DC Infinity Presents

Batgirl # 20

War for Hell

Part 1

The Shot

Gotham Central Youth Center

"Stop it! Leave me alone!" the young woman cried, "please!"

"Never! You asked for it, lady!"

"Don't you dare!" the young woman screamed as she was hoisted into the air. With a mighty shrug, she was thrown through the air…and landed with a loud splash.

"Rahhh!" Josh Clark thumped his chest dramatically as Sarah Gibbs began to right herself in the pool.

"You jerk!" Sarah brushed her hair out of her eyes, "you're infringing on my freedom of speech!"

"What, you said school sports programs are a waste of money," Josh flexed muscles, "do these look like a waste?"

"Shame they don't help…your brain."

Josh felt an arm around his throat the same instant feet hit the back of his knees. He fell like log, and Cassandra pushed his head underwater with a smirk on her face.

"Always someone bigger," Cassandra taunted, "now say 'auntie'."

"It's supposed to be uncle!" Josh half laughed, half chuckled.

"I like aunt better," Cassandra replied, then dunked him under again. Josh tried to get his feet under him, but Cassandra had no shortage of experience in dealing with muscle bound men who had no real concept of leverage, "now say it!"

"Aunt!" Josh said, sputtering pool water.

Cassandra allowed Josh to regain his footing, all the while smiling like the cat that ate the canary.

"You're just lucking your mom teaches kung fu," Josh groused, half-heartily. Cassandra saw how easily the embarrassment slid off of Josh's shoulders. Unlike so many she'd met in her life, Josh had little experience holding a grudge.

"Hey, you guys need to start getting cleaned up if we're going to make the movie!"

"Ah, don't be such a stick in the mud, Aaron," Josh splashed some water in Aaron's direction, and Aaron recoiled as if it were raw sewage, "we can see a later one. Get some trunks and get some exercise already!"

"Are you kidding? Do you know how many germs are in there!"

"Like, none!" Josh countered, "I bet pool water barely qualifies as water with all the chemicals they put in it! It's cleaner than bath water, says ten bucks!"

"I highly doubt that, you see, the chemicals in our drinking water are distinctly different from…"

"Just stop being a wuss, Aaron!" Josh said with a roll of his eyes, "it's just water! I mean, really, is it…"

Sarah placed a gentle hand on Josh's shoulder, and gave him a look that politely translated into 'drop it'.

"…alright, guess we better hurry up and dry off," Josh huffed.

"Cass, could you get Zoe?" asked Sarah.

Cassandra nodded and with a breath dropped under the water and swam like a shark towards the last member of tonight's entourage.

The pool was sloped downward, stopping when it reached six feet in depth, and Zoe Hampton was at the five foot mark, simply walking back and forth from one edge to another.

To anyone else, Zoe's actions were odd. Most people in the pool were exercising or allowing their more playful side out, while all Zoe did was simply walking back and forth. As Cassandra approached, she saw passing confusion on the faces of those nearby.

Only Cassandra could see how simply walking unaided brought Zoe both incredible pressure and relief. Several years ago, she'd been exposed to Joker Venom and even after she'd been given an antidote, the damage was done. No one was sure what exactly had caused it, but the muscles in Zoe's legs became weak and sore, easily tired by the most basic activity. Without crutches, walking was an impossibility for the teen.

"We're getting ready to go," Cassandra made a point to sound neutral. Zoe would never say anything, but she was always sensitive to the idea that she was slowing everyone down.

"Well, I was starting to prune anyways," Zoe said, unconvincingly, trying to hide her disappointment. Cassandra suspected that Zoe would have remained in the pool all day, if given the opportunity.

As the two girls began to walk out of the pool, Cassandra was careful to keep perfect pace with Zoe, never rushing her or moving quicker than her friend, and as they came out of the pool Sarah was waiting with Zoe's crutches in hand.

As they made their way towards the locker room, Cassandra found herself feeling almost guilty at feeling so…at ease.

She wasn't interrogating drug dealers. She wasn't keeping Gotham safe with her feet and fists. Yet…Cassandra still felt…content, and a little guilty. A small part of her simply couldn't accept that life was so effortless.

But the Daughter of Cain took solace in the advice Nightwing gave her. That no matter how calm things were, it could never last.

Some might say it was a strange comfort.

Gotham, The Dive

Jake DiNozzo stared in confusion at the man standing in front of him.

The man was dressed in a full light blue body suit, sleeveless trench coat and a faceless silver mask curved around his face like you saw in professional fencing, only it was perfectly smooth like a mirror.

It wasn't as if Jake had never seen a costume before. After working six years as an on again, off again henchman for Two-Face, Riddler and Joker, and surviving them all, he'd seen everything and everyone Gotham had to offer.

