His wife, Gabrielle, loved to tell him he wasn't paid enough for the shit he put up with. Most often, he disagreed with her. Then he had nights like this one where he had to listen to the mad ravings of a man who liked hearing himself speak on good days.
"He's going to kill my son!" Whitly yelled for what Mr. David believed was the thousandth time in the span of two hours. "He's going to kill him!"
Mr. David, long accustomed to Martin Whitly's erratic moods and behaviors didn't bother looking up from his magazine. He had known he was in for a long night after the letter Whitly received. Why the doctor reacted the way he did was beyond him.
Not that he was paid to figure out why Martin Whitly said or did any of the things he did.
"He's going to kill my son!" A raw, desperate edge made Whitly's voice thin, reedy. If Mr. David didn't know better, he'd almost believe the man truly was terrified about the perceived danger to his son. Almost. "I have to stop him! I can't let him take my son from me!"
You'll get out of here when pigs fly and a monkey is voted the undisputed ruler of the New World Order, Mr. David thought, turning the page.
Martin Whitly getting free concerned everyone. Not only because the man was a notorious serial killer but because of the harm he could cause his son, Malcolm. That's why Mr. David phoned Jessica Whitly. To warn her as much as make sure she keep her son away from his father.
"He's going to kill him! He's going to kill my son!"
Whitly went right on ranting and raving.
Mr. David continued reading while waiting for the lorazepam the doctor gave Whitly to finally kick in.
When it did, he'd finally have some peace and quiet.
God knows he more than deserved it.
Along with a raise, he decided as he flipped to an article on fly fishing.
Gabrielle was right there, he deserved one.
Not that he was going to tell her that.
There was already no living with her.
….
A line of police cars greeted Gil when he turned onto the street that led to the Gotham turnpike. A sliver of unease rolled through him as he stared at the flashing lights. Something wasn't right. He didn't even want to hazard a guess as to what. Traffic accidents tended to spike at this time of year. The concept or slowing down and driving safe simply didn't occur to some people. Gil loved his car too much to drive stupidly. He pulled up behind one squad car and exited his vehicle.
"Storm cause an accident?" he asked the uniformed officer standing by the front of the black and white cruiser.
"A guy in a semi shot an officer in the face before turning the gun on himself."
Horror and disbelief crashed over Gil. Murder-suicide was not uncommon at this time of year. The holidays brought out the best and worst in people. Still, a murder-suicide in the middle of a busy street was unusual.
Even for New York.
"What?" He managed around the chunk of ice lodged in his throat. "An officer was shot?" A nod was confirmation. "What officer? Do you know their name?"
Are they from Gotham?
Gil didn't ask that aloud.
He feared the answer he'd receive.
Not that the one he got was any better.
"It was Shandi Cruz from the 2-7."
"Cruz?" His brow furrowed. "Isn't her dad in narcotics?"
"Yeah, Luis is gonna be devastated 'bout this." The officer's sigh fogged the icy air. "Shandi wasn't even supposed to work tonight. Was pulling a double 'cause half the precinct came down with a case of food poisoning this afternoon."
Something told Gil there was more to that food poisoning story than met the eye. He made a note to investigate it after he made sure Malcolm was safe and sound.
"Is the Lincoln tunnel clear?"
"Last I heard." A frown creased the officer's brow. "Why?"
"I need to get to Gotham."
And sooner rather than later...
Gil turned to walk back to his car but stopped when he spied the man striding towards him. Bruce Wayne reminded Gil of a jaguar stalking its prey in the dim shadows. Anyone who thought the man nothing but a drunken wastrel clearly wasn't paying close enough attention. The keen intellect in those electric eyes, the ripple of muscle beneath his expensive suit, and that lethal gait all spoke of a man who lived something other than a sedentary lifestyle.
"You got caught, too?" he said once Bruce drew abreast of him. "I was about to head for the Lincoln tunnel."
"It's blocked off." Those eyes met his, spoke volumes. Gil swallowed the choice words that sprang to his tongue. Bruce glanced behind Gil. "What about here?"
"Same."
"Berkeley." A low growl escaped Bruce. "He's doing everything he can to keep us from getting to Wayne Manor."
"He hasn't blocked off all roads. Not just yet." Gil indicated his car. "Get in. Still got one road we can take."
