Chapter Eight

The sensor net has gathered enough data for me to track his movements specifically, so long as he sticks to the rooftops. I still can't match his speed or familiarity on the strange terrain, but with the sensors I can mostly keep up with him and stay out of his way. Tonight, he seems to have a very specific mission. I almost laugh when I realize where he's heading.

The boss said I couldn't interfere, so, orders are orders. I decide I want to see this close-up. Dropping from Batman's tail, I route around him, going to the street. Fagen doesn't know it, but I set up a backdoor into his computer system and with a palmtop remote I call up his own access code to get into the bank through the concealed executive entrance, move up to the second floor and set myself in a good spot on the mezzanine. I can hear the workers entering the lobby below. Peeking down I see a dozen men, four carrying the lockboxes, the other eight armed guards around them. The men moving across the space below, heading for the armored truck at the loading dock, were all complete professionals, cool, precise and competent. This is one of John's money laundering operations, no doubt there are bonds, gold or jewels in the boxes, somewhere in the tens of millions from the size of the them, heading off for Europe to run through an intricate system and come out the other end as squeaky clean cash.

I'd known from the start that Fagen hadn't told me everything. He never does. But I'm a bit surprised. Batman has put him together with Callas. He knows who he is after. This isn't something he could have just tipped to; he'd have had to be looking into Fagen's businesses and know what kind of thing John greases the wheels to make happen. This guy is actually gunning for John Fagen. Can you say cojones?

I force myself not to start as I hear the ornate skylight shatter and alarms begin to scream. I don't want to be too impressed, but as he falls, the cape billowing, a black anvil of coiled power, dropping past me, I can't help it. I see something fly from his hands, a swirling bola and small dark pellets. I hear a man choke and fall back, his shotgun now roped to his neck. Smoke hisses as he lands with the seeming ease of a panther, moving too quickly for me to see it all, black hands grapple and punch, powerful kicks sending one and then another flying. A gun, forced high by his forearm, goes off and two chandeliers explode; sparks showering the room. He never hesitates, leaping off one to launch himself at another. I've never seen such a large man move with such speed. I think of a panther again, brutal, quick, bestial.

I hope I never have to go hand-to-hand with him. I wouldn't have a chance in a straight fight. But then, I've always thought if it comes down to a straight fight, I haven't done my job.

The smoke begins to clear and I see him standing in the middle of scattered bodies, half already bound up and waiting for the police, I can hear the squad cars' sirens screaming over the bank's alarm system. He takes the time to blow open the two lockboxes and examine their contents. No doubt he knows that Fagen will make this look like an attempted robbery (I'd hate to be one of the poor saps hired for this job, I figure they have about two weeks to live now), and so he is not interested in the legal implications per se. He's looking for information.

An instant before the police cars pull up outside, he raises an arm to fire a grapple hook and is flying for the ceiling as the cops come pouring in. Only one of them even sees him, but only for a second.

I slip out the way I came in and head for the rooftops again, the display blinking in front of my eye – TRACKING… TRACKING… I wait, scanning the uneven horizon.

When I first started I had to consider the possibility that there was more than one guy in the suit. I'm certain it is a single man, now that I've had a chance to see him a few times. Same moves, same utter disregard for danger. There's no way they could have found two men with that kind of death wish.

Still nothing on the display, which means he must have gone to the car. I've had to revise my estimates of the bankroll behind this operation because of that damn car. I've only managed to get a look at it twice, but it appears to be the only true auto-motive I've ever seen in operation, though I've encountered a few prototypes in the last couple of years. It not only drives itself through the highly complicated environment of Gotham City without hitting anything or anybody, but it has the most sophisticated proximity system I've ever seen, or even heard of. Two nights ago, I had been just about to try to approach it when a couple of young toughs thought they'd show off to their friends by smashing the windshield of the Batmobile. They couldn't even get close to it. It moved itself if they approached closer than four feet, in any direction. And I do mean any. One finally tried to leap onto the roof and found himself eating pavement. Then it chased them around the block, which, frankly, was funny as hell. Building that, including R&D, had to cost at least a cool hundred to two hundred and fifty mil. I don't even want to think about the upkeep on it.

This is my problem. That kind of money can afford real secrecy which I am unlikely to be able to penetrate. And the irony is, I've got all kinds of information about what he does and who he does it to, and it is telling me nothing. Who benefits. That is always the way to find the real power behind any operation. Always. But, so far, the only ones I've seen benefit are the ones without power. The poor. The helpless. The veritable huddled masses.

I've set up an encrypted link to the police network, hospitals and newspapers to cross-reference every criminal he's ever been credited with bringing in, plus every hit I see him make, against FBI, DEA, ATF, NSA, even CIA, and every other initialed state and federal database there is, as well as Fagen's connections and his extensive records of his rivals' businesses in Gotham. I've tracked down who he busts up and who they work for dozens of times. But there's no link to any of Fagen's enemies. Only so many people have the resources to support this, and all seem to hate and fear him as much as Fagen does which is understandable; he goes after them all. They, like Fagen, are certain he must be a pawn of someone like them; that he has to be under someone's control somewhere.

And of course, he must be. There has to be a connection I'm missing. There has to be, because the alternative is impossible. He can't…he just cannot be what he seems. No one could do this alone. Even if they could, why? Why declare war against Gotham?

No, not against Gotham – for Gotham.

How crazy do you have to be to think you can frighten the demons out of Hell?