BATMAN: GOTHAM CAMPAIGN OF CRIME

By Bruce Wayne

Batman created by Bob Kane and Bill Finger

DISCLAIMER: Most of the characters portrayed in this story are copyright by DC Comics, an AOL/Time/Warner company. They are used without permission for entertainment without profit by the author.

CHAPTER 1

Gotham City. My city. Long ago, I made a vow at the graveside of my murdered parents to protect the innocent from the evildoers who preyed upon them. It's what I live for. It's what I do every night.

That rather sardonic thought was on the mind of the crimefighter called Batman as he arched gracefully through the air on a thin strand of wire high over the congested streets of Gotham City. His gray-clad legs pumped out before him with smooth, practiced ease as he propelled his swinging body to the roof of the building on the corner of Ninth Avenue and Kane Street.

Batman stood at the edge of the roof and stared unseeing into the dark streets thirty floors below. He perched precariously on the decaying masonry. He felt the warm spring air against the exposed skin on his face.

I spend most of my time pursuing my crusade of fighting the relentless war on crime that plagues my city. I can best prey on the forces of evil by walking in the same dark shadows that they inhabit. But they know that I'm their worst nightmare. I'm determined to strike terror throughout the underworld. That's why most criminals know me as simply "The Bat."

I need to be careful in this part of Gotham. The police in this district are less than appreciative of my efforts to assist them. It's been that way since the former GCPD

SWAT team commander, a man known as Branden, got busted after he ran into a little difficulty trying to capture me when I first started donning the costume.

He crouched at the roof's edge and rested his elbows on his knees. The white lenses that covered the eyes on his mask stared unblinking into the darkness of the night.

I think back to that fateful night when my world was torn apart by a criminal who stepped from the shadows of a doorway. It is, by far, my worst memory. In a matter of seconds, I lost my mother and father -- the two most important people in my life. Their loss, before my very eyes, changed my life forever. That same night, I made a solemn oath that I will never forget.

The Caped Crusader stood, his mouth set in a grim line beneath his cowl, and pointed his right arm out before him, holding his patented grapnel. He pressed the firing button at the side of the handle. With a low "twipping" sound, a thin, strong wire was propelled from the grapnel with a sharp, wall-penetrating dart attached to the end of it. The wire shot unerringly through the night sky and adhered securely to the cornice of a building farther up Ninth Avenue. With expertise, Batman leaped out into space.

His legs kicked widely as the Dark Knight swung himself away from the building. Reaching the apex of his swing, he fired another wire strand at another building farther up Ninth, each incredible swing carrying him the length of a city block.

But the Masked Manhunter's thoughts were not on the delicate acrobatics that made this unique mode of transportation possible for him. He had long ago reached the point where such actions were as natural to him as walking. And even the exhilaration of swinging unencumbered through the air was not sufficient to drive the dark thoughts from Batman's mind.

My childhood ended the night my parents were brutally murdered before my eyes in Crime Alley. After what happened that terrible night, I embarked on an odyssey to forge my mind and body into a living weapon. I became the world's most dangerous man. Though I have no real super power, I am a master of virtually every known fighting discipline.

Suddenly, there was a sound. He swung his body with a concerted effort and made contact with the rooftop of an old tenement building.

That sounded like a gunshot.

The telltale tingle of Batman's sixth sense, if there was such a thing, signaled that danger was nearby or imminent. Thus, even before the muted echo of gunshots and the distant scream of sirens reached his ears, the darkly clad man was swinging hurriedly to the scene of the trouble.

A familiar, feminine voice talked into his ear via a highly sophisticated, encrypted radio system.

"Boss?" came a message from the woman known as Oracle. "Trouble at the Sportsarama store at Tenth Avenue and Sprang Street. Police say they have a hostage situation."

Into the hidden microphone, his only reply was, "Got it."

