A/N: Thanks to Kathy and Debbie for the beta!

Chapter 7

The storekeepers were sliding back the rolling gates that protected their façades after hours when Dick emerged from the hotel. He stopped to check his reflection in one plate-glass window and tucked a stray dark curl back under his wig. He doubted that Matt would be in the office this early, not after last night, but a little optimism didn't hurt. Or itch. Which was more than he could say for this wig. At least the contact lenses were comfortable.

Bruce would have hailed a cab, but one look at the almost unmoving rows of cars along Broad Street convinced him to try the subway.

Just before he descended the stairs into the station, he pulled out his smart phone and made one final attempt. When the call went unanswered, he sighed and reached into his pocket for a subway token.

"I'm sorry," the receptionist said firmly. "If you'd like to make an appointment, I can put you on Mr. Murdock's calendar for next Tuesday afternoon. But—"

Dick tried not to let his worry overwhelm his self-control. "I keep telling you," he interrupted, "this isn't business-related. Matt's a friend of mine. I don't mind waiting, but I need to see him. It'll only take a few minutes."

"If you'd like to make an appointment..." the receptionist repeated.

The door behind her opened and the receptionist looked over her shoulder. "Oh! Mr. Nelson. I'm so sorry. This gentleman is insisting on seeing Mr. Murdock and—"

Foggy smiled. "I'll handle it from here, Josie." He glanced at Dick.

"Matt's not in, yet," he said quickly. "Had a rough night, but then, I guess you know about that, Mister... Mister... uh...?"

"Chester Honeywell," Dick supplied, straight-faced. "I guess maybe we did get carried away last night. I'm sorry. Maybe I could just leave my contact number with you and he can call me when it's convenient."

Foggy regarded him for a moment. "Up to you," he shrugged. "But Matt did call a few minutes ago to say he'd be here in about an hour. If you'd like, you can wait for him in his office. I can get you a cup of coffee, too. I mean, if you'd like."

Dick smiled and walked past Josie. "Thanks."

Foggy smiled. "Oh, Josie? Just tell Matt that he's got someone waiting. Let him be surprised." He turned to Dick. "Unless you've any objection?"

"None," Dick grinned. "Thanks."

"Just through here," Foggy directed, holding open a wooden door with a beveled glass pane. Matt's name was stenciled on the pane in gold letters. "Here," he added, as he flicked the light switch. "I'll get you that coffee. You want anything else? I can ask Josie to run down to the bagel place."

Dick shook his head. "Thanks, but I ate already."

"Suit yourself." He left the room and returned a moment later with the coffee. Dick thanked him. When he noticed that Foggy was still standing there, he raised an eyebrow. "Can I give you a hand with anything?"

Foggy shook his head. "Not really. Just wondering about something that's none of my business, is all. And I probably know the answer. The name you just gave Josie and me... that's not the one that would come up if anyone ran your prints, right?"

"Believe it or not," Dick grinned, took a sip of coffee, and then winced when he scalded his tongue, "it would. That doesn't make it real, though. It's something that was set up a long time ago for my protection. Anyone who tries to run my prints, retina scans, or any other biometric data will get pointed to Chester Honeywell. Because, like I told you last night, knowing my real name makes it too easy for folks to guess the real names of some of my associates." He shrugged. "And I don't mind talking, so long as you accept that there are some questions I'm not going to answer."

Foggy hesitated. "So... what's Batman like?"

Before Dick could reply, both men heard footsteps, accompanied by a faint tapping sound. Foggy nodded and got up, as Matt walked into the office. He held his cane in one hand and his briefcase in the other. A paper shopping bag with handles dangled from the arm with the briefcase.

"Matt!" Foggy strode toward him. "You remember Chester Honeywell from yesterday!"

Matt winced. "Not so loud," he muttered. "The good news is my hearing is back. The bad news is that my ability to filter isn't. At least, not fully." He flashed a pained smile. "I'm finding it harder to screen out the sounds I don't have to pay attention to."

His smile became more genuine as he nodded to Dick. "Thanks for coming by, Chester," he said, setting his briefcase down on the desk and sliding the bag into his hand. "I wasn't expecting you this early, but I did bring in the clothes you lent me, just in case you did." He held the bag out to Dick. "Thanks again." His smile froze on his lips and then disappeared entirely. "What's wrong?"

Dick sighed.

"I can leave," Foggy said quickly.

"No, it's okay." He shook his head. "Batman never came back last night and he never checked in."

Matt's jaw clenched. "All right. Give me half an hour."

"You sure you're up for it?" Dick asked, concerned.

"I can manage." He turned to Foggy. "You'll—"

"—Reschedule your appointments," Foggy finished. "Again."

