Author's Note: Surprised at the early update? I had completely forgotten about ShadowMajin's new story, Andromeda Strain, which was posted this last Monday. So, the posting schedule is going to change a bit. From this point, The Twelve Days of Retribution will be posted on Mondays and Thursdays, and Andromeda Strain will be posted on Tuesdays and Fridays. This way no one gets overwhelmed with multiple posts on the same day. So go check out Andromeda Strain on ShadowMajin's account, and enjoy this latest chapter.

Christmas Eve

It may have come as a surprise, but the Federal Reserve Bank was located right in Gotham. Not Metropolis; not Gateway; Gotham. Even after all of the years of crime, depression, and the rise of Arkham's Finest, it was still here. A history book shed some light on this. See, when the Federal Reserve established its branches, it picked large financial hubs for their homes. This was during the Roaring 20s, and at that time Gotham was an economic powerhouse against the fledgling villages of Metropolis and Gateway.

Spoiler would not have blamed anyone if they thought it was located in Metropolis. That would have been her first guess too.

Of course, it had changed locations throughout the city all of this time. Currently, it was on the thirtieth floor of a skyscraper known as the Bamyung Plaza. Looking up at the building, there was the occasional light on, but most of the windows were dark. The plaza area in front of the building had some abstract artwork, which was surrounded by a fountain. Water was launched out of little jets around the artistic piece, constantly making a splashing noise.

Having taken position around the building, the lavender-clad girl kept most of her attention on the presumed thirtieth floor. That was where the bank was, and if anything was going to happen, it was there. Batgirl was somewhere else, no doubt staking another position. It could very well be on top of the building itself.

As for Bluebird, she was actually in the building, accessing the security system directly. If something happened, she would know about it and let the other two vigilantes know about it.

Spoiler was pretty certain this was the answer to Cluemaster's…well, clue. His "Hans making a killing" clue was clearly a reference to that Die Hard movie Cullen liked. This was Gotham's closest equivalent to the movie's setting. She wished she had actually watched the movie earlier to make certain, but the fast research they conducted was all they could do. After all, it was an hour and a half long and no one had time for that.

"Ladies of the night, I've got access," Bluebird suddenly announced over their comm links. "A creature can't stir in here without my knowing."

"Have you found anything unusual?" Batgirl was quick to ask.

"Nothing yet. Doesn't mean that our perp isn't here yet, he just hasn't started his little bank robbery." There came a snort. "Seriously, we're just stopping a bank robbery being performed by some stuck-up prick."

"Wasn't that the whole point of Die Hard?" Spoiler pointed out.

"Dude, this guy isn't nearly as charming as Alan Rickman was. You couldn't help but like him as he did what Alan Rickman does."

"When does this robbery occur in the movie?" Batgirl questioned.

There was a moment's pause. Spoiler kinda wanted to know the answer to that too. Would a search on Wikipedia help? She wasn't certain. "Well," Bluebird began, sounding a little uncertain, "they started during the Christmas Party, which was in the evening? I think? It went well into the night, past midnight even. That one guy even says 'Merry Christmas' when they open the vault."

"So this could be an all-night stakeout," Spoiler groused.

"What, are you afraid that Santa will pass over your house because you're not in bed?"

"Do you want to stay up until five in the morning, waiting for this guy to strike?" she countered.

"I've got no problem doing that." She could practically hear the shrug in her friend's tone.

"That's because you're in a warm building and not freezing your ass outside."

"Yeah, funny how that works."

Spoiler had to stop. It was clear Bluebird was egging her on, and it was working. It was freezing out here, all thanks to winter. It was even beginning to lightly snow. The blonde was seriously considering suggesting to Batgirl that they camp out somewhere on the thirtieth floor. That was where Cluemaster would be going eventually, so why not wait for him there?

Actually, why weren't they doing that?

"Batgirl, why aren't we already inside, keeping an eye on the vault?" she asked then, not quite succeeding in hiding the whine in her voice.

The Batclan leader didn't take long to respond. "Because he could try to access the vault in ways other than going through the door. He could even try drilling through the ceiling, floor, and walls if he had the correct equipment. We also don't want to alert him to our presence until he is in the process of breaking in."

Oh sure, be logical about this. "Then why can't we be on some other floor? We don't even have to be on the same one with the vault. We could be a couple floors under it."

There was silence for several seconds. Spoiler waited, even as she fought the urge to shiver. "I don't see why we can't position ourselves inside," Batgirl eventually said.

Great, she was totally going in. "Anything on the cameras yet, Bluebird?" she couldn't help but ask chipperly.

