by Marv Wolfman
Theoretically, if they had tried and managed to get past the system, and if somehow they got to the soundstage, they still wouldn’t realize that the facility’s inside was significantly smaller than its exterior. Hidden behind false panels, Fox had constructed a series of soundproofed, self-sustaining holding cells that, when required, would be used to contain and interrogate the worst of the city’s worst.
Better here than the Batcave, Batman mused as he approached soundstage 37. But he wasn’t there to tour the studio’s empty cells. The first antenna was hidden in a forest of satellite dishes, all installed in the early nineties to take the studio into the future world of digital transmission. Most were inert, but some were leased out to companies like the Gotham Broadcasting Corporation.
“Batman.” Oracle’s voice suddenly blared over his comm. “I’ve got good news and bad. The good, the studio is a hundred percent clear. Except for you, there are no heat signatures anywhere. I think you’re free of Scarecrow’s forces.”
“And the bad?”
“Power to the entire studio’s been knocked out. That means the satellite dishes are little more than hunks of steel.”
“Not a major problem. I never leave home without my own power source.”
“The Batmobile,” she said. “Of course. Okay, you handle that. I’ll find that second antenna. Good luck.”
“We make our own luck, Barbara,” he said as he backed the car toward the satellite array behind soundstage 37, former home to Gotham City’s News Center-1 team. Setting the proximity alarm to alert him to unexpected intruders, he ran charge wires from the Batmobile’s engine to a small generator. It, in turn, was attached to a single, unimposing antenna hidden among the rest.
He set the Batmobile to neutral, then gunned its engine. Moments later the generator hummed with power. Shortly thereafter he reported his progress.
“Oracle, the generator’s at eighty-five percent. It should be full charged in less than three minutes.” Checking to make sure the generator would run independently, he asked, “Do you have an address for the second antenna?”
“I do, but you’re not going to like it.”
“Why’s that?”
“It’s Falcone Shipping.”
“Yeah, well, nobody ever promised me that this was going to be simple.”
“It gets worse.”
“Do tell.”
“We have a missing cop. Alan Dini, twenty-year vet—his name came up when the computer gave me the location. He last reported that he was patrolling the docks near the Falcone warehouse, and saw something he thought wasn’t quite kosher. Said he was going to look into it. That’s the last we heard from him.”
“Has the G.C.P.D. sent out anyone to look for him?”
“I checked. With all that’s going on, there’s nobody available. Besides, they’re assuming that he just decided to leave the city, like most of the cops already have. But it’s too much of a coincidence—I’m thinking Dini may have seen something connected with Falcone Shipping.
“Since you’re already on the way there…”
“Got it,” he replied, cutting her off. “Do you have details on the location?”
“As much as I can get,” she said. “When I first scanned, there were a dozen heat signatures in a supply room in shipping warehouse 15. All but three left, but if I was a betting girl I’d say that’s where they’re holding him. I’m uploading the warehouse’s schematics to you now.”
“While I look in on our hostage, update your antenna readouts and keep me posted. I have a hunch tying into that one won’t be the cakewalk Panessa was.”
“Speaking of which, Bruce, I’ve locked onto the Panessa signal and patched into the satellite. Even if the studio antenna gets shut down I’ll be able to use the satellite. Now I need a second one.”
“Now that’s good news. You buried the headline.”
“Long as I don’t bury you along with it. Be careful. Falcone’s tentacles reach in a lot of different directions.”
* * *
Warehouse 15 was an old commercial steel building, built in the 1940s on Bleake Island’s southwest district two. It boasted two rear loading docks that opened onto the Gotham River, and was one of several buildings that surrounded “Falcone Plaza,” all situated around a main structure that looked more like a fortress than an administration building.
Ships would anchor outside of the warehouse and use cranes to offload their stacked pallets. Its minimal design was meant to be utilitarian and adjustable, depending on the goods being shipped and—when necessary—stored. Cargo could be loaded by truck, through the front access ramp.
Batman checked his readings and saw that there were still only three heat signatures coming from a small room off the main storage area. One of those pulsing dots had to be Dini, while the other two must be his captors. If Falcone had suspected Batman was coming, there would have been many more thugs on duty.
For a mob boss, Falcone didn’t think big.
Warehouse 14 stood approximately fifty yards away from its twin. There were no heat signatures coming from inside. Batman grappled to the roof, then sprinted to its edge. His cape snapped open to form batwings, which allowed him to glide the fifty yards and silently land on warehouse 15’s roof.
He paused, entered a gauntlet command, and did another check for heat signatures. Better safe than sorry. Two of the heat signatures were walking back and forth across the room, while the third was still. The motionless dot had to be the prisoner.
Batman lowered himself in through an open-air vent and readied his Batarang. He threw it across the room, where it slammed into a wall with a metallic impact. The two goons reacted to the sound and turned as Batman glided down from the vent and slammed into them from behind. Both were down in less than thirty seconds.
Officer Dini saw Batman coming to him, his gloved finger over his lips. The cop nodded, understanding, as Batman picked the chain lock that held him in place.
