Stacy was getting seriously annoyed.

The lame-ass "safe house" where they had stashed her was the most pathetic excuse for a shelter she'd ever seen. All those damned screaming kids, the harried mothers, the cynical workers who tried to act so caring. Shit, nothing she hadn't seen before. At least when she stayed at the Y she got some peace and quiet.

She shared a room with a seventeen-year-old by the name of Zoe. Zoe, for chrissakes. What parent names their kid Zoe? Apparently a parent who raised an insecure chatterbox, because that was Zoe, through and through. She never...stopped...talking. She was sweet enough, sure, but Stacy never got a moment's peace when the girl was around.

And she was around a lot.

Stacy had spent most of the afternoon on her bed, disdaining the company of the rest of the safe house. A fair few of the women had involved themselves with the latest arrival, an old woman who had managed to leave her fucker of a husband after a billion years of marriage and abuse.

Bully for her.

Zoe had, for once, abandoned the room and joined the larger crowd of inhabitants in the common area, no doubt to assail the grandma's ear with her pointless talk.

Since she was gone, Stacy took advantage of the sudden privacy. Now was as good a time as any...

Five minutes later, she had bundled up and grabbed a messenger bag that Maya had given to her. She threw a few books in there, as well as an extra sweater and some granola bars she had squirreled away from the kitchen. She only intended to be gone for a few hours, but it never hurt to bring along fuel for an extra adventure.

She hefted the window up, and poked her head out. Damn, it was cold, even by Gotham's standards. Nonetheless, she thrust her torso out the window, followed by one leg, then the other. And then, swiftly, she tugged the window closed and bounded down the fire escape before Zoe could return to the room and narc her out.

Time for another adventure.

Since Bruce Wayne's return to Gotham and Wayne Enterprises, both R&D and the Applied Sciences Division had undergone substantial make-overs. They were still buried in the deepest recesses of Wayne Tower, of course, but whereas once all of the equipment and furniture and technology were neglected at best and antiquated at worst, now the entire area was sleek, beautifully maintained, filled with all sorts of fascinating devices, and quite well-protected. Extremely well-protected. Very few people had completely unrestricted access to this portion of Wayne Towers: Bruce Wayne and Lucius Fox, and whoever accompanied them.

Today, it was Alfred who joined them down in the basement. As Lucius and Bruce hovered around Undertow, beginning the complex process of...well, hacking, Alfred gazed around at the humming equipment and blazing lights. It wasn't quite to his taste, really—he preferred the antiques and dignified furnishings of the Manor.

"Tell me again what you found," Bruce said over his shoulder.

Lucius and Alfred explained.

"We'll start with the Court records out in Chicago," Bruce decided. "At the same time, hit the DMV and the Social Security Administration. Look for any information on Gretchen Rogers, of course—but we want to find out where she came from before, and what happened to her after."

"It's still going to take a while," Lucius reminded him. "Those are some pretty heavy searches to be running simultaneously."

"We don't have a while," Bruce snapped. "We need to get this information now." The longer he thought about it, the more fishy things smelled.

Lucius and Alfred glanced at each other, silently sharing their exasperation.

"I saw that," Bruce grumbled. "Would it go faster if I cranked the damned thing by hand?"

"It'll go easier if you stop griping, sir." This came from Alfred as he leaned in and watched the columns of data and the dozens of jpegs flash across the monitor.

"What time is it?" Bruce asked, and then answered himself. "Getting on towards five."

"Dark will be falling soon," Alfred pointed out.

Lucius glanced over at Alfred, and then up at Bruce. "Do you think there's somewhere else you should go?"

Bruce considered this for a moment. "I can think of a place or two."

"I think there's some...possible outfits in the...urban headquarters," Alfred said delicately "And some equipment, too. The head-set is powered up, and I'll be available."

Still, Bruce hesitated.

"Go," Alfred urged. "The second we come up with something, we'll contact you. Anyway, you're bloody useless, here."

The earlier chaos which had beset Safe Haven seemed to have died down, and peace resumed once more. Donna closed her door to crunch numbers for the remainder of the afternoon; Annabeth started to work on some long-neglected case reports, and and the majority of the noisy kids—eight in all—settled down for a quiet nap or to their afternoon studies.

