This was it. Hobbs could no longer control his inner thoughts. They had led him to an interminable maze of paranoia. They really were going to kill him right here and now. Like a dumb animal. Ever since he was told to go with these guys, a sheer wave of numbness speared through him. Something told him that wouldn't be the only thing that would spear through him . . .

"What are we here for?" Hobbs demanded. "Where's the mayor? I've asked you people I don't know how many times. Where the hell is he?"

"Relax, Mr. Hobbs."

Hobbs hadn't heard that voice since the night he had been attacked. The memories and advice he was given flooded his mind. Ever since, he had tried to keep his mouth shut as agreed. He really tried. But his head kept telling him that there were more important things than just holding his tongue on a highly conspicuous case.

The man emerged. Mike Williams eased his way out of the shadows, wearing that condescending smile that drove so much hate to Hobbs' face, yet he didn't show it.

"I'm sorry to say the mayor is out tonight. He had some business to take care of."

"Business?" Hobbs stuttered. "No. No! This was not part of the agreement! I told these guys I wanted to talk to him, and I want to talk to him now!"

"I'm sorry it came to this, counselor," Williams said as if he didn't hear a single word Hobbs just said. "I'm so sorry. But we had to come. We got a call from the police department. Anonymous tip. Said that someone tipped off the Commissioner."

Hobbs' face couldn't have been any more pale at this point. They knew. They knew all along. This is their sadistic game of intimidation before the kill.

"Apparently, someone told him a couple of days ago that that young guy, Gage, didn't commit suicide. He was murdered." Williams dropped his condescending demeanor, and it morphed into a narrow-eyed glare like a wolf who found his evening meal.

"Listen," Hobbs pleaded breathlessly. "I . . . I can explain."

"No." Williams held a hand. "No, ya can't. Not this one, counsel. I've told ya time after time, there is no getting out. And you should be a little more grateful."

"I should be grateful?"

"Your winning cases, albeit our own doing, have given you enough money to buy at least five condos at once, and even then, we've owed you a lot more. But there comes another price. One price you can't back out on once you've made your choice—snitchin'."

Hobbs was about to say something, but he was cut off once more by Williams' firm and fast approach. "So, what were you thinking?"

The lawyer swallowed. "I've already made my statement. You have to understand, killing a cop is a serious business. The killing of a petty mugger? Nobody'll miss that. Killing of an officer? That's a point of no return. You don't just wash that away. And I've already made this clear, this isn't some security guard or a highway patrolman. This is Nicolas Gage—a young guy whose record was clean."

Williams shrugged. "The rest of the police department seemed to buy the suicide. Correct me if I'm wrong, and that case was closed, right?"

"Not indefinitely! There will be more investigations. Indictments, incriminations—they all come back. I've been in this job long enough. This is far too unsafe. If you kill me, this will only make your situation worse. Then, you'll have two problems to deal with."

Williams tilted his head at a delicate angle. "I didn't say we'd kill ya."

"Then why am I here? On a rooftop of all places? Do you think I'm stupid?"

"No, but that anonymous tip sure did make ya look dumb."

Bruce slid the grate ever so gently as he could to the side and climbed out. He trudged his feet on the concrete roof softly and scrutinized around him. He could make out some chattering from a fair distance. Following it, he came to a stair that led to an upper ledge that looked down upon a group of men.

Bruce ducking himself into a crouch. "I have a visual on Hobbs. He's with at least seven other men. Any officers alerted?"

"No, sir."

"Copy."

Thank God. Now, Hobbs was within his grasp. All he had to do now was to make a distraction, and Hobbs would be his to take.

Williams sighed. His expression changed none. "I'm sorry it came to this, counsel, but you did this all by yourself. Had you kept your mouth shut, you'd probably be much further in life already. You said you wanted to talk to Mayor Cobblepot."

"I just needed to tell him something, that's all," Hobbs said. "I thought that if I told him and advise him that if he starts going after law enforcers who have nothing to do with your club, then maybe we'd be safer."

Williams raised an eyebrow. "So, you think you know better than Cobblepot?"

"You know what I mean," Hobbs countered, knowing fully well how these guys live for moments of taunting their victims.

"If that's the case, then why'd you call Commissioner Loeb? Ya know you could've called the mayor yourself. Ya don't even need the political power to do somethin' like that. One phone call to him wouldda saved you the trouble, dontcha think?"

Hobbs found no answer in his inner disposal.

Williams smirked. "That's what I thought. We just can't you let ya squeal any further."

