Chapter One
Removing the cigarette from his lips, Andrew Russoti exhaled. Smoke wafted into the night, snaking and twisting and writhing like a stripper on the pole. His throat felt like it was on fire. His stomach growled in agony. Cigarettes, cheap beer and pastries were not a good combination Not this late. Never this late.
"You good, Russoti?"
Ray Salinger was a large man. Tall and broad, he was a bruiser dressed in dark blue denim and black leather. The face was grizzled and worn, stained with acne scars. Rubbing his large hands together, he managed a polite smile. Two gold teeth shone bright in the gloom, drenched with flickering neon.
"Yeah, sure. I'm good."
Andrew Russoti looked up at the night sky. Black as ink, stained with gray fog. From where he stood, the zeppelins looked miniscule as they hovered above the city like vultures. On the other side of the street, business was in full swing. Then again, it never really stopped. Not here. After all, the Bowery was a red light district - and prostitution was a way of life. Nothing more, nothing less.
"Steiss vouched for you. He made a lot of money on that armored car you helped turn over. Good work on that one, slick."
"Appreciate it."
"Yeah, well - you're in the big leagues now. You understand? You've made it. So you know what that means. No fucking around. This is serious shit."
"Sure, I understand."
Salinger turned to face Russoti. He seemed strained, devoid of mirth. This was strange. Out of character for the jovial grunt. It made Russoti nervous, but he kept his composure. The smoking helped.
"All you have to do is keep your mouth shut, listen and follow orders. You do that, you make money. Got that?"
Russoti nodded. Twirling the cigarette between his fingers, he savored the smoke residing in his lungs. It was comforting. Soothing. A perfect distraction.
"You fuck up, you dissapear. Simple as that. Nothing personal. That's just how it is. Rules are rules."
"I understand."
Salinger seemed satisfied. Turning away, he seemed to relax. Eyeing the horde of prostitutes with hungry eyes, he rubbed his chin and smiled at Russoti. "Alright, then. You got any other questions?"
"No, sir."
"Attaboy. Now scram. I'll call you when you're needed."
"Sure. Again, thank you. Appreciate it."
"Don't sweat it, kid."
Nodding at each other, the two men separated. Salinger turned on the charm and made a beeline for the young blonde on the edge of the pavement, petite and garishly colored. Few words were exchanged. The terms were negotiated. And just like that, Salinger and his young woman dissapeared into the derelict apartment building.
Noting the battered neon sign and the fraying paint on the walls, Russoti shook his head. He dropped the cigarette and stepped on it. Then he turned and walked down the street, tucking his hands inside the pockets of his leather jacket.
It was victory. Month after month of grunt work, thankless hours and patience - it was victory. The foot was in the door. The hard shell had been penatrated through a miniscule hole. One that would grow and widen to expose the vulnerable and soft interior...now that he was in the big leagues, as Salinger put it.
"You want me to suck you off, honey?"
"Gangrene lunch. Carrot sink. The baby's lemon. No spider, nasty. Violin."
"Hey, man - spare some change? I ain't eat nothin' for the last two days -"
"The end is nigh, brothers and sisters. Yes, the Lord is coming - fire and brimstone will rain upon the sinners, they will be crushed under the heel of the Almighty - the sinners will be cast away -"
Once upon a time, Russoti had dreamed of leaving Gotham behind. The city was a breeding ground for apathy and sin - cold, constantly battered by rain and fog, crumbling to pieces with each passing second...nobody would've blamed him. And then things changed. He didn't want to leave.
Tossing loose change into the empty cup near the homeless man, Russoti turned the corner. His car was parked on the empty space between two derelict apartment buildings, long gone to seed. The windows were mostly gone, replaced by sheets of rotting cardboard. The empty space was once destined to become another apartment building, only to be forgotten and discarded entirely.
Reaching into his pocket for the keys, Russoti stopped. Something was off. Prickles stood up on the back of his neck. An involuntary chill ran through his body. It was not the cool breeze. Born and raised in Gotham, he was desensitized. It didn't bother him.
He had been followed. He hadn't noticed.
