Chapter 7
Jason found Helena bustling around his little makeshift kitchen when he returned upstairs. His loft was essentially the garage's office, and the "kitchen" was the break area, so it didn't have a stove or oven. His microwave was humming, and something was sizzling on a hot plate.
"Hey, I thought I was gonna cook," Jason said.
"You were taking too long," Helena said. "Besides, I've been cooking for myself here for a week. I'm kinda getting good at it. Don't tell Alfred, but I think stoves are overrated."
"What are we having then? Need help?" He washed his hands.
"Baked potato with carne asada, guac, and other odds and ends. Almost done." She pointed at his cabinet. "I noticed you have quite the little bar there. Why don't you mix up some cocktails to wash it down?"
Jason went to the bar shelf, eying the liquor he had there. He wasn't strictly sober like Roy but tried to avoid strong alcohol when his emotions weren't entirely in check. He wasn't much of a mixologist, either. He looked in the refrigerator, spotted some champagne and orange juice Helena had apparently bought, and settled on making mimosas.
Thankfully, Helena didn't dredge up the past when they sat down to eat again. Instead, she prodded Jason with questions about his new motorcycle. He found himself eager to share, letting her know it was based on a design he and Roy had developed together. They assembled the Mark I prototype on the Outlaws' ship a few months ago, but Roy kept dictating everything.
Jason let Roy keep that one for himself and began developing the Mark II that was supposed to be his own.
After eating, Jason saw Helena slipping on a jacket as he cleaned up. "Going somewhere?"
"Yeah, out on the town with some friends," Helena said, grabbing a backpack.
He noticed it wasn't a tiny purse-like bag, it was almost a duffel—but he didn't say anything. "I'll get the door for you." He followed her to the garage. After pulling up the door, he said, "Have fun."
Helena glomped him in a big goofy hug. "Don't wait up for me."
Jason couldn't help but admire her figure as she mounted the motorcycle. When Helena noticed him looking at her, he said, "Stay safe on that thing. Don't push it too hard."
She winked at him, put on her helmet, and said, "Okay, bye, Jay." The engine roared as she rolled out onto the lot.
Jason watched her drive away, hoping she wouldn't get into too much trouble.
He now knew exactly what she was doing.
But Barbara was right. Helena needed space. It wasn't his place to stop her. She could work out her issues independently, in her own way, with the people she trusted—just like he did.
Besides, he didn't want to get caught between Helena and Bruce when this "vacation" inevitably backfired on her.
So Jason returned to his loft, stripped off his shirt and tank, kicked off his boots, and fell into his couch.
#
An incessant beeping noise woke Jason up.
He wriggled around until he could free his phone from the pocket of his jeans. Rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, he managed to open the notification on his phone.
The garage's security camera feed was displayed on his screen.
Something had tripped the motion sensor in the lot outside the garage.
Blinking his eyes to focus better, Jason watched someone rummaging through his car's driver-side door, the 70s Dodge Challenger.
Jason smirked, thinking, I knew it. Go ahead and try, asshole.
Unable to see the person's face, Jason observed his build and gait and concluded it was the delivery driver from earlier today—the guy that eye-balled the bike and car after dropping off the crate of motorcycle parts.
The man unlocked the door and immediately tried hot wiring the starter. Jason only sat up on the couch and watched.
Brother, you are so fucked. I dare you.
The camera had no audio feed, but Jason could hear the engine turn over outside from inside the loft. The Challenger's lights turned on, and it rolled out of the lot.
Jason tapped a few things on the phone and pulled up a map with the car's location pinging in real-time.
"Challenge accepted," Jason said, getting up.
He walked over to a large plastic trunk in the loft's corner. He tapped in a code on a number pad, and the lid popped open with a hiss.
Jason pulled out The Red Hood.
In the past year, working with Roy and Artemis, he had traded in his signature red hard-shell helmet for a molded leather balaclava. It offered better breathability and freedom of motion but at the cost of protection. Because of the distinctive scar on his cheek, he couldn't wear a domino mask like Dick and Tim, or an open-mouth cowl like Bruce or Kate.