In the late evening, this street was normally filled with people as they hurried to the security of home, hearth, and the eleven o'clock news after a day of loud-mouthed bosses and hassles too numerous to mention. This evening, however, Tenth Avenue between Sprang and Da Vinci streets was an armed camp, blocked at either intersection by GCPD cars. In the middle of this tiny oasis, a dozen more police cars were standing, their red, blue and white roof lights blinking almost hypnotically on the brick canyon walls of the street. The occupants of those cars, police officers, were crouched behind them, most with their service weapons drawn, some anxiously clutching shotguns. The car's flashing lights were reflected in the officers' gleaming eyes, all of which were fixed on the bullet-ridden plate-glass window of Sportsarama.

There's trouble brewing in that sporting goods store.

Batman stood on the roof of the building overlooking Sportsarama, keeping himself safely out of the view of the police below in the shadows. Sportsarama was the lowest structure on the block, surrounded on either side by taller office buildings. As he peered through the gloom, Batman could detect no sign of activity on the peeling tar-paper roof below, and, making sure he stayed in the shadows, he began a swift, gliding descent down the side of the building via his grapnel.

Suddenly, the calm of the late evening was shattered by the deafening roar of a handgun filling the street below, source of origin: the now shattered plate-glass facade of Sportsarama.

It appears someone is trying to make a statement at the point of a gun. I don't like guns.

The police ducked behind their cars, keeping out of range of the shooting but making no move to return fire. An overweight plainclothes detective with a cigar in his mouth and donut in his hand stuck his head up from behind one of the cars, his other hand held a crackling bullhorn to his mouth. "HOLD YOUR FIRE, MEN!" Lt Harvey Bullock ordered. "HOLD YOUR FIRE! REMEMBER, THEY GOT HOSTAGES IN THERE!"

The Gotham Goliath made a sour face beneath his mask. Just as I thought. Probably a couple of perpetrators holed up in there ... with who knows how many hostages. They must've botched a holdup and decided this was better than shooting it out with the police without a shield.

This could be a very difficult situation for the police. A sporting goods store is stocked with enough guns and ammunition for those dastardly criminals to hold off the U.S. Marines forever. And let's talk about food ... they've probably got enough of the canned and dehydrated variety on hand to last them and the Marines even longer than forever.

The shooting from inside the store stopped as suddenly as it had began, and Batman dropped the last fifteen feet to the peeling roof below, staying within the safety of the darkness cast by the taller buildings surrounding him.

With Bullock running things, this show could last longer than Fiddler on the Roof and the police can't risk any harm coming to the hostages by rushing in.

But I can get inside and put the evildoers into unconsciousness before the hostages get hurt. They're committing an act of crime in my city.

Batman landed in a crouch and his eyes narrowed behind the lenses of his mask as he searched the shadows. He was alone on the roof. He owned the darkness of night,

Staying low, the Caped Crusader moved across the tar paper, his booted feet almost gliding across the torn surface. He came to the edge of the darkness and stood there motionless for along moments, eyes and ears vigilant for the slightest disturbance in the night. The nearest cover was a good nine feet away, a large metal air-conditioning duct that jutted four feet from the tar-paper roof. He crouched even lower and sprang forward, covering the three yards between shadow and duct quickly.

So far, so good.

Batman kept the duct between himself and the street as he dove over the rear edge of the roof ...

... A mere moment before a bullet tore into the surface where he had stood!

He clung his fingertips to the underside of the roof's ledge and exhaled sharply.

That was close!

But there was no haven for the Dark Knight behind the two-story building, even though it shielded him from the police sharpshooters who continued to fire at the roof from the windows of the taller buildings across Tenth Avenue. For, clad in blue and white helmets and bulky flak vests, each wielding a shotgun, two policemen were advancing on the rear door of Sportsarama through a litter-strewn back alley. They started suddenly at the sound of gunfire from above and swung their shotguns and alert gazes upward, settling both on the dangling Batman.

They have to be Branden's boys.

The officers stared at the Masked Manhunter for long seconds before one of them recovered his voice. "B-Batman!"

