by Greg Cox
“Running.”
Bruce wasn’t aware of any recent suspicious deaths at the university, let alone any art history majors who had spontaneously combusted, but perhaps some warning signs had been overlooked. The Court of Owls and their assassins were nothing if not devious. Alan Wayne’s death had been considered “accidental” for generations, while the increasingly paranoid behavior he had exhibited in the weeks leading up to his demise had been chalked up to encroaching senility.
Perhaps something had foreshadowed Morse’s assassination.
The requested data scrolled before his eyes. Reports of drunk and disorderly behavior by hard-partying college students, an ugly hazing incident at a fraternity house, a restraining order taken out by a student against an obsessed ex-boyfriend, an apparently well-founded accusation of plagiarism, and… a missing-person report filed only two days ago by the student’s roommate.
The missing student’s name popped out at him.
LEE, JOANNA
It took him only a moment to recognize the name.
“Joanna?”
Several Years Ago
The First Friday Community Street Fair was supposed to be a festive event drawing crowds to the shops and galleries and restaurants in Old Gotham. Fourth Avenue had been closed to traffic for six blocks so that pedestrians could stroll freely down the street, which was lined with food carts, street vendors, arts and crafts booths, and tables promoting various civic organizations and charities. Live music was provided by local bands performing on temporary stages at opposite ends of the blocked-off stretch, while the weather had cooperated by providing a warm summer evening without a cloud in the sky. Throngs had flocked to the fair in search of fun, food, and excitement, which Gotham was serving up in spades.
Until two rival street gangs—the Deacons and the Speed Demonz—decided to settle some old scores, turning the fair into a battlefield and potential bloodbath. Pandemonium erupted as terrified citizens fled for their lives, practically trampling over each other in the desperate rush to flee the gunfire. Cops on hand to maintain order at the fair suddenly found themselves in the middle of a full-fledged firefight and outnumbered two to one.
Music was replaced by the blaring guns, screams, shouting, and the frantic cries of the wounded. The Bat-Signal appeared in the night sky, calling out for assistance.
Soon the Batwing jetted over the city, its stealth-black wings slicing through the muggy air as Batman monitored the ongoing emergency by means of live TV coverage and police radio transmissions. SWAT teams and riot police were en route to the scene, under the direction of Gotham’s Major Crimes Unit, but the Batwing was way ahead of them. Every minute counted when innocent lives were at stake.
The sleek customized aircraft came in low over the avenue, which was wide enough to allow the plane to cruise down the middle of the street. The firefight was still going strong. Shooters fired from behind food trucks, hot-dog stands, and doorways. Stray bullets perforated a dunk tank, spilling gallons of tepid water onto the pavement. Bodies—some moving, some not—littered the street. Gang members made up the majority of the casualties, but there were innocent civilians among them, collateral damage.
Bad blood had been building between the Deacons and the Demonz for weeks, Batman knew. It was just Gotham’s luck that all-out warfare had broken out at the worst possible time and place.
The Batwing’s arrival drew heavy fire from both sides. Ammo bounced off the plane’s reinforced armor plating and bulletproof windshield. Cameras and sensors supplied Batman with a variety of views and tactical displays. Although he growled at every bleeding body sprawled upon the pavement, he was relieved to see that street and sidewalks were clearing out as the panicked innocents sought safety elsewhere but Fourth Avenue.
Aside from the dead and injured, the crowds were dispersing rapidly, abandoning the street fair to the armed combatants who had callously turned it into a killing field. Batman gladly drew the shooters’ fire. With any luck, the surviving fairgoers would be well clear of the scene before Gordon’s soldiers arrived to engage with the feuding gangbangers.
That’s it! Run! he silently urged the frightened masses. This is no place for civilians—not tonight, at least.
Then he spotted her: a teenage girl kneeling beside the apparently lifeless bodies of an adult man and woman who Batman assumed to be her parents. Telescopic lenses zoomed in on her, magnifying her image on a monitor in the cockpit of the Batwing. She sobbed convulsively, heedless of the overlapping pools of blood spreading from the unmoving fatalities. She held tightly to her mother’s hand, unable or unwilling to leave. Unlike the other fairgoers, she appeared too shell-shocked to seek safety for herself.
