All around Gotham, people were in a rush.
Montoya was one of these people, driving her patrol car through the city, sirens blaring, no speed too fast. She was hunched over the wheel, tense, anxious, ridden with guilt, and listening to Commissioner Gordon as he bellowed into his phone. They were headed to the Narrows, headed into some sort of trouble, but Montoya had to live with the fact that she had played no small part in bringing on a lot of the problems that were even now unfolding.
"I don't care what kind of budget issues your department is having!" Gordon snarled. "We need your most trusted agents, Abilene, and we need them now. And we need for them to be people that can work well with...outside agencies, other than us."
Outside agencies. Despite the seriousness of the situation, Montoya permitted herself a grim smile. Right. The Batman's an "outside agency."
"We need cooperation, Abilene. And don't forget, there are forty-plus innocent people....I DON'T CARE IF THEY AREN'T U.S. CITIZENS!"
Montoya glanced at Gordon, alarmed.
"We're working with INS, that should be enough for you and your agents. It's not your job to prosecute and victimize people you perceive to be illegal aliens. You're there to bust a human-trafficking and drug-dealing gang." Suddenly, Gordon pulled the phone away from his head. "Dammit, why's my daughter keep calling?" It was a question for which there was no answer, so he continued his conversation. "Abilene, I'll see you and your agents there. A block south, no lights, unmarked cars. This won't go south—not on my watch." With that, he terminated the call.
"They coming?" Montoya deftly navigated the car around a couple of slowpokes Thank goodness, the drivers were actually respecting the sirens tonight.
"They're coming," Gordon affirmed. "They're not thrilled about it, but they're coming. God only knows who's going to be in charge. And we still haven't firmed up stuff with INS."
"And one of the strongest women's rights advocates and one of our most relied-upon shelters are both presently out for the count," Montoya added. "This could get dodgy."
"Detective, I think we hit dodgy back when I first shook Annabeth de Burgh's hand. We're working with a vigilante and a couple of dubious Feds to provide protection for forty illegal aliens. I haven't actually met the Feds we'll be working with, and the more I talk with them, the more I think there's something off about them."
"Fantastic. Off, how?"
Gordon struggled to formulate his thoughts. "For lack of a better way to describe them, an incompetent Scully and Mulder, except... I get the impression these folks don't take their job as seriously."
The two fell into tense silence as Gordon resumed worrying and Montoya focused on the traffic.
Finally, Montoya found the courage to speak what was on her mind. "Commissioner, I'm sorry. I'm fully aware that a lot of this could have been prevented...I got lax..."
Gordon grimaced. "Montoya, it was probably only a matter of time. They've been wanting to get their hands our witness for a while. Were you negligent? Probably. It'll likely earn you a reprimand. But you're one of my cops, and no one at MCU is going to rough you up too much. Not on my watch. You're still young, you're learning. Mistakes happen, and god knows, my personnel file is full of 'em." He glanced over and managed a reassuring smile. "And my biggest offense isn't even documented."
Kind words, but it didn't alleviate Montoya's guilt. Still, no officer worth their salt escaped their careers without some measure of guilt, deserved or not. After a moment, she cleared her throat and tried to focus. "I just hope Bullock finds Stacy soon. Have you heard from him?"
"Nothing yet," Gordon sighed. "He's still probably down at Safe Haven...we need to find Stacy, but there's just..." he didn't finish the sentence, but he didn't need to. Montoya knew exactly what the problem was.
There just wasn't enough people they trusted.
Annoyed, Barbara Gordon ended the phone call...again. Four times she had tried to call her father, and four times, he had failed to answer. This was highly unusual. Jim Gordon was as devoted to his family as he was to his job, and he almost always answered his phone. Dammit.
Before she emerged from the corner where she had been huddled, she carefully arranged her face into an unconcerned expression—it wouldn't do for Stacy to see her so worried. And maybe there wasn't anything to be worried about. They were in the safest place that she could think of.
When she had parked her motorbike outside, even Stacy had balked. "A bar? You brought me to a bar?" The younger girl had gazed in surprise at The Alleycat, which looked every bit as seedy and dive-y as it actually was.
Barbara had removed her helmet and smoothed down her punkish hair. "I trust just about everyone in here. I think you're probably safest in a crowd, and these are my people. Shut up and get inside."
