Hero's Blood
Chapter Five
Thomas sat in front of the window, his back to it, as he scribbled in his journal. He didn't know quite why he felt compelled to write all of his thoughts down, only that it somehow crystallized them in his mind.
"I have sent them home. Perhaps the risk is theirs to take, but it will no longer be one that I ask them to take. I am alone now, with no one to assist me or turn to for aid, but that is as it should be. Gotham is my city, and protecting her is my work alone."
He laid the pen on the desk and closed the journal, running a hand over the thick leather binding. They were all gone. That band of formerly merry men who had thought it would be oh-so-heroic of them to strike out into the night and try to make Gotham a better place. They had been wrong. Walter Donne was dead, and with him that spirit of merriment. So, Thomas had ended it, at least for the others. He had told them that he would not risk their lives any longer, that they should leave well enough alone. He, on the other hand, had no such plans for himself. He had spent months now preparing himself for what he was about to do. Months of exercise, though he had always been fit. Months of training, refining those skills that he had acquired overseas during the war. Months of planning, trying to determine the best way to bring down Vincent Falcone's empire. Weapons were the key. The Falcone family's biggest joke seemed to be their import business. They imported shoes from Italy as their legitimate cover, while their biggest illegal operation was weapons trafficking. That was where to hurt them. He knew that was where he had made his mistake before, in attempting to hurt Falcone by hurting his underlings. That approach assumed that he cared about them. No, the way to hurt a man like Vincent Falcone was to hurt him where he cared, in his pocketbook.
He checked to make sure the Winifred was back in the butler's bungalow before going out to the garage. He loved the old man, and had loved watching his children grow up. It hadn't been that many years, it seemed since Wilfred and Alfred had left to return to England. Wilfred had wanted to stay, but Alfred had always been the willful one of the two, determined to go back and serve his country. Thomas had respected that about the man, and had often thought about him as he watched his aging butler pine for his family.
Thomas climbed behind the wheel of the car that he'd purchased recently, an aging roadster that had seen better days. He'd explained it to Winifred by saying that he wanted to be able to get around without having to worry about being recognized. What he hadn't told him was why. He sped through the forest surrounding the manor and through downtown into the factory district. Not a place that one usually ventured at night, he had decided it was the perfect place from which to operate his new "venture". He had hoped to find something closer to the manor, for ease of access, but he didn't want to burden Winifred with his new secret, and there was little, if anything, that the old man could not find out, if it happened around the manor.
At the very edge of the district was Thomas' destination. The old storage facility for the Maroni Brothers moving company. It was a strange sort of irony, in his opinion. The Maronis were second only to the Falcones in Gotham's emerging crime world. The moving company had been one of their early cover businesses, but had been abandoned for a number of years. It was perfect, however, being located so near the heart of Gotham's underworld.
Thomas pulled the roadster into the garage and closed the door behind him. He had set up his base in the second loading bay, and it was there that he made his change. He had bought the clothes from an elderly tailor who knew better than to ask his identity or any questions about why he wanted such peculiar garments. The slacks were tailored to give him a great deal of extra flexibility, as was the thick pilot's jacket. The cloak had a number of small pockets in it, in which he could conceal anything he might need. There were thick gloves, a fedora hat, and a domino mask that fit snugly over his face. All were a dull, gunmetal gray. He changed from his civilian clothing into this specialized outfit and Thomas Wayne was gone, replaced by the grim visage of the Gray Ghost.
He climbed behind the wheel of The Car, a specialized Ford with a souped-up engine. Wit the turn of a key, the engine roared to life and he sped into the night, his mission had begun.
Vic Crosetti stood alone on the Gotham Dockyard, watching as the tug slowly came closer. Its lights were off, making it difficult to see. The idea was that as long as it was difficult to see, it was difficult for the harbor patrol to find it and confiscate its cargo; a load of German-made machine guns, surplus from the war that had "mysteriously" gone missing from the yard where the French had kept them after the treaty was signed.
Vic let out a puff of smoke from his cigarette, barely paying attention as the tug came closer still, not slowing down. As a result, when the boat crashed into the docks at full speed, Vic was taken completely by surprise. The wood decking beneath his feet jolted and split as the boat plowed toward the shore, only coming to a stop when its hull impacted against one of the support pylons below the dock.
"What the hell?" Vic muttered, looking up toward the wheelhouse of the boat. Crouched atop it was a shadowy figure, barely visible in the dim light of the docks. His cloak waved in the wind as he leapt from the boat to the dock, coming to his feet only inches from Vic. Vic looked up at the masked face looming over him just long enough to hear him say "Tell Falcone he's finished.". Then a gray-gloved fist sent Vic Crosetti into darkness.
