Author's Note: The ending is too long for one chapter. Therefore, I'm making it a two-parter. Here is the first part. The second part will be up in the next couple of days to conclude matters. No sure how good this is going to be, but hopefully will be a fitting conclusion to the story arc. Enjoy.

Endgame Part 1

"Are you calm enough for this interview?" The big guy asks me as we stand in the viewing room at GCPD, watching Preach squirm in a tiny metal chair. Jim's already told him a 'special investigator' wants words with him. All the scum know that's code for Batman. He looks really nervous now. I smile.

"I'm very calm, big man, ice-cold."

"If you even make a fist, you're out of there." Jim Gordon warns from just behind me. They're both aware of my violent tendencies towards these kind of people: they always get special treatment. I nod.

"I understand Sir."

"So get in there already. You've got ten minutes."

As soon as we enter the room, Preach stiffens dramatically, like the big man's turned him to stone. It's a good start. I lean back against the door and fold my arms. Bruce looms over the table like a nightmarish shadow. Preach swallows hard and opens his mouth to offer some denial or another.

"Do not speak." The big man tells him in a flat voice. The triggerman's mouth closes automatically. Bruce leans over the table, blocking out the small overhead light above the table. Preach's eyes drift to mine. "Do not look at him." The dilated pupils reluctantly return to the dark. "Where is Harvey Dent?" Bruce asks without any emotion. I watch Preach barely part his lips before he is told not to lie.

"I don't know. I really don't. He never deals with us. Harry's the guy who gives the orders from the big man." Preach says after a false start. There is a deathly silence in the aftermath. The big guy is staring him out just to ratchet up the tension.

"Where is Harry Marsh?" Bruce says almost a minute later. "Do not say you don't know." He adds before Preach can articulate a syllable. The guy closes his mouth. The big man puts a hand on either side of the table. "Where is Harry Marsh? This is your last chance." He says when no answer comes after another minute. When the moron still refuses to sing, Bruce rips the table clean off its bolts and throws it into a corner. It's dramatic as hell, a little clichéd too if you've seen enough Dirty Harry imitations, but it gets the point across he's done being…nice. Just to make sure though, the big guy gets hold of Preach's shirt and hoists him six inches above the ground – the fact he's handcuffed to a chair that's bolted to the floor apparently irrelevant. That's one tough shirt he's got on. It all goes up with him. "The next thing I throw across the room will be you unless you tell me something worth hearing. You have five seconds."

"Harry'll kill me if I say anything." Preach says less than a second later. He's getting quicker. Bruce raises him higher, almost head height.

"Say nothing and Blackgate will do that for him. You're already going away for Leonard Johnson's murder, the evidence at your residence is more than sufficient to secure that conviction. The difference will be whether you go in general population with a jacket as a snitch or get placed in the special wing for providing the state with information to subdue a dangerous criminal. What would you prefer?" The big guy says, still speaking in a calm, unhurried manner.

"I'm not a snitch, but I also ain't stupid. Harry set me up for the fall and Preach don't go down for a punk-ass white boy in a suit, not without taking the son-of-a-bitch with me." Preach answers having decided to cut a deal rather than have someone cut him. "Harry's got digs in the Financial District, a place called Fuchsia Gardens. I went there once to collect payment. It's apartment 15. He told me he was splitting town on Wednesday, when business was concluded he said." Bruce casually drops him back to the floor with a thud. "If I find you're lying, I guarantee you won't last a week in Blackgate before the first attempt comes." He informs our new stoolpigeon before turning to leave. He signals for me to open the door.

"I gotta say, Bossman, I love watching you work." I tell him once we're in the car heading for Marsh's apartment.

"I expected more resistance from Taylor-Brown. He is a career criminal. I did not think we would have such a lead after one brief display of power." Bruce tells me as we turn into the financial district. I shrug.

"Aside from Harry sounding just as two-faced as his boss without your help, you gotta remember most career criminals never even see you in the city. Just from his face you can tell he's never met you before. Bat virgins always crap themselves the first time they meet you."

"I seem to recall you didn't."

"No, I just turned around and ran like two miles in the opposite direction." I remind him with a smile. That was literally the last time I had to run away from anyone. Now I don't even think of retreat, just holding my ground until there's no-one left to knock down.

"Yes. That was quite an evening." The big man says almost fondly. I smirk.

"You almost sound like you're happy you met me."