Now or never. That was the final word they were going to give before going in for the kill.

With a flash-grenade already in hand, he emerged from his hiding area. He couldn't risk making a blind throw without having Hobbs dead, already. Williams, who was reaching into his jacket to pull out a 9mm, much to the wide-eyed horror of Hobbs, looked up in Bruce's direction and then at the silver ball that landed and rattled in front of him.

The ball flashed a bright light, followed by the loud groans, and then shouts and accusations that Hobbs brought the cops with him.

Equipping the grappling gun, Bruce fired the harpoon, which hooked into a wall behind Hobbs. Bruce glided fast and tackled Hobbs, rolling them both behind the walls, further out of sight from the confused gunmen.

"Stay down," Bruce instructed the lawyer, who was now frightened out of his wits. He then pressed his back against the wall along with Hobbs in his firm gripped arm.

"Alfred. I've got Hobbs. Rendezvous point in five minutes."

"Yes, sir. Be careful."

"Who the hell are you?" Hobbs shuddered. "You here to kill me too?"

"If I wanted to kill you, Mr. Hobbs, you'd be dead already," Bruce said. "If you want to stay alive, you're going to do what I tell you. First, shut up."

He peeked behind the wall. The gunmen were rubbing their eyes and coming to. One was already beginning to have his senses back and looked over at Bruce's direction. Glancing back, Bruce detected the only form of cover left standing between him and Hobbs were several rows of metal serving area interface boxes that were mounted not too far away from an edge that would've led to lower ground. The boxes would act as the perfect form of shield against any incoming attacks.

"Find him. And kill him."

"Who?"

"Both of 'em! Now!"

Bruce looked back at Hobbs. "When I say so, head for those electric boxes." Hobbs reluctantly nodded in a cold sweat. In a swift movement, Bruce reached into his belt and pulled out one small glassy marble-sized object from one of the more secure pockets. He raised his fist and smashed the ball onto the ground, and a hissing sound emanated. In seconds, thick white smoke dispersed.

Grabbing Hobbs once more, he said, "Move." The two emerged from the hiding place and began to make a run for it.

"There he is!"

Gunshots crackled and bullets sped past Bruce. Hobbs ran blindly and held his arms above his head.

"Take cover! Stay hidden!" Bruce called out.

Hobbs dove for one of the electric boxes as bullets pelleted on the other side. A yelp cried out and Bruce's blood froze. He shifted his night vision to thermal, and he could see through the smoke. The humanoid-shaped heat signature that represented Hobbs was holding onto his leg, which had been penetrated by one of the rapid bullets. Thankfully, he had made his way behind the box, but the bullets continued hurtling by.

"Find them." someone shouted. "Search everywhere."

Gordon's feet were tired. His back and calves were telling him that enough time has passed, and it was time to sit. He had gotten used to that feeling long ago. The only thing he hadn't counted on was a disturbance in the night. His eyes told him that everything seemed normal. The endless chatter tuned out nearly everything around him.

"We have a breach!" the radio squawked. "Shots have been heard on the roof. Requesting backup on the rooftop. All personnel in the ballroom to the roof. Maintain secure exits."

With a glance over at Bullock, who seemed to have comprehended that order, Gordon bolted towards the door he once guarded as if his life depended on it and entered the hallway.

"Gordon," said Bullock's voice. "I'm on my way up. I'm entering the southside stairwell."

"Copy that. I'm on my way."

Bruce assessed his surroundings. The fog was thicker now more than ever, obscuring anything. The thermal vision picked up several humanoids nearby with their firearms aimed swiveling to find anything to shoot. They continued asking questions about the whereabouts of the lawyer and wondering what the hell that thing was that just attacked them, questioning if anyone had seen that.

Lifting himself off from a crouching position, Bruce peeked his head from behind the brick wall. None had made a single sudden movement. Taking advantage, Bruce took a soft step to the side to make way for an incoming gunman who was walking briskly. When he was adjacent to him, Bruce shoved a gripping hand on the gunman's firearm hand, subduing any chance of counter. Before the gunman could make an alarming shout, Bruce hauled the man's arm upward, allowing him to land a blow to the gunman's face. Bruce was able to lower the man to the ground as his legs buckled. After he disassembled the pistol apart, Bruce looked around him.