Chapter Five
Thomas sat in front of the window, his back to it, as he scribbled in his journal. He didn't know quite why he felt compelled to write all of his thoughts down, only that it somehow crystallized them in his mind.
"I have sent them home. Perhaps the risk is theirs to take, but it will no longer be one that I ask them to take. I am alone now, with no one to assist me or turn to for aid, but that is as it should be. Gotham is my city, and protecting her is my work alone."
He laid the pen on the desk and closed the journal, running a hand over the thick leather binding. They were all gone. That band of formerly merry men who had thought it would be oh-so-heroic of them to strike out into the night and try to make Gotham a better place. They had been wrong. Walter Donne was dead, and with him that spirit of merriment. So, Thomas had ended it, at least for the others. He had told them that he would not risk their lives any longer, that they should leave well enough alone. He, on the other hand, had no such plans for himself. He had spent months now preparing himself for what he was about to do. Months of exercise, though he had always been fit. Months of training, refining those skills that he had acquired overseas during the war. Months of planning, trying to determine the best way to bring down Vincent Falcone's empire. Weapons were the key. The Falcone family's biggest joke seemed to be their import business. They imported shoes from Italy as their legitimate cover, while their biggest illegal operation was weapons trafficking. That was where to hurt them. He knew that was where he had made his mistake before, in attempting to hurt Falcone by hurting his underlings. That approach assumed that he cared about them. No, the way to hurt a man like Vincent Falcone was to hurt him where he cared, in his pocketbook.
He checked to make sure the Winifred was back in the butler's bungalow before going out to the garage. He loved the old man, and had loved watching his children grow up. It hadn't been that many years, it seemed since Wilfred and Alfred had left to return to England. Wilfred had wanted to stay, but Alfred had always been the willful one of the two, determined to go back and serve his country. Thomas had respected that about the man, and had often thought about him as he watched his aging butler pine for his family.
Thomas climbed behind the wheel of the car that he'd purchased recently, an aging roadster that had seen better days. He'd explained it to Winifred by saying that he wanted to be able to get around without having to worry about being recognized. What he hadn't told him was why. He sped through the forest surrounding the manor and through downtown into the factory district. Not a place that one usually ventured at night, he had decided it was the perfect place from which to operate his new "venture". He had hoped to find something closer to the manor, for ease of access, but he didn't want to burden Winifred with his new secret, and there was little, if anything, that the old man could not find out, if it happened around the manor.
At the very edge of the district was Thomas' destination. The old storage facility for the Maroni Brothers moving company. It was a strange sort of irony, in his opinion. The Maronis were second only to the Falcones in Gotham's emerging crime world. The moving company had been one of their early cover businesses, but had been abandoned for a number of years. It was perfect, however, being located so near the heart of Gotham's underworld.
Thomas pulled the roadster into the garage and closed the door behind him. He had set up his base in the second loading bay, and it was there that he made his change. He had bought the clothes from an elderly tailor who knew better than to ask his identity or any questions about why he wanted such peculiar garments. The slacks were tailored to give him a great deal of extra flexibility, as was the thick pilot's jacket. The cloak had a number of small pockets in it, in which he could conceal anything he might need. There were thick gloves, a fedora hat, and a domino mask that fit snugly over his face. All were a dull, gunmetal gray. He changed from his civilian clothing into this specialized outfit and Thomas Wayne was gone, replaced by the grim visage of the Gray Ghost.
He climbed behind the wheel of The Car, a specialized Ford with a souped-up engine. Wit the turn of a key, the engine roared to life and he sped into the night, his mission had begun.
Vic Crosetti stood alone on the Gotham Dockyard, watching as the tug slowly came closer. Its lights were off, making it difficult to see. The idea was that as long as it was difficult to see, it was difficult for the harbor patrol to find it and confiscate its cargo; a load of German-made machine guns, surplus from the war that had "mysteriously" gone missing from the yard where the French had kept them after the treaty was signed.
Vic let out a puff of smoke from his cigarette, barely paying attention as the tug came closer still, not slowing down. As a result, when the boat crashed into the docks at full speed, Vic was taken completely by surprise. The wood decking beneath his feet jolted and split as the boat plowed toward the shore, only coming to a stop when its hull impacted against one of the support pylons below the dock.
"What the hell?" Vic muttered, looking up toward the wheelhouse of the boat. Crouched atop it was a shadowy figure, barely visible in the dim light of the docks. His cloak waved in the wind as he leapt from the boat to the dock, coming to his feet only inches from Vic. Vic looked up at the masked face looming over him just long enough to hear him say "Tell Falcone he's finished.". Then a gray-gloved fist sent Vic Crosetti into darkness.