Thanks to Kathy and Debbie for the beta!

"Kerosene" written by Miranda Lambert and Steve Earle. Recorded by Miranda Lambert on her Kerosene album (Epic, 2004).

Trigger warning: Implied alcoholism

Forget your high society, I'm soakin' it in kerosene
Light 'em up and watch them burn, teach them what they need to learn, ha!
Dirty hands ain't made for shakin', ain't a rule that ain't worth breakin'

—Miranda Lambert, Steve Earle, "Kerosene"

Chapter 54—Dirty Hands

Tough Tony Bressi stood in the darkened bedroom and looked down on the sleeping form of his twelve-year-old niece. Right now, he didn't feel tough. He wasn't normally a sentimental man, but he felt like waking Clara up, just to give her a hug. He restrained himself. His niece was probably having the first safe sleep she'd had in three days. As much as he wanted to, he wouldn't disturb her now. He smiled down at her, turned, and walked carefully out of the room.

As he closed the door behind him, he motioned to Bruno to walk with him. The big man had parked himself on a chair outside her door and Tony knew that he wouldn't have left that post had the instruction come from anyone else. Even though it was coming from the head of his family, Bruno still hesitated for a moment and Tony wasn't upset at the bodyguard's reluctance.

"The cop who shot her…" Tony murmured.

Bruno shook his head. "I didn't hear a name. But that MacInnes guy who's in charge said he'd be sending someone over here to take care of some paperwork in the next day or so. Might be you'll find what you're looking for on one of those forms."

"Maybe," Bressi frowned. "But maybe not. See what you can discover through the usual channels."

Bruno nodded. "I'll get right on it, Don Bressi."

"Bruno…" Bressi smiled. "It can wait until morning. For now, just keep Clara safe, eh?"

A relieved smile broke across the bodyguard's face. "I'll do that, Don Bressi. Thank you."

As Bruno headed back toward his chair, Bressi's frown returned. Had the shooting truly been an accident, or had the cop who'd pulled the trigger been one of Mandragora's people? He shook his head. It was an interesting question, but he supposed it didn't really matter. The man had shot his great-niece. Bressi wasn't about to let that slide. Whatever the reason, that cop was going to pay for his actions. In kind and in full measure.

"Take it easy, pal," Arsenal said, keeping his tone level. "You might hurt someone with that thing. Like us."

Batgirl's eyes flicked from her companion to the three men standing several feet ahead of them, all of them toting sawed-off shotguns.

"Keep your hands where we can see 'em!" the lead gunman ordered, his voice thin and nervous. "Do it!"

Arsenal glanced at Batgirl, gave a slight gesture with his chin, and smiled. Although her companion couldn't see it, Batgirl's eyes widened behind her mask and she grinned back broadly in response. Maybe Arsenal couldn't read body language as well as she could, but he could certainly 'speak' it well enough to communicate with her. They both raised their hands slowly. Then, more quickly than their opponents could react, Batgirl pressed a control stud on her glove—a recent improvement to the old costume—triggering a spring-lock mechanism and releasing a batarang into her hand. She flung it, barely needing time to aim, and the curved blade sailed and sank into a pressure point on the lead gunman's arm. The shotgun muzzle dipped toward the ground as the man cried out and brought his free hand to his injured arm.

Distracted by his yell, the other two gunmen turned their heads automatically toward their leader. That was all the opportunity Arsenal needed to reach behind him, slide an arrow from his quiver, fit it to his bow string, and let fly. The arrow hissed, arcing high over their heads. It embedded itself in the barn wall, close to the ceiling. And then came a vibration that raised the hairs on the back of their necks, made their bones tremble and set their teeth on edge.

"Earthquake!" one of the gunmen yelped, flinging himself to the ground. The other two followed suit.

Cass felt her own knees start to give way.

"H-h-hold on… Bat… girl," Arsenal managed. He was fitting a second arrow to his string. As soon as that one hit its mark, the vibrations ceased. One of the gunmen started to pick up his weapon but stopped with a grunt of pain as Arsenal's boot heel stomped onto his hand. "Don't," he said coldly.

