A detective named Andersen took over watching him after Bullock and Tate were called away. Andrei trusted Andersen, knew him as one of those loyal to the badge, and not Berkeley. A knock sounded before the door to the interview room opened and a rookie officer entered, a styrofoam cup in each hand, and a file tucked under one arm. Andrei didn't recognize the dark-haired woman but didn't get that deep in his gut feeling that said she was not trustworthy.
Not everyone worked for Berkeley, after all.
Maroni, Falcone, Penguin, Black Mask all had cops on their payrolls.
Even Dent still had a few contacts in the district attorney's office.
That was how kingpins like them kept ahead of men like Gordon.
Like Batman.
A man they'd all like to see retired.
"Why're you here, Mitchell?" Andersen looked up from the file he had been reading, a frown between his bushy brow. "Didn't the boss tell you to finish up your 5's before heading home?"
Mitchell nodded to the cups she held.
"He told me to bring you and Detective Rolonov a cup of coffee before he left."
Andersen grunted and took the cup she offered. "Thanks."
"Sure."
Mitchell then walked over to set the second cup in front of Andrei. Steam wafted up, carrying the faint hint of freshly brewed coffee and cinnamon. Andrei's lips quirked at Gordon's remembering how he drank his coffee.
"Thank you," he said to the officer, folding his fingers around the cup. "I appreciate the coffee."
"You're welcome." Mitchell turned then to go but stopped as she suddenly remembered the file under her arm. "Sir, I almost forgot..." She held it out to Andersen. "He wanted me to bring you this."
Andersen took it and looked at it. "Sarah Latsky?" He flipped it open and stared at the picture of the woman fastened to one corner. "Her case went cold five years ago when her husband died in that train accident." He looked up. "What's he want me to do with this?"
"He wanted you to go through it and look for any connections there might be to Matthew Berkeley."
"Yeah, alright, sure." Andersen set the file on the table before reaching for the coffee he set aside. "Ain't got anything else to do."
"Passes the time," Andrei said, lifting his own cup to his lips. "Puts Berkeley one step closer to Blackgate."
And the cage he deserves to rot in.
"That's if we can find anything or anyone to... shit, Rolonov, the coffee! Don't drink it!"
It was too late, however.
Andrei grabbed at his throat as it started to burn.
He made a few gurgling sounds before slumping in his seat, dead.
...
Gordon had no trouble maneuvering his unmarked car through the narrow cobblestone streets. Fear for his niece and the Whitly boy kept his wits sharp and his reflexes quick. He wasn't alone in this midtown race. He was in the lead of another unmarked car, three patrol units, and a SWAT vehicle. Sirens howled, tires squealed, and the swirling lights slapped back the dark things playing in the shadows. They zipped past roadblocks setup to keep traffic from using particular streets and on-ramps because of the ice coating the road.
"You think Berkeley is gonna attempt to take the sprocket and Whitly kid tonight?"
"I wouldn't put it past him, Harv."
He wouldn't put anything past Berkeley at that point. Least of all after they found Brady's boy, Seth. Gordon had known the boy was a message. Berkeley was cleaning house. Getting rid of all those who could implicate him.
"Yeah," Bullock said, staring out the front windshield. "Me neither." He slanted at look at him. "Hope Wayne contacted Batman after he talked to you. Gotta feelin' we're gonna need him."
"Batman can't get here." Gordon stepped on the accelerator. "Not in enough time to keep Berkeley from getting his hands on those kids."
"Up to us then."
Gordon grunted an acknowledgement as he screeched around a corner. Cars blocked both sides of traffic ahead. Gordon's jaw clenched, and he was half tempted to speed up and push his way through the blockade. Reality set in, though, and he forced himself to slam to a halt when six men in full riot gear opened fire with machine guns. Bullets pinged and slammed into the tires, blasted off the passenger side mirror, and shattered the back glass.
"Sons of bitches!" Bullock shoved open his car door and leaned out to return fire. One of the armored men screamed and dropped to the ground, clutching his right knee. "Got'chu." The windshield shattered. "Goddamn it!" He fired off another shot. "Just got the car back from the last shootout!"
"This is Berkeley!" Gordon shot one in the arm. "He's making sure we can't get to Wayne Manor!"
"Should have suspected he'd pull something like this!"
Gordon had known deep in his gut Berkeley would pull out all the stops this time.
He couldn't risk another Bellevue happening.
Not when he was so close to his endgame.
"Commissioner," Tate yelled as a bullet grazed his ear. "You need to fall back!"
You can't afford to get shot, Gordon added silently. Not when your niece is counting on you to stop her father from his end goal: killing her and the Whitly boy.
"Harv!" he called. "Fall back!"
"Yeah," Bullock grunted as more bullets pinged off the front grill. "We're just sitting ducks here."