I just hope Berkeley hasn't thought of it...
If he had...
Gil didn't let himself finish that thought.
…
Dazed from the blow to the back of his head, Alfred struggled to hang on to consciousness. Rough hands rolled him over onto his back. A bright bite of pain ripped across the back of his head. Pride kept him from groaning.
"Who'd ya find?" an unfamiliar voice rasped. "Wayne?"
"Looks like it's his butler."
"Yeah?" Boots crunched the debris covering the floor he washed himself that afternoon. "He alive?"
Deciding it best to play possum given his condition, Alfred cracked his eyelids open just enough to make out the blurry figure leaning over him. Fresh pine and the stale stench of cigarettes invaded his nostrils.
It took all of Alfred's willpower to not curl his lips in disgust.
"Butler's alive." The mercenary turned his head to stare at his partner. "What'aya think we should do with 'im?"
The second came forward to join the first. Where the first mercenary was tall and lanky with a shock of red-orange hair, the second was shorter, broader, and bald. A scar zigzagged one cheek. Alfred didn't bother to guess as to how he acquired it.
"I say we waste 'im."
"Huh." The first mercenary scratched the back of his neck. Not the sharpest of the pair, Alfred decided. "Nine didn't outright say we could kill 'im or the other two brats."
"Didn't say we couldn't, either."
The first squinted his good eye. "Good point."
He reached for the gun at his hip but a figure dropped behind him and grabbed the back of his head before he could pull it.
"What the...?" was as far as he got before he found his head slammed against the head of the second mercenary.
Both dropped without making a sound.
"So is it just me..." Alfred stared up into Master Richard's smiling face. "Or are the bad guys getting dumber?"
Alfred sniffed as he accepted Master Richard's hand. His head swam once he got to his feet, and his stomach pitched but he stiffened his spine. There would be time later to deal with his maladies. For now, there were four children in his care he needed to worry about.
"Where are Miss Raya and Master Malcolm?" he asked, tone clipped. "Master Jason?"
"I sent Raya down to the Cave with Malcolm."
"It is the best place to send the boy," Alfred agreed. "And Master Jason?"
"Right here, Alfie." Master Jason materialized on his left side. "No need to worry yourself."
"I'll always worry, my dear boy," Alfred told him. "Now, let's get down to the Cave before anyone decides to come check on their comrades."
"I gotta way to stop 'em if they do."
"How?" Master Richard asked, eyebrow arching.
Master Jason held up a grenade launcher with a pleased as punch expression on his face. "This'll stop 'em dead in their tracks."
Alfred didn't bother to ask how the boy acquired the weapon.
He just confiscated it.
…
The mercenaries forced him and Raya down the stairs and out into the cold night. A gasp escaped Malcolm as the biting air hit him. His thin cotton night pants, socks, and light sweater were scant protection from the frigid temperature. He glanced at Raya. Nothing showed on her face but a glacier calm.
Save for her eyes.
They glowed with the same mystic force they had that night at the docks. And again in my hospital room at Bellevue, he realized as he was shoved roughly towards an SUV parked at the front gates. Pieces of a puzzle Malcolm had been handed but not put in their proper places fit themselves together, revealing a picture that rocked him to the core of his being.
Raya was Fenix.
It explained the physical similarities; the mental.
Why Fenix moved with the grace of a ballerina.
Why Raya fought with the fierceness of a lioness protecting her cubs.
They were one and the same.
That thought was quickly replaced by another, more damning one: he got her captured.
His fault.
This was all his fault.
Had he turned his father in sooner...
"Ah, but you see," his father said from inside the back of the SUV he was led too, "turning me in wouldn't have stopped her mother from being, uh, well killed by her father."
Much as Malcolm hated to admit it, his father was right.
Turning Martin Whitly in wouldn't have stopped Matthew Berkeley from murdering his wife. It also wouldn't have prevented Raya from becoming Fenix. She became a hero because of what happened to her mom, he realized as he was roughly shoved into the back of the SUV. Malcolm expected Raya would be pushed in the back with him but let out a protest when he saw her being led to a second SUV a short distance away.
"No!"
His outburst earned him a cuff to the side of his head that had him hearing bells.
"Don't fight, Malcolm," Raya urged him. "Just don't fight."
