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Batman 1939: Swimming in the Styx

Chapter 24: Una Casa Dividida


Consulates usually served as a foreign nation's lesser diplomatic sites following its embassy, but most consulates still merited their own exclusive building. This was for prestige and security and also legal simplicity since a consulate was sovereign territory. But in Gotham City, owning a building in an upscale neighborhood was beyond the budget of many countries, so consulates often rented sections of larger buildings. For instance, Gotham City's Argentinian Consulate occupied floors nine and ten of the twenty story Bale Tower, a building which also housed apartments, restaurants, a golf equipment wholesaler, a recording studio, a private detective agency, Gotham City's Peruvian Consulate, and a perfume shop.

Strictly speaking, consular employees didn't need to obey city laws. No official could force them to follow public health ordinances regarding, say, mandatory inspections or evacuations. City Hall acknowledged this. As a show of good faith, the city distributed gift baskets to all new diplomatic guests with special photo albums. These albums were filled with tragic photographs of ruined husks of buildings with captions like 'smoking near gas stove', 'overflowing sewer', and 'rats'. Gotham's consulates tended to toe the line when it came to municipal codes.

And so, when Batman and Wonder Woman crossed to the roof of the Bale Tower atop a pneumatic mail tube, they had every expectation that the Argentinian Consulate would be abandoned. As they entered a stairwell, Batman turned to Wonder Woman and held out a camera and a pair of a gloves. She hung the camera around her neck but only stared at the gloves.

He pushed them closer. "Put these on."

"Why?"

"So you don't leave fingerprints."

"Fingerprints?"

"Touching something with your hands leaves an impression. An investigator can find these impressions and match them to you."

Wonder Woman was offended. "I don't touch things that hard!"

"The impression isn't from crushing the object. Your fingers always produce a fine layer of sweat. This sweat sticks to surfaces in the unique shape of your fingertips, like ink from a stamp. Someone with a record of your fingerprints can recognize these shapes and identify where you've been."

"Then the gloves are unneeded. I am a visitor. No one has my fingerprints."

"I do."

"What? No. How?"

He dropped the gloves into her hand. "I'm Batman."

As they descended the stairs, Batman offered a quick tutorial on using a camera. Wonder Woman told him that she had used a camera before. He asked if she had practice using a flash bulb, and she said she had not. He asked if she had photographed pages of text, and she said she had not. He asked if she had replaced rolls of film, and she said she had not. So Batman offered a quick tutorial on using a camera.

When they reached the top floor of the Argentinian Consulate, Batman picked the lock on the stairwell door. As he worked, Wonder Woman had an expression like she wanted to ask a question, but she kept silent. When Batman was finished, he angled a mirror under the door, then, satisfied, he pressed it open a crack, eyed the surroundings, and slipped through. She followed.

The office had an Old World touch. The décor was trimmed in brass and wood, and there were oil paintings and chandeliers. The small night staff didn't use the entire suite, so only a few rooms were lit. Still, Batman and Wonder Woman split up and crept through every room of the Consulate's two floors to look for stragglers.

Batman knew the names of the consul-general and his main deputy, and he recognized their offices as he passed. When he and Wonder Woman determined the area was abandoned, he directed her to the deputy's office with simple instructions.

"Look for recently opened mail. Also look for files marked secret or classified."

"I believe that would be secreto or-"

"Fine. When you're finished, leave everything exactly how you found it."

"How will I know if-"

Before she could finish, Batman had disappeared. He entered the consul-general's office and quickly walked the room, pulling out papers which he laid in two tall piles on a table. Holding the camera in one hand, he photographed the sheet atop the left pile while reading the sheet atop the right pile. When he finishing either, he laid that sheet aside and started on the next one. His Spanish was rusty, so he was able to photograph five sheets in the time he could read one. This was partly balanced by the need to swap film, which he also performed without looking. In this fashion, he processed both piles in several minutes. He returned each document to where it belonged and closed the door behind him.

Earlier, he had discovered other eminent offices and an archives that looked promising. He searched each of these as well, committing every interesting record to film or memory with assembly line speed. When ran out of film, he continued with his eyes alone.

After fifty minutes, Batman's sense of time twinged and drew him out of his investigative trance. He found Wonder Woman still in the deputy's office. She was also reading. Her camera hung from her neck.

