A Night in the Life
Chapter Ten
"Do not leave the station," said Bruce, but before Robin could respond, a black SUV screeched to a halt and six thugs piled out toward him. He just couldn't catch a break tonight, could he?
"Too late," he said, and beckoned the goons with a grin. Because egging on your enemies while weak and wounded was always a smart move, right? Oh, well. They charged obligingly, and Dick bent, scooped up a handful of grit and gravel, and tossed it in their faces.
The first two cursed and stumbled, and Robin chucked a smoke bomb between them to burst around the other four, then swept a foot left, right, and the already off-balance leaders went down.
"Evade, don't fight," said Bruce in his ear.
Dick jumped for his bike just as one of the downed thugs lunged for him, and he barely had time to realise he hadn't jumped fast enough before a meaty fist closed on the end of his cape. The cloth jerked against his throat, yanked him back and the goon forward. Robin hit the ground hard but managed to roll on his good shoulder and lash out behind him. His boot hit the guy's shoulder and he felt the collarbone snap under his foot, heard a wail of pain, tugged free and made another leap for his motorcycle.
This time he made it to the saddle. "Petra talked," he told Bruce as his bandaged hand fumbled for the ignition. Too slow. "Ah—" He threw himself off the other side of the bike as a gun swung toward him, and just in time: he felt the ripple of heat as the bullet whizzed past his leg. He tumbled straight from fall into crouch and rose with a birdarang already leaving his hand. Decent throw, not his best, hit the arm instead of the gun, but it worked. The guy dropped his weapon to clutch his bleeding wrist.
Then the other three jumped him. He recognised one, greasy moustache topped with a black eye; he'd kicked that guy in the head a few hours ago, and the guy looked mad about it. He came at Dick with everything, managed to land a solid hit to his left arm, and a wave of pain sliced up through his wounded shoulder, bad enough to drive out all his breath in a hiss.
"Sorry," he grunted into his radio as he brought up his knee into greasy moustache's crotch. "These guys—" The other two still had hands on him, heavy fingers digging into his arms and trying to pin him down. "—seem to have—" He got another good kick in, and greasy moustache went down and out. "—a grudge."
He was free for a second, but the guy with the gun was back in the fight now, brandishing the bloody birdarang he'd yanked out of his arm. This was embarrassing. Robin should be able to take six thugs, no problem. But the way this fight was going, they were going to bring him down. Again. He had to pass on his intel first. "Right, Petra's boss," he started, and ducked a sloppy punch. "Asian guy—" Jerk tried to cut him with his own birdarang; Robin grabbed the knife hand, locked it between his hands and twisted with a side-step, felt the weapon fall to clatter at his feet. "—called Sun Wukong—" But turning to disarm this guy put one of the others behind him, and that wouldn't be a problem, except that his legs were shaking and refused to move fast enough, and a fist crashed down on his shoulder. "—aah!"
Pain wiped out the world for a second, and then he was on his knees with the goons wrenching his arms behind him and zip-tying his hands together. They dragged him into the SUV, and for the moment he couldn't summon the strength to struggle. He slumped in the back seat, panting, squashed between two hunks of muscle. He felt sweaty and shaky, way more tired than he should have been after a one-minute fight, getting a little nauseous again as the SUV swerved and swayed through the narrow back streets. Serve these thugs right if he barfed on their laps.
He clenched his eyes shut and breathed slowly, trying to bring down his heart rate. His shoulder throbbed, and a trickle of warmth dripping down into his armpit told him he'd torn the stitches. Boy Blunder. Yep, that was him. Captured twice in one night by the same gang of second-rate henchmen in their cliché black SUVs.
The car stopped. Robin opened his eyes and instantly recognised the seedier side of the industrial district. "Nice real estate," he told the thug who hauled him out of the SUV. "Definitely a step up from that old warehouse. Do you get cable?"
No answer, as expected. The door of the grubby building opened and they all filed into a dim space full of broken-down machinery. The thug with the bleeding wrist and the one with the broken collarbone vanished through another door, while the other two marched Robin across the room and shoved him into a chair, then wound a rope around his chest to pin him in place with his hands still zip-tied behind him, crushed between his back and the chair.
"You've given me a lot of trouble," said a voice, tinged with an Asian accent. "This was supposed to be over hours ago." A short, unremarkable man stepped out of the shadows.