But seeing a costume here, now, was unheard of. The Dive was one of several locations across Gotham where three time losers, wanna-bes who'd never seen the inside of a cell or made-men who had seen too many all gathered.

See, when people like The Mad Hatter or Two-Face needed muscle, they sent a man to The Dive with a rough estimate for manpower. Those selected would be given a time and an address.

Jake…inherited the bar slash talent agency two years ago, and in all that time he'd never seen a single costume here. Guys like Joker were too high and mighty, the capes like Batman and Huntress knew if that hassled the guys here they'd go somewhere else and not even the cops came within five blocks of the bar.

While Jake was proud the business he managed, he knew that he was simply on the bottom of the food chain. He was too small a fish to attract any meaningful attention, and only marginally useful to those above him. Not even Kite Man would be caught dead in a place like this.

Which was why this new guy stood out so much, in the way he carried himself, the way he saw everything in the room without turning his head, how his guns were spotless and polished in contrast to the handles that were old and worn. He carried himself like a heavy weight champion approaching the ring. Aware, confident and unafraid of anything that might happen next. He had all the hallmarks of a true professional.

"So, how come there are so many guys here?" Silver Shrike asked, "I mean, come on…!"

Until he opened his mouth.

"Excuse me?" Jake raised an eyebrow.

"Work for guys like the Joker! You're just red shirts to him, a quick punch line!" Silver Shrike gripped his head like an overacting teenager, "and it's not like the others are any better!"

"Eh, not all the time," Jake shrugged, as he eyed his fellow lowlifes. The costume, along with the odd questions, was beginning to draw more dangerous attention now.

Conversations dimmed and those playing pool began to slow, as they turned one eye to the only costume to enter the bar in years. Some thought he might be a hero, but the smarter among them dismissed the thought. What hero would use a gun, in Gotham?

"Hey, guys like the Joker don't care about their scores," Jake explained, "one time, him, me and four other guys busted a delivery of diamonds, worth ten millions according to the news. And he didn't take more than a handful, and left the rest for us!"

"Yeah, but he kills you like he's swatting flies!"

Jake shrugged, "Most of us can't get work elsewhere. No one wants to hire felons, even in good economies. And if you play your cards right, the pay-off is incredible. So are you here to work or not?"

"Yeah, can I give a reference?"

"Reference?" Jake stared incredulously. What did this kid think this was, a job interview?

"Yeah! I helped chain Scarecrow and Zsazs to the back of a truck that dragged them down the street back to their cells in Arkum. Does that help?"

All at once, the bar grew deathly silent. A threat was rising in Jake's throat, but Silver Shrike's hand shot out, grabbed him by the hair and slammed his face into the table before he could utter a single syllable.

For a moment, the silence hung in the air. Men who'd killed for pocket change, and sociopaths eager to prove themselves to the world stared in shock. Though they all expected to be involved in violence, none of them expected it to find it here, before they even started a caper.

"Nine guns, twelve knives, sixteen pool cues, four tasers, three brass knuckles and two hundred and three assorted bottles," Silver Shrike turned around to face the bar's patrons, "that's how many weapons are in this bar right now, without getting creative."

Silver Shrike cracked his knuckles.

"Let me tell you, right now, that's not enough gun."

"Ha! You poser! Really?"

Silver Shrike turned his head towards the laughter.

"And let me tell you," 'Filthy' Phil chuckled. The only crime he'd ever committed was shop lifting, but at six foot two and two hundred and eight pounds he felt confident enough to step up to assault, "ripping off a quote from a comic book isn't going to impress anyone."

"A comic book?"

Silver Shrike rubbed the back of his head nervously, as the bar of thugs and malcontents broke out into gut busting laughter.

"I thought it sounded cool," Silver Shrike said defensively. Then, without warning, he rabbit punched Filthy Phil and knocked the giant flat on his back, unconscious, "but you know what? Cool one-liner or not…"

"I can still beat the shit out of anyone and everyone in here."

The bar came at him like a giant mob of fists and fury. Some hoped to kill Silver Shrike to earn favor with Scarecrow or some other Gotham Rogue, some just wanted to kill for the sake of it, and others still were just angry that someone dared to stand between them and a paycheck.

Silver Shrike leapt up on a nearby pool table, and stood in the middle defiantly as an ocean of muscle crashed against the edges.

The first man to dare try to climb up was punted off as if he were nothing more than football, the second met with a foot to the face and the third received a backhand for his trouble.

Still hopeless outnumbered, Silver Shrike hopped into the air and came down on his hands, shifting his weight as he came down. Spinning like an Olympic gymnast, he smashed his steel toed boots in the jaw of a dozen thugs for a solid thirty before the crowd finally had the common sense to step back.