So inside they were. Barbara had installed Stacy at the bar, right under the watchful eye of Bryce, her favorite bartender; while Bryce chatted the girl up and showed her his tattoos, Barbara went about the business of trying to run her father to earth. The first time he hadn't answered, she hadn't been concerned; the second time, red flags started to go up in her brain, and by the third time, she forced herself to face up to the unpleasant realization that things had probably gotten pretty ugly up at Safe Haven.
Just as well I got Stacy out of there.
Now she settled herself down at the bar and accepted the mug of coffee Bryce had offered her without being asked. "Thanks, dude."
"Anytime." Bryce jerked his head towards Stacy, who was now playing pool, very ill indeed, with a couple of the regulars. "She a sister of yours or something?"
"Hell no. Perish the thought." Barbara didn't extrapolate, however, and he didn't pry.
"Yo, Bryce!" Stacy hollered from where she stood, cue in hand. "How 'bout another?"
Bryce rolled his eyes heavenward, got the look of confirmation from Barbara, and fished another bottle from the cooler. "I think this might be the last one. Not much call for it around here...think she's going to figure out it's nonalcoholic?"
Barbara peered over her shoulder and contemplated Stacy. "Doubtful."
She was beginning to suspect that it was going to be a long evening.
Gordon and Montoya weren't the only people rushing through Gotham that evening. The Tumbler was doing its own particular brand of rushing, although it was much more quiet and behind the scenes than any GCPD car. It was on auto-pilot, which gave the Batman a few brief, but nonetheless painful, moments to regroup. As soon as the Tumbler slipped away from the chaos of Safe Haven, he did a damage assessment; none to speak of, thankfully. Whatever few blows the Archers had managed to land on him came more through accident than design, and none of them registered past the protection of his armor. So he was safe.
Of course, knowing this only underscored that someone else wasn't.
Back away from that thought.
He didn't want to think about Annabeth right then; it drove him dangerously close to a very bad mental place—but then he glanced down at his forearm and saw the dull gleam of blood. When she had gripped his arm, she had left a smear of blood there. And then he remembered: her hands had been covered in it. Her wound had looked very bad, and he was very well aware of the fact that stomach wounds were dangerous under the best of circumstances.
And he couldn't be there. Instead, he was charging through the night, on his way to put out yet another metaphorical fire that burned through Gotham, emitting smoke that was too faint for anyone "important" to see.
But he saw it. He saw it because Annabeth had opened his eyes to it, and he knew that Annabeth wanted him to put that fire out—was counting on him to. And she wasn't the only one.
Still, someone needed to be there, on the ground, to know what was unfolding with Annabeth. He reached for the encrypted phone and began to dial.
The Applied Sciences Division of Wayne Enterprises may have been located in the basement, but it certainly didn't affect phone reception. That was one of the many improvements made to the building when Bruce Wayne officially came on board. "I like to be available any time," he had explained to the few people who had quirked an eyebrow. "One time, I totally missed this call from...what's her name? Angelica...Thorton? Jolly? Because I was squirreled away down in that damned stuffy basement."
No one had questioned him about it after that.
And so, when Alfred's cell phone began to chirp that night, as he and Lucius were keeping vigil in the bowels of Wayne Tower, it wasn't surprising. What was surprising was that Bruce was calling in the middle of his...job. Usually it was only when something had gone dreadfully wrong. So it was with more than a little anxiety that Alfred answered the phone. In the background, Lucius eavesdropped shamelessly.
"Yes, sir?"
"Alfred."
If the fact that he was calling on a mission did not tip Alfred off to Trouble, his tone of voice did. "Yes, sir."
"Are you watching the news?"
"Yes, sir. Nothing remarkable." Even as he said this, he turned around and faced the LCD monitor that piped in the latest from GNN. The talking heads were reporting on the dismal results for the annual municipal Christmas toy drive. "In fact, it's quite dead."
There was a heavy silence. Then the Batman spoke again. "Either the networks haven't heard yet, or they just don't care. Alfred, I need you to get to the hospital."
"The hospital?" Alfred asked sharply. He was aware of Lucius growing more alert behind him. "Which one?"
"The one closest to Safe Haven, Gotham General. Annabeth's been shot, and Donna Drake is dead."
"Dead?"
"The Arrows infiltrated, trying to find Stacy. Annabeth got shot, and the building wasn't yet secured, and Donna got shot by a straggler...I'm on my way to the Narrows, but I need you to get to the hospital. Make sure that Annabeth is getting the best care."
