Noonan's Bar smelled like cat piss. There was no other way to say it, and the clear absence of any cats on the premises made that fact even more concerning. It was certainly not the top choice for where Kate Kane wanted to be on a Thursday night, but she had a job to do here.
A little over sixth months ago, her life had changed in the alley behind a different bar. A chance encounter with Batman – the Batman, himself – ignited a lightbulb in her mind, little different from that signal of his that shined on the clouds each night. A realization that she had another way forward in her life. A second chance.
She had not seen him since, nor been to another bar until tonight.
Months of preparation had followed that epiphany: intel gathering, surveillance, late nights on the police scanner trying to discern patterns of activity. Procurement of less-than-lethal weapons of all kinds, body armor, gas masks, face paint, and all sorts of illegal electronics, like the directional mic now hidden deep in her right ear. Getting ready for her own private war on crime. It was how she could still serve, now that the Army was no longer an option.
Her first night on the streets had been a week ago, and she'd averaged three foiled crimes per outing since; a mugging here, a drug deal there, a few abusive husbands. All left beaten senseless and zip-tied for the cops, as Kate watched from the shadows.
Good work all around, and worthy. But now she was after something bigger, more impactful.
That meant going to the source. Noonan's was a known hangout for contract killers, and those were exactly the types she was fishing for now. Foil a murder, nab the employer, and maybe split with the intended blood money and donate it anonymously to some charity. That was the idea.
Frustratingly, however, no such deals seemed to be going down this evening. Kate had been here for hours, dressed in some ridiculous stereotypical biker chick getup, low jeans and leather, playing the role of an airhead and flirting on autopilot with every loser who had stepped up to the pool table to try their luck.
They'd all lost, and she was starting to, as well; tonight appeared wasted, with no engaging tidbits catching her ear. No one had even challenged her to a game in over half an hour.
But finally, filtered out of the blaring oldies station pumped through the bar's stereos, her mic picked up something worthwhile.
"-ew batch of blue… -eady… go… -morrow."
"Cool… -ow much… got… -is time?"
Somewhere to her right. Staticky, but it was enough.
Blue, Kate thought. Oxycodone. Batch, not shipment. Not what she had planned on, but it was something.
She glanced over. Maybe twenty feet away, through a fog of smoke, a booth with the likely owners of the voices.
One was a big guy, mid-thirties, bald. Maybe had been a football player in high school. The other was in his late twenties, covered in snakelike tattoos, lean like he did MMA on Saturdays. Looked a little familiar.
Seller, manufacturer? Both? Time to introduce herself.
She slinked over from the pool tables.
"H'lo, boys," she said, putting on a drawl with a dash of drunken slurring. "Don't mean to intrude, but… well, I couldn't help but overhear."
She leaned over, resting her forearms on the table, intentionally showing her cleavage. They both glanced briefly, but the bald man spoke first.
"You, ah… overheard? Awful loud in here."
Careful, he's not a total idiot. He had been the second speaker.
"Aw, baby, I got good hearin'," Kate said. "My sis says I should take up with that Bat freak."
The tattooed man blinked. "You're… not, are you?"
"Aww, just a joke, honey. He scares me. Fuck the Bat, fuck cops. Now…"
She glanced at both of them.
"You sellin' blue or ain't ya? You can say no, I won't be upset."
"It'll, ah… be ready tomorrow evening," said the bald man. "Apparently."
"Awww. Well, that's not so long to wait. Maybe I can swing by."
"Or maybe not," said the tattooed man.
Careful.
"Aww, hey, don't be like that," Kate said, adding a small quaver to her voice. "Listen. You hook me up with a month's worth and I can, heh…" She licked her lips. "…do some things."
The tattooed man narrowed his eyes.
Kate squeezed his left bicep. "'Specially with you, hon."
"What kinda things?" the bald man asked. He was starting to sweat.
"Whatever you want, babe." She winked. "We have a deal?"
"No," said the tattooed man.
"Dammit Scott, stop bein' an ass," said the bald man. "Like you have anything better to do tomorrow night."
Scott huffed but said nothing.
"I didn't mean to cause friction or nothin'," said Kate.
"Don't worry," the bald man said. "He's just sour about Campbell getting traded. You got a phone?"
Kate took hers from her pocket.