"You used all eight rolls of film?"

"No, the second roll jammed in the mechanism. I tried to dislodge it and something snapped inside."

"Fine. Let's go."

She replaced her reading materials. They traveled to the stairwell, and Batman used his picks to lock the door behind them. As they climbed, they began to hear voices many floors below. But the pair reached the roof without delay and crossed the pneumatic mail pipe to the anonymity of the city.

"As they fled, Wonder Woman said, "I didn't see any mention of Steve or any similar subjects. Did you discover anything worthwhile?"

Batman responded, "I'm thinking."

"Are you thinking of a paper you discovered that would advance our mission?"

"I'm thinking."

"Batman, I have a question."

"Yes?"

"When we entered the Consulate, how were you able to remove that lock?"

"I picked it."

"How fortuitous. I would have thought the Argentinians picked it."

He paused and looked at her blankly for a moment. "No, I used a locksmithing tool known as a pick to simulate the action of a key."

"Can this pick simulate other keys as well?"

"Most of them."

"Merciful Minerva! That is a precious treasure. Did your magistrate bestow it for your civic duties?"

"No. I bought mine."

"You can buy picks at a store?

"Yes."

"They must cost a queenly sum."

"Not especially. Most people can afford a set."

Wonder Woman pondered this for a minute, then she spread her arms and cried, "Then why have locks?"


Meanwhile, sixteen blocks away.

Detective Andy Mack was the most experienced detective in the GCPD River and Maritime Patrol's Homicide Squad. In his four years on the Squad, exactly one of his arrests was convicted of homicide. He had earned his promotion to detective when a city councilman hit his cousin with a car. Mack was a trustworthy sort. He always showed up on time and usually sober.

Currently, he was asleep in his small apartment. There was a knock at his door.

Detective Mack, clad in underwear and socks, grabbed his service weapon and opened the door. Outside stood Sergeant James Gordon.

Detective Mack lowered his weapon. "Sergeant, what are you doing here?"

Gordon chuckled. "Yeah, good to see you too. Can I come in?"

"Uh, sure. Are you okay, Sergeant?"

"No."

"Oh."

They stood in Mack's cramped apartment. Without invitation, Gordon sat in the only chair. "Listen, Mack, I've got a favor to ask of you."

Detective Mack tried to holster his sidearm, then remembered he was in his underwear, so he dropped it on his dresser instead. "Of course. Whatever you need, Sergeant."

"Mack, you're the best man in my squad."

"Ah, you're just being nice."

"No, it's true. Not saying much, but it's true. So I need your help today in a big way."

"What's going on?"

"First, I need to sleep in this chair tonight. I don't have time to get home."

"Okay, I guess."

"Good. I can't work today. You need to lead the squad."

"What?"

"Yeah, I need to take the day off. Just hold down the fort for me. Call it a field promotion."

"Are you out of leave?"

"No, but I don't want the captain to know I'm taking off. Get it?"

"Uh-"

"Now listen carefully. Call my wife when you get in and tell her I've been working a big case all night. I'll write down her number."

"Your wife?"

"Yeah, tell her I'm still working on the case, so I'll be out of touch. Then tell the squad that they have to keep quiet about me being off today. I don't care what you say. Just make sure that's understood. Anyone asks, I'm with you guys all day chasing killer fish or whatever. That's very important. If you all can cover for me, I'll approve every leave request you folks submit for the next month. But if anyone rats me out, you all get nothing but me in a foul mood. Understand?"

"I think so."

"Good. Let's get some sleep. Don't wait up for me in the morning. I'll see myself out." Gordon began to remove his shoes. "Oh, and fair warning, Detective. I snore."


Just down the street from the Bale Tower was a photography shop, now closed for the night. Batman entered and led Wonder Woman to a dark room in the back. Wonder Woman noted that under the room's dim red light, Batman was only a black shape. His monochrome impression was so complete that he seemed two-dimensional, and when he moved it was almost an optical illusion. She saw that she seemed pale and bleak, but roughly like herself. Batman had become a different creature entirely, a specter.

Batman clearly knew the equipment. He removed their many spools of negatives and fed them one-by-one them through an enlarger. He adjusted the knobs until the bright images projected on its easel were legible. He read through these projected images, reading them.

