Dick would've liked to have been able to say that he'd never seen Bruce so angry before, but it would've been a lie.

The elder Batman was positively furious, storming into the Hall of Justice without so much as a hello to anyone, even to his son. Instead, the first words out of his mouth, a harsh shout, were, "Tim's escaped."

It was almost as though he'd walked into the room and said, "J'onn just won the lottery." Or, "Diana's been elected President of the United States." At least, the shock effect was the same. Simultaneously, all activities were dropped, all conversation ceased, and everyone's eyes were locked onto him. It took a while before anyone worked up words.

"What do you mean, 'Tim's escaped'?" Kara demanded, being careful with her question.

Bruce shook his head at her. "I took him back to Gotham with me—was going to try and reason with him—but he escaped."

"How'd it happen?" Dick demanded.

"You know your brother. It was always his job to be the quick one, and he's damn good at his job."

Well…if not a proper explanation, then it was a valid point.

"Do you have a plan of action you'd like to propose, Bruce?" Diana asked.

"We use any and all means necessary to track him down. Don't be afraid to let him know we mean business. Tim can be dangerous to himself and the general populace if left alone for too long." He crossed the room and went to the communicator. "Since I couldn't bring him around the first time…maybe it's best if we call in some reinforcements who might have a better effect on him."

~R~

"You sure this'll work, kid?"

"His boss was a coward, Jason," I retorted. "What makes you think he'll be any different?"

Gearing up in an elevator was harder than hell to accomplish, mainly because of how fast you had to move. Armor had to be squared away, masks in place, weapons at the ready, and adrenalin pumping through our systems. It was tougher than I thought to get Jason's guns loaded up, and my own staff was painfully uncomfortable against my side, tucked beneath the safety of my jacket. Jason, having given up on my ability to load his guns, slammed a fresh cartridge into his Glock and remarked, "He was the bodyguard, right? It's kind of his job to stand up to guys like us."

"Right-hand man, Jay, it's not really the same thing."

"Keep telling yourself that."

The elevator opened up on the seemingly empty floor containing the Macbeth penthouse. Jason and I stepped out cautiously, making our way quickly, noiselessly, down the hallway toward the penthouse. We were maybe five doors down from it when someone called out from behind us, "Stop right there!"

I whirled to see an armed guard rounding the corner, aiming his gun and leveling to fire. I reached into my jacket for a shuriken—but Jason was faster, getting off two shots that impacted with the man's barrel chest and sent spurts of blood spraying onto the wall and floor. I glared at him. "Hood—" I started venomously.

"Save it!" he snapped, turning to fire behind us. I followed the motion to see more guards emerging from the penthouse, packing what looked like some heavy-caliber pistols.

"I got this," I called over my shoulder, running into the thick of them to deliver a rather impressive kick to the face of the first man I came upon.

Was there a reason I dove into the middle of the group? Hell yes. Attention was good, publicity was good, and no doubt that once this made its way to the press (which I knew it would, if the Imperium had their way, which they almost always do) the media would jump all over it as a recurring attack by the mysterious Red Robin. But did that mean I wanted more people dead because of me? Minimal body count meant nothing to Jason, so if I threw myself in there, he couldn't shoot. There was too much of a risk of hitting me.

I figured he got the picture when I heard a muttered, "Goddamn it, Red" from behind me. I would've made a snarky comment, but I was too busy trying to not get hit in the face by a huge bear of a man swinging his shotgun like a baseball bat. I ducked beneath the wildly flailing weapon and sent its wielder crashing into the wall with a kick to the back. A bullet whizzed over my shoulder, and I turned to see Jason pushing the guard against the wall by the throat, forcing the gun upward toward the ceiling while he cut off the windpipe. The other guards lay on the floor, either unconscious or dead, but it wasn't really the moment to ask or care which it was.

A roar behind me alerted me to the danger still lurking there. Oh, yeah, forgot to take care of him. I dropped low, pulling out a knife on the way and driving it through the guard's knee the second I felt my weight balance onto my haunches. He tumbled unceremoniously to the floor in front of me, and I finished him off with a quick, hard right cross.

When I saw Jason's hand reach out and scoop up the shotgun, I looked up in something like surprise and ferocity, anticipating…something. The adrenalin wasn't completely out of my system yet, so I couldn't do much other than stare at him when he held the weapon out to me, barrel down. "Take it," he urged. "You're gonna need it."