"I am. I meant what I said Jason. I can admit to being a terrible father and mentor to you, but I do love you." He says like I still care about being loved when there's a maniac to punch repeatedly in the face. We're about four minutes out from Fuchsia Gardens as I offer my heartfelt response to his confession.

"Well, in that case, I can admit to thinking you're an asshole and a blowhard." I tell him with a sneer. He nods. It instantly tells me he's not particularly bothered about sentiment tonight either: he's all business. We both are with lumpy out there.

"I suppose that qualifies as nice from a teenager of your disposition. Do you have your forensic kit ready for examination of Marsh's apartment?"

"Everything but a black light. I don't want to know how clean this guy's sheets are."

"Neither do I. I brought one anyway though, just in case."

"Whatever floats your boat, big man."

We get up to the third floor where Marsh's city apartment is after disabling the camera feed in the lobby, incapacitating the night watchman and climbing eight flights of stairs so, round about seven minutes of work. A thermal scan shows nobody home in the apartment so we let ourselves in by overriding the electronic lock and then picking the three-tumbler manual safeguard. That takes less than forty-five seconds – we're pretty fast tonight and I'm particularly impressed because I was the one who picked the lock, something I totally suck at. Normally, doors just get a side kick or big-boot special and they open like magic.

"Nothing in the bedroom, Bossman. Left the sheets for you though." I tell him ten minutes later after rummaging through all the drawers and looking under and over and in-between everything in sight.

"I have found something…promising in the living room." He replies ominously. I wander back through and find him crouched over a floor safe. It looks like it was hidden under the antique rug, instead of the out-of-place oil painting on the wall that usually dominates the pads of criminal masterminds and their lackeys.

"What is it, a mark four?"

"Slightly more complex than that, but not by much." He says reaching for the mechanical dial in the centre. He stops before making contact. "There's a pull switch." He reveals directing his torch to an almost invisible strand of wire that leads from the dial across the length of the floor and leads up the wall to…a fucking antique oil painting. I yank the painting away and reveal enough high explosive to level the entire third floor.

"This guy is either going overboard with the home security or that safe contains something that'll get him the death penalty." I remark whilst snipping the wire to stop us having a really, really bad day.

"I would settle for Harvey Dent's whereabouts." The big man says as he starts to turn the dial. It takes him less than four minutes to crack the combination and open the safe. We peer inside and can't believe our eyes.

"Seriously? It's empty?" I mutter looking at the bare interior of the thing. Bruce runs his fingers along the bottom of the safe's inside. When he brings his hand up to the torchlight, they're coated in red powder.

"Not entirely." He remarks before sniffing the powder. "Phosphorus. Red phosphorus was stored in here."

"Any idea why?"

"Perhaps." He says scrutinizing the rest of the box in greater detail with his forensic kit. He tweezers a tiny chunk of silver metal from one of the corners. "Can you guess what this is?" He asks me. I crouch down and scrutinize the chunk for myself. Chemistry isn't one of my strong points by any stretch of the imagination, but I know the chemical breakdown of the most popular narcotics by rote, just in case life with Bruce doesn't work out. I voice my hunch.

"If it's with red phos, could be elemental iodine. If it is, Marsh can use it with the phosphorus to create hydriodic acid. If he has a supply of ephedrine or pseudoephedrine…"

"He could produce methamphetamine." Bruce says to finish my thought. I nod.

"That still doesn't help us find Two-Face."

"No, but it helps us find Marsh. Judging from the residue and trace particles, these are samples of the chemicals for a prospective buyer. If they are not here, Marsh has decided to go ahead with shipment of larger amounts. Do you know how crystal meth labs are still operational in the Narrows?"

"Like twenty."

"Correct. There are seventeen labs currently in operation in the Narrows."

"We are not searching every single one of them are we?" I ask with more than a little exasperation at the idea of wading chest-deep through scumbags all night. Bruce stands up.

"No. The quality of these ingredients negates all those labs. Marsh is a man who wants to push a better product on the streets. To do that, he requires better equipment and a less suspicious location to manufacture. Ace Chemicals and their factories are too obvious. Bristol University has a dedicated set of chemistry labs that boast some of the finest equipment in the country."

"Bristol U's only twenty blocks away."

"Shall we see if we get lucky twice in as many days?"

"If we find Marsh, can I hit him?" I ask with a smile. The big man gifts me a wry smile in return.

"If he is violent and violence is appropriate for the circumstances, then yes."