"Nothing yet. I've got—" Suddenly, the blue-clad girl stopped. "Hey, I just lost a feed. You two better get in here. It looks like the show is about to start."

It was a little bizarre, but perhaps that was the point. A bizarre party for a bizarre man.

Bruce was in what was best described as a large penthouse. The furniture had been moved to line the walls so that the guest could mingle. Large, shiny gray curtains blocked out the walls and windows. A chandelier hung from the ceiling, a 3D recreation of the Shreck Inc. logo. The creepy cat face gazed down on the party, silently laughing like the Cheshire Cat. A sound system was playing what sounded like early-90's pop music. He could have sworn he was hearing Can't Touch This.

Casually, Bruce wormed his way through the crowd. Just about everyone was dressed in suits or dresses. There wasn't anything particularly interesting about that, mostly because everyone wore masks. Many of the women held sticks that had puffy, fluffy, or feathery masks in front of their eyes. The men were more straightforward with simple, solid color masks, usually black, dark blue, or purple. That said, there were more creative people present. One lady wore a headdress that was filled with peacock feathers. A man had a silver Christmas tree sitting on top of his head. Then, for perhaps the most impractical, one older woman had what looked like a courthouse on her head, the roof sitting on top of her head as its columns hung down on the sides of her face.

Glancing upward, Bruce saw a second story, one that circled the room. There was a staircase nearby that corkscrewed upward to reach it. Coming to a stop near it, the Wayne billionaire continued to glance around, his hands shoved into his pockets. This looked to be an intimate affair, one he didn't care for. He hadn't even bothered to wear a physical mask either. The way he saw it, his public persona was a mask, so why not use it as such? He hid himself in plain sight, much to some curious gazes.

"Genius costume," a low voice growled from behind him. It was rough and gravely, admittingly giving his Batman voice a run for its money. "Let me guess: Trust Fund…Goody-Goody."

Slowly turning around, the dark-haired man found himself encountering a man wearing a large turban on his head. Blue jewels glittered in the light, complemented by golden tassels and a plume of white feathers on its top. The man held a glittering golden mask in front of his eyes, but Bruce knew who he was looking at.

"Actually, I'm a sociopath," he quipped back. "They look like everyone else."

Max Shreck smirked at him. "Well played…Mr. Wayne. Though I prefer my guess."

"You usually do. And what are you supposed to be?"

Max leaned towards him, the lighting causing a shadow to partially cover his face. "I am the light of the city," he practically whispered, "and its mean, twisted soul."

For a moment, Bruce felt he needed to take some notes. Max clearly knew his theatrics, and whether he was doing it intentionally or not, it was quite effective. "Interesting dichotomy," he murmured.

"Careful…Bruce. Using big words…may give you a headache."

Dick. "No worse than the one I usually have," he shrugged. "Though I imagine you have a larger one than I do. A couple of your favorite councilmen were used as tree decorations recently."

That was a not-so-veiled hint at Shreck's connection to certain city councilmembers, the ones murdered by Scarface. In certain circles, it wasn't a surprise that Max Shreck was a large campaign contributor to specific members; in fact, most of the people at this party were contributors. Bruce could see Veronica Vreeland holding court with a couple of her gentlemen pursuers, a black, wide-brimmed hat nestled on her head to compliment her black, body-hugging dress, and simple black mask. He also saw the Crowne patriarch and matriarch drinking themselves silly by the refreshment table, a few business associates and their wives, and so on.

Max just shrugged his shoulders. "Does it matter who's on the City Council?"

"Clearly, it does," he responded evenly.

The turban-wearing man dropped his golden mask from his face. "Yawn," he replied, effectively ending the encounter before he walked off. Bruce just turned to watch him go, seeing the businessman pass an uncomfortable looking Maggie Sawyer. The Wayne billionaire raised an eyebrow at the pantsuit she wore, the blonde woman clearly out of her depth. She hadn't gotten used to rubbing elbows with the upper class, it seemed.

A servicer passed by him then, carrying a silver tray with several filled champagne glasses. Bruce expertly snatched a glass off, taking a large drink from it. He paused as he felt the bubbly fluid sit in his mouth before he swallowed. Hmmm, Max has good taste.

At that moment, the music changed. He picked out the plucking of a guitar, a keyboard smoothly joining in a few beats later. The dark-haired man found himself eyeing the nearby staircase. Perhaps going up higher would give him a better vantage point. His first encounter with Shreck hadn't been what he wanted. His nonchalance to the late-councilmembers was telling, but not a smoking gun. He needed to observe the man and see how he acted when he was on his guard, and he would be surrounded by a room of socialites.

