7. New Enemies

[November 24, 2014, Gotham City]

By nightfall, Batman knew what he would have to do. It was a risk, but he had several back-up strategies prepared and in place. He hated cutting it so close to the assassination, but there was nothing to be done about that. He began to think that working alone was not the best way to clean up the city. Too late for regrets. The CIA plane carrying Kassan Shadid was scheduled to land at 10:30 PM, slipped into a private hangar at Gotham International under the cover of night.

[8:00 PM]

Bobby Halloran was furious. He had spent the day in a bar, then hit the early opening of a new club downtown. The club had turned out to be a disaster, the crowd completely lame and oddly unattractive: the unpopular kids just out of prep school, Bobby thought. Trust funds could not guarantee pretty, fun, interesting people. Bobby had only stayed inside over an hour to get drunk enough to brave another place.

In truth, Bobby was in no mood for partying. The scene with his father the previous day was still on his mind, and he was in a defiant mood. He took to the freeway and climbed the blue Benz's speed up to the limit—then surpassed it. He turned off the freeway and kept to roughly the same speed.

There was a sound like a gunshot, and the squeal of rubber, then metal. The car began to lose speed. Bobby hit the steering wheel angrily. A blowout? In this slum? The General was going to kill him if he had compromised another car.

Bobby pulled over to the curb and got out of the car to assess the damage. He had not taken more than three wobbling steps before he was grabbed by the front of his shirt.

"Whoa! Whoa! Hey! Hey, look, man, you don't want to do this!" Bobby shouted as he was dragged down the street. "Listen, take the car, I've got money, this can be really easy for y—"

"Shut up."

The cool, soft voice made Bobby's head snap up. He looked up into a demon's face: sharp pointy ears, cold blue eyes, a massive figure cloaked in blackness. Bobby's racing heart skipped a few beats, and his breath stopped inside his lungs. He thought that he must have fallen asleep at the wheel, died, and gone to hell. Or maybe it was only a nightmare, that wouldn't be so bad.

"You're the Batman!" Bobby gasped. "Wh-what the hell? I thought you only went after criminals!"

"You're a criminal, Bobby," Batman told him. He slammed him back against the hood of his father's car, leaning his face close. "Do you know how many people are killed by drunk drivers? You've been consistently arrested for DUI ever since you turned seventeen."

"Hey-hey-hey-hey! Okay! Look, I'll-I'll call my driver, all right?" Bobby stammered, his large eyes even rounder with fear. "I won't drive drunk anymore. Okay?"

Batman squinted down at him. "Do you think I'll accept your excuses as easily as your father does, Bobby?"

"I—" Bobby's voice hit a high pitch that he did not think he was capable of. His mouth moved wordlessly a few times, and then he swallowed. "Please don't break my arm or-or my face. Please? I … I don't know what to tell you. I'm sorry. Do you care about money? I have money, I have a lot of money."

For a moment, Bruce Wayne, buried somewhere within Batman, felt a streak of anger towards his old friend. Now he knew how Bobby had gotten away with having so many DUIs on his record and still having a license.

"Hey, what are you doing? What are you doing?"

Batman turned Bobby over, and flipped him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. He got a firm grasp on him, annoyed by the younger man's limbs flailing, and shot his grappling hook up to the highest ledge possible.

"HEY! You can't just take me! This is—This is kidnapping! Put me down! Oh shiii—"

Bobby had to shut up as he was whisked through the air. Nausea rippled through him, and he swallowed hard to keep the vomit down. He did not want to know what would happen if he threw up on Batman's cape. Once he stifled the nausea, he began pounding on Batman's shoulders.

"You can't just fly through the city with me like this!"

Batman, who was not flying but using his grappling hook, gritted his teeth. Bruce was tempted to make a retort, but Batman could not. The duality of his life was hitting him like a freight train recently.

"Did you hear me?" Bobby asked. "Do you know who my father is? General Walter Halloran! He's had dinner with the President! He'll bring the entire United States military down on you! They'll hunt you down! He won't stand for this!"

"Be quiet."

"No! No, I won't just shut up! I won't!" Bobby shouted, his defiant mood rekindled. He continued pounding on Batman's shoulders, despite the padding, and kicking at his chest. "If you don't put me down, I swear to God, I'll have my father destroy you!"