"Okay. Address is 217 Stewart Avenue. Out past the airport."
Kate typed it in. "Got it," she said. "I guess I'll see you boys tomorrow. How's 8 sound?"
"Sounds just fine," said the bald man, smiling. "Name's Pete, by the way."
"Beverly," Kate said. "Later, Pete. Scott."
She winked again and sauntered toward the exit.
Well, Kate thought. Not bad, but damn if that's not gonna take some getting used to. She tried not to shiver.
Right as she reached the door, her mic picked up Scott, crackly again.
"What… -uck… -as that?"
What the fuck indeed, Kate thought, stepping into the night.
It was just after 11 when she returned to her apartment, half-past that when she got out of the shower. Even then she could still feel some of the slime of Noonan's atmosphere on her, as if it had burrowed into her pores. Here in her own home, safe, she allowed herself that earlier shiver of revulsion.
Time to work.
Dressed in sweats, she went to her panic room, ran a database search through the GCPD's records.
Pete was a tricky one. Not many identifying features to go on. But after twenty minutes of clicking through pages and adjusting search parameters, she found him: Peter Ford Brightwell, 36, no address. Several distribution charges over the past decade.
The tattooed man, Scott, was far easier to find, and there was a good reason he looked like a fighter. He was Scott "The Serpent" Sarcada, 27, a 3-5-1 record in local and regional MMA. A few assault charges, none within the past six months, some dropped completely. Nothing drug-related, oddly. From news stories she could find, he'd been in Boston for a tournament the whole last week.
His address also matched the one Brightwell had given her. It explained why Sarcada was so touchy.
So, there's probably a symbiosis here, Kate thought. Sarcada manufactures, Brightwell does the distribution and promotion, gets a room as payment?
She nodded. That sounded reasonable. Sarcada couldn't very well be on the street himself, at least not if he wanted to keep competing in the cage. Who could say how such an arrangement started, though.
Hell, maybe they're a couple. That would also explain some of Sarcada's attitude. But it was also pure speculation.
She checked the clock on her computer. Ten after midnight.
Half-hour nap, and then we go.
She woke five minutes before her phone alarm sounded, and was almost fully dressed when it did. Shirt, pants, boots, all of it black, mil-spec, and stolen. Her vest and the rest of her gear was packed in a gym bag until she got to her target; best not to wander around Gotham looking entirely like a rogue SWAT officer.
Final check of her gear: baton, sap gloves, smoke grenades, pepper spray, thermite, gas mask, EMP, balaclava, binoculars, zip-ties, vest. A special red plastic face plate clipped to her phone screen, to preserve her night vision should she need to check it.
Final check of her apartment: all lights off, everything locked.
Let's roll.
She double-secured the panic room and took its freight elevator to the basement parking garage. Her charcoal Jetta sat in a far, lonely corner, brightly lit but a blind spot for any security cameras. Kate herself took a winding, inefficient path to the car to minimize the time she'd be on tape. If worse came to worse, she could always pick her way into the security room and destroy the footage, but that was a hassle she'd rather avoid.
Out on the nearly-empty streets, she drove in a similar wandering route to avoid stoplight cameras and any others that might give a good view of the street. Tricky, but possible if you knew where they all were, and definitely worth it for something like this.
Her mind also began to wander as she zig-zagged across the island.
Lot of time sunk into this one case. If you were on a standard patrol, how many people could you have helped tonight?
Not a few dozen or even a few hundred, she fired back at herself. Shutting down an oxy lab will go a long way.
She finally arrived at the Vincefinkel Bridge, on the southwestern corner of the city, just west of Chinatown. What normally would have been a ten-minute drive at most had taken more than twice that, and Sarcada's place was still another 12 or so miles north once she reached the other side of the river.
Kate ran possible scenarios through her head.
Torch the lab and product if no one's home. Neutralize them first and get them out if they are. Possible dogs? Sarcada seems like a pit bull type. Have to watch for that. What about cameras?
She sped up, across the bridge now.
Traps, maybe? Shotgun on the front door sorta thing? Bear traps in an overgrown lawn?
Click, click, click, possibility after possibility wheeling through her mind like that for the entire home stretch.
The whine of southerly jet engines told her she was close. Just another few miles.