Maya sighed with private satisfaction. Finally, a chance to get actual work done. While she bore the title of receptionist and personal assistant, she actually did a great deal more. She observed the most, heard the most, knew the most.

For example, she knew exactly what men Donna juggled.

She knew that Annabeth was in the family way, keeping it a secret, and drowning in a mire of terrified indecision.

She knew which of the clients were doing fine, and which were struggling.

She knew the finances of Safe Haven, inside and out.

And she also happened to know that Boudicca wasn't just calling to make small talk with Annabeth de Burgh. The woman was a head-hunter, and Annabeth was her next quarry.

But one of the reasons Maya was so good at her job had a lot to do with her discretion. She knew when to chide Annabeth, she knew when to be firm with the clients, she knew when to gently flirt with Bruce Wayne—or any other benefactor, really—she knew when to stay out of Donna's way, and she knew when to keep her mouth shut—which was most of the time.

She was a receptionist, but she knew all.

Except...

"Maya?"

Maya glanced up from her computer to see Zoe lingering by her desk. Zoe was a fairly new client, an honest and earnest young girl—young woman, really—who had had the good sense to get out of a bad family situation. She was sweet and in constant need of reassurance and validation, as well as some healthy relationships; it was unfortunate that a lack of space had stuck her with that ornery wretch, Stacy.

"What's up, Zoe?"

"Stacy took off again."

For at least the third, but perhaps the thirtieth, time that day, Maya bellowed, "ANNABETH!"

A moment later, Annabeth emerged from her office. "What now?"

"Stacy's gone again."

"Shit. This is not what I need." Annabeth checked her watch. "How long has she been gone?"

"I left her a couple of hours ago," Zoe said helpfully. "It's a little after five right now."

Maya turned her gaze to Annabeth and raised her eyebrows. Annabeth sighed in resigned annoyance. "Thanks, Zoe. You did the right thing."

"I hope so." Zoe turned to go, but Annabeth immediately called her back. "Wait a minute..."

Zoe waited.

Annabeth nodded. "Really, Zoe, thank you. I know that your roommate isn't exactly the most fun chick you've ever met...so thank you. And hang in there...who knows? You might have a new roommate before you know it."

Zoe nodded again, flashed Maya a tentative smile, and ducked out of Annabeth's office. The two older women watched her depart. "Good kid," Maya remarked.

"She sure is," Annabeth agreed. "It's girls like her who make this job worthwhile." A strange, sad expression crossed over her face, and Maya did not fail to observe this.

"Annabeth..." Maya glanced over her shoulder to make sure no one else was in the hallway. "Think long and hard about this."

"Sorry?"

"Boudicca. Think long and hard before you go to work for them."

Annabeth rubbed her eyes wearily. "Who said anything about me working for anyone else?" Her tone grew sharp. "Were you listening into my phone conversation?"

"Not at all," Maya reassured her. "But I'm not stupid. I know that they're head-hunting you. I'm just saying, think long and hard before you take that job."

"I'm just...just weighing all my options," Annabeth said defensively. "They came to me."

"I don't doubt it. And I'm not judging...I just wanted to put in my two cents. And now I'm done."

Annabeth considered the younger woman for a moment."You could run this place, Maya," she said softly.

Maya flashed her a grateful grin. "Don't I know it! But I see what you and Donna give, and frankly, I don't have it in me."

"You don't know until you try."

"And you don't know when you've given too much until everything's gone," Maya countered. "Look, it's getting late. I think I'm going to try to shove out of here before six, if it's okay by you."

"If it's okay with the big boss, it's okay with me." Annabeth's attention was already turning itself back to her reports. "I'll stick around until Stacy turns up."

Maya left her to her work, but Annabeth found herself unable to resume her task. Instead, she glanced at her watch. She needed to call Gordon before it got any later.

Over at MCU, Jim Gordon was trying to wrap up his day, too. Christmas was inching closer every day, and he had yet to do any Christmas shopping; he could have had Barbara Jr. do it, but he wasn't willing to thrust every responsibility upon her. She was enough of a trooper as it was.

His cell phone rang. He reached for it and answered on instinct; chances were that in another year or two, he's learn to check the caller ID before answering. But not yet.

"Gordon speaking."

"Commissioner."

"Ah, the dulcet tones of my favorite feminista." Gordon settled back into his chair. "What can I do for you, Miss de Burgh?"