He turned to Batgirl. "Sorry about that," he apologized, as she moved forward to disarm the last gunman. He bent down to help her cuff them. "I was trying for a flare arrow, but I must've used my last one." He tightened the plastic handcuffs and noted that she'd already secured one of their erstwhile attackers and moved on to the remaining one. "Didn't have time to go sorting through the quiver so I just grabbed the first one I could and it turned out to be one I shouldn't have fired in an enclosed space."

Batgirl nodded. "Understood."

"Hey!" one of their captives called. "Don't we get an apology, too?"

Arsenal spun about with a glower that might have done the original Batman proud. "That depends on how forthcoming you are with information," he snapped. "The ammo that was here. Where is it?"

The gunman gulped. "I-I can't, man. They'll kill me!"

Batgirl dropped to one knee and brought her face to within inches of his. "We…" she said softly, "won't kill. Just hurt. A lot. Over and over. Minutes. Hours. Days. But never kill." Her tone was almost pleasant. "Never. Too easy. And fun… ends too soon."

The gunman's face had been growing whiter and whiter as she'd spoken. He made a choking sound. "I'll talk!" he gasped. "I'll talk…"

Arsenal smiled nervously. "Remind me not to get on your bad side," he murmured. Then he turned to the gunman. "All right," he gritted through clenched teeth. "Talk. Or I'll turn her loose on you."

Enrico Inzerillo's face twisted into an ugly scowl as he recognized the caller's voice. "I thought I told you never to call this number directly!" he hissed. "You sure you want our association to come to light?" He listened to the voice on the other end and tried to piece together the caller's ramblings. "Jandt, are you high? Or just drunk? Well, I grant it's a minor setback, but… Hey, stuff like this happens." His voice hardened. "Actually, Neal, you won't. See, you know those… special supplies you helped me to procure? Well, my people already collected them for safekeeping. Don't worry; we know where they are. And we have the paperwork to prove it." He smiled. "The paperwork with your name and your holding company's name all over it. Could be very embarrassing if that kind of thing got out. Politically embarrassing, in fact. Sometimes, Neal, having all kinds of connections… well, it can be dangerous. But I wouldn't worry. Right now, it looks like the only one who knows how well-connected you are is, well, me. And I've certainly got no reason to rat out one of my associates to the authorities. Or the press," he added, almost as an afterthought. "Yessir, Councillor Jandt. So long as we're in partnership, our fortunes are inextricably intertwined. If I rise, you rise. And if I go down…" His voice trailed off meaningfully. "Of course," he went on, "if our partnership were to be suddenly dissolved, well I've got no reason to protect someone who is no longer my associate from the authorities." He paused for a moment, and smiled. "Or the press. If you understand my meaning." He waited.

"Well, Neal, I'm going to take that silence on your end as a sign that you understand the situation. I'll hang up now. But down the road, if I should happen to request a favor, I know you'll be eager to assist. Anything for an associate, after all." He smirked as he heard the click on the other end. "See, I knew you understood. Why else would you save me the trouble of ending the call?" He was chuckling as he slipped the phone back into his inner jacket pocket. To think that a few short days ago, he'd been reeling from his losses. And now… he owned a crap-ton of munitions and a new politician. Yes, things were definitely looking up.

The meeting was held in a nondescript warehouse at the Tricorner docks. Present were some two dozen men, all armed, though some weapons were discreetly concealed in ankle and shoulder holsters. Also in the room was a computer equipped with a large monitor. As most of the men looked on, one turned on the monitor and opened a Skrype session. A moment later, the face of a man with graying temples and a neat goatee filled the screen.

"Gentlemen," the man said, his face solemn, "I await your reports."

Fixx waved, rather than raised, his hand.

"We aren't in school, Fixx," the man on the monitor snapped. "Speak."

The young man's face reddened, but he took a deep breath and spoke calmly. "By now," he said, "doubtless, word has reached you of the attack at the police academy. I feel safe in saying that none of us were involved. I'd suspect one of the mob families—the Inzerillos or, perhaps, the Mandragoras."

"Interesting," the man on the monitor replied thoughtfully. "And there have been no arrests."

"None," another man spoke up. "Still no idea where the explosives came from or whether there are any more."

The man on the monitor regarded him stonily. "Do you imagine that Mr. Mannheim will be satisfied with that statement? Because if you do, perhaps you ought return and deliver it to him in person."