The tragic tableau, painfully reminiscent of a long-ago night in Crime Alley, jabbed Batman in the heart, but he couldn’t afford to relive his own past sorrows. Not while the teen remained oblivious to the danger. It was a miracle she hadn’t yet been caught in the crossfire, and she needed to be extracted from the kill zone immediately. He couldn’t even take the time to land the Batwing.
Scanning the area, he spotted an old-fashioned carnival photo booth across the street from her, tucked between a cotton candy stand and a voter registration table. Sudden inspiration hit him.
That could work.
The Batwing executed an aerial loop that brought it back and over the imperiled teen. Batman switched the plane to VTOL mode so it hovered in place above the photo booth. Its exterior walls were already riddled with bullet holes, stressing the urgency of the situation. The plane’s dramatic entrance penetrated the fog of grief enveloping the girl. She looked up in surprise. Dyed purple hair framed her ashen face. In a bitter irony a helium balloon, tied to her wrist, had survived the gunfire that had claimed the teen’s parents.
A loudspeaker amplified Batman’s voice.
“Girl with the balloon, get to the photo booth!”
A random bullet hit the balloon, which popped loudly a few inches from her face. She jumped, suddenly grasping the jeopardy she was in. Then she hunkered down, as though afraid to move. Looking across the street she saw the booth, only a few yards away, but she hesitated, frozen in fear.
“Go! I’ll cover you!”
The Batwing rotated above the booth. As promised, Batman opened fire with a hail of rubber bullets that would discourage any shooters in the vicinity. The protective fusillade spurred the teen to action. Jumping to her feet, she dashed for the questionable shelter, diving into the compartment.
Good girl.
The flimsy portable structure offered little or no protection from gunfire, but that wasn’t the idea. Keeping up the barrage of rubber bullets, Batman released a grapnel hook and cable from the rear of the Batwing. The magnetic hook latched onto the framework of the booth’s ceiling.
“Hang on for your life!”
An infrared scan confirmed that the parents’ bodies were cooling too fast to have any life left in them. Sadly convinced that they were past saving, Batman opened the throttle on the Batwing, which moved vertically into the sky, taking the booth with it. Even with the enclosed teen, the weight of the booth posed no difficulty for the aircraft’s powerful turbine engines or the sturdy metal cable, which had in the past proved capable of transporting everything from the Batmobile to a parade float packed with plastic explosives, courtesy of the Joker.
“Hold on,” Batman assured his passenger. “We’re getting out of here.”
From dozens of feet above ground level, he saw Gordon’s forces closing in on Fourth Avenue. Realizing they were under siege, the gangbangers began to disperse, heading straight into the waiting arms of the GCPD. Batman fired a volley of tear-gas grenades after them, just to make Gordon’s job easier, before departing with the rescued teen literally in tow.
If any shooters eluded Gordon’s net… well, Batman would see that they didn’t stay at large for long. Those guilty of tonight’s massacre could expect a late-night visit in the near future, followed by a long stint in Blackgate Pe
nitentiary.
Minutes later, blocks away from the carnage, he carefully lowered the captured booth into the middle of a rooftop restaurant in a classy part of town. He watched with grim satisfaction as the girl stumbled unsteadily out of the booth and onto the roof. Startled patrons and servers hurried to help her.
Good, Batman thought. I may have been too late to save the parents, but at least their child is safe.
Her name, he would later learn, was Joanna Lee.
* * *
“Joanna Lee,” Alfred said. The butler retrieved the empty shake container as he appeared at Bruce’s side in the cave. He was almost as good as his employer at slipping quietly in and out of places. “I remember her.”