Batman did not reply verbally. Any second now, one of them is going to remember they've got guns in their ...

As if they had read his thoughts, the second officer brought his shotgun to his shoulder. "Get him, Cortez! Dont'cha know the captain wants his head."

The harsh roar of the shotgun filled the night.

But Batman had taken full advantage of the second's hesitation and had swung his legs straight up over his head in a backward somersault, landing on the roll back on the roof. Some enterprising policeman had thought to shine a floodlight on the roof from across the street, however, and Batman landed in the bright light with no shadows to hide in.

High-caliber bullets tore up the tar paper behind him as Batman leaped and rolled across the roof, his zigzag pattern creating an almost impossible target for the snipers several hundred yards away. Then, with a powerful leap, he was above the circle of light, ascending, with the help of his grapnel, with amazing speed straight up the adjoining wall.

I really need to pay a little visit to Branden.

*****

Ed Manning stood hunched over behind the remains of the plate-glass front of Sportsarama, a .45 Magnum clutched in his trembling sweaty hand. He had stood thusly for the better part of a half-hour, his wide, frightened eyes darting over the assemblage of police officers in the street. The gunfire on the roof moments ago had sent his already frazzled nerves near to the breaking point.

Manning was shielded from the street by a bullet-torn manikin modeling a bright orange goosedown coat. The interior of Sportsarama was dark, the aisles of sporting equipment and clothing shrouded in deep gloom. From the street, the inside of the store looked like a shapeless mass of dark shadowy figures.

"Manning!"

The word was called from the darkened rear of the store where Manning's partner in crime kept their four hostages at gunpoint. The fierce whisper made Manning jump as he whirled with the Magnum thrust out before him, almost slipping out of his sweaty palm.

"Put it down, stupid! You wanna blow my head off with that thing?" John Garland walked casually down the aisle toward his cohort, a high-powered hunting rifle slung loosely over his shoulder. His hard, cruel face was set in a malevolent grin toward the cowering man by the window.

"I-I'm sorry, John," Manning stuttered. "I'm just a little uptight is all. I'll be all right." Garland continued to grin at his associate, the spinning lights from outside glinting in his dark, evil eyes. "H-honest!" Manning added hurriedly.

"Yeah, Ed. You better be okay, buddy-boy, because any time now, we may be up to our eyeballs in a shootout ..." Garland whipped the rifle off his shoulder and pointed it menacingly at Manning. "And you better not let me down! Comprende?"

Manning nodded convulsively, his bulging eyes staring into the black barrel inches from his face.

Garland turned his head casually as he heard the short, hesitant footsteps of a woman in high heels behind him. "What d'ya want now, lady?" he sighed wearily.

Ann Downing stopped beside a display of running shoes, her hands nervously shredding an already partially demolished Kleenex. An hour earlier, she had stopped at Sportsarama on her way home from school to pick up a pair of those shoes for school. Now she was frightened to death, didn't know if she'd ever get those all-important running shoes.

Garland grinned at the pale, shiny face with obvious pleasure. It was evident that he was a man who liked to hold the upper hand in every situation -- especially when that hand clutched a hunting rifle. "I said what d'ya want?"

Ann put her hand to her throat. "P-please, the old man ... the owner ... he's getting worse! His heart, I-I think. You've got to let him ..."

Manning rushed forward, his gun thrust out at the frightened girl's head. "Shut up, dammit! Get back there with the rest of 'em and just shut up!" he screamed.

Whimpering, Ann Downing pulled back, her vision clouded by tears. They were both crazy, she thought. Nobody was ever going to leave this place alive ... not the crooks and not the hostages. And certainly not Charles Beckman, aged seventy-three, who lay in the rear of the store to which he had dedicated a third of his life. His heart was attacking him.

