Chapter Three


Encrypted Journal Entry -- Barbara Gordon

October 9th

According to Delphi, police have traced the plates on the suspect vehicle -- one late model metallic green Honda Civic -- to one Pablo Felipe Chavez, alias "Chaco". He's 29 and lives with his mother in an apartment in Hell's Kitchen, although he hasn't been seen there in weeks. He has priors for assault, petty theft, and grand theft auto.

There's no report of the car being stolen at the time of the shooting. This indicates that either (1) Chavez was the driver that night or (2) he knows who did it. Either way, this indicates some level of involvement in the crime … which furthermore makes him an accessory to attempted murder.

If nothing else, we may have a lead on the driver. Unfortunately, the identity of our shooter remains as yet undetermined.


Alfredo "Fredo" Vargas was a reformed ex-car thief and small-time drug dealer who was now working as a bicycle messenger. Occasionally, he also served as one of The Huntress's street informants. He was tall, almost skeletal in appearance, and had short dark curly hair.

When Huntress found him that evening, he was engaging in his typical Thursday night after-hours routine -- shooting baskets on a deserted concrete court near the corner of 10th and 18th Street.

"Yo, Fredo!" Huntress called out to him.

Fredo turned towards Huntress. "Chica!" he called out to her with a grin.

"Como estás?"

"No muy bien," Fredo said with a shrug. Nothing much.

"How's your mother?"

"She's fine," said Fredo.

"Good, good," said Huntress. "Listen, I've got a favor to ask you." She paused. "I'm lookin' for someone … name's Pablo Chavez. Goes by the street name 'Chaco'. Heard of him?"

Fredo winced. "Muy mal," he said. "Bad news. Mejor gang-banger. Ex-Latin King."

"EX-Latin King?" Huntress's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "The only ex-Latin Kings I know are either in the cemetery or in the morgue."

"He's been runnin' with this new crew … calls themselves 'The Golden Bats'."

Why don't I like the sound of that name? thought Huntress. "Who's runnin' him … and how'd he get out of the Kings with his life?"

"The Golden Bats are relatively small … maybe the Kings don't consider them a threat?" said Fredo. "Maybe they're counting on him returning to the fold." Fredo paused. "He's being run by a man named Salazar."

"You know where he hangs out at?"

"," said Fredo. "Place called the 9-1-1 Club on the Upper West Side. Him and that babe-magnet car of his."

Huntress couldn't help but suppress a giggle at that last statement. "I know the place," she said. "Thanks for your help, Fredo," she said as she reached into her coat pocket and slipped him a fifty-dollar-bill. "I really appreciate this."

"If I may ask, why are you looking for him?"

"One of his punk pals tried to ventilate a friend of mine."

"Oh, no…" exclaimed Fredo as he clasped his hand over his mouth in horror. "I'm so sorry."

"Yeah," said Huntress mournfully. "She's in a coma at St. Vincent's Hospital."

"I hope you find the shooter."

"Yeah," said Huntress. "She's only sixteen."

Fredo looked at the fifty-dollar-bill in his hand. "Here," he said, handing the bill back to Huntress. "I can't accept this."

"You sure?" said Huntress as she accepted the bill.

"Sick," said Fredo, shaking his head. "Who would do such a thing … and to a sixteen-year-old girl?"

"I dunno," said Huntress. "That's what I'd like to find out."

"Call me if you need me ... I want to help."

"Thanks, Fredo," said Huntress. "I will." She then turned, ran away, and disappeared into the night.


"Huntress, please be careful," said Oracle over the comm as Huntress made her way through the crowded nightclub. "I've got a bad feeling about this."

"What's with you … Dinah giving you spy reports from beyond?" said Huntress with a laugh.

"Huntress, I'm serious," said Oracle. "I can't explain it." She paused. "Call it … a premonition," she said with a sigh.

"Am I not always careful?"

"I'm not going anywhere near that one," Oracle deadpanned as Huntress approached the bar. Remembering his profile from the mug shot Oracle had shown her earlier at The Clocktower, she spotted Chavez sitting at the bar, nursing a beer. He was a stocky man in his late twenties with a square jaw, a pug nose, and close-cropped dark hair.

"You Chaco?" Huntress asked Chavez.

"Who wants to know?" came the reply.

"You first."

"Who wants to know?"

"I've got some business to discuss."

"So let's talk…"

"Not here," said Huntress. "Outside."


"So let's talk," said Chavez. Huntress and Chavez were in the rear of the club. Chavez's car was parked behind them.

"Who shot Dinah Lance?" interrogated Huntress.

"I dunno what you're talking about."

"BULLSHIT!" hissed Huntress. "Your car was used in the shooting … and it wasn't reported stolen. This means that either you were the driver that night … or you know who did it. Either way, you're in this up to your eyeballs. Now…" Huntress paused for effect. "Who was the shooter?"

"I don't have time for this." With that, Chavez turned to leave. As he did so, Huntress delivered one kick to his stomach and a second kick to his chest, pinning him against the side of his car. Before Chavez could react, she planted the sole of her boot against his Adam's apple, choking him.

"Huntress, you've got bad guys on your three," said Oracle over the comm.

Huntress looked to her right. Coming straight towards her were four burly henchmen, each of them weighing -- at a minimum -- north of three hundred pounds.

"GET HER!" cried Chavez.

Huntress broke away from Chavez and engaged the henchmen, but to no avail. She kicked and punched … but there was nothing she could do that could stop the oncoming tidal wave of muscle and flesh. Two men grabbed her wrists while the other two each forced her to her knees and stepped on her calves, pinning her to the sidewalk. She was now on her knees, spread-eagle, and helpless.

"Huntress, are you all right?" Oracle screamed frantically over the comm. "HUNTRESS!"

Chavez advanced towards Huntress. "NO ONE…" boomed Chavez as he punctuated his words with a kick to Huntress's stomach. "DOES THAT…" Kick. "TO ME..." Kick. "…EVER!" Another kick.

On and on it went … kick after kick … blow after blow … for what seemed like an eternity. Mother, help me, Huntress pleaded silently. Shoots of pain ran through her body.

Chavez reached into his back pocket, pulled out a butterfly knife, and swung it open. "Such a pretty face," said Chavez as he waved the knife menacingly. "But it could use a little … plastic surgery."

Just as he was about to strike, he suddenly dropped the knife, screamed in agony, and grabbed his crotch. The next moment, he found himself thrown backwards and off balance, almost as if some invisible entity had kicked him in the jaw.

Neither Huntress nor the four henchmen who were restraining her could believe what they were seeing: an invisible entity was fighting Chavez! The four henchmen each stared goggle-eyed at the scene that was transpiring before them.

The entity proceeded to repeatedly pound Chavez's forehead into the hood of his car. The entity then delivered the coup de grace: a haymaker to the jaw that sent the bleeding Chavez onto the sidewalk -- unconscious.

¡Fantasmas! screamed one of the henchmen. Ghosts! With that, all four of them released their grip on Huntress (causing the battered and barely conscious superhero to limply fall to the sidewalk like a rag doll), turned, and ran away into the night.

Don't try to get up, said a faint soft (feminine?) voice in Huntress's ear as she struggled to get to her feet. Huntress's head was swimming with pain and disbelief -- the visitation from Hell was now a gentle angel of mercy. Exhausted by the effort, she finally collapsed unconscious onto the sidewalk.