After he read many projections, she asked. "Any discoveries?"

He answered, "I'm thinking."

After he read all the projections, she asked, "How about now?"

Batman sat up from the enlarger and pulled the last negatives out. He began to put everything away.

"There was one reference to your Captain Trevor. A memo dated the week after the party confirmed a few details that were already in the news, namely that the shooter was taken into custody."

Wonder Woman grabbed her hair and nearly shouted, "That's it? That's what took so much thinking?"

"No-"

"This is the mighty skill of the World's Greatest Detective?"

"After one day into a case on another continent? Yes.

"I'm-"

"There's a theme in the papers that took me time to interpret. The Argentine Foreign Ministry sends out official memos, but the consular staff also receive private letters from colleagues at home with uncensored opinions. The difference between the official notices and the privates letters might reveal what the government is trying to hide, even from itself."

"And this is helpful?"

"I'm guessing the government in your country is very stable."

"My mother's royal mandate is unquestioned. Any thought to the contrary would be obscene."

"Most countries aren't so content. Argentina endured a military coup only a decade ago. Typically, new leaders that take power through violence are themselves challenged in short order, either by the old regime or another faction from the inside."

"Man's violent ambition begets itself. This is no surprise."

"A usurper usually needs support from existing government bodies to overthrow the leader, so leaders are sensitive to the loyalty of their troops and bureaucrats. In the papers we found, I sensed a growing divide over Argentina's foreign policy. Officially, the government is neutral, but evidently large parts of the military say they want to side with the Axis powers."

"So?"

Batman, a monochrome void under the red light, started to pace, and his voice grew animated. "Politics is a game of appearances. The side that appears confident and righteous wins support, while the side that appears desperate and immoral loses it. These private letters prove that Carlos Salazar was strongly suspected within diplomatic circles to have Axis connections. Since an American killed him in Argentina in broad daylight, it looks like America is ignoring Argentine sovereignty to strike at her rivals. This makes the neutrality advocates look like American pets, and the Axis supporters look like patriots."

"Oh." Wonder Woman said, ashamed.

"I would expect an assassin to face a simple trial and execution by now. That always plays well with the crowds."

"But he hasn't been executed."

"Not publicly, at least. Maybe the leaders are worried that it be another propaganda victory for the Axis supporters. Or perhaps the US government already bought him back."

"But wouldn't hiding or releasing a killer show weakness? A disdain for the rule of law?"

"Absolutely. The Argentinian leaders may feel they're in a no-win situation. Or perhaps Trevor's being hidden by these Axis supporters to make the leaders look bad. In either case, they must be a major threat."

"How does all your speculation help us find Steve?"

"If Argentina is so close to throwing in with the fascists, I suspect Washington is paying the country far more attention than most people assume." Batman paused and paced a lap in silence. "There was another theme I found in the papers. A few figures in the consulate had surprisingly positive things to say about the United States. If Argentina feels vulnerable because their neutrality is interpreted as befriending America, their strongest option might be to befriend America."

"That would be an absurd reaction."

"That's politics. Or, just as likely, the US has been secret allies with Argentina all along, and that's what inspired the upstart Axis support in the first place."

"Amanda Waller did seem certain that she could help me find Steve, but since my ship exploded, I no longer trust her integrity."

"That's a wise attitude. Still, we should make one last stop before we head south."


Later that morning. The District Attorney's Office.

Assistant District Attorney Harvey Dent had a strict routine on days when he wasn't in court. He woke before dawn, lifted weights, showered, ate a hearty breakfast, read the paper on the train to the office, reviewed his mail, lifted weights in his office, reviewed his caseload, attended his first meeting of the day, did paperwork, attended his second meeting of the day, and crept out for a late-morning snack at the bagel shop around the corner (he needed the energy for his afternoon weightlifting).

Dent was at the counter, making change for his bagel, when he heard someone call at him from one of the tables in the back. "Hey, Mr. District Attorney!"

Dent turned to the caller, a middle-aged man with glasses and a mustache. Dent called back, "Yeah?"

"Mind if we talk for a second?"

Dent considered this. The man seemed harmless, and Dent usually stayed to eat his bagel anyway. "All right." He walked to the man's table. "What can I do for you?"

When he sat down, the man briefly slid a badge over the table. "My name's Sergeant James Gordon."

