Chapter 6.

Written by Carycomic!

BLUDHAVEN, NEW JERSEY

(JUNE 27, 2001)

Fyodor Ivanov blanched as he watched his two bodyguards- -former Spetsnaz commandos, both- -drop to the ground. The blood gushing from their headless necks like crimson oil! Consequently, he could only stare in open-mouthed shock as Deathstroke then spun about. Launching half a dozen cruciform shurikens in the direction of the other Russian mobsters. Every single one of which. . . embedded itself squarely into the forehead over the bridge of its target's nose.

The stunned reaction (or, rather, inaction) on the part of Ivanov's surviving henchman allowed Deathstroke more than enough time to crouch down; pick up one of the dead bodyguard's Belgian-made PPSh replicas; spring back up; and, then, open fire.* As a result?

A total of fifteen men (not including Ivanov) were dead. Killed in less time than it takes to tell.

Deathstroke glared at the latter and remarked, "Looks like you'll have to finish transferring the cargo to our truck all by yourself."

The would-be double-crosser nodded in agreement with such fearful swiftness, Sal Maroni was half-worried he might give himself whiplash! His amusement at this would have been short-lived, however, if he had known that was not the only one who had witnessed this brief altercation.

Atop a nearby crane, a holographically invisible creature looked at infra-red images of the people on the wharf. The one re-sheathing his katana, in particular! That one seemed to interest his mistress.

"He moves like an Angosian," her voice telepathically declared. "And, as that primitive truck he's boarding seems to be headed for Gotham City, it might benefit my plans if you stowed away on it."

A minute later, the moving van in question was headed back north. With a translucent shape clinging, upside-down, to the underside between the mudflaps.

MEANWHILE, BACK AT THE PARADISE CASINO. . .

"He alright?" asked the short, bearded police detective of the paramedic.

The latter finished putting a bandage over the welt on Rupert Thorne's head, and then had him hold an ice pack on top of it.

"Mr. Thorne? I'm Detective Bullock. This is my partner, Detective Montoya."

He indicated the Latina woman standing next to him whose nod of greeting was suitably brusque.

"Can you tell us what, if anything, these gunmen were after?" Bullock went on.

"Look for yourself!" snapped Thorne. "They were obviously after the cash reserves in that vault. Because, as you know, I'm legally obligated to keep the same amount of paper money, on the premises, as the chips represent at the gaming tables."

"Nice try," quipped Montoya, "but, the vault where you keep your cash reserves is in the _basement_ of this building! So, why do you have an extra one, here in your office?"

"Because that's where he keeps the dirty money he launders through here on behalf of his silent partner," replied Batman. "One Sal Maroni."

The Dark Knight had been on the rooftop, for the last five minutes, talking to Alfred back at the Batcave. The faithful butler had been asked if he had been keeping track of the sky crane's flight path via the orbital tracking system disguised as Wayne Enterprises' satellite-TV network!

"Affirmative, sir. The aircraft in question headed due northwest toward the Knickerbocker National Forest. That is; till it vanished from the radar screen, altogether!"

"Not your fault. Considering all the paramilitary ordnance this group had, a radar-jamming device aboard their chopper doesn't come as any greater surprise. Batman, out!"

At the bottom of the rooftop access stairway, he met Robin.

'Your hunch was right. The only casino employee unaccounted for is a security guard named 'Ian Mueller.' "

Batman half-smiled: "Cute!"

Robin tilted his head in puzzlement: "Come again?"

" 'Muellerian' is the adjective used by zoologists to describe a form of protective mimicry that goes beyond just physical similarity. For instance; it's now known that viceroy butterflies can be just as unpalatable to birds as monarch butterflies!"

"So, what are you saying?" countered the Teen Wonder. "That the Mean Berets' inside man was actually some kind of. . .giant killer moth?"

"Nope! Just an accomplished master of disguise. Which should help us narrow down our list of suspects, considerably."

A moment later, they walked back into Thorne's office, where they caught the first round of the former's questioning. Which, in turn, prompted Thorne to give forth with a very predictable response.

"Never heard of the guy."

"Strange!" replied the Dark Knight (once again wearing that unnerving half-smile). "He runs- -among other things- -the sanitation service that picks up your casino's garbage, once a week. A very clever way of smuggling the illicit profits, from your other businesses, _into_ the casino, I must admit."

Now, it was Thorne's turn to smirk. "If you could prove that accusation, we both know I wouldn't still be sitting, here."

"Perhaps we could be of some help, in that regard," a new voice chimed in.

The Dynamic Duo were slightly faster, in spinning about, than Montoya and Bullock. But, all four of them were no less puzzled than Thorne, himself, in seeing a quintet of men in black suits come walking into the office. A quintet evidently led by a bald Caucasian who identified himself as. . .

"Special Agent Dixon Hill, FBI."

"Black Spider to Veteran. Black Spider to Veteran. Do you copy? Over."

"Veteran to Black Spider. Copy you. Over."

"Black Spider to Veteran. We have passed Tower One. ETA, ninety seconds. Over."

"Roger, that. Rolling camo back, now. Veteran, over and out."

Half a minute later, Lieutenant Garber began the vertical descent of the painted-black, spidery-looking sky crane towards a large, red-lit circle on the ground. When that had been accomplished, a deafening sound arose as a series of massively tall poles began to slide forward along two parallel lines of metallic track. A three inch-wide, two inch-deep slit in each one. When those poles finally ceased moving, the camouflage nets at the top of them were once more in place.

A few moments later, Sergeant Major Fors was looking at the returnees.

"How'd it go?"

"There was some interference from the Caped Crusaders," replied Deadshot, ". . .as anticipated. But, we got away with the money. And even Alice's Kevlar vest managed to protect her from getting tazed! How'd things go in Bludhaven?"

"The Russkies tried a double-cross. Deathstroke showed 'em the error of their ways, though."

"Good!" snapped Garber. "The sooner we get this b.s. over with, the sooner we can achieve our main objective."

"Yes, sir," saluted Fors. "The buyers are waiting for us in the cafeteria."

"Alice!" exclaimed the Mad Hatter. "Come."

The mind-controlled chimp, still toting the sack full of money, followed her master to the designated rendezvous. There, seated at one of the many dining tables, was a trio of Southwest Asians. One of them taller than the other two. . .and sporting a gold turban.

"Lt. Garber? Dr. Tetch?" intoned the sergeant major. "Meet Khan Noonein Singh."

tbc