Summary: Could a man dedicated to the night have it all?

Disclaimer: I don't own anything.

Rating: T

Chapter XXIV

The gods were conspiring against him.

Harvey Dent believed this to be so. Each step he took to a high profile case that would propel his career through the roof suffered major stumbling blocks. He didn't plan on being a district attorney forever. It was only part of his goal to one day be mayor of city truly deserving of his prowess. Gotham was that city. Like the Batman, he would be its savior, but with a face.

He jerked to the sound of a voice coming over a loud speaker, gritting his teeth as the injuries he sustained from the gunfire smarted. A stray bullet nicked the left side his chin, while he took another in his shoulder. 'The angels were watching' a resident who saw to his care commented. Whatever he had meant, the pain was certainly killing him. He fiddled with a joystick in his hand, pushing a large red button that beeped, signaling the anesthesia machine to deliver a God send. Morphine flowed into his blood, alleviating the savage ache in his arm, and burn on his chin.

"Ugh, thank God," he said, silently praising the man or woman who'd invented the drug. He reveled in the powerful medicine till he heard a knock at his door. His head came up when the door to the cramp, private room opened and to his surprise saw Karen enter; a look of concern gracing her soft, lovely face.

Far beyond, Harvey could see nurses and doctors scurrying about. Gotham Regional Hospital was in frenzy. Two agents and FBI field director Henry Whittler were down for the count. Critical condition as the press earnestly elaborated and in the mix Aaron Powers who'd up and vanish like a puff of smoke.

"Karen," he said, and with some effort, pushed his body upwards against two flat, cold pillows, squaring his shoulders.

He was surprised to even be seeing her at all, considering that she'd been tied up—so to speak. He wasn't ignorant to the news that had been circling, especially on the cover of the society page. Rumors abound. Bruce and she were an 'item'. Wedding bells were sure to chime according to Gossip Gertrude 'Gerty' Mason, the social power director and owner of the leading edge magazine—Eye On Gotham—quipped.

Truthfully, the whole affair made Harvey sick. Karen was too good of a woman to be shackled to a moron such as Bruce Wayne. What she needed was someone who'd take her seriously. Someone like him; if given the chance.

"I guess you saw the news, huh," he said, plastering half a smile on his face.

"It wasn't hard to miss," she answered, closing the door, which instantly drowned out the chaotic noise coming from the hall.

"How'd you get pass security? A federal field director got shot. It's pandemonium out there."

"I told them I was your wife," she said, lowering her head a notch, blushing.

"And they actually believed—" Harvey's eyes were immediately nailed by a glimmering element radiating on her finger. It didn't take a genius to know what it was. An engagement ring! A sharp tightening in his chest forced him to take a quick breath. "He moves fast."

A blank expression grew on her face. "Who moves fast?"

"Wayne," Harvey stretched out a finger, pointing to the diamond ring far too large for her slender finger. "Congratulations should be in order."

"Oh," her cheeks bloomed even brighter as she fiddled with the delicate jewel. It had belonged to Bruce's mother. Karen made a silent promise to take extra good care of it. "Yeah, about that—"

"Don't bother," he forced himself to smile. "I'm happy for the both of you, although, I can't say the same for the thousands of women living here in the city. A lot of them are going to be devastated."

"They'll get over it," she chuckled.

"I'm sure." He grimaced, eyes rolling to back of his head.

"Are you okay?" Karen frowned, coming closer to the narrow little hospital bed that appeared too small for a man of his size.

He contorted his mouth. "I'm not dead."

"Harvey," she admonished.

"Yeah—" he coughed. "Fine…great…shot, but…great."

Karen swallowed, pondering whether or not to approach Harvey on what he knew about her father. "Do the police have any leads on who might have done this?"

"That SOB—Powers—is a good start. A hit man like him must still have some connections here in Gotham."

"Hit man," she gasped.

"Yeah," said Harvey. "He's got a file a mile long. I—I shouldn't be telling you this."