Kate turned off the main asphalt and followed a winding dirt road adjacent to the airport, leading through a scraggly, barren field before disappearing into a tight bramble of trees. She knew she was plainly visible out here in the open, and parked just inside the woods.
She sat for a moment, listening to the night, the ticking of her engine cooling. A few crickets, nothing more. Nothing hidden in the dark from what she could see.
A quick check of her GPS showed she was about 300 meters southeast of Sarcada's place. Just up this dirt road a ways.
It was 1:24 AM. Not bad.
She grabbed her bag and finished dressing, leaving her keys in the car and the doors unlocked. A risky move, but then what about tonight wasn't?
Kate kept inside the treeline as she stalked her way toward the house. The street, gradually transferring back into pavement, was not well-lit, but it was yet another chance she wasn't taking. Her ear mic was cranked to full volume and range. If by chance someone, anyone, was out here, she wanted to know. She learned quickly to tilt that ear toward the ground as planes approached, and soon even that became a minor nuisance.
The trek involved navigating past several backyards and avoiding motion-sensitive lights, while treading lightly to avoid snapped twigs or crunched leaves. All in the dark.
After almost an hour, Kate's legs burned from crouching, but she finally arrived at a T-intersection in the street, each path curving off into more trees and vanishing. Sarcada's house, a medium-sized brick split-level, stood directly in front of her across the street and nestled in one of the corners of the T.
And, of course, the brightest streetlight in the whole neighborhood stood directly in front of it.
Not a problem, Kate thought, remembering her EMP. But not yet. Look around.
Shaggy lawn, but low. No real backyard to speak of, no fence. No lights on, but no cars in the driveway, either.
Wait a bit. Stretch your legs. No hurry.
Five more minutes passed as Kate massaged the knots from her thighs and calves, hidden in shadow between two houses. She froze at a pair of headlights approaching from the southeast.
A neon-green Mustang squealed into Sarcada's driveway and lurched to a stop. Kate took note of the plate: SNAKEMAN.
Of course, she thought.
Sarcada himself sprang from the driver's side and slid across the hood to the passenger door, where he heaved Brightwell from the seat. Brightwell could barely stand, his skin pale.
Bit of a hard night, eh, boys?
A crackle in her ear.
"-uch a dumbass," Sarcada hissed. The reception was clearer here, without the ambiance of the bar. "Such a fucking sloppy–"
Sarcada paused, the dead weight of Brightwell almost dragging him down. He cocked his head, listening.
What's he doing? Kate thought.
A snort in her ear as Brightwell stirred and woke.
"Scott..?" he slurred. "Why… we outside?"
Sarcada looked directly at her, a puzzled look on his face.
Oh shit, Kate realized, he heard the mic.
Silently, keeping her eyes locked on him, she dug through the eyehole of her balaclava and plucked the mic from her ear, dialed the volume to zero. Her gloved fingers were clumsy, not helped by the steel strips sewn across the knuckles.
Don't see me don't see me don't see me
"Scott?" Brightwell slurred again. Kate could still hear just fine, bit not as clearly.
"Calm down," Sarcada said. "We're here."
He unlocked the front door and the two disappeared inside. Lights flicked on.
Move move move
Kate crabwalked left, past the final house before the intersection. About a ten-foot cover of trees between it and the new road. Better than nothing. She kept to them as she rounded right, and stopped once Sarcada's place was in view again.
A minute ticked by. Two. Kate became aware of sweat trickling down her back, resisted the urge to scratch.
From this new position, it was almost a straight shot across the street to the west side of Sarcada's house. The streetlight didn't reach quite that far, forming an alley of shadow. Good.
Now to wait for things to quiet down–
A storm door squealed open. Sarcada stepped outside, carrying a shotgun.
Shit shit shit
She tracked him as he crossed the street to where she had been just minutes before.
Go go go
Fifty feet seemed like miles. Every one of her sidestepping footfalls sounded like a thunderclap, her breath against her mask like a gale, the rattle of her belt and gear an earthquake. Each moment, the dark corridor between the houses threatened to wink out a flash that would be her last image.
But she made it, flattening herself against the west wall of Sarcada's house. She didn't pray much, but now seemed like a good time for one, as she caught her breath.
Might be in over your head a bit here, Kate.
Yeah, well, we made it this far.
Footsteps on the street. Sarcada was coming back.
