Another Way
By Alekto
Chapter 2
"You in the bank. Come out with your hands up. This is your last warning!"
"We got hostages in here. You try anything and they'll be taking the bodies out in bags!" Marty yelled back in reply. He waited for a response but none came. With a snort he turned back to look at the frightened huddle that was the bank's customers and staff.
Outside the bank I could hear more cars arriving and the sounds of the BPD deploying for the siege that now looked unavoidable. One of the tellers must have managed to hit the silent alarm in time. It was the only explanation for the cops' presence. Marty came over to me and hauled me over to a desk so I was sitting, leaning up against it. My ribs ached but there was nothing like the flare of pain that would have most likely indicated a broken bone. I hurt, but had to admit that it could have been a lot worse.
"You're the cop," Marty began. "What's their next move? How are they gonna play this out?" I could hear the edge in his voice as he tried to sound calm, reasonable, in control of the situation. I'd dealt with enough madmen to know how dangerously fragile that pretence could be and the consequences for all of us if ... when he lost control.
"I don't know," I answered warily. His hand lashed out in response, catching me high on the cheek as I tried to avoid the blow.
"Wrong answer, cop," he said. "I'm gonna ask again. If I get another wrong answer, people are gonna get hurt. Maybe you, maybe some of these others. All up to you, Officer ..." he leaned down to read the name tag on the shirt. "Grayson."
"Look, I *really* don't know," I pleaded. "I'm a rookie - I've only been on the force a few weeks." The nervousness in my voice wasn't entirely faked, as I hoped for the sake of the other hostages that Marty bought my excuse. If he didn't buy it... I started running through my options. It would be less than five seconds' work to get out of the cuffs: an apprenticeship with an escape artist and an internship with the Batman was more than sufficient for something as rudimentary as standard issue handcuffs. Marty was close enough that he wouldn't be too much of a problem, and Carl was still going around checking doors and windows. Their third man was still the gamble. I hadn't seen enough of him to have any clear idea of how quickly, or how ruthlessly he would react.
"What do they teach you at the Academy, *rookie*?" Marty spat out in disbelief. "Flower arranging?"
I started struggling for an answer: enough to satisfy him, not enough to help him. "I .. er.. "
The suddenness with which the phone rang on the desk behind me startled everyone. Marty looked at it, let it ring a couple of times, then picked up. "Yeah?"
I could just about hear the tinny voice of a police negotiator on the other end of the line, mouthing the usual platitudes from the play book. Even so, I could make out the uncertainty in her voice and wondered whose idea it had been to put her on. She sounded more like she should have been teaching kindergarten, not negotiating with armed robbers.
Marty's patience suddenly snapped. "Shut up, bitch! Don't tell me how it is! I tell *you* how it is, right? We got hostages here, remember? You get me a helicopter to the airport and a plane outta the country. You get that for me, or you gonna get a dead hostage instead! Hey, and top of the list we got a cop in here, so you mess up and he gets it first! You got an hour!" He slammed the receiver down and grinned at his colleagues. "Just like tee vee," he smirked.
I figured it would have been tactless of me to point out to him that on TV the bad guys generally lost.
From amongst the hostages I heard the faint, muffled sound of sobbing. I looked but couldn't make out who it was: with the blinds closed the interior of the bank had become a sepia tone twilight, dust motes drifting in the thin shafts of sunlight poking through the gaps in the shutters. To one side I could see Marty, leaned back on a chair, apparently at ease with the world until you saw the tiny movement of his fingers drumming against the side of his gun.
Right then, it was Carl who worried me more. He was pacing to and fro, making no pretence at calm. I knew it wouldn't take much to push him over the edge and start shooting. The soft crying continued awhile then faded into an oppressive silence relieved only by the sound of Carl's footsteps and the distant staccato of fingers against metal. The bank's clock, high on the wall, inexorably counted down the time to the deadline Marty had given.
With about ten minutes to go the phone rang again. Marty let it ring a few times, then got up, strode over and answered. "Wha'dya want?" he growled. I tried to listen, but the voice on the other end of the line was too faint for me to make out anything except that the speaker was a man. Whatever it was he said definitely wasn't what Marty wanted to hear, I decided, as with a string of invective he hurled the phone away from him. Before it hit the floor I was grabbed by the collar and wrenched to my feet. I could hear the ripple of frightened murmurs amongst the other hostages as with the barrel of a gun - the same gun that Carl had relieved me of - digging into the side of my head I was forced towards the door of the bank. Marty opened the door one handed and shoved me forwards so I was standing in the open doorway.