Bruce repressed a sigh. He gave the struggling man a sharp smack on the bottom. "I said, be quiet."

"You can't just hit me!" Bobby exclaimed, shocked. He struggled harder. "You can't!"

"I can." Batman stopped on a rooftop to give the young man a few more spanks. "I will."

The struggling stopped. Batman swung down from the top and they were on the way again.

"Where are you taking me?" a very sullen Robert Halloran asked. He stared wide-eyed at the city flying by below. They were swinging from roof ledge to roof ledge as easily as cartoon primates swung on vines.

"To see your father."

"Why?" Bobby asked, perplexed. "He knows I do things like this. What is he going to do?"

"It isn't about what you've done," Batman said quietly. "It's what he's going to do."

"Dad? What do you mean? What is he doing?" Bobby asked. "He's perfect, right? You can't have a problem with him. He's a goddamn American hero."

Batman shut his mouth, and did not say a word more. Bobby tried to get another reaction from him, but he was simply carried through the city. The vertigo, drunkenness, and loss of adrenaline finally made him pass out.

[8:25 PM]

General Walter Halloran was on edge. He was outwardly calm and rigidly controlled, but he felt the slight speed of his pulse and the subtle twist of his gut that always signified an important operation going down. Deadshot had gone dark after the encounter with Batman the previous night: phoned to tell Halloran that the price of the contract had doubled due to his hands being broken, but not to worry because he could still make the shot. Halloran had no idea how Deadshot intended to make the shot without working fingers, but he did not doubt Lawton.

Then why am I so damned nervous? Walter thought angrily. He paced his home office, smoking the damned cigars that had doomed him to cancer. He felt odd, being out of uniform and overseeing an op, as if he were making a speech naked. This should not be an unauthorized operation. He should be in an Operations Center directing a team of men, or in a tent on the ass-end of the desert brainstorming about how to take these damned terrorists out, not having to resort to going behind his country's back just to put a neat little bow on its own sworn enemies. Shadid and his family never should be allowed to set foot on US soil.

The door to the office burst open with a boom. Halloran instantly dropped to a crouch, opened the bottom drawer of his desk, and removed his personal pistol. He took cover behind the desk, and risked a peek around the corner of it.

Batman slammed down on top of the desk. Halloran raised his gun, but his wrist was grabbed before he could aim. The older man was still strong and sharply trained. He pulled into the tug instead of fighting it, then twisted and brought his free fist up into an uppercut: he had seen that Batman's mask did not cover his lower face. His fist connected with the front of the man's chin, and it hit flesh hard. Batman's grip on his arm did not even waver: whatever or whoever he was, he could take a hit. Halloran jumped up onto the desk beside Batman, and threw himself over the opposite side of it. The angle was impossible for Batman to maintain without the tension disjointing his arm, and so he released him. Halloran rolled across the office floor, crouched again, and took aim. Batman was out of sight. It was a spacious office, but where had he gone?

Behind me, Walter realized. He crab-walked very fast across the room, and aimed at the door.

"I don't know why you're here!" Halloran shouted. "I don't care what reason you have for this attack! You're finished! Do you hear me? You're through!"

"So are you."

Had Batman gotten outside the office? Halloran stood and walked backwards, the gun aimed firmly at the door. Cigar smoke whirled, and he cursed himself for having impaired his vision. Bobby had been right about the smoking.

"I don't know what you're talking about!" Halloran shouted out. He needed intel, and right away. No one in Gotham had any information regarding the Batman, not even a probable identity. It was imperative to know the enemy's mindset and intent before engaging, if possible.

"The hit on Shadid."

The voice seemed to come from directly behind the door. Halloran emptied his chamber firing from the middle of the door to the bottom and top, then across. He clicked out the empty magazine and was about to click in a new one, when the door was kicked open again. Something cut through the smoke like a knife and struck the gun, knocking it from Halloran's hand. A slice of pain stabbed the side of his hand, and he grabbed it on instinct.

Batman burst through the door again, and he loomed on Halloran before he had a chance to go for his gun again. He took him by the front of his suit jacket and slammed him into one of the gargantuan bookshelves against the wall. Books spilled out, and the smell of old leather and paper briefly wafted between the two men.