"Uh…" the other man swallowed hard. "No, Mr. Detwyler. I don't think he would be. Unfortunately, we don't have any leads. Normally, something like this happens and the perps are known. A few rounds at the Iceberg and people start speculating. Now that's been happening, of course, but it seems to be just… smoke. Nobody knows anything. Or if they do, they're not talking."

Detwyler's jaw worked furiously for a moment. "Find out," he said finally. "We need to know who instigated this and why. Was it someone with a grudge against the first Bat? Someone thinking to curry favor with us? If their actions had set off a war in Gotham's streets, who would benefit most? Learn what you can and learn it quickly."

The other man nodded quickly.

"Very well," Detwyler snapped. "Next?"

False Face took care not to let a smile crack his composure. So far, nobody had noticed that he didn't belong. Not even Tencer, the partner of the man he was replacing. And one advantage to working with a partner was that one could allow said partner to do all the talking. Meanwhile, he listened carefully, knowing that Hush would want a full report later. A pity that he couldn't risk taking notes, but he'd been blessed with a fair memory. He frowned and focused his attention on the next report.

Jeremiah Arkham looked over Cass's practice test stoically, his face tightly shuttered, disclosing nothing. Cass wasn't looking at his face, though. She was watching his slight nods as he went through the papers—he'd insisted on printouts, explaining that he found it difficult to focus on a screen for a prolonged period of time. She refrained from commenting as he rubbed his nose. The gesture indicated that he was suppressing a comment and, much as she wanted to know what he was thinking, interrupting him now would probably get her an icy retort about letting him review her work in peace.

She wondered why she was waiting so impatiently. When she was on a stakeout, she could sit calmly for hours in light meditation, relaxed but alert and ready to spring into action at the first sign of trouble. Dr. Arkham had spent fewer than ten minutes going over her paper thus far.

He'd been right to create these worksheets for her; by now, she had memorized most of the questions on the review sheets that had come with her study guide. It hadn't been intentional, but she'd trained herself to have a good memory. Until a few months ago, she hadn't been able to take notes and wouldn't have been able to read them. While this was no longer entirely the case, she still wrote slowly and often found that if she tried to do so at a briefing, she missed hearing three points for every one she recorded. It was much easier to leave the notebook behind and concentrate on what was being said. So, she was grateful to Dr. Arkham for the extra study sheets. At least she knew that when she got an answer right on these, it was because she understood the question and not because she'd remembered that the answer to question 5 was "b".

Arkham pinched the bridge of his nose and Cass winced. It was only one error. He was already on the second page and this was the first time she'd seen him make that movement. Of course, it didn't mean that it was her only mistake, just that this was the first one he'd telegraphed. She tried to hide her sinking feeling by pulling the manga book out of her tote bag and burying her nose in it, but the letters seemed to blur before her.

Finally, Arkham set his pen down. "Until you decided to take this examination," he said flatly, "you maintain that you were ignorant of the social studies curriculum, as it is taught in secondary schools."

Cass nodded her head, embarrassed that her lack of education was so apparent. "Yes."

Arkham raised an eyebrow then. "Well then," he said, lifting his chin slightly and smiling, "you either have a marked interest or a marked aptitude. Or both," he added.

Cass blinked. "Sorry?"

Arkham handed the pages back to her. "I simply note that it's remarkable that you've mastered this much of the material in a relatively short span of time."

Cass quickly pushed the upper sheets away and looked at the last page. "Seventy… three?" she asked.

Arkham nodded. "In less than five months, you have successfully absorbed nearly three quarters of the required material. I'm not sure I could have managed so well in your circumstances. In fact, I'm rather sure I couldn't."

She matched his thin smile with a broad one of her own.

Dr. Alex Morgenstern leaned back in his chair and smiled. "How did it feel?" he asked. "Having a mission again?"

Bruce blinked. "I haven't not had a mission," he countered. Then he shook his head. "But I'll admit that I found search and rescue to be a more rewarding one than jumping through hoops to satisfy the police commissioner that I'm fit to be Batman again."

"And, of course, search and rescue is something you're more experienced with than taking other people's orders."

"I was still under orders."

"And in command."

Bruce glowered. "Yes," he conceded. "Nominally. It was more of a team effort."

