.

A new wave of police officers were approaching from the other end of the street in full riot gear. Not only that, but National Guard jeeps were right behind them, with an APC (armored personnel carrier) and foot soldiers approaching with shields.

Tear gas canisters were fired right by him by police as he closed in on the SUV, which plowed through the street, knocking one car to the side and nearly running over four rioters who threw cans at it. Batman clubbed one rioter on the head as he drove the Ultra past at fifty miles an hour, slowing down just enough to make the tight turn. There was at least one more thug in the SUV with a gun, because he poked his head out and fired at the bat, who weaved over into oncoming traffic before he hopped up onto the curb.

The gunfire caused even more panic, and some thought it was the cops coming down from D’Onofrio Street. Someone else fired a gun, some manic gangster that Batman never saw, but he was dedicated to running down the two monsters who’d started all this.

The SUV came to an abrupt stop when it hit the next major intersection. There was a terrible traffic jam, one that they couldn’t hope to plow through in time to get away. As soon as the SUV slammed into the cars, some of which had been abandoned so the motorists could escape the riots, the driver’s side door opened and out came a large thug in a business suit and carrying an Uzi. He fired at the bat as he approached, but the bat braked behind an abandoned van and leapt off the Ultra.

Rioters descended on him immediately. Batman saw three Suns coming at him, instantly recognizable by their shirtless bodies and the sun tattoos across their chests. One of them had a golf club, another had a trash can he was prepared to throw, and the other one was barehanded and looked ready to tackle him.

Batman engaged at once, intercepting the golf club with an inside deflection straight from the martial art of Filipino kali, and then performed a perfect snake disarm before elbowing the Sun in his chest, then in his face. Batman now had the golf club in his hand, and smashed it into the face of the man preparing to throw the trash can before he side-kicked the last guy in his groin. The Sun bent over, holding himself, and Batman smashed the golf club over the thug’s back, bending it. He flung the club at the next rioters to approach, which happened to be a pair of Molehill Mobsters.

The driver of Cobblepot’s SUV continued firing while the fat man and Nygma hopped out of the passenger’s side. The police and National Guard now poured into the street, as well, and the aggregate of violence was unprecedented in all the years Batman had roamed the streets, and in all the years that Bruce Wayne had lived. The roar of screaming rebels almost drowned the policemen shouting over bullhorns.

An attack dog made right for Batman, who caught the German Shepherd in midair and flung it into the pack of Mobsters coming at him. The officer who’d let the dog free of its leash aimed a Taser at Batman and fired. The electrodes, of course, did nothing because of his thick armor, and Batman ripped them free before he turned and leapt over the hood of an abandoned Mazda Miata, and took off after his two primary targets.

Someone ran at him with a deck chair and screamed, “DON’T MESS WITH THE MOB, BABY! DON’T MESS WITH THE M—!” That was as far as he got before Batman leapt at him with his knee extended, performing a flying knee as taught to him in muay thai. The chair fell from his hands as Batman grabbed the Mobster by his shirt and threw him to the ground using the ko uchi gari technique from judo, and left him there for the attack dogs coming up behind him.

Batman determined that the easiest way to chase down his two targets was to get on top of the clustered cars. He leapt from the hood of one vehicle to the roof of another, and only dropped down to take cover from the thug bringing up the rear, who still covered their escape with his Uzi.

Batman ducked behind a Toyota Prius for cover, the windows shattering as the thug unleashed another salvo. Batman chased them for another fifty yards in this manner, alternately leaping over cars and taking cover behind them, until he heard the sharp, telltale click! from the Uzi, signaling that it was empty. He made his move towards the thug then, coming from around the back of a work truck just as the thug was popping another clip into place. With a front teep-kick to the sternum, he sent the thug to the ground and then stomped on his hand still holding the Uzi, breaking the fingers and prying the weapon loose. Batman completely field-stripped the weapon in three seconds and threw the pieces in every direction.

The police were right on him, taking up cover positions behind various cars and looking for the gunman.

Batman continued on after Cobblepot and Nygma. He spotted them entering a department store through a shattered window, Cobblepot lagging way behind because of his short, stubby legs. The Penguin also appeared to still be bleeding from his right arm, because his white shirt was soaked in blood.

“Freeze! Gotham City Police! Let me see your hands!” came the shouts from behind. But the bat paid them no mind, and leapt over the hood of another car to get to the department store. He peeked inside, saw that numerous shelves had been toppled and the whole place had been looted in a hurry. He stepped inside, and as soon as he did he took a bullet to the center of his chest. Cobblepot had emerged from a toppled shelf, umbrella in hand and firing on him. He then disappeared around the shelf.

The wind had been knocked out of him, but he recovered quickly and bolted in, leaping over a destroyed television and taking up cover behind a wall of computers that looters had raked from shelves. He listened for footsteps, and heard them rapidly retreating to the rear of the store. Batman heard a door slam open quickly. He came out from cover and bolted to the rear of the store just as he heard the barking of another attack dog entering the store.

“Gotham City Police! If you’re in here, come out with your hands up!”