Dent was delighted. "Hey, I've heard of you. Hero cop, Jim Gordon. You've done some good work! Boys like you keep us prosecutors in business. Aren't you part of some special vigilante task force now?"

Gordon looked uncomfortable. "Actually, I've just been moved to lead a homicide squad."

"Brilliant."

"For the River and Maritime Patrol."

"Oh." Dent scratched the back of his neck. "They have a homicide squad?"

Gordon rubbed his temples. "Let me get to the point, Mr. Dent. I've heard of you as well, and I regret we couldn't meet under more agreeable circumstances."

"Well, as much as I love joining in a little mutual admiration club, how did you know I come here?"

"I was on the way to your office, and I guess I just saw the signs." Gordon pointed to the window where there were large signs posted of Dent smiling. A caption below each picture read 'Favorite bagels of ADA Harvey Dent, twice voted Gotham's most trusted civil servant!'.

Gordon shrugged. "So I came inside, and the man told me you stop in every morning."

"What?" Dent turned and yelled at the old cashier. "Mevlin! You can't be telling people I come here every morning!"

Melvin waved his arms at the rebuke. "What? He's a customer. Besides, he's got a cop-face."

"You're going to be the death of me, Melvin."

"Stick it up your ear."

"Whatever." Dent turned back to Gordon. "Where were we?"

Gordon leaned forward. "I heard about you sending Arturo Bertinelli up north."

Dent's friendly demeanor turned flat then cagey in two heartbeats. The man had mean face, the sort that came out of nowhere. "Yeah?"

"Listen, I don't know what they told you, but Bertinelli used to be my case."

Dent squinted. "No, they didn't tell me that."

Gordon leaned forward further. "We cops like to chat, Mr. Dent. You have a reputation for not giving a solitary damn about City Hall or those big white shoe firms or which defendants have high friends or deep pockets. You play square."

"I thought the cops didn't like me much."

"That's what I just said."

Dent didn't respond.

Gordon continued. "You know perfectly well that Arturo Bertinelli has no business in Canada. He belongs in your court in this city. Then he belongs in an American prison."

"I don't know what you're thinking, but this isn't the time or the place to discuss this, Sergeant." Dent stood and turned toward the door.

Gordon slapped the table. "Listen here! I'm out of time. If you're half the public servant they slap on posters, you're going to suck it up and put some skin on the line. We need to talk."

Dent glared at Gordon, but he eventually straightened his tie and called out, "Hey Melvin!"

Melvin called back. "Yeah?"

"Do me a favor." Dent pulled a quarter out of his pocket and flicked it across the room. "Close the shop for a few minutes. Go buy yourself a shoe shine and a paper. Keep the change."

Melvin bounced the coin in his palm. "Whatever you say, pal." He flipped the Closed sign on his door and walked out.

Dent sat back down, a pile of suspicion and nerves. "Fine. Here I am."

"Lovely." And with that, Gordon laid out what he knew. Not everything, of course. He made excuses for points that otherwise tied to Batman or any malfeasance on his team's part. This was no easy proposition. Harvey Dent was a courtroom attorney of staggering skill, conditioned to sniff out half-truths and rip them open like an angry dog. Most days this would worry Gordon. But Gordon had polished these lies for years; keeping stories straight was a major part of his routine. Eat, sleep, lie – that was his life. You didn't make it far in the GCPD unless you could duck and weave on the witness stand, but Gordon was even better at it than most. And finally, he didn't worry because he was sick and tired of the fight. He'd been so tired lately that most mornings he could hardly stand. He didn't worry because he didn't feel much of anything.

Gordon started with all of Arturo Bertinelli's domestic crimes involving the Ukrainian slave ring, several of which weren't listed on his formal charges. He described Arturo's hidden book of records under Carlo's bar, which described these crimes and others in detail, and implicated a dozen associates along the way. He explained how he knew Walter Brown was the messenger between the Families and the Mayor's office, and how he suspected that Walter was somehow involved in shielding Arturo from prosecution. He said all this and more, while Dent hardly said a word.

"-And that's why I need to know, Dent: why'd you really pass Bertinelli along to the Canadians? Whatever it is, we need to find a way around it."

Dent folded his hands into a big fist. "You're right. I made that decision under duress. It has no basis in procedure."