Almost instantly, Russoti turned to face his stalker. The man was dressed in ulitarian clothing - gray cargo pants, combat boots and a tattered black leather jacket thrown over a burgundy shirt with a three button collar.
Squinting in the gloom, Russoti tried to find the stalker's face. He failed. The blank surface of dark red cotton stared back at Russoti - a tight stocking mask that clung to the stalker's head and face, obscuring anything remotely human.
"What the fuck -"
A phone call at 4AM was rarely a good thing.
More often than not, it was a harbinger of doom - like storm clouds...growing larger and larger with each passing second, getting closer and closer. For Captain James Gordon, this was nothing strange. For the most part - unfortunately - it had become the norm.
Running on caffeine and three hours of sleep, Gordon felt like he'd been hit by a freight train. The withering look of disapproval on his wife's face hadn't helped - neither did the dull ache between his ears. He was not a young man, but it'd be a cold day in hell before he let himself come to terms with the fact.
"Give me the rundown, Merkel."
Detective Stanley Merkel was a young man of average height and stature. The cherubic face looked haunted as he replied to Gordon's question, staring at the CSI team as they worked - gently tending to Andrew Russoti's corpse.
"Like I said, Captain. He was supposed to page me after the sit-down with Salinger. Never happened. I figured he was buzzed, holed up at the apartment..."
"Who called it in?"
"Anonymous tip."
Merkel paused, wiping the back of his mouth. Gordon stared at him. Behind him, uniformed officers struggled to keep the curious dwellers of the neighbourhood away from the crime scene. It was only a few hours away from daybreak - and yet, a few mothers had arrived to witness the carnage with their young children. A couple of teenagers watched in grim curiosity, smoking quietly. Every now and then, the errant off duty dockworker would have to be shoved back by an uniformed officer with a strong rebuke.
"Don't push me, asshole -"
"You want to lose teeth, hoss? Try that again -"
Blue and red flickered across the street, glistening in the damp. The Bowery was awake. It was haunting, strange and eeire. Shoving his hands deep within the pockets of his brown trenchcoat, he looked at Andrew Russoti.
The skin had gone pale. The eyes were open, glassily staring at the sky above. The cruel wound on his neck was deep and raw. His rigid fingers were locked in place, facial features twisted into an expression that was both mournful and serene. The concrete beside his corpse was covered in blood, mixed with rainwater.
"Someone needs to call his wife."
"I was with him at the Academy, sir. I'll do it."
"Good man."
The hustle and bustle of the crime scene was nothing new. Gordon had seen his fair share. It was all part of the protocol, same song and dance. But there was something different about this one. Every cop knew it - it hung over the place like the stench of rotting flesh, obvious and claustrophobic.
Like that damned phone call, Gordon could sense it.The harbinger of doom. Storm clouds growing larger and larger with each passing second, getting closer and closer.
As Detective Merkel made himself scarce and pulled out his mobile phone, Gordon decided to do the same. He walked away, ignoring the sight of Russoti's corpse being loaded into the ambulance. Out the corner of his eye, he spotted Crispus Allen and Renee Montoya - two of his best detectives, members of the Organized Crime Unit. They looked grim and somber.
He nodded. They nodded back.
Ducking under the yellow tape, Gordon crossed the street. The Bowery was mostly derelict buildings and empty streets, housing the homeless and the occasional cluster of addicts. As he lit a cigarette, Gordon tried to stay calm. There was nothing to be gained by panicking. He had to focus on the facts. The now. The present. Anything else was irrelevant.
Leaning against the grimy wall of the compact alley, Gordon took a drag on the cigarette. The vapors crawled into his lungs. Closing his eyes, he ignored the stench of the overflowing dumpster. The green container was lathered in rust, festooned with ancient posters for a Basil Karlo picture. The stench was nothing. Why would it bother him? He was a Gothamite, after all. Born and bred.
"Gordon."
The cold whisper was gravelly and wraith-like. Recoiling, Gordon turned to face the dark silhouette looming in the shadows. As it stepped forward, Gordon could decipher the figure more clearly - the tattered black leathery cape, the horned cowl, the imposing stare. It reminded Gordon of big jungle cats he'd seen at the zoo, powerful beasts with liquid grace and deadly power. The stare was piercing. Haunting. Powerful.