Go inside go inside don't search
The storm door squealed, and Kate relaxed.
Okay. Find a way in.
She rounded the corner to the rear of the house. No motion lights back here, thankfully. She returned her mic to her ear, making sure it was at half volume. It would still be enough to gauge where the men were in the house.
A slow, rhythmic buzzing filled her ear.
The hell…?
She tilted her head. Left, it grew fainter; right, clearer. It seemed to be coming from the nearest basement window.
Cautiously, she ducked toward the glass and cupped her hands around her eyes.
A dark form, lying horizontal against the wall of a small room. As her eyes adjusted, she saw it was Brightwell, asleep on a cot.
Snoring, she thought. She moved to the second window.
She could see nothing, and realized it was covered on the inside.
Probably the lab, she noted. On to the third and last window.
It was frosted, but she could make out a dozen pinpricks of dim red light, each maybe four feet from the floor.
Darkroom? Heat lamps?
She tilted her head again, listening. Dull thumps above her to the right. A small squeak.
Bed?
Regardless, there were no other noises. This would have to be the way in.
She pushed on the window frame. A small give inward, maybe an eighth of an inch. Pulled at it. Nothing.
She took her baton from her belt, extended it with a soft click, and pushed on the window again. She jammed the baton into the tiny gap, digging at the wood frame.
A loud creak as the baton went in an inch or so. Kate froze, listening.
Five seconds. Ten. Thirty.
Nothing.
Careful, careful, careful.
She eased the baton around the frame now that it had purchase. Prying millimeter by millimeter. Eventually she found the metal latch and spent five minutes bending and stretching it from the wood.
It gave way with a loud pop and fell open, clattering against the inside wall.
Shit!
A small squeak in her ear.
Run get in run get in run get in
Foolishly, she clambered into the dark.
Immediately, a humid, dusty stench hit her. Her eyes watered, and she almost gagged.
God, what is that?
Her foot found purchase, a table perhaps, and she lurched to a hard floor, her legs protesting. Dim, blurry red light all around her. Warm.
Stupid stupid stupid
Footsteps above her. Stairs. Loud. No need for the mic to tell that.
Hide hide hide
She could make out the outline of a door opposite the window and dashed to the side of it, hoping at least for an ambush.
Time slowed. The door banged open, and there was Sarcada, now dressed only in baggy shorts, his reptilian tattoos winding and twisting all over his torso. Shotgun in hand. He flicked a light switch just inside the room.
Kate could almost see the electricity as it moved, one bank of fluorescent lights stuttering on, then a second, a third, a fourth. The cold light revealed a concrete-slab room lined with terrariums, perhaps a dozen total.
In each terrarium, pressed against the glass, three or four huge snakes. Pythons, boas, and anacondas, each a different pattern and color, twisted on each other like a knot of scaly cables.
So they were heat lamps, Kate thought, absently.
Sarcada was turning to face her.
shit focus dammit focus focus or you're gonna die
She lifted her baton to strike.
Surprise and anger flickered over Sarcada's face. He blinked.
Sideways.
What in the fuck–
The shotgun barrel was on its way up.
Her baton arced downward.
Imagining things you're just imagining it's not real
She connected, splitting open the skin on Sarcada's right cheekbone. He looked dazed as a trickle of blood ran down his face.
get the fucking gun off him
Another strike, so slow, to his right wrist. A crack as bone gave way, a clatter of the shotgun on the floor.
Sarcada bent over, clutching his wrist, his cry of pain a low warble in Kate's ears.
She kneed him in the face.
He fell backward, nose gushing blood. Good hand feeling for the gun.
No.
Kate dropped a knee onto his chest and hit him. Again. Again. Again. Again. The metal strips in her gloves stung her knuckles. Static in her ear. Ringing.
That's enough.
Kate halted. That hadn't been her voice, but she knew who it was. She would return every so often in times like this, a sort of second conscience
Beth.
Sarcada coughed, blood misting and burbling from his mouth. He somehow still had all his teeth.
Get him on his side before he chokes–
A gasp from the door.
Her head snapped up. There was Brightwell, supporting himself on the doorframe, a cell phone in hand. A terrified look on his sweaty face.
"Sir?" she heard from the phone. "Are you okay?"
911, Kate thought. Well, saves me a call.
