Rose laid out on the floor, gasping for air as her damaged lung collapsed. Her mind ran wild as she stared at the hole in the garage door where her father had been standing mere moments before. He had taken the brunt of the grenade's blast to his face and chest. There was no way he could have survived.
The woman's blood-stained teeth ground together as she managed to roll over onto her back, ignoring the pain that lanced through her chest. If she was going to die, she would look them in the eyes as they killed her, just so they knew she was not a frightened woman but a former vigilante who could face death head-on.
The surviving mercs surrounded the woman. They were quite pissed that some aging former hero could take out three of their men, regardless of her past. This was supposed to be an easy mission, not a fight for survival. As they stood over her prone form, a voice crackled out over the radio, teeming with static.
"Sit rep, now!" the voice rattled out. Rose surmised that it belonged to the lead merc, the one who had been hired to kill them all in the first place. He was outside the house somewhere, keeping tabs on his men while watching for the arrival of the police. Almost any neighborhood would be on the phone with the cops the moment gunfire rang out. This suburb was no different. "Are the targets neutralized?"
One of the mercenaries grabbed his radio. "Almost done, sir," he relayed, looking down at the woman.
As he placed his radio back onto his belt, the hooded figure pulled his .45 from his holster. "Don't worry about your children, Ms. Wilson," he said, slowly as he cocked the gun. "You'll be with them again soon enough."
Rose let out a scream as two hallowpoints ripped through the front of her chest. The pain was immense, but only for a moment. Shuddering, she could feel the blood pour out from her damaged aorta and felt as her other lung collapsed. This was it, the final move in the game. Checkmate.
Rose's head rolled to the side. As her eyes closed for the final time, she swore that a tunnel of light was coming her way. Was it a truly a light, or just a freight train from Hell coming her way? She would know soon enough.
'Well, I'll be damned…' she thought as the light enveloped her.
The merc placed his gun back in his holster. The job was done, and now it was time to get paid. Reaching for his radio again, he practically smiled at what he was about to say.
"It's done, sir," he said into the radio. "The Wilsons are dead. Slade took a grenade to the face, and Rose has just been eliminated. Double tapped to the chest."
"What about the children?" The voice came in from the other side.
"Dead as well, sir," the merc said, confidently.
"Good," the lead mercenary said. "I think our client will be very pleased. Now, stand by while I make the call."
"Yes, sir," the merc said, giving a thumb-up to the rest of the team. It was Miller time.
Sitting a block away from the Wilson residence, a black hooded figure pulled a disposable cell phone from the breast pocket of his vest and dialed a pre-determined number. It rang for a few chimes before being picked up.
"Hello?" the voice on the other end was deep and metallic. Chances were that the person on the other end was using a voice synthesizer to disguise himself, the merc thought.
"It's done," he said, swiftly, knowing well that the person with whom he was speaking to was the one responsible for hiring him.
"All of them?" the voice asked.
"Yes," the merc said, firmly. "Half mil?"
"That's what was agreed upon," the deep voice replied. "I'll start the transfer now."
The lead merc quickly reached into his pants pocket, and produced a small PDA. AS he looked at the screen, he saw the authorized transaction to his secured account of $500,000 come to fruition.
"Transfer complete," the voice on the end of the line said.
"Package secured," the merc said, grinning. "I thank you for your business, Mr. Nosyarg."
In a posh office in the middle of Titan City, a conversation was coming to a close.
"You're welcome." The voice on the phone may have sounded like Satan himself, but the walls echoed the voice of a god.
As the phone call ended, the CEO of Wayne Enterprises leaned back in his chair, and smiled to himself.
"Mr. Nosyarg…" he said, laughing. "Wonder how long the feds'll take to figure that one out."
That name hadn't been the brainchild of the businessman. In fact, it had come from a time back in the days of the Teen Titans, when a strange error formed a portal to another dimension right in the living room of Titan Tower. It was then that they had been introduced to Larry the Titan, a pint-sized goofball whose purpose seemed only to mess up everything the Titans had planned. He had said when asked who he was that his real name was actually Kcid Nosyarg - a funny name in itself, but ultimately useful as had been proved tonight.
