Do I remain here in New York as planned or do I find somewhere else to go?
Horacio Caldera pondered that as he entered his study a little after ten that night. Should he stay here in New York City, where he stood a good chance of being found by one of the Court's expertly trained henchmen or should he leave the city, heading for somewhere with less potential for discovery?
To many, the answer would seem like a simple one. For Horacio, it was anything but. Leaving the city not only came with the question of where to go but where to go that was safe. The possibilities of what places filled both criteria played through Horacio's mind as he took a seat at his antique desk.
The Court had eyes and ears everywhere. Government, law enforcement, business, and finance, there wasn't a bureaucracy, organization, or institution in the world the Court didn't have members or associates.
That the ruthless cabal hadn't managed to find out he was hiding here in New York amazed him. He chalked it up to luck more than anything. The risk of discovery had always been high. The potential ramifications of his decision heavy on his mind. Horacio had no choice, though. He couldn't continue working for such a ruthless bunch.
He had to run.
The protection offered him by the city's inept police department if he talked guaranteed death. Not even the venerable Dark Knight would be able to keep the Court from sinking their talons into him.
No, his only hope for survival was to find somewhere the Court didn't have any influence or member representation. A task made increasingly difficult because there were few places the Court didn't have some form of representation or control. Here in New York, alone, they had over two dozen associates and seated members, the most dangerous being Nicholas Endicott.
Horacio thankfully had only dealt once with the man. Cold, calculating, cruel. Those were the words that sprang to mind whenever he thought about Endicott. A man one did not cross. Ruthless in business and his personal life. Failures were dealt with swiftly and brutally. Betrayals a death sentence.
The systemic decimation of the Whitly family proved how far Endicott would go when seeking vengeance. Of course, Horacio also knew this was about more than teaching Martin Whitly a lesson. No, Endicott was also acting on orders from the Court. What those orders were, he couldn't be sure. Horacio suspected, though, they stemmed from the events that happened seventeen years ago.
Where my service to the Court began.
Horacio clicked on his desk lamp as he recalled the cataclysmic earthquake that rocked Gotham. The devastation of the quake and subsequent actions of the United States government in declaring Gotham as No Man's Land threatened the Court with exposure.
The Court called on him to erase their involvement with Matthew Berkeley and Nicholas Endicott. He destroyed the books, got rid of the paperwork that proved the organization funded a secret network of killers, hired the man who worked with the Surgeon to get rid of the bodies the Talons left in their wake.
What choice did he have, though? When the Court calls on you, they not only expect you to answer but to comply with their request, as well.
His biggest mistake was believing he'd be free of the Court once he finished with what they asked of him. Nobody left the Court's service.
Not alive, anyway.
The few before him who tried all died horrible, excruciatingly painful deaths. A shudder ran through Horacio as he remembered the ways some died. Electrocuted, suffocated, burned, drowned, eviscerated... avoiding any of those as his own fate was his top priority.
To do that, though, he needed to find a place where the Court couldn't find him, and Talons couldn't easily invade. Ittoqqortoormiit, Kerguelen Island, Oymyakon, Easter Island... where can I go they can't find me? There were not a whole lot of places for him to pick from that the Court couldn't dispatch one of their many Talons.
Perhaps I should be considering places like Antarctica or Siberia...
Yes, he realized, excitement pulsing beneath his skin. Talons couldn't function in extremely cold climates. Their physiology didn't allow it. Freezing them was one of the few ways, next to incinerating them, to stop the bastards. Yes, perhaps a cold climate is my best bet for surviving...
The question was: where? He needed somewhere Talons couldn't get to him, but which wasn't completely isolated from anything resembling society. Horacio got up to retrieve a book from his bookshelf but froze when an icy voice spoke behind him.
"Horacio Caldera."
Fear crashed over him in great big waves, sucking the air from his lungs, and almost folding his legs beneath him. No, was Horacio's first thought after his mind started functioning again. It can't be Talon. It can't be. I was so careful!
Clearly, he hadn't been as cautious as he believed.
Foolishly, almost desperately, Horacio hoped; prayed it was Batman or one of his winged brats here to take him back to Gotham so he could answer for his role in the deaths of so many innocent people. He stood a chance of surviving the night if it was any of Gotham's costumed do-gooders come for him. They could be reasoned with.
Talons didn't listen to reason.
They didn't listen to anyone but the Court.
"Turn around," the assassin ordered.
Horacio wet his dry lips with his tongue as he slowly turned to face the ominous figure. "Why are you here?"
A bluff, sure. Dangerous given the figure lurking in the shadows behind him. A being deadlier even than Deathstroke.
And that's saying something given how dangerous Slade Wilson is...
"The Court has sent me to express their disappointment with your decision to terminate your services."