"The Bertinellis put the squeeze on you? We can-"

"No." Dent shook his head. "My boss did."

"The District Attorney? Then why hand you Bertinelli in the first place? You're the big wild card."

"It wasn't his idea." And with that, Dent shared the story of the meeting at the Cafe Ensoleillee. He described how he met Carmine Falcone, and also Walter Brown, and some Navy man as well. Gordon's ears perked up at that last guest, but he kept his mouth shut. Dent explained that the Mayor's office was trying every carrot and stick they had to keep the District Attorney playing along, and the Distract Attorney would rip the case out of Dent's hands, fire him, and sue him for defamation if Dent so much as blinked off-script.

"You see, my hands are tied. I'm just a spokesman."

"You're saying there's nothing you can do, Mr. Dent?"

Here, Dent had the decency to look him in eye. "I sympathize. Really."

Gordon sighed and stood up. "If that's how it's got to be."

"You want my advice? Don't make waves. These bigwigs threw a lot of weight around to save Arturo. That can't afford to do that forever. You wait for the good pitches, Gordon. Sooner or later another greaseball is going to slip up."

Gordon put his hat back on. "I'm not going to last that long, Mr. Dent. Good day."


The Rio Apiculata garrison. Argentina.

Cool Valdivian rainforests covered much of southern Chile, from the Pacific coast inland to the Argentine border. But the forests didn't trace the border perfectly, and a few lush regions could be found within the Argentine frontier. These lands were largely unsettled, and outposts of the Argentine military were among the few inhabitants. Relations were Chile were friendly, so these outposts were neither large nor active. The Rio Apiculata garrison was even more remote than most. It sat on the horseshoe bend of a river, and the forest was thin around it. The site was protected by a tower and a low wooden wall. Inside were lines of simple wooden buildings. One larger building near the center of camp was distinguished by a lock on its door and a permanent guard. This was the garrison's stockades. Argentina was at peace, so the stockades usually housed its own soldiers for petty insubordination and the like, not groups of Chilean scouts as the builders intended.

Lately, however, the stockades had been cleared of its few usual residents. Any misbehaving troops were punished elsewhere until further notice. The stockades' only occupant was Captain Steven Trevor. He had arrived one early night in a delirious fever. The fever had continued for hours, only to finally break near dawn. Captain Trevor slept long into the next day. He awoke to find himself in a locked room – a depressingly common occurrence in his life – and he was only visited by a sternly silent medic who checked his health, brought him meals, and led him outside to a basin of cold water to bathe. There was nothing to see outside, just a tiny yard surrounded by a palisade of rough-cut tree trunks. He often heard voices beyond, but never enough to make sense.

Time soon slipped into a seamless whole, but after many days of this routine, he was brought to meet the Colonel.

That was how the man introduced himself: El Coronel. Steve was escorted into a chair across a table from him in a new room of the little prison. Laying on the table near the Colonel was a large knife. They were left alone. Steve's first impression of Colonel was that he seemed familiar. He was a plain-faced old man in an immaculate uniform. He had nearly no hair and his knuckles were sharp peaks against the thin skin of his hands.

Steve nodded. "Hola, Coronel."

"Hello to you, Captain Trevor. I would wish to speak my English with you, please. I recall your Spanish is not so perfect, and I would find the effort of listening tiresome."

"Okay." Steve tried to hide his shock. "What would you like to talk about?"

"You do not remember me, no? This is no surprise. Your mind has suffered much, and I was not often seeing you before."

"I don't recall."

"Then I shall share my memory for you. After you shot Ambassador Carlos Salazar of Spain, you were taken to a prison outside of Buenos Aries. There, three men were assigned to break you and gain a, uh, a speaking. A confessional."

"A confession?"

"Just so, yes. I was one of those three men."

"Oh."

"You are valiant, señor. You would not break under terrible abuse for two days. That is most exceptional."

"What about the third day?"

"The third day you sang like a bird. Many truths and probably many lies, as is common. You said you were an American soldier, yes, a captain, and your name is Steven Archibald Trevor, and you said the names of your comrades, and your old missions, and many other things besides. Some quite incredible. But do not be concerned. When you said these things, only I and these two other men were in the room. I knew these two men to hold the wrong sympathies. So before they could tell anyone else what you said, I killed them," he pointed at the table. "With this knife."

