A Night in the Life
Chapter Nine
Scorpion venom. A strange choice. Dangerous, but relatively easy to neutralise. Antivenom, Pepto-Bismol, and a few hours, and the effects were already fading.
"Ah—there's more, sir," Alfred said. "The computer just gave me a match for a synthetic compound also present in the blood samples. Oh dear."
Bruce's fingers tightened around his binoculars. "What?"
"It's a tracer compound," Alfred's voice trickled into his ear. "A sort of tag."
Also part of his catalogue of nasty things from the storehouse where he'd encountered this venom before. No coincidence, but still not R'as al Ghul's style. Batman tucked away his binoculars—he hadn't seen anything useful here anyway—and slid down the slant of the roof. Dick and Alfred were safe; the secret was safe. He'd shielded the cave against every tracker and sensor he could think of.
He dropped from the sloped roof to the flat roof beside it. If he could trace the tracer to its source, the hunt was over. "Alfred, I want you to—"
"Blast!" said Alfred. "Master Dick! Master Dick, come back at once!"
Bruce broke into a run, back toward the car. Disobedient, reckless little—this changed the priority. He flipped his cowl radio to Dick's channel. "Robin, return to base. There's a tracer on you, your position is compromised. Robin, come in. Respond!"
Nothing. Of course. Batman launched himself from the building's edge and fired a grappler, arced down and dropped into the car so fast the impact jolted his headache to life again. Not important. He stepped on the gas.
"Alfred."
"Yes, sir?"
"Run a full frequency analysis of the tracer compound; find what it responds to. I need to know its range, its precision. Call me as soon as you get anything. Batman out."
He didn't need a tracer to find Robin. Dick must know Petra would talk to him; it was part of her MO, every time. Talk to the victim, play out some twisted romance, then kill him. Bruce's foot slammed down harder; he wrenched the wheel around and turned onto a larger road, swerved through the first scattering of early commuters, left them all behind, turned down a narrow shortcut alley. Maybe an hour, hour and a half till dawn. His head had started pounding steadily again.
Someone was following him. A black SUV. Petra's co-workers, no doubt. Tracing him. They'd be on Robin's tail too. But Robin was probably at the police station by now. He'd be safe there, hopefully long enough for Batman to catch up.
Another SUV pulled out in front of him and stopped, blocking the alley.
Bruce stepped on the gas, smashed into the SUV, sent it sliding ahead of him. It skidded, started spinning—and jammed lengthwise across the alley with a scream of metal, showers of sparks where it scraped the brick walls, a jolt that flung Bruce forward against his seatbelt. Behind him, the other car pulled right up to his bumper and spat out four goons.
Fine. They wanted to corner him when he was angry, fine. Batman slid back the top of his car and leapt free, fast enough that the first few bullets flew wide. He landed on the roof of the SUV behind him and didn't stop long enough for them to adjust their aim. He let his momentum carry him into a jump, landed on one goon, rolled free as the man crumpled, kicked the feet from under another, flung a fist up to meet the chin on the way down, and then the rest started shooting again. There were four more from the second car.
He didn't have time for this, not when Robin could be in danger. He flung a smoke pellet and sprang sideways, cape swirling out around him. Bullets sliced through the murky shadows, ripped into the edge of the cape, but they were shooting blind. He fired a line upward, and by the time the smoke cleared, he was gone.
Tonight his usual vanishing tricks wouldn't work; they'd just trace him again. But he didn't have time to fight them now. He swung toward the police station as fast as he could. Far slower than the car. Already twenty, twenty-five minutes had passed since Dick left the cave. And Gordon wouldn't appreciate a vigilante hanging around his station too long; Robin would be on the move again soon.
Batman landed on a ledge and let himself rest for a few seconds, panting. He was moving too slowly. Unacceptable. He normally crossed this distance without trouble. But now pain thundered behind his eyes and his muscles trembled with fatigue and his stomach churned with renewed queasiness. A few hours wasn't long enough for the antivenom to finish its work, especially since he hadn't rested.
Time to move on anyway. He fired a jumpline and glided to the next rooftop. Not much further. A black SUV passed below him. Coincidence, or the goons tailing him?
"Batman, come in." Dick's voice crackled over the radio, tired but safe.
"Robin, stay in the police station," Batman ordered. "Petra's friends have your location. Do not leave the station."
A pause. "Too late," said Robin, far too cheerfully, and the sound of scuffling and swearing filled Batman's ear.
Fresh adrenaline rushed through Bruce, and he raced across the rooftops, leaping and swinging like he'd slept all night. He could see the police station looming ahead now, growing larger. "Evade, don't fight!" he barked into his radio, but he couldn't tell if Dick was listening, if he even heard. The link was still open; he heard a crunch that sounded like boot on bone, a howl from one of the thugs. He ran faster.
"Petra talked," said Robin. "Ah—" Another flurry of noise crackled through Bruce's earpiece, a thud, a sharp hiss of pain from Dick. "Sorry—these guys—seem to have—a grudge." His voice came in ragged pants now, trying to catch his breath. "Right, Petra's boss—Asian guy—called Sun Wukong—aah!"
The radio link went silent.
"Robin!"
Nothing.
He fired a final jumpline and dropped into the police parking lot, but he was too late. Two unconscious goons. Robin's motorcycle. Damn it, if he'd been just fifteen seconds faster, just ten seconds faster—
He slammed a fist against the wall of the station and switched comm frequencies. "Alfred!"
"Yes, sir?" The reply came instantly, cool and calm and in control, everything Bruce needed to be right now.
"Did you find the tagging frequency?"
"I believe so. Are you currently outside the police station?"
Relief washed through him. "Find the other signal."
"Robin?"
"Taken. Again. Find him!" Batman leapt onto Robin's motorcycle. It was too small, but plenty fast enough. It roared to life at his command and he shot out into the street with Alfred's voice guiding him and the first pale pre-dawn glow touching the sky behind him. The wind whipping across his face seemed to clear his mind. He knew better than to rush in. Robin was taken, not killed; that meant he was bait.
He raked his mind for knowledge of Petra's employer. Sun Wukong. He knew the name. Sun Wukong, the Monkey King, a character from Chinese mythology who tried to steal immortality from the gods. He didn't know the man behind the name.
"Alfred, check the database for the name Sun Wukong, Asian criminal. Cross-reference against R'as al Ghul."
"Yes, sir. Also, Robin's signal has stopped moving. He's in the industrial district."
Bruce ground his foot down. The speedometer climbed toward eighty.
