6

Jasmine dropped her black jacket over her chair, and started thumbing through paper work. She hated lines. She hated spaces. She hated lines and spaces.

Kicking the table, she flipped her waist long braid behind her and stormed to the vending machine. She was in a worse than bad humor. Nothing like getting slashed with the news a special friend is the worst criminal in your city. Hurrah.

She put in her money, slammed out five candy bars, two sodas, and a bag of Chex Mix. Marching back to her desk, she glanced around before plugging in the flash drive. She had learned from one of the techies how to run a scan for anything on a drive that would hurt her computer. It came back clean, so she opened the files. There were two, one was pictures and videos; the other was documents or scans of records.

She ran through the written items, and found a few letters discussing the organization of a specialty team that had total jurisdiction. It would be Special Forces, but belong to no one branch of the military. It would be its own branch. It required highly trained mercenaries, bomb techs, electricians, combat specialists, a tech crew, drivers, scavengers, repairmen, a woman for undercover jobs, and so on. Replacements were recruited and kept ready for instant deployment. The other letters concerned the dissolution of Unit 40, renaming it, turning it into a conspiracy theory.

Swallowing the last of her Chex and first soda, she clicked on the second folder. A group photograph was the first thing to pop up, labeled Unit 40. She ran her mouse over it, and found a name would appear beside each face. Most meant nothing to her, but when the name Zeke Howe appeared, she felt sick. Zooming in, she cleaned up the section, and sure enough, it was Uncle Zeke. Next to him was a man that looked a little too much like her dad. Hovering the mouse, the name Brian Richards appeared. She went over the other faces until a final name came up. A young, lean man was sitting to the side on a jeep, slouching, his dark hair pulled into a small pigtail. The name that showed wasJonathan (Jack) Napier.

She pulled up the three faces, and leaned back. Her hands covered her mouth, and tears filled her eyes. The feeling of betrayal she fought constantly started to crush her. She'd grown up calling the one man father; the other was Uncle Zeke to all of her father's children. He'd cared for them like his own; better than his own. The third had been the first person to believe she had a future, and still seemed to believe in her. How had she not seen all of this? Her dad allowed strangers and any friend of her siblings and herself to show up and stay, just to cover his own meetings with cohorts. Why hadn't her mother known?

Closing the window, she went to the next picture. It was of Jack, the way he had looked when she had met him. He was wearing a lab coat, goggles, and gloves. He was building a bomb. The next two were of her dad and Zeke, training the others in hand-to-hand combat. The videos were brief records of drills or experiments that were more easily filmed than written down. She could tell Jack was behind the camera, he kept talking, prompting people or turning it to talk into the lens and add something. She found herself laughing as her father came unglued when Jack kept ordering him to do this or that during a combat demo.

"Jonathan, the last time I checked, you were over there." Her father growled, his craggy face and deep voice tight.

"So?" Came the cool voice from behind the camcorder.

"If you don't shut up, I'll be sure you're the subject of the next filming session. Strapped to one of your precious bombs!"

There were a few films of Jack running a course or practicing with a knife. He was freakish, strong, fast; he made it look too easy, too random. He had been trained prior to being recruited.

After finishing her snooping, she went to YouTube on impulse. Typing 'Joker video threats' into the search bar, she clicked on the first result. It was choppy, hurriedly done with home equipment. Just like the videos he had made for Unit 40.

"Learning about your enemy?" Gordon's voice spooked her and she clutched her Beretta tightly. He raised a cup of coffee and set it down. "Easy, I didn't mean to give you a heart attack."

She relaxed and nodded her thanks for the warm drink. "Yes, I am learning a little more about our Clown Prince."

"From the look on your face, you haven't seen these before."

"No, TVs busted." She sighed and looked up at him. "If I wanted to get information about a military organization, where would I go?"

He sat on the corner of her desk and frowned, making his moustache look longer. "Do you think there's a reason to?"

"I think our Joker has a military background."

Gordon wasn't sure if he should laugh or take her seriously. "Talk to Fox or Wayne. You're working for them right now, and they supply some military items. We don't have the jurisdiction for that kind of thing."

Jasmine wasn't sure if she wanted to ask Fox for a favor. As much as she respected him, she had a hunch that feeling wasn't returned. She dug at her scar. "Whatever, I'll see. They may not have jurisdiction either."

"Or, you could ask Batman." Gordon smiled, sipping his coffee. "I'm supposed to talk to him tonight, want to come and meet our masked wonder?"

Jasmine tilted her head to one side and a slow smile spread over her face. "Sounds awesome, is there a dress code?"

Gordon's face split into a grin. "As long as it holds your armory, it's fine.

If his plan worked, Batman would have a backup contact. Gordon wouldn't always be there, wouldn't always be available. Someone had to be, and Jasmine fit the bill perfectly. It would take a while, but he was willing to keep throwing them together as long as it took.

Backup was always good.