"How bad was the wound?"
"Bad. I'm beginning to wonder if she'll make it—she lost a lot of blood, and there wasn't medical attention right away. I think Percival was the one who shot her. In the stomach."
Sometimes I really begin to wonder if he is more than human, Alfred mused. He understood, instinctively, the gravity of the situation, and knew, too, how difficult conveying this message was for Bruce Wayne, and even the Batman, but his voice didn't alter at all, didn't betray an ounce of emotion.
"I can't be there, Alfred. I need you to be there for me."
Alfred was already gathering up his coat. "I'm on my way, Master Wayne." But then he paused. "I didn't have a chance to tell you, sir, before everything went down, but Lucius Fox and I believe we have figured out the connection back to Miss de Burgh."
"What's that?"
"Donna Drake was her mother. She left Gotham many years ago, just like Miss de Burgh had told you. She changed her name multiple times...Eventually she came back to Gotham. Miss de Burgh must never have recognized her or realized who she was."
Silence. And then, in a more human voice, the Batman said, "I think it's fairly safe to say she knows now."
Boredom was beginning to be the default state of mind for Trinity. Boredom, and annoyance. She was annoyed because she was bored. And, for the most part, stuck in the disgusting little stash house that Donzetti and le Blanc had set up.
At one point during that interminable day, she found herself actually wishing that she were upstairs, with the girls that Donzetti had brought over. At least then she would have some sort of mental stimulation—if only the challenge of how to show them kindness and give them aid without actually appearing to do so. But no, when Donzetti and le Blanc had heard her proposal to "kill them with kindness"—in short, gain their trust only to break it later, they were delighted, but insisted on a modification: instead of being overly attentive to them, Trinity was to ignore them, by and large, and only pay attention to them every now and then, throwing offhand kindness first this way, then the other. The burly Archers could handle the violence, the cruelty, the terror.
"Keep them guessing," had been le Blanc's orders. "Make them wonder what's going to happen next."
"Make 'em jealous of each other—keep them from making friends," had been Donzetti's only advice before he had spirited Zhao away to his apartment—the poor girl.
Not long after that, le Blanc, too had departed, probably to spend time at that nightclub of his. They had, essentially, left Trinity in charge of the stash house.
Wonderful.
But not quite in charge—Trinity was fairly certain that several of the Archers had been instructed to keep an eye on her, make sure she wasn't disobeying the directives that she had been given. So she carefully rationed her visits to the upstairs quarters, and spent most of her time in the lounge, always in the company of a couple of Archers. Every now and then, they would switch out with some of the other Archers who watched the girls.
It was frustrating and tension-inducing. Trinity spent most of her time idly flipping through television channels and occasionally cooking up improbable scenarios to extricate herself from this mess.
Shit, and this is only Day One. I*f this goes on much longer, I think I might try to become a Batman.
Later in the afternoon, she excused herself and headed into the bathroom. Praying that le Blanc had not been suspicious enough to install surveillance cameras, Trinity sent a terse text message to Annabeth, letting her know more about the layout and the "staffing" of the building. She didn't get a response, which wasn't surprising; no doubt Annabeth de Burgh had passed the information on up the food chain and commenced doing whatever it was she did. Still, some sort of response would have been welcome; anything to break up the monotony of the day.
By the time 9 PM rolled around, Trinity's tolerance had begun to wear thin. "I'm going upstairs to check on the girls," she announced to her current babysitter, a burly man who looked as though he may have played NFL football in another life. Surprisingly, he rose and followed her out of the lounge. "I'll go up with you," he said, and suddenly grinned. "You bringing them food? It'll be fun to watch them fight over it."
His name was innocent-sounding enough—Danny. Trinity knew very little about him, as none of the Archers tended to share personal details about their lives, and they certainly didn't ask about hers. But Trinity had worked with Danny long enough to know that he was one of the worst. One of the truly sick. He was especially attentive to Lupe, one of the Latino girls that the Arrows had originally picked up. As far as Trinity could tell, Lupe was the youngest in the group. She had just turned thirteen a month or two back.
And Danny liked her. He liked that about her.
He had a pretty fucked-up way of showing how he liked her, though. Now all of the Archers knew not to touch Danny's pet, and Lupe herself was close to catatonic, and not in particularly healthy physical condition, either. Trinity had done what she could, but she knew how very careful she had to be, so as not to arouse suspicion.