His eyes trailed up the staircase, eyeing one man in a red sombrero and a skull man. Then, moving around that guest came a striking beauty. It only took Bruce a moment to recognize Selina Kyle—or rather, Selina Calabrese. Her dark dress sparkled from whatever glitter was incorporated into it, making her stand out in the crowd. Strangely, she didn't wear a mask like him. The blond hair, a wig, may have acted as one though. As she walked down the stairs, she seemed to be looking for something…or maybe someone.

Perhaps he could be of some service.

"Well this is boring." A bored Nick Calabrese pouted as he slouched in his seat. One arm was resting against the car window, his head resting right on it.

"Grow up," Antonia retorted. She herself did not care for her brother's attitude and his complaining wasn't making anything better.

"You seriously can't tell me you aren't pissed," the younger Calabrese continued to complain. "Locked out in the cold, keeping the car running-I have no idea why-and there's a party right in there! Some stupid mask-wearing party but think! There's got to be something to eat in there!"

Antonia raised an eyebrow and glanced at her brother. "Eating? You? More like you want the booze."

"These kind of shindigs have good hooch, so what?" A shrug of the shoulders animated the younger man for a brief instant. "Why did Cuz keep us out here? It's freezing cold!"

"That's why the heater's on." Like a child, and a spoiled one, Nick could not take being told no unless it meant he didn't have to do much work. It was clear to see he didn't see this as work, meaning he wanted to be out and about all the more so that he could drink himself senseless.

The appeal of that was lost on the older Calabrese sibling.

Selina had approached both of them, ordered them to accompany her to this, some kind of event held by their competition, Max Shreck. The order—not a request—had come out of nowhere and the two siblings had went along with it since their cousin would not be denied. Some might call it bizarre, but this was business as usual.

Perhaps she wanted someone to watch her back? More likely to keep the car running for a quick escape. Selina anticipated something either going down or going wrong or both. It was hard to tell if anything was suspicious because car after car kept arriving, dropping off their riders, and sometimes drivers, and valets would move the vehicle to a designated parking area, one rented out for the occasion.

There was no telling how long Selina would be in there. This made it all the more infuriating for one sibling to be trapped by the other, and take a guess who was the one being angered. Unfortunately, there was no choice in the matter. That Selina anticipated that a quick getaway might be needed…

Just what was she planning to do in there?

The answer was obvious: none of their business. That was the story of both of their lives, whether it was being told those words or speaking them to another. There was always business going on; the less you knew, the better. Plausible deniability: "I didn't see nothing."

You couldn't testify about what you didn't know. That was the whole point. So mind your business and don't mind anything that isn't yours. It did not stop it from being frustrating not being in the know, but this was the life.

You didn't get far if you couldn't do that much. Antonia understood it, and so did Nick. Even as carefree as he could be, that mask that implied he took nothing seriously served as a good defense against another who might suspect anything. It resulted in many underestimating the younger sibling, and Antonia would credit him with that.

"Seriously, what is the point of bringing us along if she wants us to keep the engine running? It's so boring," Nick complained once more.

It was so easy to forget that it was an act, though at times you could only suspect it wasn't. The older sibling did what she had years of experience doing and ignored him. Selina had her business to take care of and didn't want them knowing what it was. Mind your business as you should.

Everyone would find out what it was eventually.

It didn't matter what time of year it was, janitors were always expected to be cleaning. Even when the annual Christmas party was held and the classics like Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire and Jingle Bell Rock played throughout a gathering of bankers and their staff, the place was suppose to be cleaned up and out of sight.

The trolley was once again perfect, however his dress was going to be different this time. Unlike the Gotham Museum of Art, the Cluemaster felt that to meet the audaciousness of this heist, he needed to dress the part. To get in required looking like everyone else, but once in the elevator, he made good of the time going up to change.

The thirtieth floor was the destination, and slipping out of a buttoned up jumpsuit and getting the blue vest back on, followed by slipping out the facemask and goggles left more than enough time to critique the elevator music. By the time he had arrived, he was putting on the last of his yellow-colored gloves.

Pushing the trolley out of the elevator, he brazenly made his way further into the building. With an iPad propped up on top of the trolley, a large cloth behind it giving the device some slant, Cluemaster opened up an app and inputted a command. As brazen as he was tonight, that did not mean he was going to forsake all precautions.

He had spent a good amount of time getting access to the security feeds, making recordings, and then splicing them together. Next had come adding another little gadget of his own making, one that would hack into security and play over the live feed that the cameras would be recording. In lieu, his own recording would show up, hiding him from the prying eyes of the building's guards and affording him privacy.