"I want information—where are we at with INS? The FBI?"

"Chugging along as efficiently as any bureaucratic organization."

"How soon can we move?"

Gordon frowned. "Why? Is there a problem?"

"Gordon, we've got forty-plus women locked into a slum building, being systematically beaten, undernourished, and raped, and as it stands right now, their best hope of rescue lies with a professional escort and a so-called superhero flying rodent who needs therapy.When isn't there a problem?"

"Fair point." Gordon thought for a second. "Let me get in touch with them, see how soon we can proceed, and what the ramifications will be if we go forward with the raid before all the paperwork has cleared."

"You fucking public servants and your paperwork." He could hear the exasperated smile in Annabeth's voice. "And anyway, have you even planned the raid yet?"

"I don't think it's wise to inform a civilian of that," Gordon said stiffly. He began to throw files into his briefcase.

"Son of a bitch-" Annabeth cut herself short. "Hang on...that's odd."

"What's odd?" Gordon paused, then grabbed another pile of folders. Who knew? If his kids went to bed early enough, he might be able to take a look at them.

There was a pause, and then he heard Annabeth's voice again, puzzled and slightly annoyed. "Shit, there's been a power outage over here in our part of the city. You guys have power?"

Gordon glanced around; all computers, appliances, lights, and machines were humming merrily along, consuming taxpayer money with no compunction. "We're fine...but your phones are digital and connected to your internet, right? So why are you still talking to me?"

"I've got you on my cell. Goddamn, what a shitty time for this to happen—right at dusk. Now I can't see a frigging thing."

He heard silence, and then Annabeth came back on. "Gordon, I'm going to have to call you back. And believe me, I will—we're not done here. We need to get this planned out, now."

She hung up before he could respond.

Ten minutes later, she still hadn't called back. And she wasn't answering her cell. And the phones at Safe Haven were all busy. Frowning, Gordon decided to call Detective Montoya.

Annabeth pocketed her cell phone and stood up. She began groping around the dark, feeling about her desk, until she made contact with the cold, metal cylinder of her Mag-light. She hadn't anticipated being so grateful for cleaning up her office so quickly, but there it was—the old flashlight she had unearthed earlier in the week. Absently she had put it on her desk and hadn't thought of it again.

Until now.

She turned the head, and a thin, feeble light illuminated her office. Amazing, how dark things could get in Gotham once the sun started to set.

Muffled voiced came from the hallway. "Maya?"

"And Zoe," a young, perky voice confirmed.

"Looks like we lost power."

"Looks like it," Maya confirmed. "You know, I was out back earlier, dealing with a delivery, and I saw a couple of Gotham Power and Light Trucks in the alley. They're probably working on some lines and...I don't know, broke something."

"'Broke something?" Annabeth repeated. "Boy, that sounds technical."

"Technical or not, she's probably right." This was Donna's voice. "Maya, go around to the basement service entrance and see if you can't flag them down, let them know they've screwed something up."

"Right you are, boss."

Maya felt her way down the corridor, and to the emergency staircase. There, at least, there was light, and she was able to safely make her way down to the service entrance. She pushed the heavy door open and gave her eyes a moment to adjust to the dimming twilight. It didn't help matters that dark clouds were beginning to gather.

Great. More nasty weather.

Then she saw them—two GPL vans, parked towards the end of the alley; one of the men appeared to be examining a meter. Perfect.

"Hey! Hello!"

One or two of the men looked up, and a third one poked his head out of the back of the van. He was the one who clambered out and approached Maya. "Evening...how can I help you?" He had an easy-going, open smile.

"Our power's gone out indoors." Maya gestured to the building. "Any chance some of the work your guys were doing may have had something to do with it?"

The workman frowned. "Hard to say...we were just doing a routine meter-reading, but who knows? Tell you what...I'll have my boys come in and take a look at your breakers. At least that way you won't have to call out an expensive electrician." He turned around and beckoned to one of his colleagues; several of them began to head over.

"Terrific," Maya said gratefully. "Only, one thing...I know it sounds odd, but we'll need you to come in through the front, check in with our security. I know it's silly, but it's procedure. Our guard would be plenty pissed off if we went around him."

"Enh, it's Gotham. What're you gonna do? Everyone has security these days." He shrugged good-naturedly. "But don't worry. We're taking care of him right now."