Resisting the urge to gouge out his eyes, Trinity merely shook her head. "No food—we gave them some earlier this afternoon. They're not hungry enough yet." The tone of calloused dismissal in her voice was forced, but either he ignored it or it simply didn't penetrate his steroid-addled brain matter, for he simply followed her out of the lounge and up the dilapidated stairwell.
They didn't get too far. One of the Archers in charge of watching over the girls came charging down the stairs, cell phone in hand. "Man, we got problems."
Shit. Trinity didn't like the look of panic on his face, any more than she liked the tone of tension in his voice. Something told her that these problems were of a far more serious nature than the closest liquor store closing, which had been the last thing the Archers had been complaining about. "What's going on?"
"Let's get to the lounge," the Archer said to her as he hustled them back down the way they came. "So, you know Jack, who works the area close to Arkham? Well, he's over at a bar, scouting out some new recruits, when he sees something on the news. So he calls me."
They were back in the lounge now, and the Archer turned on the television that le Blanc had insisted be installed. He flipped it to the local news network. Trinity had one brief moment to experience surprise—he knows what channel the news is on?—before she focused on what was playing on the screen.
Breaking news...act of brutal and shocking violence...unexpected invasion of one of the city's halfway houses for battered women...hostage situation...multiple gunshots fired...at least one confirmed fatality...police managed to gain access...rumors of the Batman's involvement...identities of the victims being withheld at present...
They didn't disclose the name of the shelter, either, but Trinity knew, absolutely, that it was Safe Haven. What had happened? Who had been killed? Had Annabeth left anything at Safe Haven that could incriminate her? Everything suddenly seemed infinitely more perilous.
All of these were thoughts that raced through Trinity's brain as she, along with the two Archers, watched the news unfold. She was incredibly careful not to allow the fear growing within her to make its way into her features, and she tried very hard to ignore the voice inside her coldly rational brain: Run!
Her instincts were telling her to run as far from this place as possible. But her common sense and compassion were telling her something completely different. Common sense told her that if she ran, she completely showed her hand. Taking off would be the single most self-incriminating thing she could do. And compassion told her that the worst thing she could do would be to leave the girls in the stash house to the tender mercies of the Archers.
And maybe, just maybe, she could play this to their advantage. "Their" being not the Arrows, of course, but the Batman's. And hers. If, for any reason, everything had gone to hell, would it be at all possible that the Batman would be paying them a visit, sooner rather than later? She had no reason to think that, none other than her knowledge of the fanatic idealism which had compelled him to do...what he did. It was entirely possible, she decided.
She turned back to the Archers, both of whom were looking at her expectantly. "What's the big deal? Have either of you heard from Donzetti or le Blanc?"
"No," said Danny. "But that could be that place what was giving us all those problems a while back. You don't think the cops could be coming here?"
Trinity shrugged indifferently. "Why would they? They don't even know we're here. And do you really think Donzetti's going to appreciate you bugging him tonight? He and Zhao are getting better acquainted, and I really doubt he's going to appreciate a phone call interrupting his night, just because you boys panicked."
The two Archers glanced uneasily at each other.
Trinity smiled reassuringly. "Look, if it makes you feel better, we can get all the girls together, round them up and put them in the top floor. If the cops do, for some fucked up reason, decided to pay us a visit, they won't even bother up there. It's essentially an attic."
Her confidence had the desired affect. Confronted with such a forceful and persuasive personality—and an undeniably beautiful one at that, as well as one who had the Boss's backing, the Archers gave in quite readily... and so all three of them headed back to the staircase, and back to the girls.
At The Alleycat, Stacy had just finished her third O'Doul's when she noticed the news being piped through to the one television in the bar. One of the barflies had been casually surfing through the channels, searching for the Gotham Knights game, when he caught the breaking news. He paused for a moment and took in the information, but quickly enough continued flipping the channels again. Whatever madness Gotham had unleashed upon herself this time, he really didn't care.
Just then, he noticed the hand on his arm—a decidedly feminine hand. He looked at it, and then at the woman to which it was attached. One of the newer patrons, a reasonably attractive young woman—or at least she would have been, were it not for her decidedly unconventional appearance—was standing by him, smiling.
"Excuse me," she said sweetly, "I know you were probably searching for the game, but I was hoping you could change it back to the news really quickly? I hate to bother, but..." she cast her eyes down for a moment when he didn't answer; apparently the carrot wasn't going to work here. Time to bring out the stick. "It's just that my dad is the Police Commissioner and all, and I like to keep tabs on what's going on."
