by Greg Cox
“The Batman! He’s here!”
“Kill him!”
Gunfire peppered the dead condor. The cables were shot apart, causing the stuffed bird to swing alarmingly, but he had already abandoned his perch there. Embedding a grapnel in the ceiling, he swung above the fogbound Owls toward the nearest draped window, tossing an explosive charge ahead of him. It blew out both the curtains and the window to speed his retreat. Broken glass rained down on the guards below.
Bullets chased him, chipping away at the walls and exhibits, but by the time the gunfire swung toward the breach, Batman was clear of the building and dashing toward the Batmobile, hidden not far away. It would take him several minutes to reach the safe house where he’d stowed Claire, which might not be fast enough if the Talon was already closing in.
Every moment counted.
Keep her safe, Dick.
And watch yourself, as well.
The mugger barely qualified as a workout. Nightwing stood over the fallen figure, who was sprawled unconscious on the floor of an alley not far from the safe house. A switchblade gleamed on the pavement just beyond the crook’s limp fingers. He kicked it out of the way, just in case the would-be thief was playing possum, then bound the man’s hands behind his back with zip-ties.
An elderly couple, who had been making a midnight run to the local all-night deli, looked on anxiously. A black eye and busted lip were all the mugger had to show for his efforts. He moaned weakly.
“You okay?” Nightwing asked the couple.
They nodded, clutching each other.
“You’ll be fine now,” he assured them. “I’ve paged the police, who should be here shortly. Just tell them what happened.” He figured their testimony would be enough to put the mugger away for a while. Chances were, the crook already had an extensive rap sheet. Nightwing hoped they threw the book at him. Preying on senior citizens was about as low as it got.
“Thank you,” the old woman managed, clearly shaken by her close brush with becoming a crime statistic. “If you hadn’t showed up when you did…”
“No problem.” Nightwing re-bagged the seniors’ groceries, which had spilled onto the pavement, and handed the brown paper sack back to them. “I just happened to be in the neighborhood.”
It was true.
As Batman had requested, Nightwing had been keeping an eye on the safe house where Claire Nesko was being held. While not staking out the building all night every night, he had stuck close to the location, particularly after sundown, regularly and discreetly checking on it to make certain nothing was amiss.
Last time he’d swung by, less than thirty minutes ago, a pair of plainclothes police officers were still stationed outside the building, looking bored. The electronics surveillance devices he and Batman had covertly planted inside the safe house had picked up nothing alarming, nor had the regular GCPD feeds. Nightwing had been almost grateful to stumble across the attempted mugging while patrolling the neighborhood. It was the most excitement he’d had in days, even if the low-level hoodlum wasn’t exactly the KGBeast.
Beggars can’t be choosers.
A siren indicated an approaching police car, which meant it was time to get a move on. He hoped the couple he’d rescued would stick around long enough to press charges, but as a vigilante he could hardly accompany them down to the station to make an official statement. The trussed-up mugger and the telltale switchblade were the only evidence he could personally provide. With an acrobatic leap, he propelled himself onto the lower rung of a nearby fire escape, and swiftly scaled the side of the building to reach the rooftop.
The exercise invigorated him. Sitting still had never been his style, not even in his Boy Wonder days. He liked to think that he had inherited that restlessness from his daredevil parents, circus performers from a long tradition.
A vibration in his facemask alerted him to an incoming transmission from Batman. The HMD tech in his lenses flashed an urgent message before his eyes.
Talon coming for Claire.
On my way.
Nightwing swore under his breath. Now he was regretting the detour. If something had happened to Claire Nesko while he’d been out taking the air, he knew he’d never forgive himself.
By now he knew the neighborhood like the back of his hand. The safe house was only a few blocks away, and he leapt from the roof onto a convenient power line, which he ran along as fearlessly as a tightrope walker performing without a net. The insulated soles of his boots protected him from any high-voltage shocks while providing excellent traction on the taut cables. Cars and buses passed underneath as he took the high road over the public streets and sidewalks. An express train rumbled along the nearby tracks.