His words didn't register with Maya immediately. A moment's confusion passed over her face, but as she processed the sinister tone of his words, all traces of the man's friendly manner had disappeared-

To be replaced with a gun.

Thomas's day shift was nearing its end, and not a moment too soon, as far as he was concerned. He loved his girls—as he privately thought of the Safe Haven staff and occupants—and he believed in what they did, but some days could get a little too intense for him. But his relief, Jorge, would arrive in a couple of hours, and then he was free. He fully intended to while the evening away in his local sports bar.

These pleasant reflections came to an abrupt end as the front lobby was plunged into darkness.

It was surprising, but not completely unusual—they had briefly lost power during one of the earlier winter squalls, and Thomas knew that there was supposed to be another coming in. Nonetheless, he reached for his walkie-talkie and buzzed upstairs. "Everything okay, Donna?"

A moment later, her voice crackled on. "We're good—Maya's going to check and see if GPL's monkeying around with the electricity. Stand by."

"Over." Thomas set the walkie-talkie back down and sighed. Of course, it would happen in his last couple of hours. Now he couldn't even read—the only lighting came from the winter twilight that glowed through the lobby doors and windows.

It was still enough light to see the three men approach and enter the lobby. One was tall and thin, the other two shorter and stockier. Thomas grinned as he saw their uniforms.

"Hey! I think someone was just looking for you! We could use some help."

"You have no idea," the tall one answered.

Thomas was quick, but they were quicker; three guns were drawn on him at once.

"This can play any number of ways," one of the other men said. "If you want to come out alive, you'll do just as I say. Understand?"

Silently, helplessly, Thomas nodded.

"Good. First I want you to lock the front doors. Then I want you to give us the keys to the building."

In all of his years of being employed by Safe Haven, Thomas had never encountered anything like this. Irate and angry husbands and boyfriends—sometimes drunk, most of the time non-aggressive, and in all cases, easily overpowered or intimidated. There had never been a gun, let alone three. Slowly, Thomas moved to the front doors; with shaking hands, he started to lock them. And then groaned softly as he saw a woman bound up the steps outside.

The three men behind him melted into the shadows.

Thankfully, Barbara Gordon had managed to salvage at least part of her day. A leisurely lunch, followed by an impromptu stop at an antiquarian book store, had restored her happy temperament. She had found the perfect Christmas present for her father, too—an early edition of The Malleus Malificarum. Barbara was fairly certain he would find the amusement in a book which detailed the most effective methods for torturing people into confessions. Who knew? Maybe it would give him some ideas to pass along to the Batman.

This unlikely scenario gave Barbara a little smile as she dismounted from her motorcycle. She stowed her helmet—as well as her evil purchase—and headed down the sidewalk towards Safe Haven. When Annabeth de Burgh had extended the invitation for Barbara to come check it out, Barbara was fairly certain she hadn't meant right away, but she couldn't help it—she was intrigued. Not just by Annabeth—she was attractive, in a rather unremarkable, adult sort of way, but holy cow, her passion was certainly bewitching—but by the entire organization. Barbara hadn't spent many years in the police force, but what she had seen and experienced certainly had firmed up her sense of feminism. So it made sense to get the ball rolling and swing by.

As Barbara walked up the sidewalk, she looked around at her surroundings, the same as she always did. Nothing out of the ordinary...except...she did a double-take and looked at one of the cars parked alongside of the road, across from Safe Haven. Was that...Detective Montoya? Barbara had met the woman a few times before, and her photographic memory confirmed that one of her father's best detectives was here, now.

Interesting.

Nonetheless, Barbara kept on strolling. She was fairly certain Montoya had seen her, but it wasn't any more Montoya's business what Barbara was doing there than it was Barbara's business to know why Montoya was surveilling Safe Haven.

Still, Barbara had a few hunches.

She bounded up the steps to the brownstone bearing the address Annabeth had given her. Just as she reached the front doors and pulled them open, a security guard approached from inside.

"I'm sorry, ma'am, we're just closing up."

Barbara cocked an eyebrow and glanced at the words painted on the glass: "Safe Haven Consulting, Open 24 hrs."

The guard winced, but stayed silent.

"Wouldn't this suck if I were a battered woman?" Barbara pointed out rhetorically.

"I'm sorry, ma'am. You'll just have to come back tomorrow. Power's gone out in the area and we have to close up shop."