"N—no, no," Karen shook her head, blinking. "It's fine." She took his hand, strumming the back of it. "I won't tell anyone."

Without knocking, a man and a woman stormed into Harvey's room, waving their FBI credentials in the air. Harvey snorted in annoyance. "Jeezus, you guys can't give a guy a break."

"Harvey Dent," asked a woman.

"Yeah.

"Agent Amelia Benson."

"How unpleasant to meet you," he stated. "Look, I've already had a sit down with half a dozen other guys before you."

"We're not here for that. You must be Karen Miller."

"Yes," Karen shifted; astonished the woman knew her name. "What can I do you for?"

The stern auburn haired woman closed her badge and stashed it inside her right coat pocket. She was by far a foot taller, bore a curvy figure, and she carried herself impressively. She introduced her partner then began the drill in the usual FBI tactic.

"We need you to come with us for questioning."

"Questioning," Karen's mouth fell open, her heart pounding. "For what?"

"We'll explain on the way down town, but for now you need to come with us." Agent Benson made a sharp gesture with her head and her partner closed in on Karen taking her arm.

"Please come with us," he said sternly.

"What? Why?"

"Please don't talk ma'am, just come with us."

"No!" Karen shrieked. "I'm not going—hey—let go of me! What have I done?"

"HEY! HEY!" Harvey bellowed, scrambling out of bed. "I'm a Gotham District Attorney. I demand to know why this woman is being detained."

"It's not for you to know sir," Agent Benson looked him over with cold eyes. Turning sharply, she marched out the room, walking ahead of her partner as he handcuffed Karen, and dragged down the hall to an awaiting elevator.

"Please…tell me…what did I do wrong?" she asked, striving to reign in her temper, as they rode the elevator to parking garage. She reeled to the side as a brutal slap landed on her cheek.

"Shut the fuck up bitch!" rasped Amelia, massaging her hand that was now stinging like fire.

"You—you hit me," Karen gasped in disbelief, her lip stinging. "You can't do that…you're government agents I can sue you for police brutality."

The red head laughed in a hysterical manner that chilled Karen. "We said we were taking you downtown, we never said to headquarters," she spoke in devious manner, green eyes flashing.

Blood drained from Karen's face. A wide-eyed alarm lit her eyes and scrunched the brow of her forehead. "You're not FBI! W—who are you?"

"Yes, actually, we are, but we represent associates that use to know an old colleague of your father," said the guy holding her in a vice like grip.

Karen felt weak. "My father."

"Yes," Amelia lolled her head to the side, "your father."

A 'ding' rang through the elevator car and the doors slid apart. Thrust forward Karen struggled against the man holding her, but he was too strong. His powerful hands gripped her arms like a vice and he hauled her to a black vehicle sitting unsuspectingly at the far side.

"HELP!" screamed Karen, but her cries were immediately squelched by his large hand and a gun appearing out of thin air.

"Don't make this messy," Amelia clucked, "although it would be a pleasure, but you being dead will revoke the nice little down payment on a house in the Hamptons."

Karen ceased up, stiffening in cold fear. She stumbled on legs that felt like jelly, while tears pooled in her face. Warily, she searched every area of the garage, but there was no one. No one to hear her. No one to help. Not even Bruce—the Batman—was there to save her. She was alone, awaiting a fate she wasn't sure she would survive.

And what of her baby? God! Her baby!

She reared up to fight once more. Kicking everything but her abductors who seemed to laugh at her feeble attempt to escape. It enraged her, furthering her need to fight and survive, when suddenly she was blinded by a fierce blow to head. Blackness swallowed her and she went limp.

"She's got spirit," said the man snickered. "Where'd you want her?"

"In the trunk, Mitch," snorted Amelia, taking her hair out of the tight bun it was in. "The chilling darkness might give her some perspective."

Mitch placed Karen in the trunk and slammed the lid shut. "Don't know what Vincent Pannelli wants with her."