"… Thanks?"

"Es no mucho. After that I made sure you were sent far away, to a stronghold secured by trusted men. I did not see you again."

"If I may ask, Colonel, what do you mean by 'wrong sympathies'?"

"Ah, a keen ear, yes! You do make a good spy!"

Steve rubbed his forehead. "I told you I was a spy?"

"A good spy, yes. And now we know you were not boastful."

"Great."

"Yes, these two men I knew to hold the wrong sympathies. You once said that you killed this Salazar because he was Hitler's servant. I am impressed that you Yankees learned of the rumor, but it was a popular belief here. This Salazar conspired with our officers frequently. He had a circle of good friends, and these friends had friends, and your two jailers were among them."

Steve winced at a memory. "Figures."

"With Salazar dead, these officers made a great noise and won many new friends. Your next steps were surely up the stairs of the noose. But Carlos Salazar was not the only man with friends. I helped move you in secret, to be kept by loyal hands. It was the least I could do."

"Why? I never did anything for you."

The Colonel smiled. "I had met Carlos Salazar several times, and each time I wanted to kill him myself. He may be Hitler's pet, and many of our soldiers may take up his cause, but never me, not for all the power or treasure in the world. Do you know why?"

"No."

"My mother was a Jew. I have wanted to share this truth for a very long time. I hope you will keep my secret."

"Of course."

"Very good. Not that you could spread my secret if you wished. The opposition learned of your first stronghold, and you were nearly stolen, so I have been doubly cautious this time. We must keep you here, out of sight, until we can decide what to do with you."

"I don't suppose you could ship me back to America? They'll probably send me to shoot more Nazis if you do."

The Colonel laughed. "No. You are still a killer, mi amigo. You shot an ambassador, no? We will deal with you when times are more, uh, appropriate. I only wanted to offer you my private gratitude. In another life, I believe you would be a hero in my country."

"You're welcome, I guess."

"Yes, good. But now we must talk serious. When we brought you to your first stronghold, my comrades were soon attacked by three men of an impossible size. They were giants! And very strong. They stole you into the mountains like thieves. Our men found you alone in the snow, frozen near to death. One of the giants was dead beside you, with many bullets shot in his back. You had a pistol, but the bullets in his wounds were from a different weapon. Do you care to explain?"

"Colonel, my memory is a little foggy."

"Foggy?"

"Weak."

"Ah."

"I think they were German. They were speaking German. I remember that."

"Indeed. And what killed the large man near you?"

"I'm not sure with my foggy memory."

"Was it an ally? An American? I have many suspicions that some of my men have sold news of you to the Americans."

"Sure, Colonel. I was abducted my some magical Germans on the exact day some Americans had also come to rescue me. And after they shot Jerry, they just left me to die in the snow."

"My English is not so perfect, Captain. Was that, uh, sarcasm?"

"… No."

"Well, we talk later if you remember more. You will return to your room now. Would you like something to read? You may be here for a long time."

"Got any comic books?"


The White House. Washington D.C.

Amanda Waller stood at the head of a long table. There were twice as many stars on the uniforms of the men seated before her than could be found in any other room in America. She had been here before, but never to lead a meeting. There was a large map of South America behind her.

"Gentlemen, Mr. President, I understand your subordinates have briefed you on why we're here, so I won't belabor that. Instead, I'll get straight to what I want to do about it."


Hours later. A military airfield in Texas.

Wise men have described war as months of boredom punctuated by moments of terror. Much of those months of boredom are spent cleaning and inspecting weapons. But inspecting one's weapon need not be boring. In fact, the last inspection before a mission is often a ritual of sharp anxiety.

The forty-three men of the First Special Platoon were some of the most decorated men in the United State military. Together, they had seen more action than any comparable unit in the country. Still, most of them felt a low rumble in their guts as they checked their equipment. Some seasoned warriors stopped feeling anything before battle, but this was usually seen as a bad sign. Folk wisdom said the best soldiers never lost the buzz entirely. Fear kept you sharp if you knew how to use it.

Lieutenant Slade Wilson inspected each round before he slipped them into his bandoleers. He still felt the buzz.

