Another Way

By Alekto
Chapter 3
I heard the shot.

To be clear, I heard several shots: a burst of automatic fire coming from behind me, inside the bank, accompanied by screams of terror. Orders were being frantically shouted by the cops gathered outside, all but lost in the chaos and cacophony. Bullets hit the wall near us, kicking up shards of stone far too close to me for comfort as the more trigger happy of the cops surrounding the bank opened fire. Futile shouts of 'cease fire' and 'stop shooting' went unheard, and all I could think was how glad I was for the poor marksmanship of Bludhaven's finest. Then I was being hauled backwards into the cover of the bank, half choked by the grasp Marty had on my collar. I struggled to keep my footing but with my hands still cuffed behind my back and a shove from Marty I stumbled and fell.

Within the bank was confusion. Those hostages I could see were grouped in a panicked cluster against the back wall, some clinging to each other for support, many sobbing in terror. Others were collapsed on the floor, bloodied, whimpering in pain or just lying there in stunned, silent disbelief. Above them towered Carl, gun in hand, screaming abuse, apparently oblivious of my and Marty's return.

For his part Marty walked over towards Carl, stopping only a few feet from him. Carl was too caught up in his own concerns to even notice his presence.

"Carl," Marty began, then when he got no immediate response. "CARL!"

Carl visibly started, then swung around bringing his gun to bear as he did. His spin brought his face into line with Marty's now levelled gun, held steadily in his outstretched arm. I fought down a brief, insane urge to snicker: Marty had definitely seen *way* too many Tarantino films.

"Shut. Up!" enunciated Marty with didactic precision. For long seconds it looked like neither was willing to back down: Carl panting, his face red and sheened with sweat, his eyes fever bright, and Marty looking so still that he might have been carved from stone.

"Cops are moving!" warned a voice I didn't recognise. It had been the first time I'd heard the final member of the trio speak. It was enough to break the deadlock between the other two.

Seconds passed, then a scared, patently false grin flickered over Carl's features. "Sure, man. No problem," he agreed in a transparent attempt at face saving as if it was what he had intended to say all along.

I could hear the phone ringing. I think perhaps it must have been ringing all along: I just hadn't noticed before then. Marty walked over and picked up. He listened a moment, then replied curtly: "no one's dead." He paused a moment, and this time I could see him actually bother to glance over at the hostages bleeding on the floor. "At least, not yet," he amended, before continuing. "That's gonna change unless we start seeing some co-operation. Clear?"

I studied Marty as he hung up. He appeared calm, at ease, unhurried . sated, almost. It was like he was a junkie who had finally managed to get his fix. Carl I could figure - Carl was dangerous, a loose cannon; but Marty was a cipher. I couldn't get a handle on what made him tick. I needed to know which way he'd jump if pushed. I had a feeling I was going to be pushing him before very long.

"Keep an eye on the cops, Vinnie," ordered Marty as he wandered over to the hostages. I caught a glimpse of annoyance from Vinnie's expression, perhaps at such open use of his name. Too late: I had names for all of them now, for whatever use it was as things currently stood. It did worry me, though, how unconcerned they were about our seeing their faces and hearing their names. It didn't bode well for our future as potential witnesses against them. On the other hand, perhaps they just didn't care and I was over-analysing.

Marty's gaze went over the injured hostages, then to Carl. "Which part of 'hostage' didn't you get, Carl?" he spat out in disgust. A couple of the hostages, braver or more foolhardy than the rest crawled over towards the wounded and started limited but well-meaning attempts to help them. The rest waited, fearful of any reprisal.

"Let me help them," I said, manoeuvring with difficulty into a crouch. "I know first aid and there's bound to be a first aid kit in here somewhere. Please, let me help them."

Marty who had turned when I'd started to speak, walked over to me and squatted down, staring at me eye to eye. "You worry me, cop. There's something about you that don't sit right," he murmured half to himself.

I had to admit, his perceptiveness surprised me. I'd had to make an effort when I'd attended the Academy, then when I'd joined the PD to be nothing too extraordinary as a rookie, despite the years of experience I'd garnered as Nightwing, and before that as Robin. I wasn't as bad as Bruce when it came to keeping the parts of my life separate. In many ways Bruce Wayne and Batman were two very different people: the vacuous playboy and the grim, avenging Dark Knight. I supposed that a genuine rookie would have been more rattled than I was, but right then I was more concerned about the people bleeding on the other side of the bank than playing a part.

He looked at me a while longer, considering. "You figure you can help them, then?"

"Well I had to do *something* at the Academy between 'flower arranging' classes," I replied, gambling that somewhere in Marty's mind there was a sense of humour.

He snorted. It wasn't exactly a laugh but under the circumstances it was probably as much as I could hope for. He turned to Carl. "Keys!" he ordered, and the keys to my handcuffs were duly handed over, and I was released much to the relief of my aching shoulders.