"Should we care? It's not her he's after," said Amelia. "It's daddy dearest. Besides, as Feds, we should be rallying around our fallen comrades. After all, Aaron Powers must've hired someone to help him make his daring escape." She glared at the closed trunk. "He and that other prick are going to pay, one way, or the other."

Mitch jingled the keys in hands. "I'm starving. Where do you want to eat," he asked moving to the driver's side.

"Doesn't matter," she sighed, pressing her fingers to her temple. "Let's go before anyone notices she's gone."

As Amelia turned to enter the vehicle, a single bullet hit her straight in between the eyes, raining blood and brain matter all over her partner. He moved into action just as she slumped into the vehicle and slithered onto the cement ground. His hissed and cursed as his .45 jammed; typical of a .45.

Three bullets ripped into his chest sending him crashing backwards into the podium next to his car. Out of the shadows, Aaron Powers emerged, dressed his black, aiming his 9mm. He circled around swiftly, a murderous, vengeful look in his eyes, pointing the barrel at the fool who'd dare his daughter.

"W-wait…wait…" gagged Mitch, blood spewing out his mouth, recognizing the swift assassin Powers. "I-it's nothin'…nothin' personal…just business. It—it was just—a fuckin' job."

"Well," Powers remarked coldly, "you made a mistake. When you went after my little girl that was entirely unacceptable."

He squeezed the trigger, popping a single round in Mitch's brain. Satisfied the thug was disposed of Powers bent over and took the keys out his pocket and opened the trunk. He found Karen unconscious, curled in a fetal position. Staying his riled emotions, he gathered his daughter in his arms and carried her away to an awaiting car.

Rachel Dawes gestured frantically to one of the nurses busily skimming through files at the emergency desk. The hospital was in an uproar. She understood if the woman had little time to deal with the uninjured but she needed to find Harvey and see if he was all right. She'd waiting in the emergency room for little over an hour, and had virtually been ignored by every single personnel working at the hospital. Finally, she had enough, shoving between people, she reached the reception desk. "Excuse me, I've been waiting forever, could you please just tell me where I can find Harvey Dent?"

A black woman glared at her. "Are you his wife or relative?"

"No, I'm—"

"Families are the only ones allowed back there! Hospital policy!" She said, wrenching open a folder, casting her attention to a crazed man holding a rag stained with blood to his head.

"Now look ma'am, I'm Assistant DA to Harvey Dent, and I want to see him right now!" Rachel yelled, gaining a nasty look from the nurse. The woman dropped into her chair, and begrudgingly typed his name into the hospital databank.

"He's in Room 409."

"Thank you," Rachel said bristly, clutching her purse, and weaved through the immense throng of people, personnel and Gotham police. Federal agents also littered the ER and by some miracle she managed to arrive upstairs in the quieter section of the hospital bound for Harvey's room.

"Hey," a federal agent soon spotted her and halted her quick pace. "Where do you think you're going?"

"I'm Rachel Dawes I'm here to see Harvey Dent."

"No one is allowed anywhere without proper authorization, miss, you're going to have to see your boyfriend another time."

Rigid, Rachel cut her eyes at the man who dared to make such a foolish assumption. "He's not my boyfriend, first off, and I'm a Gotham City Assistant District Attorney, I have every right to be here."

"Look lady," the agent began angrily, puffing his chest. "I don't give a damn who you are—"

"It's okay," Gordon said, stepping out of a nearby room. "She's with me."

The federal agent's gaze remained hard as he released Rachel and stalked down the hall, touching his ears in response to a message transmitting on his radio. "It was nice to meet you too," Rachel said an edge of sarcasm in her tone, glancing after the man.

"Don't mind them," Gordon said. "Every federal agent from the entire east coast seems to be in this hospital. Christ, it's a mess."

"How's the federal director doing?" she asked. "Is he going to be okay?"

Gordon shook his head, shoulders slump in defeat. He'd lost a man as he assisted the FBI in transferring Aaron Powers to a federal prison where he would await a hearing and possibly disappear into the witness protection program. The media was advised he was heading to Blackgate to stave off any attempts to spring him free or worst—take him down. He had no idea an assassin would be so bold as to rain fire right there on the federal field office building.