Barbara nodded slowly, at the same time as she noticed a thin sheen of sweat on the man's brow.

"Please."

It was this last word that decided things for Barbara; she liked to prove a point, but there was no need for her to be obnoxious about it—yet. Who knew? Maybe he just wanted to go home early. She could relate. "Okay, well, it wasn't important, anyway. I can always come back another time." She smiled sweetly at the guard and backed up. "Have a good night!"

She heard the whoosh of the glass door as it slowly shut behind her, and then the rattling as he locked the door. Well, her day really was a bust. Dispirited and annoyed once more, she headed back down the steps and retraced her path to her bike. "Damned waste of time," she muttered. "You don't see anyone else closing up shop when the power goes out in the area."

She glanced up and down the street at the other brownstone businesses, just to underscore her point.

And that was when she saw the lights burning brightly from within the other shops and offices.

The power wasn't out in the area at all.

Detective Montoya sighed as she checked her watch.

She was one of the ones—one of the few—that didn't question Commissioner Jim Gordon. He told her to jump, she'd ask how high. If he told her to keep quiet about the Batman, well, she'd do that too. And if he told her to organize a surveillance detail on Safe Haven, one of the better-known battered women shelters in Gotham, well, she'd do that too.

But she sure as hell didn't have to like it.

To put it bluntly, it was boring work. Most of the time, very few people went in or out of the building at all. It was an unremarkable assortment of caseworkers, employees, a few intakes, and not much else. A few times, Bruce Wayne (of all people!) had bumbled into the building, looking as though he had come across it more by accident than design. Watching Annabeth de Burgh enter and leave was always amusing—for someone with a pair of short, stubby legs, the woman certainly had a quick stride. And she always looked as though she were looking for the next person to punch. It was really a little bit funny.

On this day, like most others, there was little else to remark upon. A few electricians from the city's power department had gone in, but the one surprising thing was Barbara Gordon showing up, out of the blue.

Small world.

Montoya was fairly certain that Gordon saw her, but it wasn't something that provoked concern. Gordon's daughter was alright, in her book. Flamboyant, perhaps, yet at the same time—sensible and oddly discreet. She knew when not to ask questions. Anyway, no matter—Gordon left the building almost immediately. But Montoya noticed something curious: the girl didn't head back the same way. Rather, she started down the sidewalk, paused, and then suddenly changed tracks. A moment later, she disappeared down the alley that ran between Safe Haven and the building next to it.

Odd.

Still, Montoya didn't think of it again...until ten minutes later, when she had every reason to.

It was remarkable that, despite her many years living in Gotham, Maya had not yet had the experience of having a gun drawn on her. In many peoples' estimation, that was a rite of passage—one that she had been quite happy to forego.

As she stared at the men in front of her, this was the random thought that popped into Maya's head. Strange, perhaps, but then—maybe not, because along with this thought came, naturally enough, a certain disbelief.

This cannot be happening to me.

She took a step back, fear etching itself onto her pretty features. "What do you want?"

"Not your concern, bitch," snarled one of the men behind the leader. How many were there? It looked like half a dozen...at least.

The leader himself smiled grimly. "I wouldn't move to quickly, if I were you. I've got a fairly good grip on my gun, but some of my friends here are a little more jumpy."

Maya swallowed and forced herself to go still.

"I'm going to make this quite clear. I want you to open that door and let us in."

She was frozen into place. Every instinct in her screamed against this, but no alternatives forced their way into her fear-numbed brain.

"Now." The leader raised the gun and pressed it against Maya's forehead. "Boss said to try not to get anyone shot, but he didn't say no way in hell. So you better listen."

Maya brought her hands up in a gesture of submission, but there was no stopping the icy-cold panic which was starting to crush her chest. "Okay, fine," she choked out. "I'm reaching behind me to get the door." She felt the handle and pushed down, silently praying for forgiveness as she did. She felt the door give behind her. "Alright...I'm stepping back into the storeroom..."

"Enough of this shit," the leader sighed. "You're really starting to get on my nerves." He stepped into the dark storeroom and grabbed Maya's arm, roughly. "Move out of the way."

She heard the other men shuffling in behind them, one by one. One by one, flashlights went on. Holy shit—they were prepared.

This had been planned.

Maya heard the leader's voice. "Your keys—do they lock this door?"