Tuning out the sounds of the city, he activated the bugs they had placed throughout the safe house. For privacy’s sake the concealed listening devices were only located in the house’s common areas, but would be effective in letting him know if there was any commotion on the premises. Listening in, he was relieved to hear nothing out of the ordinary. If anything, the audio was reassuring in its mundanity.
“It’s getting late, miss,” a cop said, yawning. “Sure you don’t want to turn in for the night?”
“Like I could sleep anyway,” Nesko replied, “with an owl-faced assassin after me. Sorry to keep you boys up.” She sounded out of breath, and he could hear the steady hum and thump thump thump of a treadmill. They had to be in the gym on the top floor of the one-time boarding house.
“Just doing our duty, that’s all,” another voice assured her. “And we’re not getting paid to sleep on the job. Which reminds me, Jerry, there any coffee left in the kitchen?”
Flicking through a sequence of audio channels, he eavesdropped on other parts of the safe house—the living room, the basement, the garage, the main stairs, and so on—but heard nothing out of the ordinary. A TV set on low, a hissing radiator, a grumpy cop bitching about an extra shift, and, yes, a pot of coffee brewing in the kitchen. All seemed well—for the moment.
Perhaps he wasn’t too late to protect Claire from the Talon. Nevertheless, Nightwing didn’t slow down as he neared the building. Shuttered windows hid the top floor from view, but some light still seeped through the blinds. He switched back to the bug in the gym.
“Just give me a few more minutes to burn off some energy,” Claire said, huffing a bit. “I’m going stir-crazy cooped up in this place, no offense. Any idea when it will be safe for me to go back to my life?”
“’Fraid not, miss. That’s up to the Commis—”
A whooshing sound cut off his answer. Something landed heavily—and wetly—on the floor.
“What the hell? Where did you—”
Another body thumped loudly and Nightwing heard Claire gasp out loud. A new voice came through Nightwing’s earpiece.
“Hoot, hoot.”
His heart sank as he kicked himself for not being faster. Leaping from a power line onto the window sill outside the gym, he fought the urge to charge to the rescue without first assessing the situation, the way Robin might have back in the day, before Batman had taught him better than that. Switching to infrared, he scanned the gym and detected four heat signatures on the other side of the window.
Two were cooling fast.
Damn it.
“Hello again, Claire,” the Talon said. “Think twice about screaming or shouting, unless you want to get more cops killed.” His movements were too stealthy to hear over the hidden mikes, frustrating Nightwing. “Now then, refresh my memory—where did we leave off again?”
“No, please,” Claire said softly. “Why can’t you just leave me alone?”
“Blame your runaway roommate,” the Talon taunted her. “She’s the one who opened this can of worms, unluckily for you.” His heat signature advanced on hers. “Claire Nesko, the Court of Owls has—”
Nightwing had heard enough. Retracting the infrared lenses, he grabbed the eaves above him with both hands, then swung feet first through the window, crashing through the gl
ass and blinds as he launched himself into the gym with a spectacular lack of subtlety. He took in the scene in an instant: the converted attic filled with exercise equipment; Claire retreating behind the treadmill. She clutched a ten-pound dumbbell for protection, as the Talon stalked toward her, unconcerned, sword in hand. Two decapitated cops sprawled on the floor, taken unawares by the Talon before they could even draw their weapons.
The poor guys hadn’t stood a chance.
Two more deaths crying out for justice.
The momentum of Nightwing’s entrance carried him into the Talon, knocking him away from Claire. Recovering instantly from the attack, the Talon lunged at him, and Nightwing ducked beneath the killer’s swinging blade to deliver a brutal snap-kick to the assassin’s kneecap. The Talon collapsed to the ground, clutching the dislocated joint, but Nightwing knew from experience that the crippling injury would heal within minutes. This fight was far from over.
“Run!” he shouted to Claire. “I’ll hold him back as long as I can!”