"Good enough for me, let's go."

Bristol University's gates are closed and the parking lot is empty by the time we rock up twenty minutes later. That being said, we spot two commercial vans just outside the campus that probably don't deliver goods after nine in the evening. They say they're part of Marshall Chemical Industries, a perfect cover for a vain asshole called Harry Marsh if I ever saw one. They just can't help themselves sometimes. Moving on…

The night watchman at this establishment is idly flicking through a travel brochure when we introduce ourselves. It's not a massive surprise to find the schnook took a c-note as a bribe to let some shady guys deliver after dark. A light grill and the guy tells us this is only the third time he's done it…all this week. When asked to describe these shadowy rich weirdoes, he stumps up four ugly gorilla-like men, all of them about six feet tall, one nerdy-looking gent in a pair of specs and a bad pullover and one clean-cut young guy in a nice suit. It doesn't take a genius to figure four for manual labour and protection, one chemist to make the product and the accountant or the boss. The boss has to be Harry Marsh. When pressed, he tells us they're all in the building tonight. He voluntarily tells us they leave around three in the morning when he's still unsure whether we'll let him off the hook or not.

"You married?" I ask him when Bruce has enough to head for the labs. The night watchman nods.

"That's right. Wife and two kids."

"How much they pay you a night?" I say leaning through the window of his sentry box. The guy shrugs.

"Like fifty bucks."

"You work every night?"

"Every one I can get. Most times it's only four or five shifts a week. You see where an extra three-hundred a week can come in real handy, right?" He tells me with a sheepish smile. I get he's struggling to raise his family on a bum salary. My old man was the same. I offer him a nod and an understanding smile.

"Yeah, of course. If it makes you feel any better, I don't get paid at all for this gig."

"Nah kid, it don't. You probably don't recollect my features, but last year, you stopped a bunch of thieves from breaking into the labs during my shift. I saw you get beat on by six grown men with baseball bats and chains for a good five minutes. You know I called the cops as soon as it all started, but I ain't a hero. I wasn't going to put my life on the line for a stranger. I've never seen a kid take a beating like you and keep coming. And hey, all credit, you put 'em all down before the first cop car showed up, but you were a mess. Blood coming out one of your ears, your nose and your mouth. Looked like you might've snapped a rib or two for good measure. I thought maybe you were older than you look, but you ain't. You really are just some kid, not even as old as my Bobby, being mangled every night. It breaks my heart." The guy tells me with genuine pity in his voice. I don't even remember that bust. Sounds like a good thing if his description is anything to go by. I incline my head.

"Got a name?"

"Frank."

"Well, thanks for the concern, Frank. I appreciate it."

"You just look after yourself, kid. Don't want to be reading your obituary in the paper anytime soon."

I catch up with the big man outside the labs. Inside Lab 1, the lights are on and the room is alive with the sound of shoes scuffing linoleum and beakers and vials clinking every so often as we cover either side of the door. The door's window is covered by a shade, but we're convinced enough meth is being cooked up inside to move forward. Since we're not in a disused warehouse or someone's personal lair, we forego the explosives or door-kicking approach. Instead, Bruce knocks three times on the door and waits.

"Yeah, who's there?" An angry man shouts from inside.

"Yeah, it's Frank, the night watchman. When I went to take a leak, I saw you'd left one of your jars by the box. Figured I should come give it to you before you miss it." The big guy calls back in a pretty damn good impression of Frank.

"Yeah? Hang on a sec, buddy." The angry man replies in a less hostile tone of voice. There's a brief jangle of keys and then we both hear the lock turn. Bruce looks at me and I show him the smoke pellets ready in my hand. As soon as the door opens, he'll take the first guy out and clear the way for me to smoke them out without a shot being fired. It rarely ever goes down exactly like that, but we're doing our very best on a university campus to do damage limitation drills properly. A moment later the door swings out.

Less than two seconds later, Bruce has the angry man face-down on the floor in the corridor and I've thrown three smoke pellets into a crowded room and shut the door. The big man subdues his gorilla with a nerve pinch just as the door is flung back open and a rush of feet and muffled coughing dominate the air. We have to disarm everyone but the chemist who seems to have been overcome by the shock and is lying prone still inside the lab. The three other gorillas go down soundly enough after a couple of punts to the groin and a love tap to the face that parts at least two of them with teeth. Marsh is a little trickier since he's confused and punch-drunk, but by then it's two against one. Bruce restrains him from behind while I soften his kidneys and then give him a solid right cross for Lenny.