Vinnie got the bank's first aid box from behind the counter and threw it to me as I headed over to the wounded. The box was tin and must have been twenty years old at least. I didn't hold out much hope that the contents within would be of much use given the injuries I had to treat. I shrugged mentally: if that was what I had to work with, then that was what I'd work with. The burst from Carl's submachine gun had, I discovered, left five people wounded. Three of them weren't too bad, relatively speaking, just nicks for the most part: painful, bloody, but ultimately non-life threatening. A fourth was bleeding from a head injury: self inflicted, it seemed, when he'd caught his head on the side of a desk in a frantic lunge for cover. He was rambling enough for me to guess that he had to have been concussed.

It was the fifth, though, that gave me cause for concern. One of the tellers was holding her scarf against his side, but it was already soaked through with blood. On her face I could see fear and helplessness and the beginnings of panic. I crouched down next to her, offering her the best encouraging smile I could muster under the circumstances.

"Hi there," I said gently, as I reached out to take the bloodied scarf from her grasp so I could get a look at the extent of the man's injury. What I saw was not good: the bullet had gone into his abdomen. He was almost certainly haemorrhaging badly, and with even the best first aid kit in the world there was next to nothing I could do for him.

Something of my thoughts must have showed on my face as I heard the teller's muttered: "Oh, God. No. Please!" as she began to sob.

"No, stay with me here," I said. "You've been doing the right thing: don't fall apart on me now. My name's Dick Grayson, by the way, and I promise you I'm going to do my very best to get us all out of here alive."

She looked up at me, fighting back tears. "Sarah Howard," she said in return, then looked down at the man whose life she was trying to save. "And this is my fiance, Greg Petersen." The mention of her fiance's name almost broke her fragile resolve, and I could see her struggling to stay strong. I just hoped I hadn't been overly optimistic when I'd promised we'd all get out alive.

I stood up and turned to face Marty. "He needs a hospital," I stated.

"You do what you can here," he replied with apparent disinterest. "He can go to a hospital later."

"If he doesn't get to a hospital soon, he won't have a 'later'," I retorted, more sharply than was probably prudent under the circumstances.

"Well, how about I put him out of his misery right now?" Marty said, pointing his gun at the semi-conscious, pain-wracked Greg as if ready then and there to put actions to words.

"NO! No!" I yelled, dimly hearing Sarah's distraught voice echoing my protest. "No one's died here yet. It doesn't need to go that far." Even as I said the words I knew I was reaching, spouting cliches like a character from one of the old cop shows.

Marty smirked in response, enjoying the sight of my discomfiture, but he lowered the gun that had been threatening Greg. "I'm in charge, cop," he reminded. "Nobody leaves without my say so."

I nodded in mute acquiescence, then went back to doing what I could for Greg and the other hostages who had been hurt. About half an hour passed by the time I bandaged the remaining injuries and got back to Greg. In just that short time his condition had deteriorated markedly, and on Sarah's worried face I could see that she too had noticed.

"He's going to die, isn't he," she murmured, no longer bothering to hold back tears.

I didn't trust myself to answer with a lie. "If he doesn't get to a hospital, then ... yes," I eventually admitted.

Neither of us said anything for a few minutes, then I glanced around to see if Marty or the others were within earshot. "Can you ask to go to the restroom?" I whispered, hating to ask for her help as things stood. "One of them will have to take you, and that'll leave only two of them here."

She looked at me aghast. "That's two against one ... and they're armed," she replied. "You wouldn't stand a chance. What do you gain from getting yourself killed?"

"He's going to die unless I try something," I reminded her brutally, looking down at Greg who was now, mercifully, unconscious. "I'll have a better chance if I've only got two of them to deal with."

She was silent for a few seconds, then without a glance in my direction stood up and approached Marty. "Excuse me? Sir? I need to go to the restroom."

"Shit!" growled Marty in annoyance, but nonetheless took her arm and escorted her briskly through the door at the back of the room.

As soon as Marty left, I took note of the positions of the other two, working out what would be the quickest way I could take them down. Vinnie was closest: he'd come over to take a look at Greg's condition. Carl was further off, but not by much. With Marty out of the room, I had to act quickly. It had to be the best chance that Greg or I would have.

From where I was crouched next to Greg I threw a vicious, low side kick at Vinnie's knee. His pained cry as the blow struck almost drowned out the sickening crunch of the knee going out. Before he'd hit the ground I'd thrown the metal first aid tin at Carl, aiming at the hand holding the gun. I dimly registered his surprised yelp, the clatter of the gun hitting the floor and muttered silent thanks that it hadn't gone off. Vinnie was already going down, but I couldn't risk the chance of his gun at my back. Another kick made sure he wouldn't be getting up for a while as I turned my attention to dealing with Carl before Marty got back.

"GRAYSON!"

Marty's voice. Damn! I looked to where the voice had come from. Marty was there, his arm around Sarah's neck, his gun, *my* gun, digging into her side. I raised my hands, sick to my stomach at how badly I'd messed up. Greg was going to die; perhaps Sarah as well for her part in helping me; perhaps others of the hostages.

My head exploded in pain as a savage blow to the back of my neck drove me to my knees. The bank seemed to dissolve around me into a nauseating fractal blur. I felt another stab of pain as something struck my head, my side and then it seemed as if I was falling forever.

It was strange: I didn't remember the floor being so very far away...
To be continued...