"I know you can communicate with Deadshot," Batman said. "You're going to call him and tell him that you're canceling the contract on Kassan Shadid."

"And why the hell would I do that?"

Batman threw Halloran across the room, so that he faced the door.

"So that your son doesn't remember you as a terrorist."

"What do you know about—" Walter looked up after stumbling and his eyes widened. "Bobby!"

Bobby had entered the room, and he stood gaping in the doorway. His dark brown hair was all on end and his suit was disheveled from the trip across the city. Still, for once, he looked neater than the General.

"Dad?" Bobby asked, his voice unsteady. "It's true? Everything Batman told me about this-this assassination is true? You set all this up? A murder?"

Walter straightened up, smoothing down his clothes. Despite his straight spine and hard expression, there was true concern and fear in his eyes. He forgot about Batman, who lingered nearby.

"This is political, son," Walter said. "You wouldn't understand it."

"Don't you dare—Don't you dare patronize me right now!" Bobby shouted, more forceful than either Bruce of Walter had ever heard him be before. "I might not be much of what you consider to be a man, but I am not a child! I understand that you're a soldier, and that being a soldier means loyalty and discipline! How could I not understand that when you drilled it into me every single day of my childhood? I understand that if the country can't trust its soldiers to follow orders in peace and war, the entire system falls apart! And I understand that this is a direct violation of our country's policy, total disrespect of the very institutions you've been so proud of defending all these years!"

Walter blinked, shocked by his son's intensity. It was a side of him Walter had long since given up hoping was there. Suddenly, he saw quite clearly the man his little boy might grow into yet.

"This is treason, dad," Bobby said softly. "How can you even consider doing something like this? Why would you throw everything you care about away?"

"My career isn't everything I care about."

Walter tried to put a hand on Bobby's shoulder, but Bobby hit his hand away. He moved away from his father.

"If you cared anything about me, you wouldn't be doing this," Bobby said. "Even if no one would ever find out, even if you got away with it, how could I live with myself? How could I live with you being this … Dad, my God! We've had our differences, but if I ever had anything, I had faith in you! I was proud of you, dad."

"Bobby, I'm doing this for my country," Walter said. "I'm doing what I've always done, fighting for—"

"No! You're fighting for yourself!" Bobby snapped. "Batman told me the truth, all of it! You want to leave some big legacy behind, however it turns out! You're dying and you feel like you're irrelevant, like you're leaving behind just—just a stupid, pointless kid. I'm sorry I couldn't be your big legacy, dad, but this … this can't be it, either."

"Son—"

"No! Don't call me that!" Bobby said. His face softened, and he shook his head. "Don't call me that. If you don't call this off, we're done. I don't care if you're dying, if you don't stop this, I'll never speak to you again. I'll never see you again."

"Robert, please let me explain this," Walter said. He managed to get his hands on his son's shoulders. "I can't end this right now, so please try to understand why I'm doing this."

"No," Bobby said stubbornly. "No. I don't want to understand this insanity. Dad, please, can't you just call this off? Please? We'll … I'll help you through chemotherapy. I promise. You'll beat it. You've always beaten everything. You're so strong … You're the strongest person I know, dad. We'll beat it together. And you'll go to Washington, D.C. and you'll organize real change, if you want to. You'll do what you've always done and take charge. You don't need to use some hired gun for some conspiracy plot. You're too good for that."

"There isn't much time, General Halloran," Batman interjected. "I need an answer. Now."

"How dare you!" Walter growled, turning to Batman. "You use my son, my only child, to try and force my hand? What kind of monster are you?"

"What kind of monster are you?" Bobby asked Walter quietly.

Walter looked at his son, startled. He paced, scrubbing both hands through his close-cropped iron gray hair. He sat on the edge of his desk, and looked over at Bobby with a searching, sorrowful look.

"Fine." Walter reached into his suit's inner breast pocket and removed his phone. "Deadshot has been dark, but he always carries a small pager for use by the client should they want the contract canceled. I'll send him the code. It'll stop him."

"Thank you, dad," Bobby said. He walked over to his father, went to put a hand on him, then stopped himself. "Thank you."