Alex leaned forward. "Really?" he asked. "How so?"

Bruce shifted a bit in his chair. "When we found the girl," he said, "I may have known the right things to say to put her at ease, but it was Brenner… the other cadet under my command, who was able to calm her to the point that she was willing to listen."

"Ah."

Bruce sighed. "Go ahead," he said tersely. "I'm sure you won't be satisfied until you mention it."

"What, precisely?"

His glower deepened. "I'm sure you have something to say about the importance of teamwork."

Alex shrugged. "I do, but since you've already reached that conclusion on its own, I'm not sure what you expect me to add to it." He stroked his chin with the back of his index finger. "Is that the only thing that concerns you right now? Because, forgive me for saying this, Bruce, but you seem a bit too tense for the only thing on your mind to be the worry that you'd have to endure another one of my pep-talks."

Bruce shook his head. "The hearing is, in all likelihood, less than three months away, now. And while Councillor Jandt has made no further threats, drunken or otherwise, I'd be lying if I were to state that I wasn't… concerned."

"Do you think there's reason to be?"

Bruce sighed. "While I'd like to be able to dismiss his ramblings as so much static, my instincts tell me otherwise. But I have no idea what he's planning. Or if he's planning anything."

"And…?"

Bruce pressed his lips together tightly for a moment. "And I can't control what he might do and it bothers me. Is that what you wanted to hear?"

Alex shook his head. "No. But it's something we needed to get on the table so that we can admit what we're dealing with."

Bruce raised an eyebrow. "We?" he asked, his tone speaking volumes.

Alex nodded. "I'm not going to insult you by pretending that the outcome of the hearing means as much to me as it does to you, but it's fair to say it's something in which I've a passing investment." He leaned a bit closer. "I don't want Jandt to scuttle things either. And from what I've observed in our sessions together," he added, "there are no legitimate grounds for him to do so."

Bruce nodded and, for a brief moment, his lips twitched in a guarded smile.

When Dick called the briefing, he hadn't been sure whether Bruce would participate. He'd called it for seven, before patrol, but at a time when Bruce was likely to be home. That was no guarantee, though. The academy course-load was no less-intense now than it had been at the beginning. Bruce's position as squad leader gave him extra duties, including grading assignments and writing up regular reports. All of which significantly cut into his non-class time. (Having been through the Bludhaven Police Academy, Dick knew full well that calling it 'free' time was a gross misrepresentation.) All of which gave Bruce ample justification for missing the briefing, even without one more reason that Dick suspected, but would never suggest to his mentor: it had to weigh on him, watching the people he'd trained go off into battle without him. Dick wondered. He knew Bruce had faith in them, was proud of them… and yet, did it bother him that they were actually handling crime rather well without him? But how did you bring that up? Dick imagined seeing Bruce bristle at the implication.

Are you suggesting that I want the city to go to hell, so that Sawyer will ask for my assistance? Do you imagine that I want to see you, or anyone else, fail?

Of course Bruce didn't want that, Dick reflected. But that didn't necessarily mean that Bruce was overjoyed that they were managing on their own. When the academy term was over and Bruce returned to the cowl, Dick, for one, would welcome him with open arms. But wanting him back and being glad that he was didn't necessarily translate into needing him. Time—and crime—marched on, with or without Bruce, though Dick did hope that it would be with. And soon.

So, he was pleasantly surprised when he logged into the video conference from a satellite Cave and saw Bruce's face on one of his monitors. The others—including Huntress and the Titans—were there, too. As was Arsenal. "Glad everyone could make it," he smiled. "We have a lot to cover before patrol," he continued, feeling his smile drop, "and our first order of business, unfortunately, is a doozy."

In the old days, that would be a perfect opportunity for Arsenal to make some wiseass comment. Instead, the former Titan and current Outsider looked grim. He knew what Dick was about to relate.

"We received word that a truckload of munitions was being stored in a barn across the highway from the police academy. Whether they were meant to be used in the attack yesterday, or whether they were simply being warehoused there for some other purpose is unknown. However, last night, Batgirl and Arsenal went back, acting on our tip, to retrieve them—and ran into a few of Inzerillo's people."