If anything, the molded leather mask made him look more menacing than any member of the Bat Family. He didn't mind.
#
The streets of Blüdhaven were busy tonight, but they usually tended to be so—it was a 24-hour city.
Jason weaved through traffic on his spare motorcycle, a stripped-down Harley-Davidson. It was a light, quick little bike with excellent maneuverability, allowing him to duck through traffic.
He knew exactly where to go. His mask had AR lenses and projected a waypoint where his stolen car was in the distance. It was still on the move, a few blocks ahead of him, and headed east. Not in a hurry, he obeyed the traffic lights. He had a helmet on over his mask to stay inconspicuous.
Eventually, his Challenger slowed down and rolled into the lot of a large warehouse about two-and-a-half stories tall.
Instead of following it, Jason rode into the alley one block over. He parked his bike behind a dumpster, then used his grapple gun to zip up to the top floor of the building. He crossed the rooftops, jumping from ledge to ledge until he reached the warehouse.
No one was patrolling the roof, and his HUD detected no security cameras, so he crept toward a skylight and peeked inside.
It was a taxi depot.
Despite the late hour, men were bustling inside, repairing and detailing taxi cabs...
... along with other vehicles.
Everything that wasn't a taxi cab was a vintage, premium, or luxury vehicle. Some had panels and tires missing.
Jason amended his original observation.
It was a chop shop fronting as a taxi depot.
After two more minutes of recon around the rooftop skylights and the fire escape windows, Jason observed some taxis being loaded with bricks wrapped in plastic.
Scratch that. He amended again. It was a chop shop and drug trafficking hub fronting as a taxi depot.
He had counted about twenty-four men working in the warehouse. Six of which were dedicated solely to security.
Jason rotated his back left and right, cracked his knuckles, and shook out his hands, popping all the kinks out. He was excited. The day had been hectic. He had a coil of pent-up emotion he needed to let loose. Lucky for these guys, there were a lot of them, so no single one would get the brunt of his aggression. Probably.
He set to work.
The first thug was smoking a cigarette outside the warehouse's main entrance. Jason pounced on him from above, landing with his knees on the thug's chest. Clamping a hand over his mouth, Jason smothered him as he choked on the cigarette.
The second was on a catwalk below the roof, overseeing the operation. Slipping in through the skylight, Jason grabbed him from behind and threw his head into the railing, knocking him unconscious. He learned that from professional wrestlers.
The third was in a loft office overlooking the operation, with a panel of screens feeding him footage from the security cameras. However, his attention wasn't on the security feeds but on his phone, where he watched porn. Jason reached in through the cracked open door and shut off the lights to disorient him. As the guy turned around, Jason slid in and kicked out the chair from underneath him. The thug's falling momentum let Jason slam his face into the ground, knocking him out.
Jason took the opportunity to use the security cameras and update his surveillance.
It wasn't long before he found his car parked in a bay on the other side of the depot, near other premium vehicles. Its hood was already propped open.
Between the security office and that bay were at least more three thugs.
Usually, this wouldn't be a problem for Jason. However, there was a complication.
Two of the thugs near some storage containers were already unconscious. Not his doing.
A third thug, guarding a detailing station, was being brutalized—by a woman in a black and purple motorcycle jacket.
She sidestepped his strike, catching his arm. Twisting the limb, she hauled the man over her back and threw him onto the concrete like a trash sack. As the man wailed in pain—his shoulder dislocated—the woman fed him her boot, silencing him for good.
Though she wore a domino mask, Jason could immediately tell who it was by her figure, even from the compressed camera feed.
Helena.
Damn it.
Notes
This story needed some action thrills! Some of you came to this story for romance, drama, and angst, but the following chapters will give it all fuel and context. Hope you like the Huntress and Red Hood team-up! If you like reading Jason kick ass, my other fic One Bad Day is full of it.