"Where is Harvey Dent hiding?" The big man asks once Harry's docile enough for adult conversation. We've already called it in to Jim and his boys to cart away his collaborators, but they won't get here for another six minutes. That should be just enough time to get Lumpy's location. Harry decides to spit blood in Bruce's face. The big guy jams a forearm across his throat whilst wiping away the blood with his free hand. "Perhaps we might try this another way…" Bruce suggests before dragging our guest into the lab and turning on one of the Bunsen burners at the back of the room. He slams the idiot's head on the tabletop then moves it within singeing distance of the flame.

"Where is Harvey Dent?" Bruce asks again, inching Harry's head close enough to give his eyebrows a trim.

"Blow me, Bat-Freak."

"Let's go Tigerland on his ass." I suggest holding a pair of alligator clips and lengths of unsheathed wire.

"Remind me of the particulars." The big man says without moving Harry's head from the burner.

"One clip on each of his nuts and then we jam the copper wires into a live wall socket. He'll light up like a Christmas tree, guaranteed." I explain with a big grin. For a second, I think he's going to turn down my variety of scare tactics for the zillionth time for being too 'guerilla'. Then Bruce nods.

"Fine, but make it quick."

Bruce holds him steady whilst I drag a chair from one of the desks. After unceremoniously pulling his suit pants and underwear to his ankles, the big man forces him down into the chair. I attach one of the clips despite Harry trying to close his legs. To get the other one on, Bruce yanks Harry's arm behind the back of the chair and twists it upwards, making him rear back to alleviate the pain. After that, I twist the two lengths of wire together and switch on the wall socket.

"You can't be serious? You're gonna let the kid fry my balls? Are you guys nuts?" Harry says despite seeing exactly what we're seeing. I grin at him.

"No, it's your nuts we're about to overcook, Harry. Really hope you don't need them for the rest of your life. Chances are, this'll make 'em explode like a fourth of July fireworks show. Ready for the light show, big man?" I ask putting the wires dangerously close to the socket. Bruce shoots me a grim smile.

"Ready."

"Wait a sec! I'll tell you what you want to know! I'll tell you what you want to know, I goddamn swear! Just tell the kid to move the wires away." Harry shouts, looking on the verge of either pissing himself or passing out from the idea of being fried alive. The big guy twists his arm harder.

"Not until you give me something worth hearing."

"Look, I don't know where he is exactly, but I know what he's planning okay?"

"What is he planning? Your triggerman said you were planning to leave two days from now. Judging from the amount of product you're manufacturing in here, it looks like a trial run for a bigger operation. Where were you heading?" I ask casually dangling the wires near the holes in the socket. Harry watches them intently as he answers.

"Star City. Meth dealer's paradise out in the slums there. Harv's planning to make the city look like The Day After Tomorrow. He says nobody's going to be able to survive here after noon on Wednesday."

"And how does he plan to achieve such an outcome?" Bruce inquires gently easing up the pressure as a reward for good behavior. I keep the wires an inch or two from having to come up with a very good reason for why Harry Marsh is either half-a-man or half a blackened corpse and half melted wax statue to Jim Gordon. Harry's not blinking now.

"First he's going to blow the city power grid. Then he's going to burst the reservoirs and flood most of downtown. It's a two-phase plan, you see. He's had crews planting the explosives for weeks…in pairs." I can't help rolling my eyes at this tired shtick of Lumpy's. Everything is a fucking two. Everything is so clichéd it makes you want to beg for a new kind of terrorism to hit this city, just to break the same old stale routine. I bite the bullet and ask the other question that needs confirmation.

"Why Wednesday?"

"It marks the two-thousandth two hundredth and twenty second day since his accident. Go figure he keeps track of that shit." Harry manages a smirk despite the severity of the situation. Admire him a little for that.

"Do you have any idea of his location?" Bruce asks keeping a tight hold of his arm.

"No, but I know he isn't using remote detonation for his plan. He's going old school and rigging each lot of explosives with mechanical timers. Each of them are set to blow at noon two days from now." Harry says through gritted teeth. The big man wants to make sure he's not lying by tightening the screw a little.

"For both phases of his plan?" I inquire twisting the copper braids tighter to firm up a fool-proof lie detector of my own. Harry shakes his head.

"No, just the power grid. For the reservoirs, he's going bigger."

"Explain."

