Chapter 7
For ships sailing in to Gotham Harbor along the eastern coast, there was no deception. The Industrial District edged along the coastline was a blatantly honest first impression to the true grittiness that the city had offer. The façade of decency of the Diamond District was overwritten by the foreground of giant steel structures and towering, billowing smoke stacks. What once represented the good, honest labor of good honest men that made Gotham the 'greatest city in America,' now instead remained as an abandoned memory, tainted by the disease of crime and corruption.
Wayne Enterprise used to own a collection of warehouses in the district that Bruce had before visited in the company of his father. It was a grimy, dull place even then as the blue collar working population dwindled, held on by a handful of manufacturing companies that ruled Gotham, among them was Janus Manufacture, the owner and administrator of the Janus Steel Mill. The mill's closure dealt the fatal blow that finally broke the Industrial District, leaving it open for Gotham's sickness to set in.
Bruce knew of only three major steel manufacturers located in the city but even before his trace of the phone number' verification, he had a feeling that the summoning came from the Janus Steel Mill. Perched on the roof of the building across the road, Bruce watched the gate of the main lot for the massive, plain, rusted metal building. The Warehouse complex dominated the left side of the steel mill lot like a palace with the right side lined with six rows of towering smokestacks like the turrets of a castle. From where Bruce was perched, he could spot the fronts of five different cars all parked along the side lot. Sentries dressed in cheap black suits patrolled the fence line with MP5Ks cradled in their hands. At nearly one fifteen in the morning, something was definitely happening inside. Suddenly from down the road to the right, Bruce spotted headlights as a stark white '76 Lincoln Continental approached casually down the dim lit street. As it got closer, the surface reflected each spot of light from the street lamps before finally turning in through the opening gate. The brake lights glowed red from the distance. Bruce drew his multi imagery scope and peered through the lens. The car doors opened and more men dressed in black suits stepped out. Each of their faces were covered by the same plastic face mask worn by all of the men Bruce had encountered under the service of Black Mask. Last to step out was a broad yet lanky man. He adjusted the lapels of his white trench coat as he stood out in the middle of the lot. As the man glanced about the chilly silence of the night, his gaze swept past Bruce from a far. Black Mask's wooden, skull-like mask seemed almost as a replacement to his face. It was a fitting visage, whomever the crime lord truly was seemed to be forgotten, lost or dead, replaced by the masked menace of death himself. Even more so the question pressed in Bruce's mind.
Who are you?
Flanked by two of his henchmen, Black Mask turned toward the front door to the steel mill and disappeared inside. Bruce knew he had to be present in this meeting, if his guess was correct, Black Mask was summoning his inner circle, planning their next move. Bruce stood from his perch and drew the grapnel gun. He fired a line to the roof of the massive warehouse complex, zipping through the air as the cable recoiled in the chamber. He reached the top and pulled himself over the ledge onto the relatively sloped surface of the warehouse. Tapping the control installed on his belt, Bruce activated the listening device in his cowl, recording the feed from the receiver. Bruce had to sort through the brief exchanges of small talk between the sentries till he finally honed in on what he wanted to hear.
"Well if he aint gonna show, then we aint waiting for him," a gruff voice ranted, the same voice Bruce heard on the phone from the shipping yard four nights prior. As Bruce crept closer to the left edge of the roof, the signal grew stronger and clearer. He carefully peered over the edge finding the window mere feet from the roof. Bruce drew his PDA and from one of the pouches on his belt uncoiled a fiber optic camera cable. Plugging one end into a port on his PDA, he lowered the cable and aimed it through the window. The room was an office, most likely for the foreman of the mill, lit by fixtures in the ceiling, offering a hazy view inside but it was just enough for Bruce to get an idea of the room's occupants. Five masked men sat around a long rectangular table, their heads all turned away from the window and focused on Black Mask. The crime lord stood at the head of the table with his hands firmly planted on the surface making him hunch his shoulders. Bruce couldn't see what was laid out on the table from his view but noticed glasses of liquor near the placement of each man in the room.