* * *

GORDON HAD MADE it outside just as the first black and whites were showing up. They killed their sirens once they closed in around the Lounge, and he dropped his guns, putting his hands in the air just in case they didn’t recognize him.

Gordon lay against the hood of a limousine, panting and waving at the first officers to walk up to him. “Commissioner?” one of them called. It was Officer Henry Mason, of all people. “Commissioner, that you? Jesus, sir, you’re shot!”

“I’m fine,” he panted. “My wife and Special Agent Essen are upstairs. Agent Essen is critically wounded. There are other suspects inside, they were all armed but I think Batman put them all down. I can’t be sure there. You need to clear the building, and call an ambulance right away.”

“Yes, sir. And the boy?”

At first, Gordon didn’t know what Mason was talking about. Then, he looked around. About fifteen feet to his right, there sat the same boy who had infiltrated the Iceberg Lounge’s top floor through the window, the same one who’d clipped Cobblepot. The boy sat with his back to the limo, his knees pulled up close and his elbows resting on them. His head was cast down, and he was sobbing uncontrollably.

“Son?” Gordon said. “Son, are you hurt?”

No response.

The commissioner looked at Mason. “Just call an ambulance.”

“Yes, sir! I’m on it!” Officer Mason waved to the other cops running up to them. “We’ve got two women upstairs! One’s critically wounded! I’m calling in an ambulance! You guys go check and make sure the rest of the club is secured!”

Gordon sat down on the pavement, resting his back against the front right wheel of the limo, panting and wincing against the pain in his leg. He became aware of the boy’s sobs again, and turned to him. For a moment, Gordon experienced a bit of déjà vu, recalling a time when he’d comforted a young Bruce Wayne just a few hours after his own parents’ murder. “Hey…son…come here,” Gordon panted. The boy didn’t move. Indeed, he didn’t even seem to hear. “Your name…is Dick Grayson?” The boy still gave no sign that he’d heard. “Listen, son…I’m awful sorry for your loss…and I know there’s nothing I can say or do right now…to help you in your grief…” He swallowed, catching his breath. “But what you did back there was a very brave thing. You may have saved my wife…and the life of an FBI agent, as well…I’m eternally grateful for your timely entrance…and I’m sure your parents would be proud—”

“My parents can’t be proud of anything,” the boy sniffled. “They’re dead.”

“Son…listen to me…”

“They’re dead!” he hissed. “And there’s nothing else to say.”

No, Gordon thought. There’s not. He laid back, and watched as a couple of officers escorted Barbara out through the front door. She ran over to her husband, squeezed him around her neck, and together they rejoiced that they still had what the boy did not.

Family.

* * *

THE ALLEYS BEHIND the department store formed a right convoluted network of passages, and each one was cluttered with dumpsters and parked vehicles and stacked pallets, giving any number of places to hide. Fortunately, Batman could easily follow the blood trail of the Penguin.

The trail went left, then right, then left again, and left again before it finally dried up in a wide, cluttered alley between two six-storey buildings. The sounds of anarchy could still be heard just up the street, but so far this alleyway was completely undisturbed. A van was parked in middle of the alley, and there was a fire escape zigzagging up the side of the building on his left. A dumpster was open, and full to bursting with bloated trash bags hanging out of it.

The Dark Knight slowed to a jog, then a walk, and then stopped altogether. Except for the riots far off, it was all quiet. Then, he heard the sound of footsteps against metal. He looked up. Cobblepot and Nygma were both running up the fire escape. The Penguin glanced over the side, and fired two shots from his umbrella down at the bat, who covered his head and took one of them in his arm, the other on his left shoulder.

When the shooting was done, he looked up, and saw that they were nearly to the roof of the building. Batman’s hand went for his GTEM gun reflexively…only to find the holster empty. Of course, he’d lost it in the chase with the Joker while blowing out the tire. There was nothing else to do now but go on foot. He was far more athletic than the two of them, and normally would’ve run them down easily. But he was exhausted and had been beaten badly within the last two hours. However, Cobblepot was injured and out of shape, and Nygma was no athlete, either.

It was just a foot race then, nothing more. Batman dug deep, deep down to draw on the fire that kindled his need for justice. I am vengeance! he told himself. I am the boogeyman to these monsters! I…am…BATMAN! He pushed himself up one flight of stairs after the other, and was fired on twice more by Cobblepot, though both shots missed and hit the metal stairs instead.

Then, the Penguin did something he hadn’t seen coming. He aimed his umbrella downward, and Batman saw the very tip of it flip up. He knew this didn’t bode well at all. When the projectile hissed, he knew what it was. Grenade!

Batman was on the fifth level of the fire escape when he leapt from the stairs, which exploded behind him as he reached out to a windowsill and clung to it. Cobblepot and Nygma disappeared from sight, fleeing across the roof. Batman braced his feet against the wall and turned his head away as the top two flights of stairs came crashing down, the steel moaning and clanging all the way to the alley floor below. To his left about five feet and straight up was a gutter drain pipe. Batman prepared himself for a sideways Dyno jump. He swung his butt back and forward, preparing himself to gain momentum. Then, in one quick movement, he flung himself up and to the left, catching the drain pipe with both hands and squeezing it with his knees.