Kcid Nosyarg…the mirrored spelling of Dick Grayson.
Grayson laughed as he spun his chair around to gaze out into the night sky. The game was over. His money and influence had secured him the opportunity to hire the best trained killers in the world to eliminate Slade. He had known exactly where to send them thanks to that little sludge ball Dukakis. Half a million dollars for a job well done was practically pocket change to the businessman.
Sighing, Dick felt pretty good about himself. Sure, it had taken the death of the Titans to find where Slade was hiding, but it was all worth it. None of them had been worth anything anymore. They should have been happy to die for such a cause: to keep the Messiah alive so he could protect his beloved city. All in all, it had been a good night, and Grayson would sleep well. After all, the nightmare was over.
Strange…I would have expected Hell to be much hotter.
Slowly, his eye opened. He had half-expected to see the towering infernos and boiling surfaces of the Underworld. After all, that's were murderers go. But instead, he only saw the outline of a busted door, only felt the cold and unforgiving surface of concrete beneath him and of steel behind him. This wasn't Hell…at least, not yet. For now, it was still Rose's garage.
Shaking his head, he tried to clear the cobwebs. How was it that he was still here? Maybe what he had done all those years ago was still working towards his advantage…
Suddenly, he sniffed the air. The smell of gasoline had filled his nose. 'They're going to burn it down," he thought. 'Destroy all the evidence in the flames. Hmm…must be dealing with some quality mercs here. True bloodthirsty killers. Almost seems a shame…"
The drug in his system was talking. It had been awoken by the fury that had occurred on that night, by the thrill of the kill and the rush of danger. But something else was burning inside of him as well. His mind continued to run the final scene he had witnessed prior to the explosion – that of Rose being gunned down. They had taken the only thing that was good in his life away from him, cut her down right before his eyes. Chances were they would still be on edge, ready for anything that came their way. If this was how it would end, if this was truly the final stand, he would make damn sure than none of them ever left this house.
Climbing to his feet, he smelled the smoke as it lingered in the air. The flames had begun to consume the house, and he heard the sound of footsteps as the mercs worked to retrieve their dead. It was a useless effort. No one would be coming for them.
Clumsily, he located his shirt, and pulled it over his damaged body. The bleeding had begun to subside. If he was lucky, he would have the strength for the upcoming fight. If not…well, he would take as many of them with him as he could.
The light from the flames began illuminated the garage through the gaping hole in the door, reflecting deep within his eye. Now it was Hell, and no one would be leaving the inferno alive.
The merc took his time pouring his can of gasoline, savoring the moment. This was one of his first jobs in quite a while, and it could be the last one for some time. No need to rush through it. The way the police responded in Titan City, they would be halfway to Aruba by the time they got there.
The can rattled as the last of the flammable liquid emptied from the container. He tossed it into the flames. No one was going to care. This place was going up like a book of matches. Looks like it was time to leave after all.
The merc was so enthralled by the prospect of payment that he didn't notice the thin wire that had looped down from the ceiling. He did notice, however, when it tightened around his neck and jerked him up into the air. Looks like he was leaving – this life, that is.
Three of the mercenaries stood in stunned silence as their buddy was hoisted into the air, only to drop back to the floor a second later, his neck bloodied from the heavy-gauge wire.
"What the fuck was that?!" One of them shouted.
His answer came in the form of a masked figure that dropped from the ceiling, having used the anchor of the ceiling fan to keep him out of sight. But that was over now, as he stood among the flames of the ill-fated house like a demon from the depths of Hell.
It was time.
The first was always the easiest. He never seemed to know exactly what Slade could do, even though he had lived in fear of his prowess for his entire mercenary career. Producing a knife from his boot, he rushed in, trying to bury the blade deep with the legendary merc. Little did he know that all he was doing was running headlong to his death. A flick of the wrist knocked the blade from his hand, and a twist of the neck ended his life. Clean, precise, professional. The way it should be.