Not that he could with stars dancing behind his eyes. The doors were slammed shut. The ride across Gotham passed in a blur. Malcolm prayed for Batman, Gil, Commissioner Gordon, anyone to save them.
Nobody did.
Fear wrapped itself around Malcolm's throat and cinched tight. The dark things inside his head laughed and jeered.
His heart pounded; his blood pumped.
His breath came in short, shallow pants.
His vision frayed at the corners.
He needed to get out of that SUV and as far away from these men as he could. A quick look convinced Malcolm he could get the door open. All he needed to do was twist to his side, grab the handle, and shove. Rolling out as the SUV barreled down an empty street at ninety miles an hour? Well, it gave him a moments pause. He'd risk the pain, even death, if it gave Raya an opportunity to escape. I don't want her hurt, he decided, firming his jaw. Not because of me.
Before he could make good on his decision, the SUV screamed to a stop. Malcolm was thrown against the side of the car. He grunted as his head slammed against the window. Pain exploded across the back of his head, left him seeing brightly colored balls, and fighting back the bile that foamed into his mouth. Rough hands grabbed him, drug him from the SVU. Malcolm struggled against their hands and earned a hard slap to the head for it.
"Leave him alone!"
"Be quiet or we'll do a lot worse to him."
Malcolm tried to send Raya a reassuring smile but he was hauled away before he could. A chill streaked through him as they entered a dank set of tunnels. A thick slime coated the crumbling brick walls. Rats and other things he didn't want to think about scurried in the shadows. Raw sewage coursed through an endless sea of drains, the putrid odor turning his stomach into a volcano waiting to erupt. Bile rose at the back of his throat, choking him.
Not that his tormentors cared.
They continued dragging Malcolm through this labyrinthine-like maze. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't keep track of all the twists and turns. Where they were going, he didn't know. They were far below ground, though. The dropping temperature and sound of water from somewhere close-by confirmed that. Globe lanterns provided enough light to navigate the slippery walkways by. Especially since the rusted, rickety guardrails didn't look trustworthy. Malcolm entered a large chamber where two men, their lean and well-muscles bodies bathed in a thick sheen of sweat, loaded crates onto a roll cart. The workers stopped briefly to watch them, eyes narrowed into thin slits. They resumed their labors after a sharp word from the dark-skinned man who gripped his arm.
Malcolm was forced down another level to where a large plume of water cascaded into an underground river. A bridge had been fashioned to safely cross back and forth across the slow moving water. His breath fogged the air as he was forced across, the temperature near freezing. The cavern had been converted into some sort of importing and exporting hub. Dozens of metal boxes, most Malcolm suspected containing the weapons Gil told him about, were stockpiled on the other side of the river.
Kids in torn and stained clothing, faces ash gray, and fear burning in the eyes that briefly met were loaded onto one of the six watercraft tied up at the makeshift dock. More were loaded into boats docked on the opposite bank. Their destinations were not something he wanted to think about. Armed men in GCPD riot gear eyed him with unholy amusement as they allowed them to pass. Malcolm's temper surged but spluttered out when he spotted the tall, well-dressed man standing with his back turned at the railing. The light from the hanging lanterns added hints of caramel to the man's neatly cropped dark hair.
Malcolm didn't have to see his face to know who he was.
Matthew Berkeley.
Raya's father.
Birth father, he corrected as Berkeley glanced at him with eyes that were nothing but empty, black pools. Not even his father had eyes like this man's.
"Why have you brought them here?" His silky purr skittered along Malcolm's already frayed nerves. "Were my instructions not clear?"
Malcolm was shoved to the ground at his feet. "Your instructions were to bring you the Whitly boy and your daughter."
Berkeley turned to fully face him. He did not look pleased. "I wanted them taken to Berkeley Estate."
"You didn't specify that in our conversation."
"I should not have needed to specify where I desired them taken." Berkeley's full mouth thinned into a cold, hard line. "You should have known and taken them there."
"Should have hired smarter mercenaries," Raya said.
"Still have not learned to curb that tongue, Princess."
"I'm chatty." Raya folded her arms across her chest, notched her chin, and splayed her feet apart. A battle stance if Malcolm ever saw one. "It's part of my charm."