Walter stood and embraced Bobby, shocking the young man. He glared at Batman over the man's shoulder. It was evident that their business was far from over.

Walter's phone rang, and he answered it.

"Hey there, General. Did I read that code right?" Lawton drawled through the phone. "You get cold feet?"

"It's over, Deadshot," Walter said. "I suggest you get the hell out of Gotham."

"Tch. I thought this might happen. Did that overgrown flying rodent get to you, too? You do realize I'm keeping the security deposit? For my efforts, you could say."

"Then keep it!" Walter snapped. "Look, Batman is here. I won't give you up to him, but you'd better go. You—"

"That's enough," Batman said, taking the phone. He cut the call short, and handed it back to Walter. "I'll find him, General."

"I hope you find one of his bullets," muttered Walter. He still had an arm around Bobby. He held the boy to his shoulder closely for a long moment. "Just get out of my house."

Batman followed his advice.

[11:22 PM]

Batman watched the arrival and processing of Shadid. Nothing untoward happened. He then searched the city for any trace of Deadshot, but the man had vanished. He knew that by this time, he was probably long gone from Gotham City. Nonetheless, he lastly went to Lawton's room at the Gotham Regal.

Everything but the rubble of Lawton's sloppy little stay was cleared out. Batman was just leaving when he noticed an envelope on the bed. He went to it and picked it up. Bruce Wayne, was inscribed on the front, in a surprisingly even, neat hand. It must have been written before Lawton's hands had been broken last night. Batman opened the envelope and removed the note inside.

'Hey Bruce,' the note read, 'if you're reading this, I'm long gone from Gotham, however my business here might have turned out. If someone other than Bruce Wayne is reading this, if you're not a complete asshole, send it along. Or throw it out. And fuck you.

'Bruce, I just wanted to tell you that we had a good time. I wanted to thank you for that, and for six years ago. I don't know if I could tell you this out loud, probably not, but I had to get it down here now: I can't say that I love you, but I will say that I could have loved you. If I weren't so screwed up, if we weren't so different, whatever … in an alternate reality … I could have loved you. It would have been easy and natural. It would have healed me. I would never have deserved it—you—but I would have taken everything I could get from you, and more. You would have been the only person I had ever loved. You would have been every sappy love song and cliché in the book.

'This is the last time you'll ever get an apology from me, so here it is: I'm sorry for ruining all we would have had, Bruce. I'm sorry.'

Batman folded the note and put it in one of the boxes on his belt. He knew Bruce Wayne would want to keep it.

[11: 44 PM]

Harvey Bullock was up late that night, eyes glued to the news channel. He waited for word on Shadid, but as far as he could tell, whatever plans Halloran had for him were canceled. He wondered if the General would want his money back. If he did, he could shove it: that money was for a specific kind of ignorance, and Bullock had played his part. If they had not needed his assistance, that was their fault, it had nothing to do with the financial transaction.

Suddenly, a great weight wrapped around his neck. Bullock started, reaching for his gun, but it was not in its usual place at the side of his recliner. The weight grew heavier, choking off his breath, and he was pulled far back in the chair. His eyes lifted, and he saw a great figure all in black.

"The hit on Shadid didn't go off, no thanks to you," a low, menacing voice informed him. "Don't think that you're going to keep General Halloran's money. You're such a nice person that you've just donated it all to the children's hospital."

"WHAT!" Bullock rumbled, struggling to break the Batman's iron hold. "What the hell did you do? You can't do that!"

"I did," Batman said. He tightened his arm around the man's thick neck to shut him up. "Gordon and Harvey Dent don't trust you, but they work with you. It's because of them that I'm going to give you one chance. You stay out of my way, and you keep that chance. You say one word against me, you take one more bribe, and you lose it. You lose your job, your retirement, your freedom, everything."

"Okay, all right," Bullock managed, sounding strangled. "Just get the hell off of—"

All the pressure was suddenly gone.

"—me ."

Bullock blinked, and jumped to his feet. He looked around wildly for his gun, found it thrown across the room, and grabbed it. He clicked the safety off and ran for the window. Outside, the city bustled by through the falling snow, and Batman was lost in the shadows.

"Goddamn freak," Bullock seethed. "Damn it!"