"Are we sure?" Wonder Girl spoke up. "From what I've heard, Inzerillo's been pretty much out of it since…"

Dick nodded. "We thought so. But it seems that's no longer the case. At this point, we don't know where that shipment is, but we need to find it fast, before it can hit the streets." There was no argument. Dick glanced from Roy to Cass. "I guess now's as good a time as any for you to fill us in on any details we haven't yet heard."

Roy nodded back. "Batgirl and I reached the barn around eleven last night. The gate was locked, but that didn't stop us for long…"

"I wasn't sure if you'd still be up," Selina smiled at him from the laptop, where a Skrype session was open. "All those early morning classes."

Bruce smiled back. "I should have called you," he admitted. "But I know that you have an early day as well. And Helena can be… energetic."

Selina laughed. "She gets it from both of us. At least, she doesn't fight me on bedtime, yet." She shook her head. "I'm still a night owl, darling. But children learn by example. I took a cat-nap after supper. Just closed my eyes long enough so she could see that Mommy sleeps, too."

"Did that work?"

Selena shook her head in mock-exasperation. "Of course not. She's your daughter; she knows a scam when she runs across one. But a couple of choruses of 'Puff the Magic Dragon,' and she dropped right off."

Bruce smiled. "She likes 'Leather-winged Bat,' too."

"Of course she does," Selina said with a slight eye roll. "Well, here's hoping you'll get to sing it to her in person before too much longer."

Bruce shook his head. "It's too dangerous for you to come back now."

"It's Gotham, Bruce," Selina pointed out. "It is always going to be too dangerous."

"Selina…"

She held up a hand and gestured for him to stop talking. "The mob, Joker, Penguin, Black Mask, Hush… Hell, Calendar Man might get lucky one day. But that's Gotham. And I love it. And I miss it." Her voice softened. "And I love you and I miss you." She shook her head. "And I want you in Helena's life as more than just a face on a video chat."

"What are you saying?"

Selina took a deep breath. "I'm saying that I'm done with running away. I've been using Helena as an excuse and she's a great one; one you'd never dream of arguing with. But Gotham is home and it's where we belong."

Even as his frown deepened, Bruce felt his heart leap. "But the risk—"

"—will always be there. No matter where we go." She met Bruce's gaze directly. "Or are you forgetting that Wally has enemies, too? Linda's a journalist. Do you think she hasn't stepped on a few toes?" Her gaze hardened. "For that matter, I've probably ticked off a few game hunters and poachers."

"Keystone is still safer."

Selina nodded. "Fair enough. In that case, if I were to ask you to move out here, would you?"

That brought him up short. "Selina, I—"

"I know the hearing's coming up," she cut him off. "I get that pulling up stakes and leaving while that's hanging over you is probably going to cause all kinds of problems. But that's only a couple of months away, now. So after that, would you be willing to make a fresh start in a safer town?"

"I…" Bruce shook his head. "No."

Selina nodded. "That's what I thought yesterday. When I gave my notice at the call center." She took a deep breath. "If you're free to meet us two weeks from tomorrow evening, we're scheduled to land at Goodwin at seven forty-five. If you aren't, I'll see if anyone else can. If not, we'll take a taxi."

Bruce was shaking his head again. "That won't be necessary, Selina," he said heavily. "I'll meet you there." He pressed his lips together tightly. Then he took a deep breath. "I've missed you." The words came out at a rush, as though they wanted to escape before he could hold them back.

Selina smiled broadly enough to show her dimple. "Purr-fect," she beamed. "We'll see you then."

Bruce's answering smile was a bit more tentative, but no less genuine.

Councillor Neal Jandt didn't know how the half-pint of Bacardi had turned up in his file drawer. He had no recollection of purchasing it. Perhaps, it was Alvin's. There had been a time when he would take his younger brother's coat on the pretext of hanging it up for him, and surreptitiously check the pockets for alcohol. Then, it was a matter of hiding it until it could be properly disposed of. Back when he and Trisha were still invited to tea at Alvin and Michelle's on occasion, he would excuse himself to use the bathroom and go through his brother's bureau drawers, desk, and all the other places that he'd been wont to hide his bottles when they'd been growing up. After all, he was the big brother. It was his responsibility to look out for Alvin and keep him from hurting himself. Yes, this was probably some bottle that he'd liberated from Alvin's dresser ages ago.