"I'd remember who stands to be hurt if you don't mind your manners."
Malcolm's heart stopped at those chilling words.
"You seem to be under the assumption that I'll allow you to hurt Malcolm."
Berkeley chuckled darkly. "And how do you plan on stopping me?"
"Not me." A smirk tilted Raya's lips. "Batman."
"The winged freak won't find you in time."
"Oh, there you're wrong." Raya fingered the necklace around her neck. "See, Batman knows exactly where we are." Her eyes met Malcolm's. Conveyed a request for him to remain silent. Not that she needed to ask. He had no desire to bring any unnecessary attention to himself. "He's heading this way even as we speak."
Berkeley swung around to look at the tall, lanky man. "You did not search her before bringing her here?"
"I did not," the man admitted, suddenly looking ill at ease. "There was no—"
"I expressly told you to check my daughter for tracking devices." Fury rippled in every word. "Batman is no fool. He'd have made sure to place some sort of tracking device on her."
"But you were a fool, weren't you?" Berkeley's mouth peeled back in a snarl as he turned back to Raya. It was a look Malcolm recognized. One that filled him with terror and dread. Raya, on the other-hand, continued as if they were not in mortal danger. "You trusted Martin Whitly to murder me and my mother but he couldn't, could he? I looked too much like her. A mirror image. Much as he thinks his son is of him."
Berkeley took a menacing step towards her. "An issue I will soon correct when I get rid of him." A pause. Then he hissed, "And you."
Desperation surged inside Malcolm. He needed to do something; anything. It didn't matter what happened to him, he couldn't — wouldn't — allow Berkeley to kill Raya. He glanced around for something to use as a weapon. There was nothing. Well, he amended as he glanced at the guns the officers were holding. There are those.
They were not an option.
Not unless he wanted to end up shot full of holes before he could help Raya.
"You've tried to get rid of me for years," Raya sneered. "You—"
Malcolm let out a gasp as Berkeley slapped her, hard, across the face. Tremors rocketed through his hands and up his arms, as well as through his knees. He shoved down his fear and panic and made to get to his feet but Raya stopped him with a shake of the head.
"Don't."
"But—"
"We fall." She moved her eyes to the churning water. "We rise."
Malcolm picked up on her subtle clue. Fall off the bridge into the water that churned a few feet below and swim to safety.
It was a risky move.
They could drown or freeze to death.
Either was preferable to whatever Berkeley planned for them.
Malcolm cautiously turned his head to make sure nobody was paying any attention.
Nobody was.
Their attention was firmly fixed on Raya and her father.
This is it, he told himself sternly. This is our one and only chance to get out of this situation alive.
Before Malcolm could surge to his feet and throw himself off the bridge into the foaming water below, the ground beneath him emitted a long, loud groan. Nervous cries and shouts sounded from the other tunnels as it started to violently shake.
Metal whined; twisted.
Wood cracked; splintered.
Rock broke; fell.
The bridge tilted as the ground undulated in one long wave. People started to scatter as they realized the danger they were in. Malcolm watched, horribly transfixed as a huge chunk of the ceiling started to come loose. We're gonna be crushed to death, he realized as small pebbles pelted his face. It's not bullets or knives that will get us.
No, it was an act of nature.
A hand grabbed his arm.
"Malcolm, come on!" He was pulled down a set of stairs to the dock right as the ceiling started coming down. Berkeley's howl of shock and rage mixed with Raya's, "Jump!"
Malcolm did as she commanded. Not like he had any other choice. It was a choice between hyperthermia, drowning or being crushed to death.
The first two came with a slim chance of survival.
The last not so much.
He instantly sank beneath the surface. Malcolm was a moderately decent swimmer when fear wasn't trembling through his limbs. The waters freezing temperature also didn't help. The shock of it left him gasping. Water gushed into his mouth and filled his nostrils, making him gag.
Panic set in, turned his limbs to jelly. His lungs started to burn. His vision slid from red to gray to black. Before he lost consciousness a hand grabbed hold of him and pulled him up. Up towards salvation.
And desperately needed air.
"I've got you," he heard Raya over the buzzing filling his head. "I've got you."
The current caught a hold of them then and carried them into a long, dark tunnel.
Malcolm prayed it was towards salvation and not the damnation he deserved.