One of the gunmen jolted in surprise. "Hey. Who's there?" He began making his way towards Bruce's direction. Damn. They were now onto him. Bruce aimed at the approaching gunman who was walking faster than the previous accomplice. Quickly, Bruce spun around extended a sweeping foot which cost the gunman's balance. As the hostile landed on his back, Bruce rolled until he was on top of him and hurled a fist across his face, incapacitating him.

Before he could recover, a gunshot crackled, and a sharp pain assaulted the back of Bruce's head. On instinct, Bruce rolled away and fired his grappling gun. The firing hostile let out a cry as the hook penetrated his stomach, releasing his firearm. Bruce shoved the gun towards himself, propelling the man towards him. The gunman was then met with a punch to the face and the man knew nothing else.

"There he is!"

Bullets sprayed at Bruce, who instinctively spun around with his cape shielding the deadly gunfire. His head continued throbbing from the earlier headshot, but now wasn't the time to dwell on his condition. Bruce dove for the wall he had hidden behind once more and glanced where Hobbs had hidden himself, hoping he had stayed in his position as instructed. He had to know; there was no telling if that dirty coward would've done what he was told to do.

Gordon's foot shoved the door open with a firearm at the ready. The outside air sent a brief chill through him, and he glanced over ahead of him. There was a suspicious-looking batch of smoke. Within the thickness of the vapor were flashing yellow fires of pistols discharging.

Gordon pressured his knees downward, lowering himself for cover against any bullets that would've made their way in his direction. "Gotham PD!" he bellowed. "You are surrounded! Hands up now!" He grabbed his radio. "This is Gordon. Multiple shots are being fired. I need backup now."

As the radio sent agreements, Gordon approached the melee, and the gunfire seemed to have died for a bit. The smoke was nearly cleared, and the night had gone silent, almost as if they had heard them, but he had known that ruse before.

Bruce looked. The rooftop door burst open and he counted two men. Both had firearms, but they were pointed in a professional stance, unlike the men here and now. They're cops. It wasn't hard to distinguish a man with a gun and a cop even in Gotham. The real question was their devotion, and there was no telling what lies within one's heart, even without a qualified uniform.

"Gotham PD! You are surrounded! Hands up now!"

Yeah. Cops.

Bruce glanced over where Hobbs was supposed to be. There had been no movement, even when looking through the night vision. The guy had either been killed or been a good guy and did what he was told. The cops were scattering and taking cover behind anything they could find. Bruce kept his sights on the power box where Hobbs had hidden. There was no movement detected. He feared the worst, but he couldn't wait any longer lest he'd be caught or shot by either side. An occasional gunshot kept sounding, and Bruce started forward while crouching.

Still no movement. He'd better not have moved his position, or better yet, still be alive. There were notable orders shouted from the cops, but that wouldn't cease the bullets crackling. Their flashlights danced around like rapid fireflies. They must have been taking cover. Bruce didn't bother checking on them. Drawing in a breath, he started towards the power box.

Something nearby caught the corner of his eye, forcing him to stop by the brick wall. Placing his back against the wall, he looked to his side and saw one of the gunmen making a careful walk away from him toward a corner about to disappear from sight. No use of a flashlight told him that this was no cop. What was curious, was that the gunman was heading towards the direction where a flashlight's beam was shining. A second later, there was a whacking noise, followed by a grunt. The flashlight's beam made a jerking motion and lowered itself onto the ground. Bruce took easy sidesteps until he was at the corner and turned a gander.

The gunman was now facing a perpendicular direction from Bruce's path. He was holding a revolver aimed at another man who was on his knees. He had light brown hair with a gruff-looking mustache and wore glasses that gave a little glare from the limited light. The flashlight lied on the concrete floor with its illumination now shining anything touching the ground. The cop held a hand to the back of his head, growling. No quarter had been given from his attacker, who used his foot to shove and roll the cop onto his back so he could face his about-to-be-killer.

The cop breathed heavily and held his hands up as if it would make any difference, knowing full well he was in a place when mercy was used as a punchline.

The gunmen chuckled, delighting in his privilege of killing a cop and raised his pistol until the barrel locked onto the cop's head—

Bruce landed a hard fist against the gunman's arm and the weapon was tossed back. With his other free fist, Bruce landed one on the man's jaw and the gunman toppled. Bruce then looked back at the cop, who squinted into the darkness, trying to decipher what had just happened. When his eyes met Bruce, the cop's manner had changed drastically into a wide-mouthed awe. Bruce looked into the man's eyes and did see the same kind of terror Alfred had displayed when constructing this façade.

"Take cover," Bruce ordered and left.