The seemingly innocuous words seemed to have an affect where her sweet demeanor had not. He relinquished control of the remote and glowered at her grin of thanks. Nonetheless, Barbara gestured to the bartender. "Bryce, would you mind putting this good man on my tab?"
This did the trick. His scowl turned into a brief, curt nod of appreciation, but Barbara wasn't fooled. She knew she had made another ally.
The television was now turned back onto the news, Barbara focused on the newscaster. What she failed to hear, the closed captions filled in. After a moment, she sensed Stacy joining her side.
One or two other patrons were paying attention to the news, but the majority were involved in their own affairs—their cups, their flirtations, their billiards, their conversations. Just more shit going down in Gotham, and didn't have nearly the stink of crazy that the Joker had. Not really worth paying attention.
"Think we need to cut loose?" Stacy asked Barbara, low. Her eyes were big with worry, and Barbara was reminded of how much growing up the kid still had to do.
Barbara didn't even have to glance around. "Nah, we should be okay." In a city as big as Gotham, what were the chances that her local dive bar was inhabited by the Arrows? It was far too hipster middle class for them. All the same, she'd be happy when she got in touch with her father. She pulled out her phone again.
The patrol car had just rolled to a stop, a block away from the stash house that they had been directed to, and where Gordon had commanded the FBI to be. No one was there yet—not even the Batman, as far as either of them could see.
Gordon and Montoya looked at each other.
Gordon spoke first. "Guess this is where we find out whether or not the Feds actually listened to me."
Another tense moment passed, and then the moment was shattered by the shrill ring of Gordon's phone. Both of them jumped.
"Barbara Jr. again," Gordon sighed. He answered. "Hello, Eldest." That was his nickname for her. "I can't really talk right now...uh-huh...WHAT?"
In the time that Montoya had worked with Gordon, she had often seen him exasperated, frustrated, and annoyed, but rarely angry, and never ballistic.
And tonight, it seemed some boundaries were about to be pushed.
"Barbara, how in the hell..." Gordon ran his hand through his hair. "No. Wait. Don't answer that...where are you? ...The Alleycat? I shouldn't be surprised, I guess. Alright, look—you trust these people?" He listened. "Jesus. Okay. Stay there. I'll send someone down until...everything gets wrapped up."
Again, Montoya found herself unwillingly amused by Gordon's way of phrasing things. Wrapped up? As if it were just some little gift, that, once wrapped and presented, would get put away nicely and neatly. Somehow, things didn't feel wrapped up, or anything close to it.
Beside her, Gordon closed his phone. "Dammit."
"Problems, Commissioner?"
"A rogue daughter," Gordon muttered. And then he caught sight of another vehicle, all lights off, silently creeping down the street. "Shit. Barbara's at a bar down near the Tricorner Yards, The Alleycat. She's got Stacy with her."
"I gathered."
Gordon thought for a moment. "I'm calling Bullock off the investigation, and putting a few others in charge of Safe Haven. I want Bullock to find Donzetti and le Blanc and arrest them."
"Sir?"
"If we can get those two off the streets and out of contact with their thugs, that'll be one less thing I need to worry about tonight. Cut out the heart of the leadership, as it is. And Montoya—I want you to get down to The Alleycat and guard them. Guard them both."
Gordon didn't bother to watch as Montoya's patrol car sped off, leaving him in the murkiest part of the Narrows. It wasn't a concern to him; he had been down here more times than he could count, and didn't have the time to be concerned anyway. There were other, more pressing concerns.
First: a call to Bullock. His burly, trusted detective answered his cell on the first ring. "Yo, Commish."
In the background, Gordon could hear voices, crying, the squawk of electronic equipment. "I take it you're still at Safe Haven?"
"For the moment. Was starting to close up ship...got as far as we could for now. Some folks from some of the other shelters came in and started helping with the, uh, residents here. Obviously since they won't be staying here for a while."
"Obviously." Gordon didn't want to remember the scenes of chaos that had greeted him.
"And also, since the leadership's pretty much out for the count."
"What about that one girl...Maya? She seemed to have her head together."
"Except for the part of it that got the shit knocked out of it. One of the EMTs thought she might need a few stitches, so she's away to Gotham General, too. Got some interesting info out of her before she left, though."
"I'm listening."