“Run toward the back,” Batman whispered. “Use the river door and get out as fast as you can, then call for backup. If all goes well, our friends in the main warehouse will be ready for pickup by the time their ride gets here.”
“Batman, I thought I was… I was sure they were going to kill me,” Dini said breathlessly. “How can I thank you?”
“Do your job. Stay in the city and help the civilians get out.”
Dini looked to the rear door, which was open to the river.
“I will. I will. I promise.”
Batman was gone before he could turn back.
11
Carmine Falcone, referred to by the Gotham City mobs as “the Roman,” had been linked to Bruce Wayne years before the Batman made his first appearance. Luigi Maroni, a crime boss and rival to Carmine’s father, shot the young Falcone as a warning.
Frantic that his son was going to die, Vincent Falcone brought Carmine to Thomas Wayne, Gotham City’s premier surgeon. Not being prescient enough to know the grief this still-young thug would later cause his own son, Wayne saved Carmine’s life.
Later still, the Waynes were brutally murdered by Joe Chill—a low-level waste of humanity engaged in a robbery attempt gone bad. Carmine Falcone, who had succeeded his father as Gotham City’s crime boss, visited the young heir to the Wayne fortune. Because he owed his life to Bruce’s father, he swore to grant Bruce a single unspecified favor—then and there, or at any time in the future.
Knowing that Falcone would never honor that pledge by giving up crime, Bruce had never redeemed the offer.
Carmine Falcone and his rival, Salvatore Maroni, the son of Luigi, fought their way across Gotham City, block by block, until they decided they’d lost enough men to a war that wouldn’t end until they both were killed. After a long negotiation they divided Gotham City, each claiming control of precisely designated areas. From then on they remained in their own territories, each rarely infringing on the other.
Too much was at stake to risk another blood bath.
&nb
sp; * * *
Falcone Shipping looked out onto Lady Gotham with both love and disdain. Vincent Falcone’s father, Alfredo Falco, had brought his family to Gotham City from Italy, then promptly changed his name to Al Falcone, which to his ear sounded more American.
He was a butcher in his home town of Padua, but using all the advantages that American freedom gave him, he became a butcher of another kind here, working for one Gotham City mob after the other, rising through the ranks as his merciless dedication to his craft built him a frightening reputation.
He loved what America gave him, but he also despised the cops and feds who relentlessly tried to prevent him from doing what he was so obviously best at. He saw American politicians—who were supposedly elected to protect the common people—get away with crimes far beyond his scope. Over the course of a year or two he might make three or four million dollars tending to his trade, but these white-collar criminals were hiding away a hundred times that, all the while denouncing Falcone and his kind.
On one hand, love for America.
On the other, hatred for its duplicity.
Al’s son Vincent understood the American system better than his father who, though feared by nearly everyone, essentially ran a one-man chop shop. Vinnie’s son, Carmine, grasped it better than both of his predecessors. He took what was considered to be a mom-and-pop gang and turned it into a major threat worth many times what had been dreamed possible.
Carmine Falcone also owned most of the Gotham City police force, or at least he had before James Gordon became commissioner. Except for Maroni, with whom he reluctantly made peace, he also had no major enemies.
Until Batman appeared.
That pointy-eared shadowy spook caused him no end of financial grief, and Falcone vowed to kill him the first chance he got.
Despite many such chances, he consistently failed to honor the promise he’d made to himself. Yet he never wavered in his commitment. Falcone only had to succeed once. The odds were on his side and he knew, sooner or later, Batman would die.
His death would not be pretty.
12
Batman tapped his comm and connected with Oracle.
“Officer Dini’s safe—I’m back at the Batmobile. What’s the current assessment from the Falcone antenna?”
The response came instantly. “Satellite feed is showing armed warriors,” Barbara said. “From their uniforms, I’d say they’re Scarecrow militia, not Falcone hoods. That means they’re probably better trained.”
“This day keeps getting better and better.”
“At least it isn’t dull,” she replied. “Don’t forget you’re going to need Fox’s power conductor to ignite the antenna’s power supply.”
“Already on it,” Batman replied, removing the power conductor from the Batmobile’s input connector. He synched it with the car’s main unit, then took off.
The tower housing the second antenna rose from the center of Falcone Plaza, a large courtyard with high fortress walls on all four sides. Gargoyles, imported from England, protruded from each wall. “Don’t just make your fortress impenetrable, make it frightening.” Words of wisdom from Al Falcone.
According to his heat sensors, there were at least nine guards patrolling the plaza, each armed with a laser-guided automatic rifle. One of the soldiers—appearing to be a superior—stepped away from the others. He held a voice amplifier to his lips.
“Batman, we know you’re here,” he shouted. “We found whatever the hell gizmo you attached to the antenna at Panessa Studios. Don’t worry, we dismantled it. Next we’re going to dismantle you. Sounds fair, doesn’t it?”
Batman didn’t answer. They only suspected he was here, and there was no reason to confirm their suspicions. His fingers danced across his gauntlet as he checked his heat scanners for nearby opponents. None were close. That meant they not only didn’t know he was there, but they also didn’t know why he’d come.