As the body fell against Slade, the other mercs opened fire with their sub-machine guns. Slade may have survived a devastating blast, but he was not bulletproof. However, much of the dead merc's body was, as it was clad in armor. Bullets sunk deep into the corpse as the merc used it as his cover. Survival by any means possible – that was his creed, and it had served him well over the years. No time to give up on it now.
As the rain of lead continued, Slade looked around. There were no weapons on the floor he could reach to retaliate. Suddenly, there was a flash of blacked steel in the light of the flames. The dead merc's gun was still slung over his holster. Perhaps if he had used it instead of coming in close, he might still be alive. Not too much he could do about that now.
The remained two mercs were stunned by the appearance of a sub-machine gun exploding out the stomach of their fallen friend – too stunned to react as a wave of gunfire ripped through their beings. Through the stomach of the newly-acquired meat shield, a bloodied hand gripped the weapon. Slade had put his most useful skill – improvisation – to work.
The sound of gunfire would no doubt attract the rest of the mercs. With everyone dead, there would have been no reason to let loose at all. Slade was counting on that to bring them out of hiding. His ears picked up the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs. 'Like lambs to slaughter', he thought.
The rest of the mercs were greeted by a wave of gunfire from the machine gun. Those who didn't hit the floor dead fired back – only to have the bullets embed themselves in the corpse hanging between Slade and them. They soon found themselves in a state of horror. Never in their career had they seen such violence and gore. Most of their jobs involved running into a house and dispatching political figures or revolutionaries. Sure, they usually had their own protection force, but they had never been a problem for them. Now they were fighting for their lives against one man – the man some claimed to be the greatest mercenary ever to live. Seemed like whoever had coined that phrase was right.
More bodies fell as Slade withdrew his hand from the corpse of the fallen merc. The last two were down to their sidearms, and one of them was too frightened to bother using it correctly. The other, however, was coming in hot and aiming straight for the merc's head…
BLAM! The bullet sailed across the living room as Slade spun out of the path. With no time to reposition, the doomed merc screamed as he felt his right knee shatter from the impact of Slade's kick. The next sensation was that of his own .45 being tucked right under his chin, followed by a loud explosion. Looks like he wasn't getting paid after all.
The last mercenary nearly pissed himself as he watched the back of his partner's head blow out form the shot. In desperation, he finally took aim at Slade and pulled the trigger.
TINK. The bullet ricocheted off the side of the merc's mask right under his eye. A definite method of gaining his attention – and the best method of pissing him off. With no hesitation, he grabbed one of the legs of the coffee table and wrenched it out, leaving the nails embedded in the wood. With his newly-acquired club, the mercenary slowly made his way over to his frightened opponent. Showing fear was a sign of weakness, and could be considered grounds for termination by any decent mercenary force in the world. Needless to say, 'termination' of a merc did not involve a pink slip – only a body bag. Looks like this guy was up on the block, and Slade would oblige him.
"No, no, no!" the hooded merc cried, scooting back on the hardwood floor as the building slowly burned to ashes around him. "There's no need for this! I didn't choose to kill them! I was just doing my job!"
"So am I," Slade said, firmly.
The tremor of impact rattled up the merc's arm as he slammed the club hard on top of final killer, driving the pointed tips of the nails deep into his brain. In his final moments on the planet, the young man under the hood had finally gotten the 'point'.
Slade stood among the flames that were tearing through his daughter's home. The heat was bad enough to ignite one's hair ablaze, but he was unmoved by it. His eye was downcast, slowly taking in the sight of Rose's prone form laying out on the wood floor. Two more rounds in her chest told him that she had survived the first onslaught of bullets, but likely would not have made it to any medical care center.
