3:11AM

I was not going to let Derrick get away with this.

Six days had passed and nothing had happened: The police hadn't made an arrest, no one came to investigate, and not a single social worker came to Brittney's aid.

Brittney, for her part, refused to go home. She was terrified that Derrick was going to come for her. She hid beneath a blanket on my couch most of the day and cried to herself sporadically. At night she would come into my room swearing that someone was in the house. She was a nervous wreck, so terrified, in fact, that she would not shower until I came home from work.

No one should have to live with that kind of fear. Derrick was going to pay. And, if the law wouldn't punish him, then I would. I would do what the Batman does: I would make Derrick live with the same fear that Brittney was going to live with for the rest of her life. I planned to attack him in the night and leave him so injured that he'd never forget what he had done.

He frequented the pool hall that I confronted him in. So I waited outside until he left and I followed him; he wasn't alone. He and his crew were all too inebriated to realize that I was following them in my car. I parked along the curb about a half of a block from the front door of his tenement and turned it off. I watched them stumble up the stairs to door and go inside. A moment later a light came on in two windows on the third floor; I could see them moving around inside.

I was nervous.

What am I saying? I was downright scared.

My mind was racing. Was I going to be able to pull this off like I saw it in my head? What if they were heavily armed? What if they weren't scared of me—surely there were people in Gotham City that weren't scared of the Bat? What would happen if they got the drop on me instead? Would they beat me? Kill me? Rape me? What would happen if I ended up going to the wrong door?

This wasn't the first time my mind raced in a situation where I second-guessed myself. I remember when I was leaving the airport on a bus to Marine Corps Recruit Depot, Parris Island. It's a bit hazy now but I remember thinking I was out of my mind. I had the same feeling years later when my platoon ended up in a two-hour long firefight outside of Kabul, Afghanistan. I swore that I had gone crazy to have gotten myself in that situation.

So there I was questioning my sanity for sitting in my car on a remote, unpopulated street dressed in black BDUs, a Kevlar vest, a gun belt, and a cheap Batman mask that I picked up from a street vendor downtown in the museum district. It wasn't very sturdy but it covered my face—what it didn't cover I blackened with camo-paint.

I pulled my pistol from its holster and inspected it. Satisfied, I drew the slide back and chambered a round. It was now or never.

I put my keys on the floor, climbed out of my car, and force marched down the sidewalk to the stairs. Admittedly, I felt a bit ridiculous with the mask on and hoped that no one emerged onto the sidewalk to see me.

Reaching the stairs, I climbed them two at a time to the front door and checked the window for loiterers on the dark landing, keeping my weapon pressed tightly to my thigh. The mailboxes were to the immediate left and the stairs were further back to the right but I didn't see anyone. Convinced that it was empty, I pulled the door open and slid in.

I used the light from my cellphone to illuminate the placards on the mailboxes.

Derrick Myers. APT 32.

Third floor—second apartment. Easy enough.

More stairs meant more ambush points. I kept my eyes peeled, scanning the corkscrewing flights as I ascended them slowly.

I came to the door of apartment thirty-two and hovered, listening for sounds inside. Although I had my ear pressed to the door, I was trying to talk myself out of this foolishness. I came up with a thousand reasons to walk away but none of them outweighed what needed to happen. If I didn't do this, no one would. Brittney would live the rest of her life with her shame and without retribution. And, Derrick would get away with his crime. He would never be held accountable and lord knows how many more victims he'd take.

If I was going to turn back, now was the time. Once I started this, I wouldn't be able to take it back. Was this what I wanted? No, I didn't want to have to do this but what choice did I have? If I left and went home, I would be saying that rape is acceptable as long as it doesn't happen to me.

No—I refused to accept that. I refused to be a victim. I refused to allow other women to be victimized and I refused to let him get away with something so heinous.

Apprehension turned into anger. I took a deep breath, pressed a finger into the peephole, and rapped on the door with the barrel of my gun.

It was done. There was no turning back now.

There was movement behind the door. "Who is it?" a voice yelled.

I didn't answer; I just readied my weapon.

When the door opened, I needed to be in go-mode. The anticipation caused sweat to pool inside my gloves.

"Man, I don't know who it is," the voice said obviously responding to someone deeper in the apartment. "I can't see through the peephole."

The deadbolt came unlocked with a snap-click and then the doorknob rattled and turned. Just as I saw a sliver of a bald forehead and eye peaking the through the crack of the door, I mustered every ounce of strength I had and tried my best to heave the door off of its hinges with my foot. The door protested and flung open but never fell. The man at the door wasn't so lucky. He flew from his feet after being struck in the head by the door and fell over a side-table onto the floor in the claustrophobic, little hallway.