He kept a vigilant eye around him, doubting that the gunfire had truly silenced. Bruce made a run towards the electric box where Hobbs was supposed to be.

Gunshots roared into the night. Unlike before, they were not rapid. They sounded single and cracked one at a time as if it came from something small as a pistol. Moments later, the gunfire had silenced, leaving the only sound of his anxious breathing left. The next step was getting Hobbs out of there. With only pistol fire and the cops being involved, it shouldn't be too hard, but he wasn't counting on a cakewalk.

Crouching, Bruce was now within a couple of meters away from Hobbs' position. There was another brick wall that had to be used for cover before exposing himself once more without getting shot. The pistol fire was now becoming less frequent. Moments of silence were longer between each crack of a bullet. There was still shouting from the cops. The exclamations were the same orders of hostiles to drop their weapons upon announcing their presence.

Bruce had reached Hobbs—and his heart sank. Hobbs had his eyes closed and had a wet crimson stream was oozing from a bullet wound to the neck. The blood had leaked all the way to the concrete floor. The wound was precise and wasn't a scrape alongside the skin. They wanted to make sure he was dead, and so he was.

Bruce cursed out loud. "He's dead, Alfred."

"Gordon! I got him!"

A cop was aiming his pistol in Bruce's direction. For a brief glimpse, Bruce could see that this cop wasn't the same as he saw before. A handful of rounds cracked from the cop's firearm, and Bruce's bulletproof vest caught the bullets. It didn't spare Bruce the blunt force of being pushed backward.

"Master Wayne!" Alfred panicked, hearing his master's grunts.

Groaning, Bruce's legs buckled and went past the ledge's side and lost his balance. The world was a lightning-fast blur to him. His back was facing whatever was below him to what he couldn't see.

His question was answered when his back hit a hard surface, followed by an ear-splitting shrill of glass. The roaring crash of the skylight window shattering from the height and mass of himself into countless pieces drowned out his senses. The accompanying screams of surprise stung his ears, along with the realization of his updated situation. The last thing he felt before it all came to an end was a table that gave into his weight. The pain seared, and Bruce rolled off until he was back on his feet.

People jolted back in fright. More sounds of glass shattering echoed from the dropped wines of surprised guests. A handful of them were shouting and accusing him of being a burglar. Disorientation took a firm hold on Bruce's senses, but there was no time to be seen in the eyes of hundreds of people. The point of this was an extraction, quickly and quietly. And it took a nosedive in a matter of seconds. He was now exposed. How could be so careless? How could he allow this to happen?

He gritted his teeth. "Alfred. Second rendezvous point. Two minutes."

"Yes, sir. Get the hell out of there now."

Two minutes seemed impossible if he were on foot, but luckily, the stairwell would be easier now that everyone was on their way to the rooftop.

He roared through his teeth and rolled off the broken table onto the floor. The party guests were shouting manically as Bruce rose to his feet steadily. Ignoring the people's cries, he looked around him and found the exit. In his manic sprint, people dove and further crowds parted away from his path like a shark's fin in water.

Bruce found himself back out in the hallway. Thankfully, most—or better yet, all—guards would be nowhere within the vicinity. Regardless of any outcome, there was no time to delay. Hustling, Bruce threw a hard kick and the stairwell door opened. He then looked straight down to the seemingly endless flight of stairs that spiraled all the way down to the ground level below. Only, the ground level wasn't where the rendezvous point would be. He'd have to get to the second floor. The doors on the ground floor would still be heavily guarded; he'd be caught, and it'd all be over. Regardless, this had to be done and done quickly.

Bruce leaped over the railing and aimed his body to head straight down the stairwell. Feeling the gravity push him down and obscures of confused officers passing by him, he spread his hands outward until his gloves magnetized against the cape. The massive cape stiffened and expanded in a wide span, and his descent slowed to a safer rate. He eyed his targeted stopping point and aimed himself to the face the second floor.

The police radio squawked. "Suspect heading down left southside stairwell. Maintain secure exits!"

Good, Bruce thought. They were still counting on the exits.

Bursting the stairwell door open on the second floor, Bruce continued his sprint through another room which led to a hallway with a lone window awaiting on the opposite end. He ran as fast as he could and dove straight forward.

Bruce hurtled against the window and plummeted along with the glistening rain of shards. He spread out his arms and extended his gloved fingers, activating the fabric that would trigger the cape's extension. The fabric stiffened outward, allowing the air to gather underneath, softening his plummet. He looked downward and recognized that Alfred's car was exactly right outside, about ten yards away from the building. All he needed to do was to glide and land himself directly beside the vehicle's passenger door. Angling himself, Bruce tumbled into a roll and arrived at the door. He quickly jumped in and kept his head below the windows.