The merc closed his eye as he was awash with grief. He had done this to them. He had brought this upon her, on her children by seeking them out. If he had just stayed away, if he had just continued his course without involving them…
Well, not too much you can do about that now…
Slade's eye opened again. The drug in his system was speaking to him, almost mockingly. He had taken down many people in his life, and when he thought about how they could have survived, that answer had always come to him. All the people he had killed could have made it if they had done something else instead, but that knowledge had been simply too late to save them. But this…this was different. For the first time, it was he who had made the mistakes, he who had chosen to ignore the danger, he who harbored the 'what-ifs' of his decisions. All these years, he had been satisfied with that simple answer. Now, as he brought his hand down to close her eyes, he found that the same answer had been given to him. Was the drug that had made him into the greatest mercenary ever known also responsible for this, the death of his daughter and her children? Was it the drug that had robbed him of his humanity…or had he simply done this to himself? Was it his own callous nature, his egoism that had lead to this fatal road? Perhaps it was not the fact that the little fat man squealed to someone, or that that someone had set a kill squad after him. Perhaps, he had done this to himself. Perhaps he could have saved Rose all the pain by simply shooting her dead in the parking lot of that store along with Catlin and Malcolm.
Well, not too much you can do about that now…
"Fuck you!" Slade roared in the midst of the inferno. He was not about to accept that answer in regards to the death of his blood, his child. There was someone left to kill, someone whose death could avenge theirs: the lead mercenary, who no doubt by now had moved in to figure out what was taking his team so long. He would pay for spilling the merc's blood. He would die choking on his own, screaming in pain…
'No.' The voice in Slade's head snapped him out of his psychosis. 'He will die, but he has something even more important – the identity of the person who ordered the hit. Find out the truth. Then he can die.'
The merc sat in stunned silence for a moment. That had not been the voice of the drug speaking to him. It had been too calm, too collected, and too aware to be it. Had that been his conscience, the voice of reason on his own mind? Had that been the real Slade Wilson speaking to him? Perhaps he and Starfire were more alike than he knew. Both of them had an addiction, an addiction to a drug that altered their perception of reality. If that was true, then it could be said that Slade had been the pot calling the kettle black when he went on his little tirade. Perhaps he also was one who had an addiction and was too blinded to see it.
As the flames swirled around him, Slade realized that it had taken the death of his daughter to understand what it really meant to lose. Now he had truly felt what the villains of the past must have felt when Nightwing was coming for them, gunning down their companions with a sense of twisted glee. Maybe now he was truly ready to begin the endgame. Now, he had nothing left to lose.
Slowly, gently, the mercenary picked up Rose's body from the unforgiving floor. She felt warm in his arms, almost as if she was still alive and only sleeping. Gritting his teeth, her father knew that this was one sleep she would never awaken from. With uncanny agility, he rushed up the collapsing stairs, retrieving the bodies of the children…his grandchildren, he surmised, feeling the fury building back in his heart.
With a mighty leap, Slade soared over the ruined staircase and landed back on the hardwood floor. As the house began to collapse around him, the merc kicked out the front door, and emerged from the blaze. He could hear the sirens coming from around the block. They would be here soon.
Without a sound, he laid out the bodies of his daughter and her children on the cool damp lawn, the flames from the house projecting an eerie glow across the neighborhood. No time to say goodbye, but at least they would be found and taken care of, he surmised. They would be able to have an open-casket funeral instead of ending their days as charcoal form the flames. The merc team, on the other hand, would burn. They would burn now, and forever in the pits of Hell. That was to be certain.
Slade drew the body of his daughter to him, and gave her one last embrace. She would not be there to see the final stroke of his master plan, but she would witness it from above. All he could do was hope she would understand.
As the first fire truck pulled up to the blazing inferno, a lone shadow stood among the trees. He watched as the firemen approached the bodies on the lawn, and waved wildly to the driver of the ambulance had had pulled up mere moments before. The medics came to check on the bodies, only to discover that they were long gone. The coroner would be called, and the bodies taken to the morgue for autopsy.
The shadow bowed his head. He knew what would become of the three. They were safe now. With that done, the figure slipped back, disappearing into the shadows.