"He's got an attack helicopter armed with hellfire missiles, enough to blow a hole a mile wide in the supporting walls. Once the power goes out, he's going to fly it to the reservoirs and blow them wide open before emergency protocols can be put into place."

"In broad daylight?" I check trying to hold back my incredulity of such a dumbass plan, even from a megalomaniac like the Joker or Penguin. Harry nods.

"He plans he already be on route when the timers detonate their payloads. By the time he's in position on the first reservoir, the first bombs will be cratering the financial district and city hall's municipal offices."

"We can use the satellite imagery to pinpoint all attack helicopters within striking range of the city. Get on the radio to Gordon. Tell him to mobilize bomb disposal experts from the GCPD and whatever military forces are available. They need to go to the central electric hubs for the city's grid and disarm the timers within forty eight hours." Bruce instructs me as blaring sirens begin to drown out the background noise.

"Looks like we can tell him in person. Our six minutes are up." I say with a deflated sigh, "I guess we won't get to conduct our electric experiment tonight." As I go to put the wires down, I trip and they go straight into the socket. I hear Harry scream like a little three-year-old girl and smile. I look over and find him with his eyes screwed shut and the big man stood away from him, grinning. A moment later, Harry realizes it wasn't live too. He angrily gets to his feet, almost yanks the clips off his boys but thinks better and daintily removes them and hitches his pants up.

"You motherfuckers! What kind of a trick is that? You got issues, man, and your kid is a fucking psychopath! I oughtta-"

"GCPD! Lie down on the floor with your hands out in front of you! Do it now!"

"Shit."

Jim and a big contingent of his swat officers arrest all six scumbags and cart them off in escort wagons. We fill him in on the situation and the sheer scale of Harvey's Armageddon. He doesn't even blink twice before confidently saying he can get a hundred bomb disposal experts in the city by midnight. Gotta love Jim Gordon, the real man of steel in Gotham. I guess after so many threats and so many lunatics the old guy's just become immune to the horrors of Gotham's revolving freak show and their surreal designs on the population. Nothing works with him. We don't ask if he needs a hand from us – he's got this. We head back to the car and work on locating phase two of Two-Face's operation before he gets wind of our preemptive move to have this whole thing blow up in his ugly face.

It takes less than three minutes for the onboard computer in the car to link in with the mainframe back in the cave via Al and general computer wizardry. From here with all orbiting satellites at our disposal, finding what we're looking for is pretty straightforward.

"Your attitude tonight has been thus far exemplary." Bruce tells me as we wait for the scan to finish its search for all aircraft signatures outside of the airport. "I just want you to know it has not gone unnoticed." He adds when I say nothing in reply. I keep my eyes on the screen as the search heads down the home stretch.

"I know when it's game time."

"Yes, you do. Would it please you to know I consider your abilities and thinking under pressure to be superior to your predecessor?" He says, cautiously stepping out onto the fragile bridge that's always seemed to characterize our relationship. I'm blunt in answering.

"No."

"Why is that?"

"Because I already know I'm better than Golden Boy when it goes to the wire. Saving his ass from Eddie last month proved it." I tell him.

"Jason…"

"The search is finished. We've got eight possible sites that could support an attack helicopter of that size. Four on the outskirts of town, three private launch pads in the middle of downtown and one just east of the river." I say to cut the budding tension to snap us both back to the present and the most important thing right now – catching another freak for the exhibit at Arkham.

"Average distance between these locations and the nearest reservoir?"

"Average is twenty miles. Closest is fifteen miles on the outskirts. Furthest is twenty-seven in downtown Gotham." I tell him after cross-referencing a few other databases.

"Disregard the three private launch pads. None of them could house an attack helicopter without drawing undue attention. What is the site closest to the reservoir? A disused military base?"

"No, it's an abandoned aerodrome. It's been empty for ten years."

"Any radio traffic in that area that might suggest an unauthorized presence at the aerodrome?"

"Nothing like that. But the name's a dead giveaway for a whack job obsessed with twos: Twin Wings Airfield."

"I would prefer more firm evidence before pursuing the lead. Can aerial photography or thermal imaging confirm anything vehicles are present at that site?"

"Nope, but Google Earth's got something interesting from yesterday. It's got at least three military trucks parked outside one of the aerodrome's largest hangars and what looks like at least ten guys milling around it…or maybe they're just specks of dirt. It's hard to tell for sure." I say pointing out the attractions on the screen to the big man. He nods in agreement.