Fifty-six-year-old Betty Baum comforted the old man, holding his red, clammy face in her ample lap, listening in utter helplessness to his labored breathing. Her nine-year-old grandson, Howard, knelt on the floor beside his grandmother, frightened and holding onto her skirt with both hands. Betty looked up hopefully as Ann sank wearily to the floor beside her, her hands unable to stop trembling.

"No?"

Ann shook her head. "They're not going to let Mister Beckman go, Mrs. Baum. They're not going to let any of us ..." Ann stopped suddenly, looking quietly at the boy. But he had not heard her. He was watching in fear as Garland and Manning walked toward the hostages.

"Comfy, folks?" Garland chuckled.

"Listen to me, you men," Betty Baum said angrily. "This man is sick. You just can't let him lie here and die!"

Garland smiled evilly. "Why the hell not, lady?" It just gives him a head start on the rest of you!"

The floodlight that shone on the roof of Sportsarama winked out, the officers manning it convinced that the object of their search had long since fled under a fusillade of bullets.

Beneath his cowl, Batman was somewhat relieved.

Once again, he lowered himself down the sheer brick face and dropped to the now dark roof of the squat building. In a second, he had retraced his earlier route across the tattered tar paper and stood by the large air-conditioning duct. He looked about once and then quite effortlessly ripped the metal grille from the top of the duct.

He hoisted himself up and into the duct and slid several feet down, dragging the metal grille back into place above him. Why give one of Branden's nosy men something to trip over and worry about?

Batman had to lift his arms straight up over his head to negotiate the tight fit of the narrow, vertical shaft, but with a bit of wiggling, the Caped Crusader was able to slide slowly down the duct until he came to a grille that looked out into an empty, second-floor room. Batman maneuvered his body in the narrow confines of the duct until he could brace his feet against the grille. Powerful muscles bunched as he pushed against the covering with his legs, forcing the metal grille loose from the wall with a minimum of sound. With a final shove, the grille came loose and hung against the wall by a single screw.

There was nothing in the room but dust.

Unfortunately for the Dark Knight, he wasn't as quiet as he thought he was when he forced opened the grille. On the first floor directly beneath where Batman made his entry into the store, Manning heard the grille popping open and a look of panic crossed his face. "John! Hey, man, t-there's a cop up there!"

"Yeah?" Garland pulled back the bolt on his rifle, feeding a shell into the breech. "Let's see how long he stays up there." Without bothering to take aim, he pointed the barrel of the gun at the ceiling over his head and squeezed the trigger three times in rapid succession, plugging large holes in the plaster overhead.

As the shots tore through the floorboard, Batman, without thought, threw himself headlong across the dusty floor into a corner.

I guess there's no sense playing hide-and-seek up here any longer, so ...

Reaching to his utility belt, the Masked Avenger of Gotham City pulled out a red pellet. He aimed a throw to the center of the floor and covered his face with his cape to protect himself from the tremendous explosion that erupted.

The blast of the ceiling over their heads caused Manning, Garland, and the four hostages to cover their heads with their arms for protection from the shower of plaster.

The women screamed.

"W-what is it, man? What happened, John?"

John Garland didn't answer. Rather he stared in disbelief at the man in the gray and black costume who now stood with his arms folded looking at him. The guy was big and scary. Spread across the gray portion of this bizarre garb was a frightening black bat pattern. He couldn't see the eyes. They were covered with what appeared to be white lenses.

"You're wasting your time asking your friend, punk," Batman said. "Ask me. I caused it."

Manning struggled to his feet as panic gripped him in the face of this ... this ... Bat-Man. He brought his gun up and aimed it unsteadily at the Bat's head. The Caped Crusader never moved. He just stared at the would-be gunman and, with lightning-quick speed, snaked his hand out and knocked the Magnum to the floor. Then he brought his hand back and slapped the trembling criminal across the mouth, sending him flying across the room to crash into a display of stacked cans of tennis balls.

The women screamed again.

As Garland watched his dazed partner struggle to his feet amid the toppled pile of tin cans, Batman somersaulted in midair to land on his feet next to the huddle-together hostages.