“I’m not surprised,” Bruce replied. In the years since her parents’ death, the Wayne Foundation had quietly looked after her, along with many other crime victims. “I met her again not too long ago, when the Foundation awarded her a full scholarship. It was at a ceremony at the Manor. I was impressed by her passion for Gotham’s architecture and history, despite what the city had taken from her.”
“A very bright and resilient young woman, as I recall.” Alfred lingered within the nerve center. “You fear something has become of her?”
“I hope not.” Bruce’s expression darkened. Guilt heightened his concern for Joanna’s safety. “Damn it, why am I just now discovering that she’s missing?”
“You mustn’t castigate yourself, Master Bruce. You’re not omniscient.”
“That’s not good enough.” Bruce shook his head. “I should have known.”
“Need I remind you, sir, that you have been occupied with matters most urgent? You only just returned from that hostage crisis in Corto Maltese, and then there are your duties to the League. With all due respect, even Batman cannot be everywhere at once.”
As much as he appreciated the butler’s attempts to ease his conscience, Bruce still held himself responsible. He called up an image of Joanna—the one that appeared on her student ID card. Henna-colored red hair, bobbed and banged, gave her a chic, bohemian look, as did a U-shaped metal nose ring. Chestnut eyes, alive with intelligence, peered out from behind a pair of black cat’s-eye glasses. It was, indeed, the promising young student he had honored at the mansion not long ago.
Now she was missing—had been since before the professor’s murder.
But why?
“A lovely young lady,” Alfred observed. “There’s something strangely familiar about her features, almost as though I’ve known her for decades.”
“I know what you mean,” Bruce said. “She reminds me of someone, as well, although I can’t quite place it. I remember thinking as much the last time we met.” More than that, however, he was troubled by the idea that the dark skeleton in Gotham’s closet—the Court of Owls—had claimed Joanna when he wasn’t looking. He had saved her once. He wasn’t about to let anything happen to her now.
Unless he was already too late.
Joanna and her roommate, Claire Nesko, shared a top-floor apartment in the University District. A block of red-brick row houses, converted into off-campus student housing, faced a tree-lined avenue that was far too public. He intended to question Nesko about Joanna’s disappearance, but preferred to do so discreetly, out of the glare of public scrutiny. Bats hunted best under the cover of night.
As do Owls…
The sun had long since set as Batman approached the house via an unlit back alley. The Batmobile was parked nearby in one of many hidden garages Bruce Wayne had bought or installed throughout the city via a variety of shell companies and cut-outs. Loud music blared from the ground-floor apartment, making him sympathize with the other tenants and neighbors. Lights in the top-floor apartment indicated that someone was home. It was possible that Joanna had found her way back to her apartment by now, but he knew better than to hope for the best in Gotham, where missing persons often stayed missing for good.
Cloaked in darkness, he silently climbed a rear fire escape to the back door of the apartment. A light bulb over the doorway was out, adding to the shadows. Batman frowned. That was almost too convenient. He checked the bulb and discovered that it had been unscrewed just enough to cause it to go dark. He couldn’t think of a good reason for anyone to do that.
Bad reasons, on the other hand…
He paused before the back door. As a rule, Batman didn’t knock before entering, the better to preserve his mystique, but Claire Nesko wasn’t a criminal, nor even a suspect to be intimidated. He had no desire to terrify an innocent by invading her home without warning. Considering his options, he tried the doorknob—and was troubled to find it unlocked. The University District was hardly Crime Alley, but no one in Gotham left their back door unlocked, particularly after dark. Apprehensive, he pushed open the door, entering a hallway.
That he didn’t smell burnt flesh only slightly eased his mind.
“Claire?” he said. “Claire Nesko?”
Nothing. He raised his voice.
“Claire? Can you hear me?”
The ominous silence spurred him to action.
Trusting his instincts, he swept through the apparently empty two-bedroom apartment, spotting everywhere the signs of very recent occupation. The television set in the living room was on pause, as though Claire had just stepped away for a moment. A plate of dinner sat uneaten on a low coffee table in front of a worn thrift-stone couch. An enticing aroma arose from the abandoned meal, which was still warm to the touch.