I had to squint in the morning sunlight, so much brighter than the imposed murkiness within the bank, but I could make out the dozen or so police cruisers and other vehicles arrayed on the street outside. There had to have been fifty or so cops out there, all with guns pointed in my general direction, and, if I had to guess, almost certainly snipers on the roof opposite. Marty was smart enough to know the score. The hand twisting the back of my collar and the pressure of the gun at my head kept me in position as his protection from the assembled artillery.
Beyond the police cordon I could see the outside broadcast vans from a couple of the networks, and my first thought was for Bruce, Babs and the others, my family, of how they would worry when they saw.
"I ain't joking," Marty called out. "I'll blow the cop's brains out right here, no problem at all, unless you get that helicopter down on this street right now!"
"We can't do that!" came the shouted reply from the police lines. I involuntarily caught my breath, tensing for the shot I knew had to be only seconds away. My instincts were screaming at me: 'do something, don't just stand there to be slaughtered!' but I knew I'd left it too long. Even on my best day I knew I'd never be quick enough to avoid the gun at my head, and as it was I was tired and stiff and my ribs ached from where I'd been kicked. I couldn't help but consider the irony. As Nightwing I'd been to other worlds, fought and beaten demons and would-be world conquering lunatics, and in the end I was going to get shot by some two bit hood.
"So long, cop," I heard Marty say without rancor, as if it was no more than business: go to the supermarket, rob a bank, read the paper, kill a cop. Like it was just another day's work.
I thought again of Bruce, of what seeing my death would do to him; of Babs, of all the things I should have said to her but thought I'd have so much time to say later. /Oh Babs, I'm so sorry./
From the police I heard a frantic shout. "No! No, wait! Don't!" The sound of the hammer of my own gun being pulled back was deafeningly loud next to my ear, and I wondered distractedly if it was true what they said: that you didn't hear the shot that killed you.
To be continued.
By Alekto
Chapter 2
"You in the bank. Come out with your hands up. This is your last warning!"
"We got hostages in here. You try anything and they'll be taking the bodies out in bags!" Marty yelled back in reply. He waited for a response but none came. With a snort he turned back to look at the frightened huddle that was the bank's customers and staff.
Outside the bank I could hear more cars arriving and the sounds of the BPD deploying for the siege that now looked unavoidable. One of the tellers must have managed to hit the silent alarm in time. It was the only explanation for the cops' presence. Marty came over to me and hauled me over to a desk so I was sitting, leaning up against it. My ribs ached but there was nothing like the flare of pain that would have most likely indicated a broken bone. I hurt, but had to admit that it could have been a lot worse.
"You're the cop," Marty began. "What's their next move? How are they gonna play this out?" I could hear the edge in his voice as he tried to sound calm, reasonable, in control of the situation. I'd dealt with enough madmen to know how dangerously fragile that pretence could be and the consequences for all of us if ... when he lost control.
"I don't know," I answered warily. His hand lashed out in response, catching me high on the cheek as I tried to avoid the blow.
"Wrong answer, cop," he said. "I'm gonna ask again. If I get another wrong answer, people are gonna get hurt. Maybe you, maybe some of these others. All up to you, Officer ..." he leaned down to read the name tag on the shirt. "Grayson."
"Look, I *really* don't know," I pleaded. "I'm a rookie - I've only been on the force a few weeks." The nervousness in my voice wasn't entirely faked, as I hoped for the sake of the other hostages that Marty bought my excuse. If he didn't buy it... I started running through my options. It would be less than five seconds' work to get out of the cuffs: an apprenticeship with an escape artist and an internship with the Batman was more than sufficient for something as rudimentary as standard issue handcuffs. Marty was close enough that he wouldn't be too much of a problem, and Carl was still going around checking doors and windows. Their third man was still the gamble. I hadn't seen enough of him to have any clear idea of how quickly, or how ruthlessly he would react.
"What do they teach you at the Academy, *rookie*?" Marty spat out in disbelief. "Flower arranging?"