They moved back behind the SWAT van. Gordon mentally counted the number of officers with him as he reloaded. Ten fully rigged riot officers, a handful of uni's, Tate and Renaldo. Plus Harvey and myself.
Twenty officers against six fully trained mercenaries with machine guns.
They had faced worse odds before and came out relatively okay.
Course, they also had Batman and Robin to help.
Well, we don't this time. We only have ourselves.
It be enough.
"Svenson, take a handful of your men and try to get behind these animals. Vachomsky, you and Harris go right with the rest," Gordon snapped in a cool, crisp voice. "I want the rest of you on me."
"Yes, sir."
"I don't have to tell you to be careful, you already know that. I will tell you that this is just the start of whatever Berkeley has planned. Is that understood?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good, let's do this then."
And remember it's to protect two kids from the monster wanting to kill them.
Not that he needed to tell them that.
Their grim expressions said they already knew.
This was a fight to protect one of their own, after all.
They'd do whatever it took to make sure Berkeley didn't get his hands on those kids.
As would he.
Or he'd die trying.
...
In Brooklyn, a semi-truck lumbered to a stop at the intersection where Officer Shandi Cruz, fresh out of the police academy, was directing traffic. She raced out from behind the door of her police cruiser, hunching her shoulders against the bitter cold, and approached the cab of the truck.
"Hey, pal, you gotta wait same as everybody else," she said to the driver right before she took a shotgun blast to her face.
She was dead before her body even hit the ground.
…
Two black SUVs pulled up in front of Wayne Manor at precisely eleven o'clock, and a handful of men, all dressed in black, stepped out. Each one carried a grenade launcher primed with special knockout rounds. Only the leader of the group, a man simply known as Nine, carried a shotgun.
"Boss wants the Whitly kid brought to him with his daughter." Nine racked a shell into the gun's firing chamber. "Preferably unharmed."
"Preferably?" A man at the back of the group asked. "Hell's that mean?"
"Berkeley never makes shit clear," grumbled a man on Nine's right. "Just expects you to know what the hell he wants."
Soft agreements came from the rest of the men. Nine held up a hand to silence them.
"Banged up and bruised is acceptable," he said. "But unharmed is preferred."
"What about the butler Wayne has?" one of the men, a man named Askalov asked. "What's the boss want us to do with him and Wayne's other two brats?"
"The gas will knock 'em out," Nine replied. "Keep 'em from interfering."
"So, we just gonna leave 'em unconscious?"
"Do whatever you want with 'em." His lips twisted into a cold sneer. "Ain't like the Big Man is gonna object if we rough 'em up or anything." There were small murmurs and chuckles from the rest of the men. Nine waved two men towards the massive front door. "Blow it."
"Yes, sir."
They moved to the door and attached an explosive device to it. Leaving little margin for error, they backed away soon as the device was ready.
"All set," the tallest said to Nine. "Got a minute before the charges blow."
Nine nodded. "Seven will blow the doors at the back of the place after we blast open this one."
"Yes, sir."
"Get ready with that knockout gas." Nine shouldered his shotgun. "In case Wayne or one of his brats tries anything."
"Yes, sir." They lifted their grenade launchers. "We await for your signal."
"On three..." He held up three fingers. "One..." They aimed at the house. "Two..." They curled their fingers around the triggers. "Three..."
...
Decker Street, which sat on the line that separated the Narrows from the rest of Gotham, was a crowded block in a poorer section of the city, with rundown buildings, broken sidewalks, potholes in the asphalt, and street-lamps that flickered off more than stayed on. Garbage piled up in alleyways and on the front stoops of the dilapidated browstones. Icy sludge swirled around sewer grates and the curbs. No children played the myriad of games others their age did in this part of town.
For good reason.
There was not a city funded spot with basketball courts or a baseball diamond.
There was not even a strip of green for a jungle gym or swing-set.
A vacant lot commissioned for a playground had been turned into one of the dozens of homeless encampments.
It was a sad, depressing, and disturbing representation of the socioeconomic differences that affected the various boroughs of the city.
Not that those down at city hall cared. Gotham's officials handled the problem of poverty in their city by ignoring it. Two plainclothes detectives left a brown sedan illegally parked in front of a three-story building smack dab in the middle of the block. They went loping up the steps before the engine even had a chance to stop sputtering.
Nikolai Rolonov, wearing jeans and a heavy wool sweater, opened the door, and listened as the two explained why they were there.
"Andrei has turned himself in?" He shook his head. "The fool. I told him we would find a way to handle this on our own."
"He's asked you to come down to the station," one said.
"To give a corroborating statement," added the other.
"Yes, yes, of course he did." Nikolai turned to grab his gloves and hat from the table next to the door. "I will come with you."
Flanked by the two detectives, who scanned the adjoining buildings and street while holding their pistols, they ushered him into the backseat of the sedan.