When he saw them retreating, Silver Shrike flipped into a standing position. As he came his, his hands went to his holsters, and the villain was standing straight for less than three seconds before he swept outwards with his hand guns, squeezing the triggers six times each.

Four men fell over dead, a neat and perfect hole in their foreheads, four men clutched ruined hands that held weapons only seconds before, and two fell over, both knees ruined forever.

Seeing this, the few remaining would-be henchmen who upright stepped back in awe. Up until now, they'd only seen such skilled violence unleashed by either the Bat, or one of his people. Seeing someone just as skilled, only with a casual ability to kill, was as terrifying as seeing the Devil himself.

"I trust I have your attention?"

Silver Shrike jumped down, and a bar full of criminals, sociopaths and thugs took a step back.

"There's a new area coming to Gotham. The time of freaks and madmen…is over," Silver Shrike pointed to the bar, "I'm thirsty. So before I leave, I'm going to get a drink and if you don't clear the dead and wounded out of my way by the time I'm done, I will hunt down and kill everyone here."

Silver Shrike smiled underneath his mask, as everyone rushed to clear the floor. He jumped behind the bar, found a coke, popped it open…and then wanted to kick himself in the rear when remembered that he was wearing a helmet. And allowing a room of his victims to see his face would easily be the stupidest thing he could do right now.

Still holding the soda in one hand and pretending like he meant to do that, Silver Shrike stepped out from behind the bar, and surveyed the scene.

The dead and wounded were all dragged across the floor and propped up against the wall. The men, the same men who hoped to be sent on a job with The Joker or Mr. Freeze, all averted their eyes as Silver Shrike scanned the room with a critical eye.

"Nice work, guys," Silver Shrike said honestly, "now I need one more favor. Tell your friends, your girls, tell everyone….that this is just the start."

Silver Shrike walked out of the bar, and slipped into the shadows of a nearby alley. He made his way through the back alleys of Gotham, before he finally emerged in a mostly deserted parking lot. Four men were standing outside a stretch limo, patiently waiting. Three wore dark suits with bulges, while the fourth wore an immaculate white suit, to the point that Silver Shrike thought it almost shined.

"Abel, welcome back, son. How did it go?"

Silver Shrike rubbed the back of his head nervously, "I kinda failed my bluff check, sir."

"I'm sorry?"

"I had to beat the crap out of the bar," Silver Shrike explained, apprehensively. He clenched his fists, still spotted with the blood of a dozen different thugs, and silently prayed that the middle age mad standing before him wasn't angry.

"Well," the man's smile was like that of a lion approaching a fresh kill, "I thought it might come to that, my boy. I had hoped it might be diplomatic, but I think Gotham needs to learn that Jacob Thorn…means business."

"We only beat up the small fish, though," Silver Shrike replied.

"Only because I have one last assignment for you tonight, my boy."

oooOOooo

The Cave

Batgirl clenched her fist, testing the feel of the special Kevlar weave around her wrist. Though she enjoyed herself earlier, it was only now, preparing to dive into the darkest alleys of Gotham that she felt completely at ease.

Cassandra Cain had no direction, no role to play out in society. Alost in a sea of commonality, and absence of purpose, Cassandra always felt…adrift when not working as a crime fighter.

But Batgirl?

Batgirl had a purpose, goal and the means to accomplish both. She didn't need teachers or a clock to point her in the right direction, and she had a purpose and role in a world she understood implicitly. Doubt might not have vanished completely, but in costume, the Daughter of Destruction knew how to put it in its place.

For a moment, the young crime fighter wondered if it was odd that she thought of herself with two different names at different times.

"You have a good time with your friends?"

An image of Oracle's face appeared on the wall in front of Batgirl. When Batman commissioned her cave, he'd decided that it would be a waste of time to put a two way monitor on every wall simply for the sake of conversing with allies, given the danger it would pose if and when it was compromised.

So instead, her cave was lined with projectors that allowed anyone with the need to project their face on any flat surface.

To say that Batgirl did not care for it was an understatement. The teen vigilant vowed that the second she thought of a decent excuse, she'd smash each one personally.

"Yes," Batgirl said curtly. As far as she was concerned, personal business had no place down here, "do you have information…for me tonight?"

"I do," Oracle replied with a roll of her eyes, "I've got a lead on The Ventriloquist. He's recruited a few new thugs."