Nodding rapidly, she dropped the weight and sprinted out through the exit. As her steps pounded on the stairs, Nightwing drew his Escrima sticks from their holders on his back. The unbreakable polymer batons were his primary weapon of choice. Effective, but non-lethal, at least when used by somebody who knew what they were doing.
“Easier said than done.” The Talon snapped his knee back into place with an audible crack. He sprang to his feet as though he hadn’t been injured at all. “Well, well, if it isn’t the poor man’s Batman. As I understand it, you were meant to wear our livery, instead.”
Nightwing didn’t appreciate the reminder. “What can I say? I dodged that bullet.”
“Dodge this,” the Talon snarled. He came at his opponent, swinging the bloody sword. Nightwing flipped backward to avoid being sliced. His suit provided a degree of protection in a fight, but he wasn’t inclined to test it against the Talon’s razor-sharp blade.
A flying kick to the chin staggered the Talon, buying more time for Claire to escape, but only for a moment. Raising his sword high, the Talon brought it down toward Nightwing’s scalp, which was protected only by the young hero’s tousled black hair. For a split-second, he envied Batman’s armored cowl…
Vanity is going to be the death of me.
Parrying the overhead strike with one baton, he jabbed the blunted end of his other stick into the Talon’s ribs. His opponent grunted but, with a deft move, landed a blow to Nightwing’s shoulder, and his sword bit in, drawing blood. A high kick to the Talon’s chin briefly repelled the attack, even as Nightwing grimaced in pain. The wound stung like the devil. Clenching his teeth, he moved a second too slowly and the Talon’s sword darted in to gash his cheek, as well.
The strike drew a hiss from between Nightwing’s lips.
“Having second thoughts about throwing in with the Bat?” the Talon mocked. “You chose the wrong side in this war.”
“War’s not over, bro.”
Blood streamed from Nightwing’s face and shoulder, but he didn’t let pain or panic throw him off his game. This wasn’t his first rodeo; he’d taken his fair share of licks over the years and still come out on top in the end. Yet his opponent healed so much faster than he did. Without the ability to deliver a finishing blow, he was fighting a losing battle against the unstoppable assassin.
“If the Court could see you now,” the Talon said, and he didn’t sound even remotely winded. “Starting to wonder what they ever saw in you and your kin.”
“Says the brainwashed lackey who performs on command.” Nightwing tried to ignore the blood streaming from his cut cheek. Slapping an adhesive bandage over the wound wasn’t an option at the moment. “You’re just an attack dog let off its leash once in a while.”
“I serve the true rulers of Gotham!” the assassin replied. “You’re just an apprentice to an imposter.”
Then he lunged, thrusting and slashing as the two men dueled. Nightwing blocked the attacks with his batons, but found himself increasingly on the defensive. A jab to the solar plexus barely slowed the Talon down, providing Nightwing with only a moment of respite. The crimson puddles spreading from the bodies of the murdered police officers posed an additional hazard—he had to watch his step to avoid slipping on the pooling gore. The severed heads reminded him of just what the Talon was capable of doing.
Got to keep a cool head if I don’t want to lose mine.
Exercise equipment cluttered the ad hoc arena. Ducking behind a hanging punching bag, Nightwing put his whole body into swinging the seventy-pound bag into the Talon, knocking him flat on his back. The hero seized the moment to snatch up Claire’s discarded dumbbell and hurl it at the downed man before he could get back on his feet. The killer threw up his sword arm to protect his face and the dumbbell smacked into his wrist. Bone cracked loudly, but he somehow held onto his weapon. He roared with anger.
“You upstart mongrel! You think your cheap tricks can stop me?”
Angrily he threw his sword at Nightwing, who flung himself into the air to avoid being speared. The sword passed harmlessly beneath him and he raised his batons, ready to stay on offensive—
—only to feel two sharp pains penetrate his chest, one immediately after the other. Glancing down, he saw a pair of gleaming throwing knives embedded there, and realized the Talon had tagged him in mid-air. The knives were professional grade and sharp as a Batarang’s points.