A simple button had the gadget activated and he was all good to take a casual stroll. This time of night, on this particular day, no one would be on this floor. The Christmas party on the floor below would hold all of the attention. A night to celebrate without kids for some, a time to show off how classy you were with other people's money for others, and all to a cultural theme that made it all acceptable. 'Tis the season for giving, after all.

And he was in the mood for receiving. This was no typical bank. No, it was better. It was the Federal Reserve, the organization that managed so much money that it had to have its own means of moving it around. Perhaps most valuable were the coveted American Bearer Bonds.

A bearer bond was a debt security, a way for people or entities to trade debt itself. Debts had to be repaid, so it was perhaps one of the most reliable financial assets around. Only entities such as corporations, or a government, could issue any of these. The amount it was worth, its interest rate, and how it matured was as close to set in stone as you could get. Exorbitant amounts of money were traded on these. The best part? They could be unregistered, meaning there was no record of who owned them or who had them before.

The Federal Reserve, a government entity, would have them. By law, they would have to be honored.

There was only one possible shortcoming here. The bonds needed to have been issued prior to 1982. Anything after that fell under the authority of the Tax Equity and Fiscal Responsibility Act, legislation that pretty much gutted the worth of any bearer bond after that passage. Any issued before, on the other hand, was a king's ransom in waiting.

You had to wonder just what kind of business was being done in Bamyung Plaza that bearer bonds would be needed to address the balance. Well, someone's illicit business dealings were his gain. Not just his gain, but a retirement plan in the making. After tonight, money would never again be an issue.

The trolley was wheeled through practiced steps, Cluemaster guiding it deeper into the bowels of the building. The first true obstacle here was a checkpoint, a sealed off door that required specific ID to unlock. Another app, another gadget, and he was through that. Simple. Effective. Now, to the goal.

And the last true obstacle.

Security cameras were taken care of so his presence was not going to raise any alarms. He had gotten through the checkpoint with ease. Now, all that stood between him and financial security was a thirty-six inch, reinforced steel door with at minimum seven locks that kept it shut.

Seven locks, they really needed to update this system. It might have been impressive thirty years ago, but not anymore. Another fault of government and its inertia. His boon and Christmas Miracle tonight.

Still, making your way through seven locks would be difficult, and there were added security measures. Each of those locks, he had learned, were monitored. Any tampering would raise an alarm. There was another reason why it had taken so long between this heist and his robbery at Lucy's. Learning some electrical engineering and designing his own little gadgets and devices hadn't just occurred over night.

You could say he was the crook version of Batman.

Smarter too. The man himself was still nowhere to be found.

So for this part, there was a two-part combination code, one that was split by two different bank managers. Each fragment of the code had to be entered to allow for the vault door's seven locks to be allowed to open. There were two panels on either side of the vault door, and Cluemaster left the trolley positioned right in front of the reinforced steel barrier to pry open each panel.

Wiring was pulled out, insulation was breached but not enough to damage what was held within. Another gadget came into play, clipping onto exposed wiring. The process was repeated at the other panel.

Back to the iPad, another app was opened, and then the gadgets were activated. Various combinations were filtered through and then the correct sequences were imputed. There, one less defense, but now for the other function. Through these devices, signals were imputed via the electrical currents and…there, blocking off electrical current from flowing into the vault door and more importantly the seven locks.

Credit would have to be given to Phillip Cobb. The man knew his way around signals. How he had figured out how to do this, Cluemaster didn't know but didn't care. The man's work was instrumental here.

Now to the best part. Setting aside the iPad carefully, Cluemaster pulled off the cloth to reveal the drill he had been working on. Placed atop the janitorial trolley, what was visual was the motor. From within the confines of the trolley, the forty inch drill bit was withdrawn and then inserted into the drill. Long, thick, but powerful enough to get through thirty-six inches of steel. It was just awkward to move around in one piece.

With the drill bit inserted and secured, Cluemaster better positioned the trolley. With the tip of the bit against the vault door, the criminal mastermind withdrew with the iPad in hand. Another few seconds were needed to slip out a power cord and plug it in to the nearest electrical outlet. One more app, again of his own personal design, he activated the drill from a distance followed up with the additions he had put on the trolley itself. It wasn't anything spectacular, just a little something to push the trolley forward so that he didn't have to and thus endure the loud grinding noise that began to break the silence.

This was going to take some time, but he had time. Should anyone come up here, well, that was what his gun was for. That, and a few more goodies he had put together just in case.

Heh. Santa might not approve of this naughty little action of his, but he had been a good little boy for too long. It was time for a man of his intelligence to get paid for his worth.

Several hundred millions would be just enough.

Author's Note: The little party that our favorite socialites are attending is once more taken from Batman Returns. So is the line from Max Shreck. It fits the man.