I started struggling for an answer: enough to satisfy him, not enough to help him. "I .. er.. "
The suddenness with which the phone rang on the desk behind me startled everyone. Marty looked at it, let it ring a couple of times, then picked up. "Yeah?"
I could just about hear the tinny voice of a police negotiator on the other end of the line, mouthing the usual platitudes from the play book. Even so, I could make out the uncertainty in her voice and wondered whose idea it had been to put her on. She sounded more like she should have been teaching kindergarten, not negotiating with armed robbers.
Marty's patience suddenly snapped. "Shut up, bitch! Don't tell me how it is! I tell *you* how it is, right? We got hostages here, remember? You get me a helicopter to the airport and a plane outta the country. You get that for me, or you gonna get a dead hostage instead! Hey, and top of the list we got a cop in here, so you mess up and he gets it first! You got an hour!" He slammed the receiver down and grinned at his colleagues. "Just like tee vee," he smirked.
I figured it would have been tactless of me to point out to him that on TV the bad guys generally lost.
From amongst the hostages I heard the faint, muffled sound of sobbing. I looked but couldn't make out who it was: with the blinds closed the interior of the bank had become a sepia tone twilight, dust motes drifting in the thin shafts of sunlight poking through the gaps in the shutters. To one side I could see Marty, leaned back on a chair, apparently at ease with the world until you saw the tiny movement of his fingers drumming against the side of his gun.
Right then, it was Carl who worried me more. He was pacing to and fro, making no pretence at calm. I knew it wouldn't take much to push him over the edge and start shooting. The soft crying continued awhile then faded into an oppressive silence relieved only by the sound of Carl's footsteps and the distant staccato of fingers against metal. The bank's clock, high on the wall, inexorably counted down the time to the deadline Marty had given.
With about ten minutes to go the phone rang again. Marty let it ring a few times, then got up, strode over and answered. "Wha'dya want?" he growled. I tried to listen, but the voice on the other end of the line was too faint for me to make out anything except that the speaker was a man. Whatever it was he said definitely wasn't what Marty wanted to hear, I decided, as with a string of invective he hurled the phone away from him. Before it hit the floor I was grabbed by the collar and wrenched to my feet. I could hear the ripple of frightened murmurs amongst the other hostages as with the barrel of a gun - the same gun that Carl had relieved me of - digging into the side of my head I was forced towards the door of the bank. Marty opened the door one handed and shoved me forwards so I was standing in the open doorway.
I had to squint in the morning sunlight, so much brighter than the imposed murkiness within the bank, but I could make out the dozen or so police cruisers and other vehicles arrayed on the street outside. There had to have been fifty or so cops out there, all with guns pointed in my general direction, and, if I had to guess, almost certainly snipers on the roof opposite. Marty was smart enough to know the score. The hand twisting the back of my collar and the pressure of the gun at my head kept me in position as his protection from the assembled artillery.
Beyond the police cordon I could see the outside broadcast vans from a couple of the networks, and my first thought was for Bruce, Babs and the others, my family, of how they would worry when they saw.
"I ain't joking," Marty called out. "I'll blow the cop's brains out right here, no problem at all, unless you get that helicopter down on this street right now!"
"We can't do that!" came the shouted reply from the police lines. I involuntarily caught my breath, tensing for the shot I knew had to be only seconds away. My instincts were screaming at me: 'do something, don't just stand there to be slaughtered!' but I knew I'd left it too long. Even on my best day I knew I'd never be quick enough to avoid the gun at my head, and as it was I was tired and stiff and my ribs ached from where I'd been kicked. I couldn't help but consider the irony. As Nightwing I'd been to other worlds, fought and beaten demons and would-be world conquering lunatics, and in the end I was going to get shot by some two bit hood.
"So long, cop," I heard Marty say without rancor, as if it was no more than business: go to the supermarket, rob a bank, read the paper, kill a cop. Like it was just another day's work.
I thought again of Bruce, of what seeing my death would do to him; of Babs, of all the things I should have said to her but thought I'd have so much time to say later. /Oh Babs, I'm so sorry./
From the police I heard a frantic shout. "No! No, wait! Don't!" The sound of the hammer of my own gun being pulled back was deafeningly loud next to my ear, and I wondered distractedly if it was true what they said: that you didn't hear the shot that killed you.
To be continued.
