The aggressive beat mixed with the doped up laughter of some of the clients and the sickly sweet smell of sweat, alcohol and face powder was enough to make his stomach turn.

He really hated that place.

It was too loud, too flashy for his liking. Too rowdy. Like some high class lunapark. Except that the expensive furnishings and occasional, nauseating wafts of designer perfumes couldn't hide the fact that the guests were all scum. Luxurious, Balmain-wearing, shit-grinning criminal scum. And he himself was one of the most prominent patrons.

Briefly glancing at the raised platform in the centre of the dance floor where the glistening, convulsing bodies of their "best girls" blurred into one shade of nude and gold, Johnny Frost took a gulp of the now warm liquid he had been swirling in his glass for the last half an hour. He didn't like drinking at work, especially on nights as busy as this. But the last business meeting on Boss' behalf didn't go well at all, and he really needed something to ease his tense shoulders.

Feeling the burning sensation all down his throat, Frost begrudgingly weighted his options. There was only one at this point, really.

He'd have to let him know.

Frost signalled the brunette to get him another shot before watching the sea of moving limbs behind the bar stand. He had been with J long enough to know when things were going seriously downhill and this was certainly the moment. Their heroin and meth trade was officially fucked on the East Side turf, there was no denying it. The Russians were overstepping their boundaries again and it was only a matter of time before Maroni and Falcone clans sniffed the opportunity to break loose too.

Lost cash. It all meant tons and tons of lost cash from prostitution, ammo and narcotics. J's cash. And if he lost, they all did.

On top of that, six of their men were gone after the last weapon trade in the docks and what was even worse, two of the new kids got caught during a plant arson one big-name corporation ordered a month ago. Frost now had to arrange their quite, fast disposal before FBI could connect the dots and get involved. J's operations were on their radar, everyone knew that. It was hard not to be the government's, or even Interpol's business when one ran a criminal empire of J's magnitude. Luckily for Frost though, the kids were sent to Morsdale Penitentiary.

It should be easy enough. Accidents at the Morsdale prison playgrounds happened all the time.

It was funny though, Frost mused as his dark eyes squinted at the filled up booths that lined the club's golden walls. He could hear the coquettish laughter of girls in tight cocktail dresses and the low, rumbling sweet-talks of men half-hidden in shadows with only their diamond encrusted watches sparkling in the club lights. Those men were all so stupid, so forgetful.

Noticing his shot glass approaching, Frost watched as the light blue of ice cubes mingled with the rich tones of amber. One would think Boss' stranglehold on Gotham's underworld would be like that whisky he served at his club. Getting better as the years passed by. But it was not. It was an eternal brewing process in which once the high temperature was achieved, the tubes broke and slowly but surely the tank got cooler with steam escaping through the cracks until there came a fix, and the liquid boiled and swirled with demonic intensity again, the whiskey more bitter, more pungent than ever before until the next glitch came and the machine from hell collapsed once more.

Because they never learned: neither did the great, most dangerous gangs, nor did the small time thieves and thugs. With its King gone, Gotham's crime scene became an Indian territory. Treaties were broken, services remained unpaid and old rivalry and bloodthirst reared their ugly head again, together with the hot-headed, brawling new-comers wishing just as much as the old cats of the jungle to try and replace the Clown Prince.

Frost absentmindedly traced the outline of his Magnum .004 hidden in his suit. It always ended the same way. Once J got back from whatever hellhole the government managed to find for him, his fury rained down on Gotham City like blazing fire, wiping away in its wake any remnants of those who foolishly thought they could equal him. All those who thought they could take what was his, dead. Because Gotham was his, every cobblestone and pebble in a dark alley, every dead body floating in the Gotham River, every illicit deal, gram of coke, financial scam, bank robbery or protection racketeering: one way or the other, they all traced back to him.

Frost snorted. Like he had said. They never learned and they always forgot just why they dreaded the pale devil in metallic suits in the first place.

But until he finished preparations for his Boss' next grand prison break, he was alone to deal with all their business problems. J trusted him the most, Frost appreciated that and his position certainly had many perks and privileges, but cleaning up when the shit hit the fan was most definitely not one of them.

With a final look at the dazzling, decadent dancefloor before him, Frost reached to his breast pocket to pull out an unassuming black mobile phone. Mentally preparing the wording of the bad news to his notoriously short-tempered employer, he was opening his message box when a short beeping sound made him hold still.

Staring at the flashing screen in his hand, Frost knitted his brows together in confusion.

Change of plans, Johnny Boy.

The ear-bursting trap rap the DJ just hit the club with miraculously faded into white noise in Frost's mind as he felt his heart rate pick up at the words.

What the fuck?

There was no time to make changes! Everything was settled, half of it already paid for. J knew that.

The screen flashed again and Frost swore under his breath.

A pair of bright, baby blue eyes, handsomely rimmed with curved eyelashes stared at him shyly from behind a pair of fashionable prescription glasses. Their gaze was gentle, eager, slightly self-conscious but nevertheless determined. Frost was quick to decipher people, a skill that saved his life more times than he could count, and he could tell those eyes belonged to a person who was desperate for approval. For acceptance. For love. There were many clues etched in the attractive, wide features of the rosy-cheeked blonde who was smiling softly into his emotionless face from what appeared to be an ID card photograph. He didn't need the following black and white CCTV images to know exactly who it was. He heard enough of the reports from the few wardens and IT security at Arkham Asylum that were kept on J's payroll.

The young woman in red high heels and a white coat, photographed talking to a tall, middle-aged man, carrying her tray of food to an empty table, striding down narrow, white washed corridors with some papers clutched to her chest or getting in and out of a small car…. She could be no one else but Harleen Quinzel, the Boss' newest and youngest shrink.

Before he could analyse the reasons for his employer's sudden change of mind, the phone beeped again.

Behold the black horse!

She's cheap, don't worry.

The cheapest one in fact. HAHA!

Frost continued to re-read the curt sentences, the true meaning of every word finally dawning on him. His brows raised as the final beep confirmed his suspicions.

Be prepared.


A/N: Aaaaaaand finally, the third new update of this story! I hope you've enjoyed reading this chapter as much as I loved writing it. I suppose everyone needs a Johnny Frost in their lives.

Reviews are very much appreciated!

Till next time,

ZeldaK