A block away from the flames, the lead mercenary watched as the emergency vehicles tended to the fire. Something had gone terribly wrong. The last communiqué he had from his team was that they were preparing to set the house ablaze and would be out momentarily. However, there had been some commotion that had quickened the pace of the local police and fire department. Now his men were nowhere to be seen.
"Where the fuck are they?" he muttered to himself, reaching for his radio. Before he could relay a message, however, he heard a voice project out from behind him.
"It's no use," it said. "They can't hear you now."
Spinning around, the lead merc pulled his pistol from its' holster – only to have it knocked away by the battle damaged Slade. His hand shot out, gripping the merc tightly by the throat.
"You son of a bitch…" Slade breathed, his eye wide with fury. "You killed my daughter and my grandchildren!"
The lead merc fell to his knees as the life was slowly being choked out of him. His eyes went wild with fear. Never before in his life had he been on the verge of death. Now he knew exactly what all his victims had felt like moments before he extinguished their flame.
"Give me one good reason I shouldn't kill you right now," Slade said, his voice a feral growl.
"It…it was nothing personal," the merc choked out, his hands desperately trying to break Slade's grip. "It was…just business."
"Not good enough," the legendary mercenary shot back. "I want an answer. Who hired you? Was it Abraham Dukakis?"
"N-n-no…" the merc wheezed.
"Then who?!" Slade shouted, tightening his grip.
"It-it was some Ukrainian nationalist," the merc said. "Said you and your daughter wronged him, and he wanted repercussions."
"Give me a name," Slade said, furiously. "I want his name."
The merc gurgled under the forceful pressure being applied to his neck. "Kcid," he said. "Kcid Nosyarg."
Slade's eye widened as he heard the name. It sounded nothing like any of the Ukrainians he had dealt with in his career.
"Kcid Nosyarg…"
The mercenary's grip loosed around the lead merc's neck, allowing him to fall to the ground as he gasped for air. The pieces fit perfectly. The only man who could afford to hire a mercenary team and have the influence to hide that fact from the inattentive morons who worshipped him. Despite it all, it seemed that he almost expected Slade to survive the onslaught; otherwise, why would he have employed such a simple ruse?
"Dick Grayson," he said. Grayson had hired the team. He most likely got Rose's address from Dukakis, giving him the exact place to send his death squad. If Slade had no reason to take revenge on the former Titan before, he certainly had one now. As he contemplated his next move, he watched as the lead mercenary got back to his feet.
"Give me the account number you had your funds transferred to," he said with a growl.
Fearful for his life, the broken merc handed over the PDA that he had used to secure the transaction. Slade took it and pocketed it.
"Is that it?" he asked. "Are we square?"
The answer came in the form of a loud POP and the impact of a slug to the center of his chest. As he looked up with a stunned expression, he saw the end of his own .45 smoking in Slade's hand.
"Nothing personal," he said, taking the newly-acquired weapon and placing it in his empty holster, "It's just business."
With a slight push, Slade laid out the lead merc, leaving him to bleed out on the sidewalk. His life was of no concern anymore. He had served his purpose. Now, all Slade Wilson had left was revenge. It was time to plan his endgame.
As Slade walked the quiet night streets of Titan City, he found himself awash in his memories, both from the early past and from a few hours before. Every person he had ever cared for in his life was gone. Many would think that for a trained killer, the loss of life would be something simple to deal with. But there was something that those who were not mercenaries would never understand: When you lose someone you care about, you feel everything. Once you opened your heart and had it damaged, there was no way you could become a killer again. You could not handle taking a life without feeling guilt for it. Now, the silence of the city served to remind Slade of all the lives he had taken over the years, and all the foolish and stupid reasons he had rationalized those deaths with. In truth, there was no reason anyone on the planet could come up with that could justify murder. It didn't matter if you were a merc or a former hero-turned-vigilante, murder was murder. As long as you lived, you would never be able to wash the bloodstains from your hands.