He turned to Dick. "Nice seeing you."

"Likewise."

He hurt everywhere and lying flat on a hard floor didn't help. The air smelled musty and he was breathing in dust. Batman let out a groan, which rapidly became a cough, and struggled to sit up. A wave of dizziness hit him and he slumped back down. It wasn't just dizziness, he realized. He was moving. It was too dark to see, but from the hum of the engine, he realized that he was probably in the back of a truck. He reached out his hands and encountered something solid on each side of him. On closer examination, he appeared to be lying between two rows of cardboard boxes, stacked high and then fastened in place. It was some kind of delivery truck or moving van.

His hands flew to his waist. He still had his belt, at least. A moment later, he gave a mental howl of frustration. He had the belt... but someone had gone through its compartments and removed most of his equipment. He had his grapnel, his first aid kit, several ration bars, and a canteen. Nothing that could actually get him out of here, though. He tried his comm-link and was rewarded with crackling static. He checked his glove and boot compartments. They'd left him his antivenins, his spare grappling lines, and the water purification tablets, but confiscated the C4 and acetylene torch. No signal flares, either. For the first time, he felt apprehension. Not to mention confusion. The simplest way to make his life difficult would have been to remove the belt, boots and gloves. Once that was done, whoever did so could have gone through his gadgets at their leisure. Yes, he took security precautions against that eventuality, but out of necessity, they could be easily overridden—if someone knew how. Otherwise, he'd run afoul of his own systems every time he needed to reach for a batarang. So... what could motivate a person to make off with his equipment, but leave him the receptacles?

Batman sighed. It didn't look like he was going to get any answers until his captors brought him to wherever they were taking him. And considering that he was still hurting from his battle with the Kingpin, the wisest move was to rest, give his body as much time to recover as he could, and wait for the right moment.

It was maybe a half hour later when the van finally stopped. Batman lay still, waiting for his captors to open the back door, pretending to still be too injured to resist. Wherever he was, it stank of rust and refuse. He heard the cab door open and then slam shut. Another vehicle drove up; probably a car. Voices. Laughter. A car door opened and closed a moment later. Then the other vehicle drove away.

Silence.

Batman waited in the darkness, but he heard no more cars or voices or footsteps. It occurred to him that whoever had locked him in here had no intention of letting him out. He nodded slowly. It made sense. Kill him and leave his body in the van, and there would be a murder investigation. Leave him in the van without his belt and they would also know that foul play was involved. But if they left him here, in a loaded van, with some of his equipment—nothing that could get him out of his current predicament, but enough stuff so that a cursory examination by a CSI team would arouse few untoward suspicions—the logical conclusion would be that he had slipped into the van to investigate and been inadvertently locked inside, and hadn't had the means to extricate himself. For all intents and purposes, it would look as though he'd gone through much of his equipment during the course of his patrol. There might be a cursory investigation, but—particularly if Murdock was right about Kingpin having influence with the NYPD—his death would likely be deemed accidental.

He'd been left here to starve.

...If the smell didn't kill him first.

"So, that's the situation," Dick said. "Bruce isn't answering his comm-link and I'm not picking up a distress signal, which could mean a bunch of things."

"I know," Oracle returned. "He's somewhere shielded; he's out of range; he's being jammed; the suit's power source is running low; he's asleep; he's under surveillance..."

He's dead. Neither one voiced that last one. Neither one wanted to consider it. But neither one could help wondering.

"Just..." Dick caught himself. "Never mind. I know you'll call me as soon as you hear anything."

"Yeah," Oracle said wearily. "And I know you'll do the same for me. I'm worried too."

"He's probably fine."

"Yeah."

He closed the comm-link channel and turned to Matt. "I guess you don't need me to tell you how that went," he said.

Matt shook his head. "Even if I couldn't hear her half of the conversation clearly, I did hear yours." He took a breath. "Is there any way we can get back to the R&D lab? Batman's probably long gone, but there might be some clues left behind."

"I know," Dick said, nodding. "I don't really like the idea of going back in broad daylight, but after the last couple of days, what with Bruce getting caught on camera, you two duking it out that night, and what happened last night, there's no way we'll be able to sneak in undetected if we go back after hours."

"Agreed."

"On the other hand," Dick smiled, "we won't need particularly good disguises to explain our presence in a restricted area, will we?"

Matt's face slowly sprouted a smile of its own.

"Hey!" an angry voice demanded. "What are you doing in this wing?"

The red-haired man turned around quickly, a stricken look on his face. "I was trying to find the men's room," he replied nervously. "I got directions at the reception desk, but I guess I must have heard them wrong."