"This is a goddamn disaster."
"I know."
"All the work we put in - Donovan put in eight months. Eight months of making connections...and now here we are. Goddamn disaster."
"He was made. There's nothing you could have done."
"Yeah, but who knew about this op? Me. You. The rest of the OCU. Unless someone on the team was compromised...but that's unlikely. We vetted everyone."
"People change."
"C'mon. Montoya, Allen, Corrigan, Merkel - hell, I know Cort's got a reputation...but I know he'd never let himself get tainted."
The Batman said nothing. Gordon could hear the wheels turning in his head, calculating and evaluating. On paper, they weren't even supposed to be talking - he was supposed to put cuffs on the masked man, bring him in. Vigilantism was a crime. Assault was a crime. Breaking and entering was a crime. A long list of pending charges, barring murder - all inflicted upon criminals. Dealers. Pimps. Gangbangers. Every now and then, the occasional dirty cop - street gangs that adored vandalism and arson, assaulting people for kicks, for looking and being different...
"Commissioner Loeb. What does he know?"
Blowing out smoke, Gordon suppressed a groan. The mental image of Gillian Loeb seemed to intensify the dull ache in his head. "He knows the surface, the basics. No intimate details. He doesn't know the angle we were working on."
"Penguin could've convinced him to find out. He can be...persuasive."
"I hate to say this - but maybe it was a mugging. Wrong place, wrong time. I mean...this is the Bowery. Desperate times, desperate people - they'll do anything for a few dollars."
"He wasn't mugged."
"How do you know?"
"His wallet and car keys were intact. Loose change, bills - if this was a mugging, I wouldn't have found any. And then there's the injuries..."
Gordon was suprised. Then he recovered. The vigilante had gotten to the body before the cops had even mobilized, looked everything over and left without a trace. Then again, this was nothing new. Shock and awe, hit-and-run tactics. This was how the Batman operated.
"What about the injuries?"
"Killer used a knife with a five inch blade, plain edge. Donovan was stabbed in the throat and left kidney. Anatomical soft spots at close quarters...he bled out within seconds. Efficency and precision is not the mugger's priority."
Gordon's weathered face creased into a dry grimace. The graying head of brown hair and the prominent moustache made him look older than he was, worn and beaten. The realization made him slump as he stared at the lit tip of his cigarette. This was no mugging. With each passing second, it was clear that the crime had all the signs of a well-oiled hit.
"The killer knew what he was doing. Goddamn it." Gordon smoked quietly. "Salinger, one of his guys...what do you think?"
"Until we know more, rule out nothing."
"On paper, that's the obvious answer. Donovan got made, Salinger has him killed to send a message. But that doesn't make sense. A dead cop brings the kind of attention these bastards don't want."
"Like I said. Rule out nothing."
Tossing the cigarette on damp cobblestone, Gordon stepped on it. The gray skies were starting to lighten - flickered in streaks of dull orange and purple, the sun coming out of hiding to glare upon the city like a corroded light bulb. The beginning of a new day. The black dawn. That's what it felt like.
Turning to face the Batman, he thrust his hands into the pockets of his brown coat. The masked figure looked human in the fading shadows - six feet of ballistic nylon, boiled leather and utilitarian gear. Not that long ago, the sight used to unnerve Gordon. It was uncanny. Wrong.
An undercover officer had been killed.
One of his best men had been killed. An operation that could've decimated Ray Salinger's drug ring had crashed and burned before it could even begin. After months of work, they were back where they began with nothing to show for it. Square one.
"Donovan was a good man."
"I know."
"This is going to get ugly, you know. Every skell in this town is going to feel the heat. Every man for himself, honor among thieves be damned."
"Criminals are cowardly. Superstitious."
The two men stared at each other. Silently, without another word being uttered - an agreement had been reached. There was nothing to be said. A cop had been killed on duty, attempting to infiltrate the Penguin's drug racket - what else could be said? There would be no rest until the killer of Andrew Donovan was flushed out and captured, there would be no talking. No negotiation. No truce. No compromise.
"Yeah. They are."
The hunt was on.