"So it turns out that the woman what was killed, Donna? Was married to that Percival dickweed a long time ago."
Gordon let out a breath. "That could explain a few things."
"Gets better, boss. Percival starts telling a nice little story about how Donna was a Gotham native...and apparently was de Burgh's birth mother. Took off when the kid was real young, came back years later, made a few nasty deals...de Burgh never realized."
"Jesus H. Christ."
"Got that right. Pretty effed-up story, huh? Now Mom's dead and de Burgh might be checking out, too. Whole damned place is in an uproar."
"Alright, Detective. Good stuff, there. And there's a little change in plans. We've, ah, located Stacy—Montoya's on her way to her now. Whatever investigations still need to be done, have some of the other cops do them. But make sure that they treat those women well, and make sure they're placed in other shelters before much more time passes."
"What about me?"
"Good question, Detective. I think by now we've got enough to bring in le Blanc and Donzetti. Get a judge to issue arrest warrants—shouldn't be too hard, all the shitty judges are out of town for Christmas anyway. Then start sniffing them out."
"What about you?" Bullock tried to keep the concern in his voice to an off-handed sort, but Gordon knew better. "You and Bats are gonna storm the citadel up there in the Narrows?"
"We are."
"You and what army?"
Good question. Gordon pondered this for a moment. "I'm bringing in more cops," he said slowly, the words coming out of his mouth at the same time as they were coming into his brain. "Rookies."
"Rookies?"
"The fresher, the better. I'm going to take the chance that the new kids haven't been corrupted yet. And if I can give 'em the chance to see action so early on, I might just make some more allies."
"Ballsy, Commish. Could be incredibly dumb, or incredibly smart."
"We'll see. Call into MCU, have 'em dispatch six to eight of the newest rookies. And after that—you know your task. Don't turn up without the bosses."
"You got it." One of Bullock's redeeming qualities was a certain sense of business. When there was shit to do, he'd get it done.
After his call to Bullock, Gordon simply stood quietly, waiting.
It felt like so much of his life was waiting, these days. Waiting for the next crisis, for the next criminal, for the Batman. And sometimes it felt as though the Batman was the most punctual of the lot—which was a rather disturbing prospect to contemplate.
"Are you alone?"
Not only punctual, but consistently so. Gordon turned to the shadows of the alley and focused on the dark form which emerged. "For the moment," he answered. "I'm hoping the Feds show up soon."
"Have you figured out how they'll all play nicely?"
"Still working on that," Gordon sighed. "Hoping they'll be more tractable. Hard to say...their section chief is a bit of a hard-liner, but the agents seem to be fairly humane. As evidenced by the fact that they haven't asked me about my history working with you. But that might also be because it's possible they're clueless washed-up losers banished to Gotham. Still not sure."
"What about INS?"
Gordon was beyond the point of being surprised about the fact that the Batman appeared to be concerned about the people who could be the best advocate, or the worst enemy, of the females they were about to rescue. "Again, hard to say. They're not thrilled with the concept of several dozen illegal immigrants being dumped on them, particularly now that everyone is up in arms about our borders. And it doesn't help that our single best warrior is currently out for the count."
Here the Batman actually showed a semi-human reaction. He shifted his weight, and his cape gave a gentle rustle. "How is she?"
"Haven't heard, but from what I saw when they took her away, not great. She lost a lot of blood." Gordon frowned. "Bullock was questioning Maya, the only administrator left relatively unscathed—it appears that the director, Drake, was playing both sides of the fence."
"Go on."
"Don't have much yet. But it sounds like Drake made a deal with Percival...something to do with our Annabeth...it sounds like Percival claimed that Drake was her mother."
"She was."
Gordon was beyond feeling surprise at what the Batman knew. "Well then, how about you share what you know?"
"There's not much else to know, at this point." The Batman didn't feel inclined to inform Gordon that he barely knew more. Had he not gotten into contact with Alfred, he'd know less than Gordon. "Drake was de Burgh's birth mother, left her and Gotham a long time ago. de Burgh didn't know that it was her."
"Could be that Percival was blackmailing Drake."
"Possibly. We're not going to know for a while, so it's a moot point. Percival's in custody?"
"Oh yeah. Charges pending until we see how Annabeth fares. Several witnesses state that he shot her."
"That's probably not the worst of what he's done." This was a new voice joining the conversation.
Both men turned, but neither were startled to see the two figures walking down the sidewalk.