The security guard took in the dark glasses and cane and relaxed. "Looks like you took a couple of wrong turns," he nodded. "Here. I'll take you. Um..." He bent his arm awkwardly. "You want to take my elbow?"

Dick smiled. "Thanks." As he allowed the guard to escort him, his smile grew wider, as he felt the cell phone in his pocket vibrate. He raised his free hand to his forehead, taking care not to disturb the wig. His little distraction was giving Daredevil the opportunity he needed to slip back into the lab.

As they'd expected, the R&D lab was unoccupied. Daredevil had to take Nightwing's word for it that the room had sustained sufficient damage that it would be hard to explain to the regular employees; it wasn't like his radar sense gave him enough detail to judge for himself. Oracle had confirmed as much earlier, though; a memo had gone out to all staff to advise that 'due to an emergency situation,' they were being temporarily relocated to another site. She'd passed that information on to them both, together with the new code for the security pinpad. Matt shook his head as he keyed it in. He was wondering how they'd managed to get the door fixed so quickly after Kingpin had smashed it down last night.

On entering the lab, Matt's radar sense noted that the long tables were bare. Clearly, the computer terminals had been moved overnight, most likely to wherever the temporary site was located. That didn't concern him. He closed the door carefully behind him. Then he fished out his smart phone and sent a quick text to Dick to let him know that he was inside, all the while thinking a quick 'thank you' to the creators of the Brailletouch app. He bent down to the ground, trusting his nose, and the sensitive pads of his fingers, to point him in the right direction.

Wayne perspired a bit more heavily in his Bat-suit than in his business suit. It wasn't a huge difference and it might have come down to the breathability of the materials involved, but it did make it easier for Matt to get a bead on him. He scowled. Had every ninja that had attacked them last night been in this part of the lab? He couldn't tell which of the lingering scents in the room belonged to the people they'd fought with and which to whoever had taken Batman.

He caught something then. Motor oil, damp cement, car exhaust... someone had walked up here from the underground parking garage. He warned himself not to get too excited. It could have been whoever had moved the computers. It could have been one of the ninjas. But...

He exited the lab and found that he could still follow the scent down the hallway. It was easier, here. Clearly, few people had passed through this area today. At least, not in this direction; he suspected that there was probably another bank of elevators behind him. He texted Dick to meet him in the parking garage.

As he got into the elevator, he fought the urge to scratch his head. His wig—Dick's wig—itched. It was a necessary precaution, though. Fisk knew what he looked like—with or without his glasses. He couldn't risk being recognized on the security screens, not when he had no hope of staying out of their range. With any luck, Dick's current disguise would throw them off.

"Looks like it was a false alarm," the guard spoke into his walkie-talkie. "Just some blind guy taking a wrong turn. Everything's secure."

"Roger that," his supervisor acknowledged. "Carry on."

All at once, a new voice burst into the conversation. "A blind man? Red hair? Sunglasses? Using a cane rather than a guide dog?"

The guard blinked, startled. "Um... yeah. Who are you?"

"That is not your concern. Where is the man now?"

The guard hesitated. "It's fine, Paul," his supervisor broke in, confirming. "Just answer the question."

"The men's room in Sector 7G," Paul replied after another moment's hesitation. "Should I—?"

The new voice was back in the conversation. "Do nothing further. I'll take the appropriate measures. Thank you for your vigilance." The minimal background static lessened further.

"Sir?"

"He's gone now," his supervisor responded, sounding relieved.

"Vinnie? Who was that?"

There was a brief pause. Then Vinnie lowered his voice a fraction. "We don't say his name..."

After the security guard escorted him to the men's room, Dick stayed inside for a reasonable amount of time. He was only mildly surprised to find four hulking men in loose-fitting business suits waiting for him outside. "Mr. Murdock?" one of them asked in a low tone. Each man pulled out a gun and trained it on him.

Dick grinned and took off his—Matt's—glasses. That action had just told him everything he needed to know. "Sorry," he said lightly, "wrong vigilante."

He was willing to bet that either the cameras in this area were turned off, or he was in a blind zone. Otherwise these guys wouldn't be brandishing their weapons in the hallway of an office building. He pulled his escrima sticks out of his inside jacket pocket and assumed a fighting stance.

"I was getting a little concerned," Matt remarked, when Dick finally joined him in the garage.

"Nah," Dick replied. "I think Fisk realized I was so worried about Batman I skipped my morning workout. He sent a few goons to help me make up for it. Oh." He handed Matt back his cane. "Here's your spare."

Matt accepted the collapsible cane with a smile. "I guess I should have shown you how to separate the billy-clubs," he said. "Might've saved you a couple of seconds."

"Don't worry about it." His voice took on a more serious tone. "What've you got?"