Horacio's heart dropped into his stomach. Terminate his services. He had known this would be their decision once his defection became known. There was no negotiating with the Court of Owls. There'd be no reprieves.
Once the Judge of Owls decided my fate...
They dispatched this expertly trained assassin to carry out their sentence.
Horacio stared at the object standing between him and his only real means of escape.
The double window behind him the other, less desirable option.
Metal-rimmed goggles with yellow, circular lenses and a black cowl with a jagged beak for a nose gave the imposing figure an eerie, owl-like visage.
Who was beneath that cowl?
Horacio didn't know.
Not that it mattered in the end who his executioner was.
It wouldn't save him from the deadly fate awaiting him. It wasn't like they'd answer to their former name if he used it. They were called Talon.
It was all they responded to.
As they had been programmed to do.
Talon wore his black body armor with the same comfort and ease Batman wore his. That protective outer layer rendered the gun in the top drawer of his desk useless. Even if he could get a decent shot off, the rapid healing ability his nocturnal visitor possessed would only grant him a few extra seconds.
Seconds that he couldn't use to either buy himself any sort of a reprieve or make an actual escape.
The black-leather bandolier slung diagonally across his would-be assassin's chest bore testament to what his likely end would be if he tried to make a run for the door. A half-dozen gleaming metal throwing knives with one more in a sheath at his hip sent chills down Horacio's spine.
Two scabbards crossed each other atop Talon's back, the hilts of the swords forming an X above his shoulders. Steel gauntlets with razor-sharp claws resembled the talons of the particular bird the Court chose for its mascot: an owl.
One didn't live in Gotham without acquiring a working knowledge about the city's infamous menaces. He could name dozens of times where the likes of the Joker, Poison Ivy, and Scarecrow terrorized the city. They had nothing on the Court who used architecture and assassins like these to wield their power and influence. A nursery rhyme passed down through generations gave the clandestine cabal an almost fairytale-like quality:
Beware The Court of Owls, that watches all the time, ruling Gotham from a shadow perch, behind granite and lime. They watch you at your hearth, they watch you in your bed, speak not a whispered word of them or they'll send The Talon for your head.
And a Talon they did send.
"Sit." Talon indicated the high-backed wood chair in front of the desk. "Now."
Horacio dropped into the chair without qualm or complaint. What else could he do? It wasn't like he could stand up and fight this merciless killer. Even Batman had difficulty against these mercenaries.
"I-I don't understand what you mean by terminating my services." Prevaricate. Deflect. Feign confusion. A gamble, sure. It wasn't like Horacio had anything to lose. His life hung in the balance either way. "I never left the Court's service."
Talon didn't reply. He simply paced back and forth behind his chair, further unnerving Horacio more than he was already.
As the bastard intended.
His mouth went dry as a fingernail scraped the back of the chair. His limbs turned to rubber. He was acutely aware of how empty this house was. There was nobody to hear him scream.
His wife, Marta, divorced him over ten years ago. His only other family was his son, Miguel. Miggy was safe, though. He lived in Brooklyn with his wife, Sunny, and their newborn baby, Jackie.
"Please," he whimpered as Talon bumped his chair. "Just make it quick. That's all I ask."
"We're going to have a conversation before I carry out your sentence." The avian mask concealed the man's expression, but not his harsh tone. "About your son."
"Miguel?" Horacio blinked in surprise. "What does he have to do with this?"
A dry chuckle escaped Talon. "Don't you know? The Court has figured out another way to bring Barbatos from the Dark Multiverse."
Horacio didn't understand what Miguel had to do with the centuries-old prophecy. Something he conveyed to the dark figure looming over him. "Miguel cannot help the Court bring Barbatos here."
"He is your firstborn son." A long finger tapped the silver frame. "As your granddaughter is his firstborn daughter."
Tears slicked Horacio's cheeks as his gaze strayed to the silver frame perched on the corner of his desk. Miguel smiled back at him as he held his wife and newborn daughter. Happy, carefree, unaware of the judgment passed down on him.
That his son and granddaughter would be killed by this diabolical assassin so the Court could bring the Bat-God here scraped away what little remained of his nerves.
"Please, no." As if pleading with this figure would accomplish anything. Still, Horacio tried. For Miggy and for the granddaughter he had never even met. "They don't need to die to bring the Bat-God here. I will do whatever the Judge asks of me if he will spare their lives."
"The Judge disagrees." Talon drew one of the knives from his bandolier. "The Judge's word is final."
"Fenix!" he screeched. "She can bring Barbatos here!"
"How?"
"She's a descendant of Lydia Doyle."
Horacio didn't know if that was true or not, but he recalled a conversation he overheard between the Grandmaster and Matthew Berkeley. About his daughter being descended from a woman with the ability to harness what he called the "burning sickness."
"I shall inform the Judge."
"No, pleas—!"
He didn't get the chance to finish that final plea.