"Yes."

"What are you waiting for? Lock it."

It was the last thing in the world she wanted to do, but there was no choice. With trembling hands, she pushed the heavy storeroom door shut, shutting her away from the cold evening, the rest of Gotham...and relative safety.

Abruptly, the leader shoved Maya against the door, slamming her face against the hard surface. "Give me your keys."

Quickly, she relinquished them.

"Randall, go around and get to the breakers. In five minutes, we want light. When you get back, you stay here by this door. Make sure no one leaves, and no one gets out."

"Right, boss."

Maya stood still in the darkness, praying that no one from Safe Haven would get impatient and come down. What did it matter, though? She knew, without being told, that they would be going up to them soon enough.

But not before the leader had to make a point. "I think when we go up and see your friends, they should know we mean business, don't you think?" He paused, and Maya heard a faint clunk as he set down his gun. "This shouldn't take too long. We just need to leave our mark."

From where she hid in the alley, peering around the side of the building, Barbara Gordon had a fairly limited vantage point. But what she did see was enough to convince her that something most fishy was going on. She hadn't spent a whole lot of time around battered women's shelters or halfway houses, but she did know a group of thugs when she saw one. And no matter which way she stretched her imagination, she couldn't find any reasonable explanation for thugs crowding their way into a women's shelter.

Something very bad was going down; she just didn't know what.

Her brain started making rapid-fire connections.

Thugs forcing their way in.

Montoya in front of the building.

Annabeth worked for Safe Haven.

Her father had been working with Annabeth on something.

Not only was something very bad going down, but something very BIG was going down.

Barbara turned and darted back out onto the street in front of Safe Haven. If her hunches were correct, there wasn't a second to lose.

Thomas turned back to the shadows, knowing that the three men had their guns trained on him. Slowly, he held his hands up and away from his body. "The door's locked."

"Who was that at the entrance?" one of the men demanded.

"I don't know...just a woman, She wanted to come in, but I told her we were closed."

"Merciful of you," the tall one drawled. His eyes were cold. "Now that we're all locked up down here, how about you give me the security code to the elevator?"

Thomas glanced down at the gun and nervously moistened his lips. "It won't help, man. Without electricity, security's off-line and the elevator won't work."

Suddenly, there was a shrill beep as electricity was restored. The entrance lobby was flooded with light.

"Perfect timing," the tall one smiled. "Now get to work."

Although he had no idea what Maya was enduring at that moment, Thomas was in the same predicament. There was no choice but to betray the security and the occupants of Safe Haven; he knew, with uncanny certainty, that any other alternative would involve his swift demise.

Come to think of it, he wasn't sure that his swift demise wasn't inevitable, anyway.

Nonetheless, he shuffled over to the elevator and keyed in the code, and a moment later, the elevator doors opened. The tall one stepped inside, then turned to face Thomas and the two other intruders, who now stood behind the helpless security guard. He gave one swift nod.

One of the men behind Thomas moved with surprising speed and silence, bringing the butt of his gun down along the back of Thomas's head. He was out in an instant.

"Good," Seth Percival smiled. "Tie and gag him, throw him behind his desk. Turn the lights off down here so it looks like they really are closed. Then guard the stairwell and elevator. Make sure no one but our men come in or out. Once we're ready to go, I'll call on the cell. You'll have to go out through the front, but meet us out back where the van is."

"How long should this take?" one of the men asked.

"I hope not long," Seth sighed. "I really don't want to waste my evening on a a bunch of these goddamn women. But it might take a while before we get what we need."

The elevator doors closed, and Seth left the Arrows men to carry out their tasks.

Safe Haven was no longer safe.

As light suddenly flooded Safe Haven's rooms and corridors, Annabeth smiled in relief. "Thank goodness. I've got at least two more hours of work to do here."

"Tell me about it," Donna sighed. "But I probably lost my computer work. Think you can try to retrieve it?"

Annabeth gave her an exasperated look. "I'm a miracle-worker, maybe, but no computer goddess. But I'll take a look at it."

They had just started down the hall when they heard the ping of the elevator.

"Odd," Donna remarked. "I didn't hear Thomas buzz anyone up."