A microwave oven in the adjoining kitchenette beeped incessantly. Investigating, Batman found a mug of hot water awaiting a teabag. The front door of the apartment was chained and bolted from the inside. A breeze rustled the curtains in a kitchen window, which was open despite the chill of night.
Just as in Professor Morse’s violated office…
Batman sprang to the window, fearful that he was already too late. There was no time to investigate further, not if his suspicions were correct. Flinging himself out through the opening, which overlooked a side alley below, he drew his grapnel gun from his belt and fired it in the direction of a chimney he had clocked earlier. A titanium hook, complete with a motorized microdiamond drill head, dug into the structure and the cable went taut. Tugging once on the cable to make sure it was secure, he rapidly scaled the side of the building to reach the shingled roof.
A Talon, distinguishable by his ebony body armor and gleaming blades, had Claire Nesko. She was a petite Caucasian woman, college-age, casually dressed in a school sweater and jeans. Zip-ties bound Claire’s wrists and ankles. A gag muffled her cries. The Court’s malignant agent had her slung over his shoulder as he nimbly crossed the pitched slope of the rooftop toward an adjacent building.
To Batman’s relief, the Talon appeared to be intent on abduction, not assassination, which meant there was still a chance to save Claire from whatever ordeal the Owls had in store for her.
He knew too well how they treated their prisoners…
Batman’s arrival didn’t escape the Talon’s notice, who peered over his shoulder and across the length of the rooftop. Despite himself, Batman felt an uncharacteristic chill at the sight of those round owl-like goggles. For a moment, even high above the city streets beneath the open sky, he felt as if he was back in the underground labyrinth again, desperate and driven to the edge…
Shake it off, Batman thought. A life is in danger. The smell of Herbert Morse’s corpse haunted his memory as he confronted the hooded kidnapper. He had beaten Talons before. He could do it again.
“Talon!” he barked. “That’s far enough. Put her down.”
Even as he braced for battle, the detective in Batman wondered what the Owls wanted with Claire. The Talon’s attack had to be connected with Joanna’s disappearance, as well as Morse’s immolation. Yet the big picture remained obscure.
“I don’t answer to you, Batman,” the assassin replied. “The Court of Owls has need of this woman. This is none of your affair.”
The hood and goggles c
oncealed his true face, but Batman felt certain this wasn’t a Talon he’d faced before. Was this a fledgling assassin, newly activated, or an experienced one brought out of hibernation? Perhaps he’d been imported from one of the Owls’ more distant nests. Although the Court had deep roots in Gotham, their reach was global—with secret branches and operations all over the planet.
“You’re in my city,” he said. “That makes it my business.”
“Your city?” the Talon scoffed. “You have no idea what secrets have been hiding right in front of you all this time.”
“Enlighten me.”
“You are the great detective,” the Talon said. “You figure it out.” With that, the kidnapper took off with his captive. Getting a running start, he leapt from one roof to another, moving briskly despite the weight of his squirming burden.
Batman chased after him, his scalloped cape spreading out behind him like the leathery wings of his nocturnal namesake. He landed nimbly on the mansard roof of the adjacent row house. Chimneys, satellite dishes, and dormers sprouted from the urban rooftop as he gained on his foe. The Talon had speed and stamina to spare, but he had no chance of eluding Batman while carrying his hostage. Choosing fight over flight, he plucked a gleaming throwing knife from his bandolier and hurled it at his pursuer’s face.
The blade sliced through the air, its grooves filled with mercury for steadier flight. Electrum glinted like polished moonlight.
But Batman’s billowing cape was more than just decorative. Composed of a Nomex fire-resistant fabric, it also boasted a Kevlar bi-weave to repel everything from bullets to napalm without losing flexibility. With split-second timing and reflexes, Batman deflected the knife and the blade struck an undeserving satellite dish before skittering harmlessly across the tiled roof. The Talon was going to have to do better than that if he wanted to get away with his captive.
My turn, Batman thought.