"They could be Dent's men delivering the missiles. To safely transport the quantity of missiles he would require to destroy all three reservoirs, a minimum of three ruggedized trucks with specialist fittings inside are necessary." Bruce comments. Now it's my turn to nod.

"It's good enough for me to charge in on. What's the final verdict, big guy?"

"While I intend to investigate all possible sites in order to be thorough, I suppose it cannot hurt to begin with this one. Let's go."

As usual when you turn up at an abandoned building in the middle of the night, it's dark and kind of spooky from the outside. The wind's really picked up and is making a howling sound that doesn't do anything to dispel the Scooby-Doo style atmosphere. We're out the car for five seconds before my cape tries to strangle me. When I see the big guy's cape hasn't shifted an inch, I realize how stupid I was not to get a weighted number like him when I signed on for this gig.

"It's windy out here." Bruce says with a smirk as I decide to tie it around my waist so I can see where I'm going. I roll my eyes.

"Shut up."

We scope the hangar from the aerial photographs using thermals. Our intel looks good so far. We count at least twelve heat signatures inside the hangar. They're all clustered around some large object that barely has any heat radiation at all, likely the chopper we're looking for.

"Frontal assault?" I check as we move in for the big finale.

"Roof entry, crowd control measures in effect once we identify if Dent is present or not. Clear?" The big man says having already spotted an entry point on the roof for us to make our entrance. I nod, sticking my binoculars back in my belt whilst reaching for my remaining smoke pellets.

"Crystal. Let's end this before he decides to ice anyone else."

The roof's in a pretty rusty when we get up there and the tin sheeting that covers it is being knocked around by the winds in any case, meaning our approach is nicely covered. Once we pry away a couple of panels, we survey the inside of the hangar. As soon as we set semi-automatic weapons gracing everybody's hands, we know we've hit the jackpot on our first try. So far, our luck's holding. We clock the chopper and the hired help, but not the head honcho himself. Bruce doesn't like it. I don't like it either. When something stings my neck, I know why. Tranquilizer dart. I survive the first one, but not the second. The world fades to black. The luck has run out. All the way out.

"Wake up, kid, you don't want to miss this."

I come around and find myself held on my knees in front of Two-Face. I notice one of my minders has a sheathed hunting knife on the leg before I'm aware of anything else. I need that knife. I blearily look around and see we're inside the hangar and Bruce has eight guys holding him down in addition to being tied like a ball of string. I do a quick head count. There's fifteen guys here, including good ol' Harv. They must've been waiting for us. Somebody managed to tip him off. Somebody got word on Jim Gordon going to diffuse the bombs. Either that, or they already know Harry's in the slammer.

"You know kid, I heard a rumour about you I couldn't believe. I heard inside of four months, you've nearly had your brains beat out of your skull, come back and then taken down both the clown and Nygma single-handedly. I guess you thought I'd make up the trifecta. Not happening though, not once I'm done doing the job properly." Lumpy tells me before producing a baseball bat from his side. "You've ruined one plan, but I always have a back-up. That's the advantage of being of two minds: you always split your assets to cover the other option, just in case." I smirk at him.

"They teach you that at law school, Harv? Plan to win the case but better plan to lose at the same time, just in case?" Two-Face smiles at me, making my stomach turn a little in the process. I'm still far from sweating this one though. I just realized only my wrists are tied. That, coupled with the fact I've still got three smoke pellets on my belt at the back, gives me a chance. Either way though, I bet he swings like a girl. I bet my old man took a long time to die. Harv shakes his head.

"No, they don't, but that's sound enough advice, kid. Covering your ass is always top priority. That's why instead of being pissed off about you and your boss sabotaging my plans for the city, I'm taking a stroll down memory lane. Has he ever told you how I was one good whack away from killing the first kid to wear that costume of yours?"

"Leave a chip on your shoulder did it?" I ask. He isn't even looking at me. He's looking at the baseball bat and looks ready to launch into a monologue.

"I did the job with a bat just like this, pure hickory wood, and a bit of elbow grease. I figure I'll let him watch history repeat itself and then blast him away with one of my missiles. After that, I think things'll just fall into place for me and the rest of the boys." Lumpy tells me almost triumphantly, like it's a foregone conclusion we're going to die in here. I look at Bruce and silently ask for some advice. He tells me not to play games with him. I shoot him a look to check whether that means I'm just supposed to let this maniac beat me to death. He tells me he's working on an out. I tell him I've already got one. I stare Two-Face in the eye.