"Henry Whittler took a bullet in the neck. It nicked his carotid artery. He also took two in the chest. He's lost tremendous amounts of blood. Doctors gave him a 40 percent chance of recovery."

Rachel went pale. "And…and Harvey?"

"Dent took one in the shoulder, another grazed his face, but he'll live. He's in here," he said, showing her into a room guarded by a uniformed officer.

"Harvey," she released a frantic breath, when he saw lying there looking pale and utterly devoid of strength.

"Rachel," he croaked, lifting a finger in salute.

"How are you?" He tilted his head. Rachel pressed her mouth into a thin line. "Stupid question."

Gordon closed the door, and leaned into it. "Harvey was just telling me that two agents came and dragged Karen downtown."

They took her," inquired Rachel. "What for?"

Harvey scowled. "Scumbags wouldn't tell me. That's why I glad you're here Rachel."

"Where else would I be?" she said.

"Does Bruce know?"

Harvey's mouth tightened. "No, and it's better to leave him out of this, for now. I don't want this to get more fucked up than it already is." He pushed a button, delivering more morphine into his system. "The last thing we want is Gotham's Golden Boy' getting hurt. That's why I need you both down there. Karen is going to need someone to defend her jurisdictional rights."

"I'll get right on it." Rachel took his hand and smiled. "You just take it easy, promise."

Harvey smirked. "You know I never make promises I don't intend to keep."

"Not when you have two bullets in your chest."

With a smile, Rachel left with Gordon not too far away, when all of a sudden security personnel, the Feds, and police officers went zipping past him. One cop stopped to briefly inform Gordon of a situation in a little ways beyond the hospital. He told Rachel to wait with Harvey. Seconds later he was in a garage joined to hospital, which was no swarmed by officers and members of the FBI.

"Let me through," Gordon barked, pushing through the lot.

There he found a woman sprawled on the ground lying in a pool of blood. She wore navy blue skirt, blazer, and her creamy satin blouse was drenched blood. Her male counterpart sat hunched forward in an upright position against a cement pillar. CSI units was already working the scene; dusting the grey sedan for finger prints.

"Well this day is getting better and better." He bent low as a plain woman wearing large goggles searched through the pockets of the woman.

"Here's the cherry on the cake," she said, opening the wallet, unveiling a shield. "She's FBI."

"Jesus. It just gets better and better."

Ian Merrick packed up shop. The heat was on so it was time to blow the hell out of Gotham. Within hours, the city was flooded with FBI agents. One did not set plans to eliminate a federal field director without some consequence; but it was an urgent need for vengeance that speared him to act. Marco, his little brother; troublesome, crass, stupid, but his brother none less was dead. Murdered.

The bastard Whittler had struck a deal; promised his brother's liberation. And had him wired to agents so dirty, they'd put J Edgar Hoover to shame. Information was the price for Marco's ticket out of Blackgate. Instead, he was slowly rotting away in a prison issued wooden box.

Merrick breezed through his upscale apartment setting his affairs in order. The condo was paid for by a dummy cooperation he created whilst overseas. It was just one of the few safe houses he had across the globe. In the background, the news blared loudly. He'd been listening since two-thirty—back from a trek across the city where he'd disposed of a high powered rifle, car, and clothing.

At six, Whittler was pronounced dead. But he alone knew in a day or two the same grim fate would fall another agent; one affiliated with the director and whose grease ball partner was clipped at the Blue Bayou. Three million dollars purchased the services of a disgruntled guard and a willingness to carry a tray laced with poison to a cell. Another three ensured his wife and kids future in case suspicion fell on him.

His pants pocket hummed and he retrieved his Samsung Solstice. "Yes."

"Mr. Maroni wants a word," boomed a melancholy voice.

"I've made plans."

"Cancel them." Merrick tightened his mouth as the line went dead.