Nightwing cried out loud as he twisted in the air to avoid landing face down and driving the knives further into his body. His back slammed into the floor, knocking the breath out of him. The jarring impact dialed the pain up another notch… and then some. Worse yet, he lost a baton in the crash.
“Thanks for the target practice, bird-boy.”
Two sheathes on the Talon’s bandolier were conspicuously empty. Favoring his fractured arm, the assassin climbed to his feet and drew a third knife. A stationary bike blocked his path and he impatiently shoved it aside to come at Nightwing, giving the wounded hero little time to assess his injuries. It didn’t seem as if either of the knives had pierced a vital organ or artery, but it wasn’t as though he’d been checked out by a medic.
Clambering to his feet, he extracted one of the knives from his chest. It hurt just as much coming out as it had going in. Nightwing gripped the hilt of the bloody knife. Hoping to cripple or maim the Talon long enough to survive a few more minutes, he sprang at the assassin and thrust forward with the blade.
He aimed the knife at the other man’s skull, but the Talon, showing no sign of fatigue, easily intercepted the strike. He drove his own knife through Nightwing’s outstretched forearm, skewering it. Severed tendons caused Nightwing to lose his grip on the weapon as he yanked his wounded arm back, taking the knife with it. This wound, he knew too well, wasn’t going to heal quickly.
“What’s the matter?” the Talon gloated. “Having trouble holding on?”
Something like that, Nightwing thought.
Clutching his arm to his chest, with the knife tip pointed away from his body, Nightwing dropped to the floor and rolled beneath a gymnastics pommel horse to put some distance between himself and his foe. The move aggravated his injuries, hurting like hell. Running on adrenaline alone, he jumped to his feet on the opposite side of the horse. The blood loss was getting to him; he teetered unsteadily upon rubbery legs. His head was spinning. A cold sweat glued his suit to his skin. His pulse raced as he felt himself going into shock…
Don’t let it show, he thought. Stay strong.
“Getting tired?” The Talon moved at a more leisurely pace now, hood and goggles masking his expression, but when he spoke, the smugness in his voice was unmistakable. He flexed the arm that had snapped only moments ago. “This has been fun, but I guess it’s time to put you out of your misery, and send Batman a message about who really rules in Gotham…”
“You can try.”
Dead on his feet, Nightwing had nothing left but bravado, but he’d be damned if he let this fa
celess murderer get the last word. If this was his final bow, Nightwing was going to exit the stage with style.
Sorry, Bruce. I did my best…
“Help me, somebody! For God’s sake, please help me!”
Filled with fear, Claire’s voice rose up from the street outside, entering the loft through the broken window. Grimly Nightwing realized that meant the other cops had to be dead, their communications disabled. He and the young woman were on their own.
The Talon spun toward the sound, as if suddenly remembering that his actual quarry was getting away. A frustrated snarl escaped his hood as he turned his back on Nightwing, who no longer posed any serious threat to his mission.
“You lucked out, bird-boy. Duty calls…”
Leaving Nightwing behind, he dashed out of the attic after Claire. Nightwing tried to chase after him, but collapsed against the gymnastics horse before sliding down onto the floor. His own blood mingled with that of the Talon’s other victims. His vision blurred. Darkness encroached on his consciousness.
“Run,” he whispered faintly. “As fast as you can.”
* * *
Claire fled from the safe house, which was obviously anything but. She hated leaving Nightwing to fight the Talon alone, but what else was she supposed to do? She was no superhero or street fighter— she was just a slightly nerdy anthropology student. All she could do was try to stay alive. Her sweaty exercise togs hardly suited the season, but the autumn chill barely registered as she dashed outdoors. Her heart pounded frantically.
“Help me, somebody! For God’s sake, please help me!”
She had found another of the cops in the front room, still sitting in the easy chair. His head was on the floor in a pool of blood. There was no sign of any others, but they hadn’t come running once Nightwing smashed through the upstairs window. That suggested the worst.