"Maybe the power outage screwed things up," Annabeth shrugged. She was about to add something else, but her words were drowned out as the emergency stairwell door burst open. In shock, she watched as as many as a half-dozen men poured into the hallway. "Oh, sh-"

"Hold still!" the first man bellowed. "Else I'll blow her fucking head off!"

Annabeth watched in cold horror as they thrust Maya to the front of the crowd, her hands raised, a gun held to her head. She was utterly white with fear, and the bruises and blood on her face stood out all the more because of it.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered.

One of the men shoved her. "Shut it."

"Are you the only ones on this floor?" one of the men demanded.

Donna and Annabeth glanced at each other, but they didn't need a psychic connection to agree that anything less than the truth could be deadly.

"We're it," Donna said tersely.

"Well, let's head upstairs then, shall we?"

They all had guns. Things were going from bad to worse. Did Thomas know what was going on? Was anyone hurt? Annabeth struggled to think, to piece together how this could be happening, but her brain was just jumbling random thoughts together.

They shoved Annabeth and Donna over to Maya, and herded the three of them back down the corridor, into the stairwell, and up the stairs. A moment later, they burst out onto the common floor, and confusion reigned supreme.

Until her dying breath, Maya would not forget the terror that followed. One or two of the men actually fired their guns—fortunately not aiming at anyone in particular. The gun fire, the bellowing yells of the men, the screams of the children, and the terror and chaos that erupted as the clients realized what was happening, all seared themselves into her memory.

It was all over in less than a minute: the men were frighteningly efficient, or perhaps simply frightening. Either way, they did their job quickly: twenty women, five children, Maya, Donna, and Annabeth all found themselves clustered together with half a dozen guns drawn on them.

"In here!" barked one of the men. He tore open the door leading to the playroom. "All of you, get in here!"

Some of them went willingly, others stumbled along, in shock; Donna, Annabeth, and the newest client, Bea, were the last to go, and hovered in the doorway. The three of them faced their captors.

"What the hell do you want?" Annabeth demanded.

One of the men smirked, but she wasn't cowed. But before she could say anything else, the elevator pinged open, and Seth Percival stepped into the corridor.

Behind her, Annabeth heard Donna's sharp intake of breath. Annabeth didn't spend a moment's thought on it, though; since the weekend at Bellingham, she had considered Percival her sworn enemy, and having him in her presence focused every bit of fear and surprise and forged it into a scorching anger. Blood began to pound in her ears.

"Annabeth de Burgh," Seth smiled. "Why am I not surprised to see you giving my colleagues a hard time?"

Red. She was actually seeing red.

"Don't have anything to say for once, do you?" he taunted. "If I had known what it would have taken to shut you up, I would have done this a lot sooner."

Annabeth remained silent—a wise decision, as he appeared to be holding a Sig Sauer, according to her inexperienced eyes. But she held her ground as he approached. Behind her, in the play room, she heard the choked sobs of some of the clients. She had to keep things together for the clients. They had to get out of this. And an icy certainty was starting to creep into her stomach.

Seth smirked. "You know I used to box?" He didn't wait for an answer. "I held my own pretty well. Had a signature left hook. I never went professional with it. But you know—outside of the boxing ring, I never realized mastered all those crazy slangwords. Pimp smack? Bitchslap? Backhand? What are they—different words for the same thing?"

"Seth," Donna said, her voice threatening.

"You know him?" Annabeth's voice was half disbelieving, half accusatory as she turned around to face Donna, who dropped her gaze. Confused, Annabeth turned back to Seth, who was waiting.

The crack of his hand striking Annabeth's cheek was unnervingly loud in the tense, fearful silence.

"I suspect they're one and the same," Seth decided.

He shoved Annabeth, hard, who stumbled back against Donna and Bea. Surprisingly, it was Bea who steadied Annabeth, and not Donna. Donna was staring at Seth, betrayal in her eyes.

"In there," he said coldly.

There was no choice, of course. Annabeth stumbled into the playroom, followed by Donna, Bea, and then Seth. She tasted blood trickling into her mouth—no doubt Percival was wearing a ring, because her upper lip felt as though it had been split. But despite her own predicament, she still took stock: all of the clients, including the children, were huddled on the floor. Their hands had been bound behind their backs; nonetheless, the men kept their guns trained upon them.

Suddenly, Seth grabbed her elbow and dragged her over to one of the men. "Tie her up, too. And the grandmother. Put 'em in the corner with the others." And then he smiled at Donna. "But not her—not Donna. She gets preferential treatment."