Though how it had ended up in the file drawer in his office was a mystery to him.

Maybe Tara had a problem? No, even if his administrative assistant was a closet drinker, it made no sense for her to hide a bottle in the drawer of the filing cabinet in his office. In the reception area, where she could access it easily, and where she was likely the only person to go rummaging through the drawers, perhaps. Not here, where it would be discovered. Unless she wanted to be discovered and this was some sort of cry for help? Jandt frowned. That made no sense. Or maybe it did. It was hard to tell with a splitting headache. It was the damned overhead light. Someone had switched out the bulbs for brighter ones, which were completely unnecessary. The old ones had been fine. And they hadn't burned out yet. They must've changed out his window glass, too, because the birdsong outside was far louder than he'd ever heard it. It wasn't helping his head any.

He got up to adjust the vertical blinds and had to sit down. The room was spinning. Something was very wrong. He realized that the Bacardi bottle was shaking in his hand. No, his hand was shaking. What the hell…? He hadn't felt like this since he'd pledged Delta Tau Chi in his freshman year and gone on his first… pub crawl.

He stared at the bottle in his hand and watched as hand and bottle shook more violently. He knew how the bottle had gotten into his desk, even though he couldn't remember when. He should have listened to Trisha the other night, when she'd tried to talk to him about her concerns. Instead, he'd laughed her off. He knew what he was doing. He was in control. He…

He was in trouble and it was time to call his sponsor. He picked up the phone and, as he did, became aware of a commotion in the outer office. Tara was… not yelling, exactly, but raising her voice and projecting so that it carried. His door opened and two heavy-set men in dark suits and sunglasses filed in, Tara right behind.

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Jandt," she said quickly. "I tried to tell them that you were busy, but—"

The second man to enter spun to face her and she broke off in mid-word, her eyes going suddenly wide. "Save it, sister. We've got matters of importance to discuss with your boss."

The first man nodded toward Jandt. "Councillor. Our employer has expressed a desire to meet with you today. He advises that it is urgent he does so, and he will not take 'no' for an answer." He eyed the Bacardi bottle with distaste and a knowing smirk. "You can leave that behind," he added. "I'm sure refreshments will be provided at the meeting."

Jandt felt the color drain from his face as his heart began to thud. This time, he didn't think it was the hangover. Slowly, he unclenched his hand and set the bottle down on the desk. He reached down to open a drawer, but the big man stopped him with a gesture. "Leave it. We have a car waiting."

He glanced over his shoulder at Tara. "Sorry to distress you, ma'am," he said, touching the brim of his hat. "We mean your employer no harm. In all likelihood, he'll be back in a couple of hours. So," he added meaningfully, "there's no need to tell anyone what's just transpired. Especially not the cops. Is there?"

Tara shook her head emphatically.

"Good," the second man said. "We should have him back before you have to go pick up your son from soccer practice at... James Tynion Elementary, isn't it?" He smiled. "You know, you might not know this, but I've got a friend who's a huge soccer fan. He hangs around the school a lot, hoping there'll be a game. And he's got eyes on your kid," he added with a hint of menace. "Just making sure nothing happens. You understand."

Tara flinched. "I… y-yes," she said quickly. "I understand."

"Wonderful," the first man said heartily. "Glad we were able to communicate." He smiled. "So, I guess we'll have your boss out of the office for the next little while and you can… do whatever it is you do. Actually…" He leaned over to the desk, plucked up the bottle and tossed it to her. She caught it reflexively. "You should pour yourself a shot," he said with an almost-friendly smile. "Steady your nerves."

Then he nodded at Jandt. "Let's go, Councillor."

Jandt fell into step between them, wishing now that his trembling was only due to the alcohol.

Cassie Sandsmark was in line at Burger Barn when she saw him. Dark hair, green eyes, a ready smile, and a stiff posture, even though he wasn't in a cadet uniform or one of Bruce Wayne's 'color war coveralls'. She smiled in his direction and he smiled back warmly, but without a trace of recognition.

She was about to walk over and remind him of who she was, when she remembered that she was in civilian attire herself. And while she didn't exactly have a secret identity, she wasn't sure that giving her name in a crowded fast food joint was a smart move. She couldn't help feeling a bit disappointed that he didn't seem to know her, though. She didn't wear a mask in costume. True, she'd styled her hair a bit differently today, but she didn't think a French braid should make her that hard to place.