"The Feds," Gordon sighed. "Scully and Mulder?"
The two figures finally became distinguishable, and one of them was a woman. "Don't you wish?"
"Although she is the better shot," the man said. "Commissioner, you're really slumming it, aren't you?"
Gordon shrugged. "I've been here plenty of times. You seem to be a little lost."
The woman yawned, noisily. "I understand there's some hell we need to raise?"
"She is human," the Batman remarked. "Sure she's a Fed?"
"Yeah, yeah. I'm Abilene—Special Agent Zahn, to you. I guess you're the Batman?"
"In the flesh," her male companion added. "I'm Sean...Special Agent Darth. The Batman...as I live and breathe. I hear you're quite the legend."
The Batman turned to Gordon. "I'm a legend?"
"Settle down there, Ego." Abilene glanced around. "We're about a block off, yeah?"
"The stash house is about a block that way," Gordon answered. "You two got a plan?"
"Not yet—but it looks like he does." Sean jerked his head towards the Batman. "Man, he moves quick."
The three of them watched as the Batman began scaling the sides of buildings. Beside Sean, Abilene let out a low whistle. "Damn, he needs to tell us what he equipment he's got."
Gordon restrained himself from rolling his eyes. "What about your section chief?"
Abilene rolled her eyes. "Shit, she's in DC more than she is here. Fucking her boss, I think. Corruption in Gotham isn't limited to the city limits. And really—Gotham's crazy as a June bug in a hen house. You think anyone else but us would be here?"
"Shut up, Abilene." This came from Sean, who was still trying to keep an eye on the Batman—pointlessly, as he had melted into the night. "No one gives a damn."
"On the contrary, I think." Abilene smiled at Gordon. "We're here in Gotham as punishment. You think anyone willingly puts in to work the field office of America's red-headed stepchild? I was originally in Miami—got a little too rough once in interrogation. As for Sean-"
"Shut the fuck up, Zahn." Sean was checking his gun. "The man doesn't give a damn."
"I think he does. Let's just say that our section chief isn't the only person in the history of the FBI who screwed someone. Only Darth here made the wrong choice—he screwed his boss's wife...along with several others... back in San Francisco."
"Abilene, I am going to kick your ass." Sean did not appear to be making good on that threat, however. He moved down the sidewalk. "Where the hell did he go?"
Gordon shrugged. "He'll be back." He stared at the two FBI rejects. "So I've got a nymphomaniac and a violence-prone renegade on my hands?"
"Compared to the antisocial vigilante playing hopscotch on Gotham's rooftops, you think we're the problem?" Abilene didn't even bother to look offended. "Look, just be glad we're not corrupt. We genuinely want to help."
Gordon briefly contemplated bashing his head against the nearest brick wall. "How do I know that?"
"Guess you'll find out." Abilene glanced at him. "Seriously, why are you stressing? You've got cooperative Federal agents, and so far, we're not turning your ass in."
"Forgive me if I remain unassured."
"Tell you what." Now Sean was speaking up again. "What if I convince your INS agent to work with you? Give those girls amnesty?"
Gordon snorted. "You guys just got through telling me you're the FBI's fuck-ups. You're not trying to arrest the Batman—or me—on sight, which seems to have been the official stand on the Batman and all known accomplices since the goddamned get-go. You don't think I smell something really rotten here?"
"Whatever. I'm bored. Sean, who's the INS Director here in Gotham?"
"Diana Glasgow."
Abilene was already dialing into her phone. "Gordon, how much you wanna bet I can get Diana to go along with whatever I say?"
Sean didn't give Gordon a chance to answer. He turned away from his partner and smiled at the weathered Commissioner. "Agent Zahn may have poor judgment when it comes to how much force to use, but she's got a damned good ear for gossip and information."
"Gossip and information?" How the hell had he gotten stuck with these people?
"Let's just say that the Feds aren't the only promiscuous government workers in Gotham, and my colleague's talent for subtle pressure and gentle blackmail will be substantially beneficial to you tonight."
Gordon was past the point of caring. "Fine. Whatever works—but make sure that the INS folks stick with whatever they agree to, because I don't want this biting us in the ass. All I do want is to shut down the Arrows and whatever twisted thing they've got running here."
"Commissioner," Agent Darth said grimly, "I can see already that we have our differences...but this isn't one of them. Now let's get your Bat-boy friend back here so we can get this done."