"I'm not sure," Matt replied, "but I think someone brought him down here." He explained briefly about the smells he'd picked up in the lab.

Dick bent down quickly and slid his hands over the floor, ignoring the layer of gray dust. "If anyone comes," he said, "I lost a contact lens."

"What are you looking for?"

"I'm not sure," Dick admitted, but if he could, he'd have left... something." He made a face, as he gingerly dipped his fingers into the pool of motor oil. An instant later, he stifled a cry of pain.

"You okay?" Matt asked.

Strangely, Dick's tone was markedly lighter. "Better than." He held up a palm-sized batarang between his thumb and index finger, tilting it so Matt's radar could get a good sense of its shape. "Bruce was definitely down here."

"Unfortunately," Matt sighed, "I can't follow a vehicle that left here hours ago."

"You can't," Dick said. "But I bet I know someone who can..."

"The cameras were disabled for about an hour last night, not long after you guys left the premises," Oracle said cheerfully, "but they made one mistake. That spot where you found the batarang? There was a van parked there before the cameras went down and it was gone after they went back online."

Dick turned to Matt. "Are you picking that up?"

Matt nodded. They were back in the hotel room and Dick was on the telephone. In the relative silence, he had no problem hearing both ends of the conversation.

"Have you got anything on the license?" Dick asked.

The electronic voice on the other end let out a very human sigh. "The van was under a tarp, so I don't know how accurate this is."

The frown on Matt's face yielded to puzzlement. "How could she get anything?" he asked.

Dick put his finger to his lips. "Understood," he said. "What do you have?"

"Well, it occurred to me that, if the van was there that long, it might be in a leased spot. So, I hacked into the garage's files and it turns out that spot has been leased to Icthys Imports. They generally deal with spices..."

"Probably one of Fisk's companies," Matt murmured.

"Hang on, Oracle," Dick said.

He turned to Matt. "You could be on to something," he said, nodding. "The surname 'Fisk' is an old form of the word 'fish'. I think it's German, maybe Old English or Old Norse. 'Fish' in Greek is 'icthys'."

He took his hand off of the receiver's mouthpiece. "Sorry, about that. Okay. Daredevil suspects Icthys is one of Fisk's companies. Can you confirm?"

"I already have." Oracle paused for a beat. "Guy's almost as sneaky as we are; I had to follow the trail through about a dozen shell companies to confirm it, but yes. Confirmed. I've got something even better, though," Oracle added triumphantly. "See, the garage keeps track of the license numbers, so..."

Dick smiled. "Lay it on me." He jotted down the number that she gave him. "Thanks. Of course," he sobered, "New York's pretty big. It's still going to be tough to track down a specific van. And that's if it's even still in the city."

"But not," Oracle said, "if it's got an RFID transponder for the EZ-Pass toll road system."

Matt let out a low whistle. "She is good," he said.

Dick laughed. "I think your fan club just gained a new member. Okay. Where's our van now?"

"Took the Ridgefield Park exit off the New Jersey Turnpike. I'm trying to link up with local surveillance cameras and satellite feeds, but the searches are still running." She sighed. "Should I go ahead and mail out the decal and decoder ring, or did I just lose that new fan?"

Matt grinned, even as he shook his head. "I'm still in," he said. "Right now, we know not to tear Manhattan apart. Ask her how big Ridgefield Park is."

Dick relayed the question. A moment later, he replied, "A bit less than two square miles, with a population of just under thirteen thousand."

"Manhattan's 23 square miles and a population of more than 1.6 million. I don't even want to think about the other boroughs. I'd much rather search two square miles than twenty-three."

"Agreed." Dick relayed Matt's reply and got off the phone shortly thereafter. "She'll call us when she has something," he said. "Meanwhile? It looks like we're going to New Jersey."

Batman carefully ran his fingers over the interior of the van, probing for some sort of weakness. He'd almost gotten used to the smell by now. He told himself that if he could pick up odors from outside, it meant that he was in no danger of suffocation. Cold comfort.

"Oracle," he rasped into his comm-link. "Oracle, do you read?"

Static.

"Nightwing. Can you hear me?"

Static.

Kingpin had done a number on him earlier. He suspected he'd cracked at least one rib. And the headache and dizziness practically screamed concussion. In the darkness, he shook his head slowly. He was cut off from communicating with his team. He had nothing on his person that seemed able to get him out of the van. The food and water they'd left him with seemed like a sadistic joke. The ration bars could sustain him for a week. The water, on the other hand, wouldn't last more than a day or so.

A man could live without food for considerably longer than he could without water.

Batman punched the wall in frustration. There had to be a way out of this, he knew. There had to be. But damned if he could find it.