Maybe she should go up to him anyway—

"Miss? Miss!"

Cassie jerked her attention away from the oblivious Cadet Jeff Maleev and gave her order to the waiting cashier.

Neal Jandt tried to hide his nervousness as the two men bundled him into the back of a long limousine. He sat uncomfortably in the middle of the bench seat with one of his captors on each side. There was a glass divider separating the back and front of the vehicle, with curtains that kept him from getting a look at the driver. There were more curtains on the windows, drawn to keep him from seeing outside. That unnerved him. It wasn't just that he had no idea where they were taking him. The only time he ever saw a long black car with curtains at its windows…

…It was a hearse.

Perhaps, he swallowed hard, there was a reason why they were using such a vehicle to transport him. He fought to hide his nervousness and wished he still had the bottle of Bacardi.

The man who faced Jandt across a massive oak desk was in his late forties with iron-gray hair and a demeanor that made the room feel at least ten degrees colder. "Councillor Jandt," he greeted him without preamble. "I'm Terrance Halloran. I appreciate your taking the time from your busy schedule to stop by."

"Like I had a choice!" Jandt blurted and then choked off his words abruptly, as he realized that antagonizing this man was, in all likelihood, an extremely stupid play.

Halloran didn't seem offended. On the contrary, he smiled faintly and leaned back in his chair, holding his hands before him at mid-chest, palms apart, and fingertips pressed tightly together. "I know you have multiple obligations, Councillor. I wanted a chance to talk with you without having to fight for fifteen minutes on your day-timer six weeks from now." He smiled. "This concerns a favor you did recently for one of my associates. A Mr. Inzerillo."

Jandt swallowed hard. "I can explain."

"No need," Halloran said benignly. "I'm hardly about to take you to task for helping out a friend. I am curious, though. How were you able to supply his needs so quickly and so admirably?"

Jandt cast about frantically, trying to find the right words. The words that would get him back into that curtained limo, back to his office, back to a time when he'd never heard of Inzerillo, or Halloran, or…

"Councillor?"

"I…" Jandt realized, to his horror, that his mind was blank. "I-I know people."

"Ah," Halloran smiled. "Discreet people?"

Jandt was about to nod, when he realized that Halloran had to have learned of his involvement somehow. And while Inzerillo was the most likely channel, he wasn't the only possibility. "I hope so," he whispered.

Halloran beamed. "Excellent. I should like for you to supply my needs for such items as well. Just as quickly, just as admirably. I trust I can… count on your support?"

Jandt heard the clicks of several firearms being cocked behind him and he swallowed hard once more. As he nodded jerkily, he told himself that he really needed to call his sponsor. As much as he wanted something to steady his nerves, he knew he had a better chance of extricating himself from this situation if he wasn't intentionally ingesting a substance that would affect his judgment.

"Excellent," Halloran repeated. He got up and walked over to a long cabinet against one wall of the room and lifted a glass bottle, more than half-full with an amber liquid. "Care for a scotch?"

Jandt closed his eyes and nodded, telling himself that it was just for politeness' sake.

Bressi listened impassively to Bruno's report. "And you're sure the Bats don't know," he said, making it sound like a statement, rather than a question.

Bruno shook his head. "Unfortunately, Don Bressi," he admitted, "we have no way of knowing what the Bats do and don't know. But I went through our regular sources and this was what they came back with."

Bressi nodded. If the Bats learned what he was planning, he had little doubt that their alliance of convenience would be over. A shame. He had to admit that he liked the current Batman. They understood each other. And this one had a sense of humor he found refreshing. Another time, another place, a friendship might have developed in time. But this was Gotham. And Bruno had just handed him the name of the man who had shot his grand-niece. Accident or design, the shooter had to pay.

"See to it, Bruno," he said quietly. "Make it look like an accident if you can," he added. "But see to it."

Bruno nodded. "He'll be taken care of."

"Permanently," Bressi added, in case there was any doubt.

"Permanently," Bruno echoed, nodding once more.

The Bats weren't going to like it, but at the moment, Bressi couldn't have cared less.