"There aint no reason wait any longer," Black Mask continued. "Maroni's gone AWOL and Falcone's gripping straws. We've got the drug trade by the balls, right Sanchez?"
"Heroin and cocaine distribution is solid, bringing in quite a stream of revenue from that." Black Mask nodded his head in approval.
"The old man's weapons trade, look in the dictionary for the definition of a 'joke,' you'll find that." A brief round of chuckles filled the quiet in the room. "The point is, we own the market. We own the market, we own the city. Its high time Falcone comes to terms with that. This is the final phase, after tonight, its open season on Falcone." Black Mask turned his head and looked at the man closest to him around the table. "Ducane," he said. "Tell me about the 'geezer.'" Outside the window, Bruce retracted the fiber optic cable and coiled it back into a pouch on his utility belt. It was clear, Black Mask was going to strike and he was going to hit hard, Bruce had to hit first and he had to do it now. Still listening in, he stood and fired his grapnel at the roof. The puncture point of the hook pierced the steel roof and caught securely as the collapsible hooks sprung outward dug into the surface. Bruce held the gun in outward and inched over the ledge of the roof, using the line to gently rappel down the wall, all the while, the he listened in on the meeting.
"He aint too good," a deep voiced man replied. "He on edge, what with you pressing him and then that 'thing' that's been around." A thick wave of deafening silence filled the room as eyes glanced about the room at each other.
"Thing?" Black Mask inquired shrewdly. "You mean the thing that brought down Sally and put poor old Buzz behind bars," he said. Bruce couldn't help the smirk on his face as he listened in. "Anyone got anything on that?" Black Mask demanded. Another tense pause took hold. Finally in position, Bruce kicked off of the wall. As he swung back toward the wall, he aimed straight for the window.
The glass shattered just as Bruce engaged the line ejection, firing one of the four spools free of the gun. He landed low on the floor, his cape closing in around him as he stood up, glaring menacingly straight at the skull-faced crime lord. All six men recoiled in their seats, startled by the shattered window and sudden appearance of the black shrouded figure. "Well speak of the devil," Black Mask said as he recomposed himself. "So you're the one everybody's talking about," he said.
"It's over, Black Mask," Bruce growled.
"Really?" the crime lord scoffed. "Then why are you the only one here without a gun?" The clicking of the hammers of automatic handguns surrounded Bruce. In the fringe of his vision, he could see the muzzle of each gun pointed at him. Stupid and reckless charging in like this. From underneath the concealment of his cape, he opened one of the pouches on his belt and picked out three small, marble sized capsules. "I suppose I should thank you for taking out Sally for me," Black Mask continued, remaining behind the table with his dull eyes boring down on Bruce. "Now I'm going to hit Falcone and wipe his name from history," he added with a slam of his fist on the wooden surface. "This city is mine, and no costumed freak job is gonna get in my way." Bruce knew what was coming and made his move. He threw the capsule down. A spark flashed on the floor at his feet and a plume of white smoke billowed rapidly around him and within seconds enveloped the room. With the shattered window, the smoke cover would clear in seconds, he had to move fast. "Kill him!" Black Mask snarled. Small arms fire erupted. Tiny flashes of the muzzles sparked in the shroud of smoke as the mobsters all fired blindly. All inside the smoke were blinded, barely able to see a foot in front of them. Bruce dropped back along the wall, avoiding the center of the room where the concentration of fire was laid down. He closed his eyes, relying purely on his hearing. As he slid along the wall, he detected a mobster right out in front. Bruce stooped low, grasping the mobster's ankles and yanking him down. With a yelp, he went down, slamming his chin on the edge of the table with a crash.