Deep in the bowels of Wayne Towers, Lucius and Alfred were learning a thing or two.

At present, they were both surrounding Undertow, the powerful computer which was really doing the hard work. After close to an hour of searching, synthesizing, and hacking, they were close to cracking into the sealed files that Alfred had located earlier in the day.

And then they were there.

"Here we go," Lucius said. He and Alfred watched as Undertow hacked, cracked, converted, and brought the files up, in nice, neat PDF format. Lucius read through the documents with more disinterest than Alfred—he had far less knowledge of the current players than did the Wayne family butler—but even he paid more attention as Alfred blurted out the first word that came into his head.

"Bugger."

He stared at the monitor for a moment, stunned.

"Alfred? What is it?" Lucius looked at the monitor, and then again at the butler. "Who are these people?" He peered closer. "I don't understand..."

When Alfred spoke, it was in a voice strangled by surprise—and growing dread. "It's some name change documents, and a driver's license. All records that had been sealed by the courts, god only knows why. Two sets of name changes—one which reflects the change from Susan Stratos to Gretchen Rogers...and the other which reflects Gretchen Rogers' name change after her divorce from Seth Percival. She changed her name to Donna Drake."

"Seth Percival, I know," Lucius said, his voice dripping with disdain. "And you said that Gretchen Rogers...Donna Drake? was married to him. Donna Drake, I've heard of. She's the Director of that shelter Mr. Wayne works with...but Susan Stratos? Doesn't ring a bell."

"It does with me...I read it somewhere, a couple of months back." Alfred swallowed hard. "It was the mother's name on Annabeth de Burgh's birth certificate."

The goon who was tying Annabeth's hands behind her wasn't taking any pains to be gentle; the nylon rope was burning into her wrists as he tightened the lashings. But that discomfort, the pain in her lip, even the terror for her clients—all of it faded into the background, overshadowed by a certain suspicion that was taking root in her heart.

"What's going on?" she hissed at Donna. The older woman, who had been forced to sit in a rocking chair, just shook her head and watched as Seth and his men clustered by the door and conferred.

Annabeth tried to focus her attention. "Is anyone hurt?" she asked. "Maya?"

Maya shook her head. "I'm fine." But her face was shockingly pale; she had come far too close to death to be fine. "Worry about the others."

"They're fine." This came from Donna. "I don't think they're here to hurt them."

"What makes you think you know that, Donna?" Seth had turned back from his men. "What do you know that you're not telling them?"

Donna bowed her head.

"Donna, what's going on?" Annabeth demanded again.

"Donna, Donna, Donna," Seth mocked. "Christ, you sound like a child whining to her mommy. What makes you think she has answers?" He drew closer to Donna, close enough for him to now casually run a finger down the contour of her jaw. "What makes you think she even cares?"

Annabeth's eyes narrowed and glittered dangerously.

"You're so devoted to Donna," Seth went on. "You idolize her, is what I think..."

"Shut up, Seth," Donna said from the rocker.

"No, you shut up, bitch!"

He screamed this at Donna, and then turned back to Annabeth. "I'm already getting bored with you. So why don't you just tell me: where's Stacy?"

Shit. Annabeth's worst fear was confirmed. They were here for Stacy. No way in hell was she going to give her up, though. And more importantly... "How do you know about Stacy?" she demanded.

"Christ, and they said you were smart." Seth shook his head. "People'll say anything about a woman if she gives decent head. How do we know about Stacy? The same way we found out about all the other bitches you were hiding." He turned to Donna and grinned in triumph as Donna bowed her head in defeat.

Montoya glanced at her watch and sighed. Another boring watch. Dammit, not even an Annabeth sighting lately to keep her amused. Not a sign of activity, really, since the electricians had gone in to the building.

The electricians.

She glanced at her watch again, frowning this time. How long ago had they gone in there? They hadn't left yet-and didn't most utility workers officially end their shifts by six?

Something wasn't right.

Before she had time to act upon this realization, before she even had the time to curse herself for her own stupid complacency, Montoya realized she was no longer alone. Barbara Gordon was suddenly standing by her car, her face grim. Already half suspecting what was about to happen, Montoya opened the door.

Barbara's voice was tight and commanding. "You'd better get some backup. And call my father."