The mercenary shook his head, saddened by the state he was in. He hadn't shown it, but he had died a little inside with each Titan he had killed. Raven and Beast Boy had been so defiant, so strong, that he couldn't help but admire them for it. Perhaps it was that emotional trauma that had ultimately stopped him from killing Starfire. For the first time in many years, he had rationalized a reason not to take a life. His career, his life as a killer was over. But it was more than that. As his mind flashed back to Rose's soulless stare, he knew that his life was over. Some how, he had hoped to rectify his past mistakes by being the father that she had never had – a real father, not a father who trains his daughter in the methods of death. But tonight had shattered that dream. He had nothing left, nothing to fall back on. Perhaps it was time to end the charade. Maybe it was time for Slade Wilson, for Deathstroke to finally die. But it wasn't that time. Yet.
Slowly, Slade approached one of the local payphones. Dropping in a few quarters, he dialed in a phone number he knew by heart.
"Hello?" a female voice spoke from the other end.
"It's me," he said quietly.
"It's been a long time, Slade," the voice said softly. "They said you were dead."
"I've been a lot of things," the merc said, leaning up against the payphone for support. "Right now, I'm in need of help. I need you…one last time."
The sun glistened through the office windows of Wayne Enterprises as Dick Grayson engaged in his work. A smile sat upon his face, and the air of superiority seemed to emanate from him. Last night had been the end of the nightmare that had plagued Titan City for nearly a week. Two dead Titans had been confirmed; the location of Starfire had not be uncovered as of yet. The apartment hey had shared all those years ago was trashed when the police searched it in a vain attempt to locate the former heroine. No matter, Grayson surmised. Slade had probably disposed of her accordingly.
Dick chuckled to himself. The merc had probably thought that killing Star would have had an impact on the former Titan's mind. Maybe if he had done this before 'The Crusade' it would have mattered. Now…she was just a shadow of days past, blissfully forgotten.
The businessman's train of thought was broken as the intercom speaker on his desk buzzed. "Mr. Grayson?" Isabelle's voice called.
"Yes, Ms. Winters?" he asked.
"Captain Zeddemore is here to see you," the secretary said.
"Send him in," Dick said.
Moments later, the door to the office opened, and Michael Zeddemore entered. One look at his face told the CEO that he was not in a particularly jolly mood.
"Michael, what can I do for you today?" he said with a smile.
Captain Zeddemore did not return the smile as he approached the desk. "You can start by telling me what the hell happened last night,' he said, sternly.
Dick gave the captain a befuddled look. "What are you talking about?" he asked.
Z sighed, shaking his head. "You're some piece of work, you know that?" he said, a disgusted tone in his voice. "I never thought you'd pull some crazy shit like this."
"What is it exactly that you're accusing me of?" Grayson said, leaning back.
Zeddemore leaned on the desk, his eyes staring hard at the businessman and the person whom he had called a family friend for many years. "There was a massive inferno on the outskirts of the city last night," he began. "Nice little suburban house on Kittredge and Washington went up like the Fourth of July. Everyone in the house died."
"That's a real shame," Grayson said, shaking his head, "but I don't see how you can involve me with that."
"I'm not finished," Zeddemore said. "The house was owned by one Rosemary Wilson, age 43. Formerly known as the Ravager, a vigilante hero and part-time Teen Titan, but I guess I didn't need to tell you that part. She had two kids: A seven-year-old girl named Catlin and a three-year-old boy named Malcolm. All three were found dead at the scene."
"How did they identify the bodies?" Dick asked. "I thought the house burned to ashes."
Zeddemore shook his head, a grim smile on his face. "Firefighters found the bodies lying out on the lawn about ten feet from the blaze," he said. "They were riddled with bullets. Most likely 5.56, probably MP-5's."
Grayson shifted in his chair. "That's terrible," he said. "A mother and her children gunned down in their own home, and left to die on the lawn? That takes a monster."