Batgirl smiled beneath her mask, "Good. Need a workout."

oooOOooo

Later

As she moved across Gotham, Batgirl silently reviewed everything she knew about Arnold Wesker, the 'mad puppet man of Gotham' (Robin's nickname) that went by the name Ventriloquist. He reminded her of Two-Face, as he was two people in one body. Arnold Wesker the man was a short, polite man who used a puppet as an expression for the brutality and criminal thoughts that had developed after decades of being the weak link in a family of criminals. Batgirl was, in a small way, sympathetic to how the man was torn between his desire to be a good person and still please his criminal family, she thought The Ventriloquist's solution was an affront to both. He lied to himself about being a good man, and would in turn pretend only to victim to his family and not a criminal.

Dangerous, but not on a level that approached Joker or Two-Face. Wesker didn't share their fondness for traps, or tactical ability for pretending enemy action. While she had no idea what the demented man's exact plans were, Batgirl was fairly confident that she could handle him and his crew.

But, as she was almost upon the location Oracle had directed her to, gun shots rang out. Working purely by reflex, Batgirl doubled her speed as tonight's mission took on a life or death urgency.

Less than one minute later, the female Bat smashed through the skylight, cape out to slow her fall. She landed in a crouch and after surveying the situation, stood and then relaxed as much as her training could allow.

There were seven dead bodies scattered throughout the warehouse, but curiously, The Ventriloquist wasn't one of them. Batgirl saw him out the corner of her eye, and rushed to his side.

As fearsome and ruthless as his puppet Scarface could be, Arnold Wesker was still a pudgy, short overweight man. Batgirl, though somewhat relieved that he was alive, was also somewhat surprised. The other men in the warehouse were men of physical power and strength, much more able to withstand abuse than their boss.

His wounds were bad, but to Batgirl's eyes, precise. His face was bloated and bloody, his breathing was shallow but steady and there was a small puddle of blood, where someone had shot him in the rear. A painful shot, but she knew it wouldn't be fatal by itself.

Given the expertise that brought down his crew, Batgirl knew instinctively that the wound was inflicted solely to keep him from fleeing.

If Wesker was alive, it could only be because he was deliberately spared. But why kill his men and spare the mastermind…?

The thought made no sense. Why would a highly trained killer leave alive the person most able to take vengeance later? If one of the dead thugs were the real target, why not ambush him when he was alone?

Batgirl put that thought aside, and tapped a button on her belt. Gotham PD and EMTs would be alerted via an anonymous call, and Batgirl didn't plan on being here when they arrived. All too often, Gotham police were fond of accusing a crime fighter who discovered a crime scene of actually committing the crime.

Nightwing called it a bad running gag.

Batgirl was about to fire her grappling hook to leave, when she glanced at the door to the warehouse, and noticed two shell casings by the front entrance.

The Dark Defender looked at the positions of the bodies, and saw how at least several still had their hands on their belts, or behind their backs. Gotham's thugs were, on the average, quick draws.

But at just a glance, Batgirl could see that whoever killed them was so far above them, they might as well have been children.

In her mind's eye, the Dark Huntress reconstructed the scene. The attacker came in the front, one gun in each hand. Seven shots, fourteen shots and seven men dead. One bullet in the heart, and one in the head just to be certain. And then he (she? Batgirl realized she had no idea of the attacker's gender) caught Ventriloquist saw the small man was leaving, and beat him within an inch of his life while making certain not to inflict a fatal wound.

An example. That was why the mastermind was still alive, while his men were eliminated ruthlessly.

Something at the back of her mind began whisper something is wrong, something is unseen, but Batgirl had no idea what it could be.

Trying to clear the haze of confusion, Batgirl ran through the scenario twice more, observing the locations of the shell casing. The only one that gave her pause was the one that told her the gunman leapt over a pile of crates.

That eliminated Deadshot from the suspect pool that was barely above five people. He was too stationary, while the attacker was as skilled in hand to hand combat as he was with guns.

Every detail only served the drive home the same thing. Whoever did this, whoever killed these men, was one of the best in the world. The gunman hadn't even broken stride as far as she could tell. Batgirl bent down to examine a shell casing, when she felt a chill run down her spine and something in her brain just clicked.

The assault was precise, quick, ruthless and yet, somehow almost casual. The calm, effortless slaughter was a statement all its own. Batgirl had seen this work before.

Whoever killed these men, whoever effortlessly butchered them, whoever they were, their training could have only come from one person. She knew it in her heart, because how these men were killed was how she would have done it.

Cain.

Without thinking, Batgirl turned towards Black Gate, where her father was occupying a cell. She clenched her fists, and wondered just what he'd unleashed on the world this time.

And just what would she have to do to make it right?

Next: It's the Mob vs. the Rogues with Gotham and Batgirl caught in the middle! And Gotham's infamous rogues have no intention of rolling over!