"What was that?" another Mobster demanded from across the table. With an approximate location, Bruce's hand went for one of the two spring loaded dispensers on the sides of his belt, drawing small, sharp bat-shaped blades. He cast three in one throw, spreading them across the smoke filled room. Another wail sounded from across the table as one of the blades lodged into the arm of a mobster. To his right, Bruce heard the click of a pump sliding back then forth. The smoke was clearing and dark silhouettes were slowly becoming more defined. Bruce had just turned toward the single figure at the head of the table when an immense flash filled his eyes. For a moment he was blinded then for a split second, a ringing set in his ears, then it all went quiet and dark.
The smoke seeped clear of the office. The four remaining mobsters all searched around them before finding Black Mask. He was right where they'd last seen him with a stockless Mossberg twelve gauge shotgun smoking in his hands. At his feet, the black-clad figure laid sprawled on his back. "Well that's that," Black Mask scoffed. He tossed the shotgun aside and tugged at his suit jacket. "Make sure he's dead," he said as he turned to the office door. "And clean up the mess." The door closed, leaving the four remaining mobsters still gawking at the body on the floor. One of them inched closer, warily leaning backwards as he prodded with his feet. The Mobster kicked the man's leg cautiously then retreated.
"Is it dead?" one of them asked.
"Look for a wallet," the one called 'Sanchez' suggested.
"Hey someone check on Chucky over there," another barked, pointing to the mobster laid out on his stomach with a cut chin. As the mobster leaned in closer over the figure again, he dared to look even closer. Bruce's eyes snapped open and he his legs lashed out. He kicked the mobster down and sprang to his feet. The other mobster on the left side of the table stood up from checking on Chucky only to have his head grasped and slammed down on the table. He collapsed on the floor just as Bruce kicked the table. It slid across the floor ramming into the midriffs of the remaining two mobsters. They keeled over, just far enough for Bruce to grab the backs of their collars and pull them onto the table surface. To finish them, Bruce then drove his elbows into their spines.
With the room incapacitated, Bruce wanted to pause and catch his breath but knew his time was running short. Grunting he felt his chest, still tender from the punch of the twelve gauge slug. His Kevlar woven suit was scuffed and punctured on his chest but was still intact. From outside, he heard an engine turnover and tires screech as a car was pulling away. Without hesitation, Bruce leapt through the office window looking out over the assembly floor of the steel mill. The window shattered as he somersaulted through the air then momentarily activated a rigid frame in his cape through an electrical current from his gloves. The cape hardened into the shape of long, black wings, slowing his descent. Bruce landed low on the floor as he released his cape, returning it to its natural, billowing state.
Looking over his shoulder, he spotted the red taillights of Black Mask's 76 Lincoln Continental. Two men stood on either sides of the wide open loading door to the lot outside. Both leveled and fired their MP5-Ks at Bruce. He leapt to the side, rolling behind the cover of a stack of wooden crates. The rattle of automatic fire relented momentarily. Bruce rolled back out from cover, his hands went straight for the dispensers on the sides of his belt as he drew a batarang in each hand and threw them at the two gunmen. The blades dug into their targets, drawing blood as they released their submachine guns. Bruce charged at them, leaping into the air and kicking one down while airborne then striking the other with a left cross to the face. Just as Bruce dealt a second blow to the first gunman, a third rounded the corner. Bruce evaded the gunfire, leaping away from the other two to draw away his fire. While in mid role, Bruce drew another batarang and tossed it. The blade stuck in the henchman's arm. Dropping his weapon, he grasped his wound in pain, screeching as Bruce advanced and uppercut the thug. Slightly lifted from his feet, the thug crashed onto the ground, dazed. More armed henchmen were on the move to join the fight.
Bruce drew his grapnel gun from the back of his belt and fired a line at the roof overhead. The winch drew him from his feet and sent him up to the rooftop. He stood on the rooftop, peering down the road to try and spot the Lincoln. As he searched the black roadways, he found no trace of the white car and the crime lord inside it.