"You're a gambling man, Harv: how about a little game of heads or tails to spice this up? You let the other kid set some ground rules. I think it's only fair."

"You get one condition, kid, one flip of the coin. What do you want?" Lumpy says pulling his coin out his trouser pocket.

"Heads, I get to take the first shot standing up. Tails, I stay on the floor for the whole show."

Two-Face looks impressed. "You're one of the crazy tough guys huh? I can respect that. At least you're not trying to outsmart me like the other kid. He was too smug. Okay, tough guy, heads you get the first hit like a man, tails and you die like a bitch." Lumpy says flipping the coin. It lands square in his palm. Heads. "Like a man it is. Stand him up." I'm roughly jerked to my feet by a pair of ex-military-looking guys in fatigues with semi-automatics slung at their sides. I look at Bruce to ask if his out is any closer. It isn't. Harv steps up to the plate for the opening swing. "You know, just because it's you, I'll keep you on your feet the whole time. You can die like a man too. Hold him steady. He goes down, you don't get up, understand?" The psycho tells his goons with a withering glare. There's a murmur of understanding from my minders. No more delays. Lumpy winds up and I wait.

I let him clock me the first two times. He doesn't swing like a girl, not even a big girl on roids. I get why Dick nearly died from this kind of assault. It hurts like hell and he may have cracked one of my orbital sockets, but I need him to feel in control. More importantly, I need my two handlers to relax. I feel fresh blood began to trickle from my nose as he readies for another swing. I slump forward and act like I'm slipping into the dark. The two goons loosen their hold ever so slightly. I have to make my move now before I become messed-up for real.

As soon as he swings I detonate one of the smoke pellets and duck the strike. I head-butt the guy to my left and get hold of his knife as the smoke starts blacking out the lights. Then I drop to the floor and roll out of their immediate range. It takes me fifteen seconds to angle the blade correctly, but once I do, the ties on my wrist are no longer a problem. The weapons everybody's carrying are though. I cut down their number by using the hilt of my new knife to break a few noses and traumatize a few groins that stagger into range. Bullets start flying a minute later. I hit the deck and hear a couple of other guys do the same, but know they're not getting back up. As all hell breaks loose, I scramble to my feet and head for where I think the big man is being held up. I meet him in the fading smoke ten seconds later.

"All yours down?" I ask. Bruce nods.

"Yours?"

"Everyone except-"

I don't get to finish that sentence. Instead, the big man tackles me out of the path of a missile that skims his shoulder by a fraction. A deafening explosion behind us is a good indication a certain someone has gotten into the cockpit of an attack helicopter armed with some very lethal projectiles. I don't even have time to get my bearings back before Bruce yanks me out of another unscheduled flight path. I detonate all my smoke pellets to screen us from the onslaught. Bruce returns the favour by picking me up and getting us out of the hangar.

"Now what?" I shout over the wind as the ominous sound of an aircraft engine begins to drone into life.

"We need to stop him getting airborne."

"How the fuck do we do that? He took all our gear!" I shout.

"Not all our gear." Bruce says producing the remote control he has for the car in extreme emergencies. Aw, come on, don't do this. Before I can even point out that it's our only way back to the city, I hear the screech of tires and can only watch as the monster-sized thing accelerates into the hangar. A moment later, there's a huge fireball and a roar that drowns out even the wind with its ferocity.

"Did you kill him?" I ask wiping the blood from my face before it can drip off my chin. I really hope that scumbag is dead. Bruce seems less keen.

"I hope not. Wait here, just in case."

He braves the flames while I hang back just in case by some twisted miracle, Lumpy is able to make a break for freedom. He drags out all the other fourteen guys over the next five minutes, but no prize chicken. "There are no signs of a body in the wreckage. It seems he has escaped."

"Bullshit he's escaped. Get Jim here with the dogs. If he's on foot in this terrain, we'll catch him inside of six hours." I practically spit, gesturing to the dense woodland that borders the aerodrome. The idiot was wearing a suit and pair of oxfords for Christ's sake: he isn't getting more than a mile in that get-up. The big guy squeezes my shoulder.

"His plan is destroyed. Both plans are. We have succeeded in saving many lives and the city itself. Take comfort in that." I shrug him off violently.

"Tell that to my old man." I say turning away from him.

Any good? Part Two coming soon.