Betty Baum cowered, hugging Mister Beckman's head close to her breast as she glanced fearfully at Batman. She reached for her grandson's hand.

Garland recovered from his initial shock quickly and turned on Batman, a low growl beginning deep in his throat.

"You want to take me on, you filthy criminal?" Batman said. But the hold-up man merely growled louder and swung his rifle into line with the Dark Knight's midriff.

Batman merely shook his head and his right arm whipped out quickly. Garland felt a sudden, sharp pain in his shoulder after he was struck by three mini-Batarangs. Razor-sharp and lightweight, the mini-Batarangs were thrown and utilized like ninja shuriken.

The pain in Garland's shoulder forced him to drop the rifle to the floor.

Batman began to whirl when he heard Ann Downing's gasp behind him, but that move was cut short as a blinding flash of pain shot through his neck and shoulders. He fell limply to the floor. Ed Manning stood over him, holding a baseball bat in his hands. Through the red haze of pain, the Masked Manhunter saw the nervous crook rushing at him, the bat poised over his head to deliver the final blow.

Abruptly, the Gotham Goliath pulled back his legs, bent at the knees, and rammed both feet into Manning's stomach. The man's breath exploded from his lungs and Batman pushed him aside before springing to his feet.

How could I let that punk take a shot at me with that baseball bat? I must not be taking these thugs seriously enough.

Garland tugged frantically at his belt as he groped for the handle of his revolver. He pulled it loose with a loud tearing of cloth and before the Caped Crusader could make a grab for him, began firing wildly.

Batman leaped quickly to one side, the deadly hail of lead riddling the wall behind where he had stood. Garland looked about him in the gloom of the store, his eyes flashing madly.

"Over here, creep." Batman whispered.

The Dark Knight stood about ten feet in front of Garland. The hostages were behind the criminal.

Batman glanced quickly to his side in time to see Manning rise unsteadily to his feet once again, the glint of fear in his eyes replaced now with an almost maniacal gleam of hate.

Once again Batman's right hand whipped out in a quick motion and three more mini-Batarangs were thrown -- this time at Manning. With a scream of outrage, Ed Manning fell forward knocking himself cold against the edge of a display case full of switchblades.

John Garland continued to fire his pistol until it was empty, but suddenly his hands no longer seemed to possess their former steadiness and his shots went awry. It was this black demon who claimed the shadows as his own, that Bat-Man who could be neither shot nor knocked out. It stood like a dark thing of the night against the stark white walls of the store, like ...

... like a creature from hell!

The crook threw his empty gun at the dark shadow, but it merely slapped the weapon aside as easily as it was swatting away a bug. A chill of terror went up Garland's spine. "Face it, punk," it said in a growling whisper. "You're going up the river."

With that, Batman sprang forward and threw himself on top of the screaming form of John Garland. His right fist flashed out and caught Garland on the chin. A low cry of terror was cut short in the crook's throat as his head snapped violently back and he sagged like a deflating balloon to the floor.

Batman put a pair of Batcuffs around the wrists of each criminal and left them laying face down of the floor with their hands behind their backs.

Next, he looked toward the cowering hostages. The Masked Avenger seemed to speak into the air. "O? Splash two inside the sporting goods store. Tell the police to bring paramedics. One of the hostages appears to need medical attention."

In his ear, Oracle replied, "Roger, boss."

He turned back to the hostages and asked, "Is everybody else okay?"

But none of the hostages responded. Mrs. Baum and Ann lay huddled on the floor, their bodies shielding Mister Beckman and Howard from stray bullets.

Knowing that there was nothing more he could do and the GCPD SWAT team would be making entry into the store at any moment, Batman sprang lithely through the hole in the ceiling.

Batman pulled open a musty window upstairs and climbed out, using his grapnel to allow him to ascend to the top of the building next door to the sporting goods store.

My work is finished, here.

To be continued ...