"I agree," Z said, straightening back up. "The rest of the bodies were pretty shot up, too."
The captain watched as the businessman's eyes widened. Looks like he didn't know that. His reaction actually made him smile.
"You didn't know?" he asked, pleasantly surprised. "I thought you knew everything. Anyway, it turns out that firefighters found about eight corpses in the blaze. The fire had rendered their features indistinguishable, but they were all armed to the teeth. My guess – mercenaries."
Zeddemore leaned back in, looking at Grayson as he did so. "Tell me, Dick," he asked. "What are the chances that a lone mercenary group just happened to stumble upon the home of the daughter of the greatest mercenary that ever lived and decided to kill her just for shits and giggles?"
"I'd say that chances are rather slim," the CEO said with a smirk. Then, his face hardened. "So what are you saying, Mike? That I hired a team of mercenaries to kill Rose Wilson and her family just for the hell of it?"
Z chuckled, shaking his head as he did so. "Oh, I don't think it would have been for the hell of it," he said as he stood back up straight. "Police investigating the scene found an arsenal of weapons located in Ms. Wilson's garage, including this little number…"
Grayson sat up as Zeddemore tossed a bagged pistol onto his desk. "What's this?" he asked, looking back up at the captain.
"That's the pistol that killed Rachel Roth," Z said, sadly. "It's also the pistol that killed Garfield Logan, his wife Kate, and has been traced back to numerous murders over the years." Zeddemore grinned. "That's Slade Wilson's pistol, and that was his arsenal. Convenient that the makeshift stronghold of your greatest enemy just went up in smoke last night."
Grayson took another look at the gun before him. With a sigh, he looked back up at the police captain. As he did so, a Cheshire Cat-like grin spread across his face.
"So, what do we do now, hmm?" he asked. "You going to take me in? You going to march me past all my workers and out the door where all my citizens can see me in handcuffs? How much you wanna bet that you don't even get me in the patrol car before you have a full-scale riot on your hands?"
Zeddemore knew that what Grayson was saying was the truth. He couldn't take him in without causing a scene. In addition, he had no evidence. Anything that he could have used went up in the flames.
"I guess you're right," he said, quietly. "That's why, as far as Gotham PD knows, Slade Wilson died in the fire. By the way, police found a body about half a block from the scene. Hooded figure, military outfit – probably the lead merc. He had been shot in chest. Strangely, they found a hard shell holder on his belt, probably for a PDA or a Smartphone. Trouble is it had disappeared."
Grayson smiled. "I didn't know you guys were so thorough," he said. "Remind me to hold another policeman's ball in the near future."
Z shook his head. "We didn't take it,' he said, quietly.
Grayson looked back up, shock on his face. "Then, who?" he asked.
"I think you know that already," Zeddemore said, firmly. Gesturing towards the gun, he sighed. "That's for you," he said. "Little souvenir for all the lives you cost in your attempt to kill Slade."
"Z, listen…" Dick began.
"I don't wanna fucking hear it, okay?!" The captain's voice was harsh and filled with anger. "You sacrificed the lives of your former teammates in order to draw Slade out of hiding! You used them as bait! I had to stand by and watch as Garfield knelt over Rachel's body. Not long after, I had to watch as he and his wife were taken out of their homes under white sheets! God knows where Starfire is right now, but if she's lucky he killed her too instead of dragging it all out! I covered for you, and I watched good people die as a result of it!"
Zeddemore sighed, knowing that his words probably meant little to Grayson. "Do what you want, Dick," he said as he headed for the door, "'cause now you're on your own. I won't tell my dad what happened here today because I don't want to break his heart. As for you, I hope you do get what you want. I hope Slade comes for you – and when he does, I hope he kills you. This way, when you die, you know just how the other Titans felt."
With those final words, Michael Zeddemore left both his respect and his friendship with Grayson on the floor of the office as he slammed the door. Those final words resonated in the businessman, but not the way Z would have hoped. Slade was coming, and Grayson would have to be ready. Soon, the final battle would begin.