"We're heading for the GCPD?" he asked as they climbed into the front. "You'll want to take Cicero back to avoid the construction on Third."
Orange flames spouted from underneath the car as it was lifted off the pavement by the force of the explosion.
...
There was nothing remotely peaceful about Alfred's evening. Not when he had three sixteen year olds, an eleven year old, and an eccentric employer to care for. Miss Raya and Master Malcolm proved the easiest to deal with. Grilled cheese, gingerbread cookies, and movies kept them occupied. He opted to send Master Dick to the Cave to let the boy work out his restlessness in the gym. Master Jason decided to closet himself off in the armory.
Alfred might have been nervous about that if he didn't know the boy was hiding in there while restoring a vintage music box he found while at a junk sale last month. His lips curled as he recalled the eagerness in which Master Jason plunked the two dollars onto the plastic table and told a startled Mrs. Beasley, "I'll take it."
He hadn't known what the boy wanted with the shabby box until he spied the miniature ballerina lying on the bottom. It wasn't often that a member of this family managed to surprise him, but Master Jason's thoughtfulness managed to do just that.
Not that he allowed the boy to know.
There were appearances to maintain, after all.
Master Bruce, it seemed, was the one set on shocking him that evening.
In a good way for a change.
Master Bruce calling to tell him he choose to stay and enjoy the company of Miss Jessica pleased Alfred. Not only because it meant he decided not to return as he originally intended to prowl the city but that he remembered there was more to life than crime fighting. Alfred often lamented about how his employer never enjoyed a quiet evening with a lovely young woman, choosing instead to traipse around Gotham in pursuit of one of the nefarious villains lurking in the shadows.
He sometimes wondered if Master Bruce knew how to stop and appreciate the beauty found in the world. If his employer thought about this holiday – indeed, any holiday, for that matter - in terms of Bruce Wayne instead of Batman was a matter of considerable debate. Whenever Master Bruce chose to do something that was outside his role as the city's silent protector was a rarity. Alfred learned years ago that it was useless to ask him if he remembered there was more to life than Batman.
The answer was always a terse, "No."
Same as asking him if he remembered this time of year was for peace, joy, and happiness.
Family and friends.
Togetherness.
It wasn't that his employer didn't remember what time of year this was.
It was that Master Bruce believed he couldn't have a life outside the cape and cowl.
"My duty is to Gotham, Alfred."
It had been on the tip of his tongue to remind him his duty was to the three children wanting to celebrate the holiday with him. Same as he used to celebrate with his mother and father.
Do you recall how your mother would sit at the grand piano and play while your father read A Christmas Carol in his rich baritone?
The same velvety tone his son had. It was just one of the physical traits Master Bruce inherited from Thomas Wayne.
Not that Alfred bothered to ask if Master Bruce saw any of his mother and father in him when he looked in the mirror. He had a feeling the answer to that question would be a harsh, "No."
Master Bruce could be quite predictable about how he chose to respond to certain lines of questioning. Ask him a question related to one of his latest cases or a newly developed piece of technology and he could talk for hours and in the most intricate of detail. Question him about anything personal and he would clam up tighter than a shell. Why shouldn't I question him, though? he mused as he finished drying the last of the dinner dishes. It wasn't like he couldn't speak his mind.
He was not, after all, the mere "butler" for the most affluent man in Gotham.
Nor was his employer any sort of "regular" employer.
He and Master Bruce never had a "normal" employer-employee relationship. How could they when he became guardian of the boy when he was nine-years-old? The same age as Master Dick and Miss Raya when Master Bruce became theirguardian.
Speaking of children...
He should go check on them.
Alfred turned to exit the kitchen, deciding to go check on Master Jason in the armory before returning to make a spot of tea for himself and Master Malcolm to share. He mentally added a third cup, along with a plate of the oatmeal raisin cookies he baked that afternoon for Miss Raya.
Her favorite because they're Master Bruce's favorite, he thought, lips twitching as he made his way past the grand staircase. He froze when he heard voices on the upstairs landing.
"She's totes like Bruce." Master Richard's tone was a cheeky one. Alfred could imagine a grin spread across his face. "Just cuter and cuddlier."
An aggrieved sigh pierced the air before Miss Raya grumbled, "Hush up, Grayson."
"Make me."
There was a ffff sound. "I'll just have Jason get you for me."
Master Richard scoffed. "That's cheating."
"Yeah, and?"
"And it's not allowed!"
"Says who?"
"Says me!"
I wonder what this particular disagreement is about? With Master Richard and Miss Raya, there were more than a few possibilities. None Alfred had time to consider as the world around him suddenly exploded in a maelstrom of plaster, wood, dust, and other debris.
Pain exploded behind his eyes as something heavy hit him in the back of the back of the head.
Alfred's world went bright.
Then dark.