The tower was nearly a hundred yards away, and the nine mercs not only surrounded it, but patrolled inside as well. He couldn’t fire a grapple and zip to it, he couldn’t approach by foot, and he couldn’t drop down on top of it. Somehow he’d have to find another way inside.
“Batman, we know you can hear this,” the soldier shouted into the amplifier. “Show yourself and you’re a dead man.” To prove his point the soldiers took firing position, rifles aimed in all directions.
“Idiot,” Batman muttered to himself. If you knew where I was, the rifles would be pointed at me. This is a duck hunt, not a barrel full of fish.
He slipped in closer. The nearest two soldiers were fifty yards away. As fast as he was, he couldn’t make it across the courtyard and take them down before they’d shoot. Even if they weren’t marksmen—and he suspected Scarecrow only hired the best—the odds were against him. There was no way this could be a simple, straight-on assault.
He studied the gargoyles on the walls surrounding the tower. There were at least four of them, one on each wall. He fired a grapple to the closest gargoyle and it snagged the stone beast, then yanked the line to determine its hold. Waiting for a moment when all of the guards were looking elsewhere, he retracted the line, which pulled him silently up to the gargoyle. He scrambled to its top, then looked back to see if there was any reaction from the mercs.
None.
They hadn’t heard the grapple mechanism.
Perfect.
Two mercs walked below him, with three more positioned across the courtyard. Their patrols included the wall’s lower perimeter. The other four were inside the tower—that’s where the antenna controls would be. His timing would have to be precise.
This is doable.
Batman fired another grapple line to a gargoyle across the courtyard. The guards walking the perimeter would arrive soon. If he made his move one second too early or too late, he’d be cut down by a volley of bullets.
Unlike the soldiers outside Scarecrow’s penthouse, chatting away when they should have been on high alert, these two were total professionals. As two arrived directly below him, he launched himself from the gargoyle. His descent would take four-point-eight seconds. They would have moved another three and a half yards, which meant he’d be able to take them down from behind.
He landed on the first one and smashed an elbow into the back of the man’s head. The sudden shock and pain forced the merc to his knees. Batman slammed his fist into the man’s throat, and he went down.
The second one was already turning to him, raising his weapon to fire. Batman crouched and spun, kicking his foot into the merc’s stomach. The man bent over in pain and Batman spun again, smashing his foot through the man’s nose, shattering its cartilage. As the goon joined his partner in blissful unconsciousness, Batman fired a grapple line to the closest gargoyle, and disappeared on top of it.
Plastic surgery might fix the goon’s nose, but he’d be wheezing with every breath for the rest of his life. A good reminder. The man was a killer, and Batman wasn’t going to waste a single moment feeling sorry for him.
He fired another line across the courtyard, away from the fallen mercs. Judging from their rate of movement, the other guards would discover them in forty-three seconds. He didn’t want to be anywhere close.
Shouting. It had taken them less than thirty seconds. Scarecrow definitely hired top professionals. Now everyone was on the alert.
He winched across the courtyard again, perching on another gargoyle. From here he could see two other mercs join the three who were already searching for him. That left only two inside the tower.
He liked those odds.
Batman pulled a Batarang from his belt pouch and sent it spinning across the courtyard to where he’d been moments earlier. It began its circle back then hit the tower’s south wall, as intended. The soldiers heard its thump and ran in that direction, scanning the area as they went. Batman already had a second Batarang in his hand, and anticipated that at least one of the five would be slower than the others.
He was right
. He sailed the Batarang into the slowest merc, slamming him in the back of his head, dropping him instantly to the ground. The others, running to the south tower wall, didn’t look back to see that one of their number was down.
Launching himself silently from the wall, Batman landed near the downed soldier and made certain he wouldn’t soon get up. Then he fired his grapple to another gargoyle and took off. Three down. Four outside the tower. Two inside.
Time was running out.
Using the grapple he shot across the courtyard, unseen by the mercs below, and perched on top of the tower. There was an open window fifty feet below the peak. The two thugs inside would see him the moment he entered. His appearance would have to be a surprise.
He hit his comm and spoke to Lucius Fox.
“I’m at Falcone Shipping,” he said, keeping his voice low, “and I need a diversion to the northwest. Think you can rig up something?”
There was a moment of silence, then Fox replied.
“Given time, I can accomplish most anything,” the man said without a hint of ego. “How soon will you need this distraction?”
“What can you give me in thirty seconds?”
A whooshing sound came over the connection.
“Really? You don’t believe in making things easy, do you?”
“If it was easy, anyone could do it.” Even as he spoke, Batman prepared himself to move, knowing without doubt that something was about to happen.
“A flawless reputation gets increasingly more difficult to live with,” Fox replied. “But I’ve had twenty seconds since we begun this conversation, so tell me what you think of this.”
Suddenly the riverfront lit up with a fireworks display, bathing Lady Gotham in streamers of red, purple, white, and green. Each burst of light was accompanied by the traditional resounding boom. A half-dozen peonies exploded over the water, then a globe of sparkling stars that seemed to envelop the city. Chrysanthemums and willows burned high above, mixed with a barrage of horsetails that rose high then suddenly fell, breaking into a shower of streaming light.