I reached out, hesitantly, and took it, hefting it to my shoulder. And let me tell you, it always looks easy on TV because those aren't usually real shotguns. The real thing, it's harder than hell to hang onto because it's so damn heavy. I wasn't used to handling shotguns, sure, but still. "Let's go," I said brusquely, leading the way into the penthouse.

I won't say it was too quiet, because there was Beethoven streaming softly through the room from a stereo system in the far corner of the main room. I recognized the piece: "Moonlight Sonata", Opus 27, No. 2. Suddenly, I was back in Drake Manor, the place I'd lived for fifteen and a half years out of my life, sitting in the library and coaxing the notes out of the ancient grand piano Mom and Dad had stashed in there. The fingers of my right hand began to flutter along in time with the music against the cold metal of the shotgun, and I thought, for a moment, that I could almost taste Mom's infamous chocolate-chip scones and smell Dad's cedar-scented aftershave.

I didn't realize I'd frozen until the skin on the back of my neck prickled, and someone was right behind me.

I whipped around and hefted up the shotgun into a ready position even as Jason readied his own weapons, all but shouting, "Not so fast, you bastard."

Cranmer stood before me, a Smith and Wesson leveled and aimed right between my eyes, looking ravenous and almost desperate. I avoided looking down the barrel and instead opted for his eyes, not wavering from my stance. "Drop the gun," I ordered.

He fidgeted a bit, but didn't do it.

"Drop the damn thing now!" I yelled, pumping the fore-end.

Cranmer looked like he was debating it, but he finally bent down and placed the gun on the floor.

"Kick it to me," Jason piped up, both guns drawn. Cranmer spared him one glance before deciding it was in his best interest to do so. I motioned toward the couch with the shotgun, and Cranmer, hands held up in the air and head bowed, walked over and took a seat. Only then did Jason and I lower our weapons.

"I don't believe we've met before," I began, conversationally.

"But I still know you," Cranmer assured me. "You're the brat who thinks he can take on the Imperium. But your friend here,"—he gestured vaguely to Jason—"I've got no idea about him."

I smirked at him, walking around the coffee table to sit on the edge. "Believe me; you'll get to know him real well. So, it seems like you're running the place now that Macbeth's dead."

"My late employer was rather…generous…in his legal gifts to me."

"Hmm, I see. Did it bother at all to kill him, or was that just incentive?"

Cranmer burst into hearty laughter. "Me—you think I'd kill Macbeth?" he roared, as though it was the funniest thing he'd ever heard. "Oh, kid…you're even blinder than I thought. Killing people is grunt work. I can't afford to get my hands dirty on something beneath my paygrade."

I was taken aback a bit by that. I didn't quite know what to say for another second or two. "Then I guess our agreement didn't blow over too well with the superiors, did it?"

Cranmer paled a fraction of a degree, and his smile turned a bit strained. "What did you come here looking for?"

"Easy," I replied, tugging at the sleeve of my jacket. "We came for the men who decided Macbeth needed to become a martyr for the cause."

"No one decided that but Macbeth. He chose his path; everyone else chose theirs."

"But somebody had to choose the path that would mean he died. Otherwise, I'd be talking to him right now, wouldn't I?"

Cranmer shook his head. "If you're searching for information, boy, you'll never get it out of me. You think you can win with your little intimidation game. You think all your little tactics you learned in your training will work. Well, I've got a news flash for you, sonny; this isn't Gotham City, and the man who trained you taught us every trick you know. There isn't anything you can do that'll make me talk."

I sat there for a moment, gazing at him, wondering if he was right. Was I on a doomed course? Was I really destined to fail? It seemed likely, if not certain. I didn't deny the sheer size of the organization, not to mention the influence they held over the world in general. And because I was too busy thinking about that, I didn't have any more comebacks, so I just stood up, walked over to the window, and said, "Hood, he's all yours."

Jason stood in front of the couch and cracked his knuckles. "'Cranmer', is it?" he asked. "Well, Cranmer…I think I'm gonna have fun with this."

I ignored as best I could the sounds of blows connecting with flesh. Periodically, I checked the time on the clock hanging over the flatscreen. When about ten or fifteen minutes had gone by, I called out, "You ready to talk to me now, Silas?"

The whimpered response was something like an extremely slurred, "Yes, please, God, please, please…!"

I nodded. "That's enough, Hood." Jason stepped back, breathing hard with a feral expression on his face. His gloves were wet, and Cranmer's face was bloody where he'd been hit. I sat back down on the coffee table in front of the man, snapping to get his attention. "I want the names of all the big guns, everybody who's a major contributor to this scheme of the Imperium's. I want every last goddamn name on that list."