I charged in keeping my weapon angled down at forty-five degrees to keep him in my aim and scanned the area behind him. I tried to keep my mind clear but the intensity caused the rotting browns of the nineteenth century architecture to go red. I couldn't allow myself to get sucked-in.

I could hear two men screaming in the main room. One of them slid around the corner with a baseball bat in his hand, his gaunt face going white when he saw me. "Oh shit! It's the Bat!" he screamed at the top of his lungs, stutter-stepping backwards.

I snapped my pistol up level and pulled the trigger twice.

BOOM! BOOM!

He fell backwards shrieking and clutching his shoulder.

I resumed my aim on the bald man who was crab-crawling away from me as I came into the room. I came over top of him with my gun in his face.

"Please," he whimpered. "Please, don't kill me."

His buddy rocked on the ground holding his shoulder writhing in pain.

Where was Derrick? The bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen were to my immediate left. I scanned the room. TV, couch, crates, open-window.

That was one of the two windows I saw from outside and neither had been open at the time. It was November and too cold to have the windows open—unless they were smoking but I didn't smell smoke…

Derrick was trying to run.

I sprinted to the window and looked out. Derrick was only two stories above me climbing the near-blackness of the fire-escape. Not fast, though, the alcohol was impairing him terribly.

My thumb clicked the safety as I stuffed my pistol into its holster and climbed out onto the ladder—skipping the platform—and began immediately climbing.

Derrick was about three stories ahead of me and struggled to keep the distance with in his drunken state. As he reached the top, he tripped and nearly went over the side. Panic exploded in my stomach as I saw him grasp the rails; admittedly, not because he would have fell to his death but because he would have eluded me by doing so.

He regained his footing and started moving again. His near fall allowed me to close the distance by a half of story.

Once we cleared the top we took-off in a sprint, Derrick just ahead of me—just out of my reach. I drew my weapon, slammed on the breaks, and fired a round into the air. Derrick threw himself to the ground covering his head with his hands.

"Don't kill me, Batman!" he screamed gasping for air. "Please don't kill me!"

My lungs burned and I could taste the camo-paint in the sweat dripping onto my lips from underneath the mask.

Derrick sat up on his knees and managed to turn halfway. In my mind, I saw Brittney beg Derrick not to hurt her and not to brutally take her. I felt a sudden rage swell in my chest like the two airliners colliding head-on beneath my ribcage. It was the same feeling I had when I was in Afghanistan and several of my fellow Marines were killed by insurgents. The rage was kinetic and expanding and I needed to release it.

I walked up to him and planted the barrel of the gun against his forehead. We stared into each other in the eyes. He could see my outrage and he looked so weak and broken. To think that just a week ago it was him standing above me feeling triumphant and powerful after he had beat and raped someone that I considered family.

"Please, Batman. Please don't kill me. I didn't do nothing. I swear to God I didn't do nothing."

My how the tables had turned. And, I was going to ensure that the tables stayed that way.

The muscles in my hand flexed causing the leather of my glove to creek. Derrick knew what was coming next and closed his eyes bursting into tears.

No. Death was too easy—I learned that from the insurgents in the warzone: that there were things worse than death.

The weapon shifted in my hand and I struck him in the mouth with the handle—CRACK—I put everything I had into it.

Blood and teeth spilled onto the roof.

I only felt a little better, though—vindicated. Now, it wasn't for me, it was for Britteny. His blood and teeth couldn't replace what he took from her, but perhaps it would give her the same vindication.

I whipped him with the pistol repeatedly, mangling his face more and more with each strike. He shrieked and pleaded. I felt no remorse for him, just like he felt no remorse for Brittney when took her, shrieking and pleading.

He laid face-down on that lonely roof in his own filth and blood sobbing like a rape victim. His face was distorted and swollen and bleeding shame. He wafted a pungent ammonia smell. The tough guy, who assaulted women in his free time, pissed himself.

I turned to leave and my eyes caught a shadow cast on the roof by the moon; the shadow was long and ominous and had two huge pointed ears. It was the shadow of a bat—and it was my shadow.

I had never felt so empowered. The violence didn't thrill me, it was the retribution. It was knowing that Brittney would wake tomorrow and her fears had been conquered.

I remember the similar feeling of empowerment when I graduated from recruit-training, I was officially a United States Marine. That moment of empowerment was only a fraction of what I felt standing above the animal that attacked my dearest friend.

In that moment, I understood the vigilante in ways no one could. To some he was the figure of Gotham mythology. To others he was a scourge that haunted the night. To me he was an icon—a beacon—of what I had been looking for.

"Derrick, this isn't over," I said not taking my eyes off of my shadow. "I'm gonna be watching you."

I doubted he could hear me…but he'd always remember.