Private Floyd Lawton practiced quick-drawing his pistol at a hazard sign on the wall. He felt nothing.


The White House.

"-A hop to Panama then down to a landing strip owned by some friends in Chile." The men travel east on foot. We have strong intelligence that Captain Trevor is being held in a small, lightly-manned fort a scant few miles over the border in Argentina. With our equal or superior numbers, far superior training, and the element of surprise, our forces should swiftly breach the fort and recover our target. It's doubtful the fort has radios, and we can easily cut any telegraph lines in advance of the attack, leaving the defenders isolated. Even if they manage to call for help, the nearest reinforcements are hours away. I expect minimal casualties."

A military airfield in Texas.

It had been an impressively simple matter for the quartermaster to gather a platoon's worth of rifles of an older South American vintage on short notice. Just a few calls to local dealers and collectors. This was Texas, after all. Anyone who stumbled across their little arsenal could easily believe it belonged to some band of hill bandits or guerrillas out of the Andes. The men of the First Special Platoon, all hobby shooters or hunters of some variety, learned unfamiliar weapons with ease.

Still, they had only practiced with the new rifles for two days. That was a challenging pace. And they were all concerned at the lack of machine guns, mortars, and other proper infantry tools. You did not want to be the side that showed up to war without machine guns.


Gotham City.

Sergeant James Gordon could hear Officer Renee Montoya's home before he saw it. It was a three story townhouse, one of many on the modest, unremarkable street. But where most of the townhouses housed perhaps a dozen residents, often two or three families together, he knew Montoya's townhouse only housed the Montoyas, and there were at least twenty of them. Montoya rarely opened up about her family life, but over the years, Gordon had collected hints that Montoya shared her home with her parents, two sisters, a brother, a pair of grandparents, a great-grandmother, a few aunts and uncle, a few cousins, and enough nieces, nephews, and second cousins to fill a baseball team.

Even clean cops in Gotham routinely used the badge to avoid petty ordinances. It was an open secret in the Department that Montoya used hers to flout occupancy limits and noise complaints, no matter how many letters her neighbors wrote.

The sun was red in the sky when Gordon knocked on her door. A little boy, perhaps nine, opened it. Gordon crouched down and smiled. "Hey there, sport. Is Officer Montoya home?"

The boy called back into the house, "Tía Renee! There's a bum here for you!"

Gordon frowned. A smattering of excited Spanish echoed through the house. Officer Montoya appeared racing down a staircase, narrowly beating several young men who wore mean expressions. She reached the ground floor and turned around, shooing them back with vigor. The young men gave Gordon a sour look but retreated. Officer Montoya patted the boy on the head and ordered him down a hall.

Gordon nodded at her. "Montoya." She was in a simple blouse and skirt. He couldn't recall seeing her dressed as a civilian before.

Montoya caught her breath and planted her hands on her hips. "Sergeant Gordon. What a surprise."

"Could we go somewhere alone, please?"

"No problem."

Montoya led him through the house to a back door. They passed several figures of various ages, all with a resemblance to her. Gordon nodded and offered each a quick hello. They all looked at him suspiciously. Behind the house was a little gated courtyard. She closed the back door and leaned against it.

"Long time no see."

"No kidding."

"What's going on, Sergeant? You look like dog food. No, you look like something they wouldn't make into dog food."

"Thanks."

"What did you do today?"

"Walked. It helps me think."

"I heard about Bertinelli. What's the plan? Do we get the team together?"

"No time. And no point. There's no legal angle on this, Montoya. We can't win the way we want." He lowered his voice. "But maybe we can still win."

"What can we do?"

"Not we, just you."

"Me?"

"I can only see one good way to end this. It's not pretty, and it all comes down to you."


Hours later. The Fremont Hotel. Washington D.C.

Amanda Waller faced her reflection in the little bathroom mirror. After leaving the White House, she had spent the evening pampering herself. She enjoyed a spa and massage, then dinner at a fine colored restaurant. Finally, she saw a movie, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. It was very entertaining. Now she sat brushing her hair with a new ivory hairbrush.

Waller glared into the mirror. "I will stop you. And if you don't surrender, I will kill you."

She heard a laugh over her shoulder. "Ah, my little untermensch. You are a credit to your people. I've enjoyed this much more than I expected. Do not worry. It will all be finished soon."