"Oh God," Brightwell wheezed.
Fast, gotta be fast.
Kate lunged for the shotgun, caught it, aimed at Brightwell's chest.
"On the floor, fucker," she rasped. Her throat was cracked, dry. "Keep the phone on. Anyone else home?"
"N-no," Brightwell stammered, raising his hands and kneeling. He lost his balance and fell on his face. The phone skittered a foot or so.
"Sir?" said the dispatcher.
"The lab is the next room over, right?" Kate demanded. She clutched the butt of the gun in her left armpit and held it steady with her left hand as she rolled Sarcada over.
Brightwell groaned.
"The oxy!" Kate demanded.
What's the response time for cops out here? she thought, and cursed herself for not checking beforehand.
"Sir!" yelled the dispatcher.
"217 Stewart Avenue!" Kate shouted. "Drug lab. Two subjects. Need police and an ambulance."
"Who is this?" said the dispatcher. "Hello?"
"The lab?" Brightwell slurred. "Thas why you're here?"
"Not for why you think," she said. She fished a handful of zip-ties from her belt. In seconds, Sarcada was hogtied, and Brightwell moments later, whimpering.
Just like that, the situation was under control. Time returned to normal. Kate examined the shotgun. A pistol-gripped Mossberg 500, almost new.
Probably keeping this guy–
"Hello!" The dispatcher sounded frantic.
Kate picked up the phone, headed for the adjacent room. "Sir, just send what I asked for, please. 217 Stewart Avenue." Her head felt light, the way it had in the alley behind Molly's sixth months ago. How it had every night this past week.
Dingy concrete hall, gray metal door, unlocked. Bubbling and whirring sounds and blinking lights in the dark. She found a switch, flicked it. More fluorescents revealed a maze of glass tubes, a trash bag over the window, stainless steel tanks, and a few miniature conveyor belts winding through the small room.
The whole process was automated, looked like. Despite things, Kate was impressed.
"It's an… oxy lab, you said, Miss…?"
Nice try.
"In the basement, directly at the foot of the stairs." Up those same stairs she bounded. "I'll leave the front door unlocked."
She found it, and did. "If you hurry up, maybe you can catch me, too," she taunted.
Back down the stairs, retracing her steps, looking for anything she might have dropped.
"Ma'am, I suggest you please wait for the police–"
"Nope," Kate said. Her eyes watered again as she returned to the snake room. How could this exist in someone's house?
"Subs are in the basement, too," Kate said, stepping over Brightwell and avoiding the blood pooling around Sarcada's face.
Quick lap of the room. Nothing left behind.
"Okay ma'am," the dispatcher said. "I have units on the way."
"Thanks," Kate said. "Name's Molly, by the way."
"Well… Molly," said the dispatcher, "this was an odd one for me, but, ah… I suppose you did some good here. I think…"
Sarcada coughed. "Two names…" he whispered. "Two names…"
"Shut up," Kate said, not really listening. "Sorry," she added into the phone. "Not you. I'm going now, if that's okay."
"It isn't, but I can't stop you."
Double check of the room. Nope, nothing of hers left.
"Damn right," she said. "Thanks again." She hung up and tossed the phone to the floor.
"'Night, boys," Kate said, climbing through the window. "Say hi to the cops for me."
"What the hell," Brightwell whined. "You can't just leave us here–"
But she was outside, taking in the clear night air. Crisp and clean. A good palate-cleanser after the stenches that had begun and almost ended her night.
Sirens. Blue-and-red light flicking over the houses.
Go.
She dashed off along the trees behind Sarcada's house. No time for stealth now. Sirens and planes hid the clatter of her gear, motion lights behind these new houses clicked on as she passed.
In a minute she could see her Jetta across the street. An ambulance flew by in front of her, and then she staggered to the car, legs cursing a storm. She wrenched the door open and fell in.
She chucked five rounds from the shotgun and tossed it into the backseat. Mask off, vest off.
She sat for a while, catching her breath, feeling the adrenaline high wear off.
Hardest one yet, she thought. But you made it. Wonder how many people are gonna be pissed they can't get a fix tomorrow night?
She rested her head a moment on the steering wheel.
Speaking of tomorrow... maybe we'll take it easier, huh?
She chuckled as she started the car.
Yeah, right.