Alfred stepped on the pedal without making an alerting skidding noise. "What happened?"

Bruce lowered his face still out of breath.

The rooftop Ritz was crawling with forensics. It had only been seconds since the attacker had made his startling descent to the ballroom below. Several people had been panicking and exclaiming what had just happened while also tending to some minor wounds that had been inflicted by the downpour of glass. Thankfully, there were no serious injuries on the citizens below aside from the mysterious men that were on the rooftop.

"Gordon!" Bullock cried out once more. "You a'ight?"

Gordon's eyes flickered and he picked up his trusted firearm that he silently swore to himself to never lose again.

"I'm fine," Gordon said.

Gordon looked around. Indeed, the gunmen were sprawled in an unorganized fashion. Each of them having a bloody hole or two in their bodies. None of them had groaned or twitched as the gunshots had swiftly taken their lives, including the body that once belonged to someone with the intent of killing him. The gunman who struck him was still in the same position since that masked man took him down, save for the bullet hole on his chest where his heart was.

"What'd you see?" Bullock asked.

"Did you kill them?"

"Me? I couldn't get a good shot."

Before he could give an answer, the door to the stairwell spilled open dozens of Gotham officers, shouting out orders with their firearms drawn out in multiple directions, hoping to find a target. Like Gordon and Bullock, they were all under strict orders. Nobody wanted to screw up an important assignment such as this. Further commands were given when they spotted the several dead gunmen, who were scattered around. Forensics had been requested while sweeping the rest of the building.

As the tension died from the officers, among them came Commissioner Loeb, who wore the same face as his fellow men. Giving out orders to hold firm on the exits on the ground floor, he made his way over to the two men he had ordered in the ballroom.

"What happened?" he demanded.

Gordon stepped forward. "There was a shooting. I was assaulted, and the next thing I knew, they were all dead. We got six of them dead and one escaped."

"Recognize any of them?"

"Yes. Only one. Counselor Tobias Hobbs. He's dead."

Loeb blinked as his lips parted. "You sure?"

"Positive. I have no ID on the shooter, but," he took a breath. "It looks like the suspect shot his own men."

Loeb had to delay for a moment before giving out the response, "He what?"

"We fired back, but they outnumbered us, and we were taking cover. No way it could've been us. He shot his own men."

"Why didn't you pursue him?" Loeb demanded.

Bullock approached to his partner's rescue. "Because there was another suspect."

Loeb zeroed in on Bullock and approached. "Another suspect, Harvey?"

"Yeah. Gordon saw him too. He was there too. He went over to Hobbs and we found him dead."

"Are you saying this other suspect killed Hobbs?"

"Looks that way. He crashed through the skylight and then ran off.

"No ID?"

"No, he was wearing a suit or something. I couldn't see. All black. Though, dozens of eyewitnesses below said that the guy was dressed in some sort of black and dark grey suit. Kinda like a costume or something."

Loeb held his radio. "Maintain exits. I want a five-block perimeter set up on the outside. I want every person in this building questioned."

Gordon rolled his eyes. Glad to know his boss cared to see that he wasn't killed by a gunshot . . . He wasn't all that surprised that Bullock wasn't called out on his action of shooting the suspect which ultimately caused the suspect to fall through the glass. His mind was too distracted on that other suspect. It was highly suspicious why he was wearing something else other than dark business clothing like those other guys who got themselves killed up here.

The memory of the other suspect consumed his mind. How tall and menacing it appeared, resembling something else entirely than a man. His gut told him that there was no affiliation whatsoever with Hobbs' killer. Whatever it was saved his life by holding him down. Had it not been for that masked attacker, he'd probably be dead. He could've been as good as dead, seeing how the other suspect had an impeccable aim of laying waste to the other men in seconds. It was fast, granted, and maybe that lone couple of seconds did cloud his analysis of the situation. It didn't explain the other suspect in every conceivable way, but this also contradicted Bullock's word that the other suspect killed Hobbs.

He couldn't have killed Hobbs, then, unless the other attacker had a gun of his own. Either way, it wasn't making sense. Why would he kill a lawyer after saving the life of a police officer? Unless he had an agenda of his own that didn't match the other suspects. They were all dead, so none could testify, and one had escaped.