"You'd be Sun Wukong, then?" guessed Robin. This guy didn't look like the boss of anyone. He wore a black t-shirt, grubby cargo pants with a gun stuffed down the waistband, a stereotypical sort of Chinese bowl-cut. "You don't look like much," said Dick. He grinned and crossed his legs like he was right at home. Stupid of them, not to tie his legs to the chair. He could break free in no time. If his aching body cooperated. Sitting with his hands pinned behind him was making his shoulder hurt worse.
"I'm not much," Sun Wukong replied. "At least, not yet."
"Well, that's refreshing," Robin drawled. "You wouldn't believe the egos on most of the villains I know."
"Oh, yes, I would." Sun Wukong pulled another chair over and straddled it with his elbows on the backrest. "I used to work with one of them."
"You mean for one of them. No offense, but you look like the henchman type."
Sun Wukong scowled. "Not after tonight. By sunrise, I'll be immortal."
This wasn't adding up. Robin struggled to keep a bored expression on his face, like he wasn't hearing anything new. But inside he tried to find pieces to put together. Part of him had expected to find one of Batman's old enemies pulling Petra's strings. But this…this glorified goon who thought capturing Robin could somehow make him immortal?
"Last I checked, I don't know the secret to immortality," Robin said. Well, technically, he did: go jump in a Lazarus Pit. He smirked. "You might try calling R'as al Ghul for tips."
Sun Wukong's face flushed furious red. "Don't you ever shut up, brat?"
Dick grinned. "Nope." So, the Demon's name struck a nerve. Dick could put two and two together. Sun Wukong must have worked for R'as and ended up hating his boss. Maybe Batman kicked him in the face a few times and he got fed up and decided to quit the minion life and get some revenge on the Dark Knight for breaking his nose once too often. Or something.
"So…what do you want with me?" asked Robin.
"I'm going to kill you." Sun Wukong stood up and drew his gun.
Oops, wrong question. "Wait, hang on!" Dick yelped. "I don't understand. You went to all this trouble just to shoot me in the head?"
"Well, I was hoping not to go to all this trouble. Petra was supposed to kill you. And then Batman would beat on her until she told him about me, and then he'd come for me. But this works too. I'm sure Batman's on his way here by now. He'll find you dead."
The barrel of the gun meandered back and forth through the air as Sun Wukong spoke. By now it was pointing somewhere to Robin's right instead of at his face. He took a deep breath and got ready to move. He could kick the gun out of Sun Wukong's hand, wriggle the loop of rope up over his shoulders, and run for it. If Sun Wukong would just get a couple steps closer. Ok, play for time.
Dick summoned up a laugh. "Let me get this straight, you actually want to get chased across Gotham by an angry Batman whose partner you just murdered?"
Sun Wukong stepped closer, leaned in a little. The gun dipped toward the floor. "I'll be immortal!" he whispered. His eyes lit up with a touch of that crazy gleam Robin recognised all too well. Just a little closer. If he'd lean just a little closer…
He straightened and moved away, and now the gun rose to aim at Robin's head again. "I did my homework. I know how prepared you and your partner are. I told Petra how to keep Batman trapped so he couldn't save you. I gave her the poison in case her plan didn't work and the tracking compound in case the poison didn't work."
"Yeah, I figured that much out on my own." Dick gave another cheeky grin. Maybe he could keep this nut talking until Batman showed up. "Not bad for a henchman. Let's call it a six out of ten for preparation. But only four out of ten for the monologue. It's more of a crazy ramble, so far."
"I'm not crazy," said Sun Wukong, with that crazy glitter in his eyes. "I'm a dead man no matter what. But I'm going to die immortal. I'm stealing immortality from the gods right here. One bullet, bang, and Batman will never forget me. And I know you're friends with all the big names, too. Superman and Wonder Woman. The Justice League will never forget me. I live forever."
He pulled the trigger just as the front door exploded.
Robin was already moving, kicking against the floor as hard as he could, twisting sideways against the bonds. He heard the gun go off, lost in the roar of the explosion, felt the chair tipping, all in a split second, had he moved fast enough? His wounded shoulder hit the floor first and wrenched back against the edge of the chair, sent a bolt of agony flaring down across his chest. Or did the pain in his chest mean he was too slow and Sun Wukong hit him? He focused on breathing, like Bruce taught him, slow deep breaths, push through the pain and keep thinking straight, think about something else. Bruce was here now. The noise of the explosion was still ringing in his ears; it had only been a few seconds.
"I killed him!" yelled Sun Wukong behind him. "Robin's dead! I live forever!"