The climb was a short one, but it took all he had to summon what was left of his strength. Once he surmounted the top of the roof, all thought left him as the Riddler’s cane slammed him on the side of the jaw. He rolled, and came up onto his feet in a wobbly stance. The cane impacted him again on the forehead, sending him reeling back, almost over the side of the roof. He regained his balance just in time, and knelt to steady himself.

The Riddler was coming at him again, and Batman stood to intercept him…

Something tackled him from behind. There was no questioning who it was. The Penguin was grabbing hold of his legs and trying to immobilize him. He was caught off-guard, and the Riddler’s cane slammed into the side of his head again. Batman dropped to the concrete, rolled over, and swept the Penguin in a jiu-jitsu fashion to obtain the mount position. The impudent little bastard still had the quellazaire clenched between his teeth, and foamed at the mouth as he screamed, “Damn it, Nygma! Get this bat off of me!”

The cane came at him again, but this time Batman intercepted it, jerked it, and pulled the Riddler forward into a head-butt. To his great surprise, the Riddler was almost totally unaffected, and delivered a hard knee into his sternum. Batman went to jab him, but he was slow and sluggish now, and the Riddler performed a perfect split-entry attack, deflecting the bat’s blow over his right shoulder with his cane while doing an eye jab, which hit the bat’s right eye since his eye-screen wasn’t flipped down. He staggered back, and the Riddler slapped him with his cane again, then jerked downward so that the cane’s curved handle caught on the back of his neck and pulled him to the ground.

Batman fell, and rolled. The Riddler placed a knee on his chest and started battering him all over the body repeatedly with his cane. Then, Batman lifted Nygma off of him with an umpa escape, bringing his feet in close to his butt and forcefully lifting his hips off the ground. He performed a kip-up then, whipping back onto his feet, and just in time to do a mule-kick into the Penguin’s fat chest.

The Riddler stood up, and swung at him again with the cane. Batman did a quick bob-and-weave, then came up throwing his cape around the Riddler’s neck, grabbing hold of it in both fists and tightening it. He squeezed it exactly like he would a collar choke in jiu-jitsu, only from behind. He squeezed and squeezed, intent only to make Nygma pass out, never to kill him, when Cobblepot returned.

The Penguin had his umbrella in his hand, and had flipped the top down again, this time, to reveal a hidden blade. Still exhausted and unable to turn in time, Cobblepot stabbed him in his left ribs, the blade making it a couple of inches in.

Batman jerked away from the attack, and in so doing he gave Nygma the slack he needed in the cape to escape the choke. Nygma twisted out of it, and came around with the butt of the cane, slamming the bat in his face.

He fell backward, smacking the pavement but continuing to roll back, using the momentum to roll up onto his feet. He staggered backward until his hands found the brick wall of a small chimney to steady himself. Across from him, both the Riddler and the Penguin panted and clutched at their various injuries. The three of them just stood there a moment, each of them sizing the enemy up.

Far away and down below somewhere, the rioters were still at it. However, now there were more shouts coming from bullhorns, and a couple of military choppers were not too far off in the west.

Meanwhile, the Penguin and the Riddler started walking around to either side of him, trying to surround him. They moved wordlessly, and the bat just watched them. He prepared himself in a stance from the Keysi Fighting Method, bringing his hands up to his head and readying himself for attacks from all sides.

“It’s over,” he told them, panting. “It’s all over.”

“Nothing is over,” Nygma said.

When they finally came at him, they came fast. Cobblepot came in like a fencer with his blade-tipped umbrella, swinging low. The Riddler swung high with his cane. Batman hammerfisted the umbrella down towards the ground, and stomped on the blade, snapping it off. He let his forearms take the impact from the Riddler’s cane, then wrapped his arm around it, jerking him and wrapping one arm around both of Nygma’s arms. He then rotated and slammed Nygma up against Cobblepot, pasting them both to the chimney’s brick wall before he delivered three quick punches to the center of Nygma’s chest, then an elbow.

He went down, wide-eyed, gasping and clutching at his chest. Cobblepot had been sandwiched between Nygma and the wall, and each hit had slammed his head against the brick. He staggered sideways, and still tried to flee, since his partner was obviously down. Batman walked over to the Penguin, and oblique-kicked him in the back of the knee, sending him sprawling to the ground. He produced the auto-injector from his utility belt—because of all the SWAT officers he’d knocked out that day, he only had enough left for one single injection. He gave it to Cobblepot, and then walked over to the Riddler, who was moaning.

Batman turned him over, facedown on the concrete, and took out his handcuffs to bind him. “You’re going…to answer some questions for me now,” the bat panted. “For every answer I don’t believe, I’m not going to break a finger, I’m going to shatter an entire limb! I’ll be…irreparable damage! You’ll never get used back of the limb!”

Still dazed, his eyes opening and closing rapidly, the Riddler looked up at him, smiled, and said, “What…do you wanna know…?”