by Jason Starr
Contents
Cover
Also Available from Titan Books
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also Available from Titan Books
ALSO AVAILABLE FROM TITAN BOOKS
The Flash: The Haunting of Barry Allen
by Clay and Susan Griffith
Arrow: Vengeance
by Lauren Certo and Oscar Balderrama
Arrow: Generation of Vipers
by Clay and Susan Griffith (March 2017)
…and watch for the next
GOTHAM
novel by Jason Starr
GOTHAM: DAWN OF DARKNESS
Print edition ISBN: 9781785651458
E-book edition ISBN: 9781785651465
Published by Titan Books
A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd
144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP
First edition: January 2017
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
Copyright © 2017 DC Comics
GOTHAM and all related characters and elements © & ™ DC Comics and Warner Bros. Entertainment Inc. DC LOGO: TM & © DC Comics.
WB SHIELD: TM & © WBEI (s17)
TIBO38858
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
FOR CHYNNA
ONE
At a little past two a.m., Thomas Wayne was still at work on the computer in his office—the ultimate man cave—when he thought he heard a creaking sound. It seemed to come from above, or maybe behind him.
Thomas listened intently for a moment, then shrugged—maybe another bat had gotten in—and he returned to work.
This part of the house wasn’t airtight, but its walls were thick, and little sound ever made it downstairs. In fact, what with its raw stone and concrete, exposed pipes, and the accompanying mustiness, it really did feel more like a cave than a basement. There were a lot of nooks and crannies where light never reached, and he’d seen bats down here before—sometimes hanging upside down, dormant, or flying around at night. He’d considered exterminating, but the bats didn’t bother him, and they couldn’t get upstairs into the main part of Wayne Manor, so he didn’t see the point.
Besides, he sort of liked the company. Aside from him, the bats were the only ones who knew about this place’s existence—situated as it was directly below his first-floor study. Even Thomas’s wife Martha and his teenage son Bruce didn’t know about it.
A minute or so later, he heard more noise. This definitely came from above him, and it didn’t sound like a bat—it sounded like a bang, as if something had dropped on the floor upstairs.
That’s odd…
He wasn’t home alone. It could be Bruce, Martha, or their butler, Alfred Pennyworth. But it would be highly unusual for any of them to be up and about at this time of night, and even more unusual for one of them to go into Thomas’s workspace. Martha always respected his privacy and while Bruce—like any fourteen year old—got curious from time to time, Thomas had made it clear to him that his office was off-limits, and the boy usually complied. This left Alfred, his devoted employee for many years, who was the least likely to enter alone and uninvited.
Especially in the middle of the night.
Figuring he ought to check it out, Thomas left the office, closing the steel, high-tech security door he’d had installed. He kept a lot of valuable secrets here, including ones regarding his company, Wayne Enterprises, and these days, with crime rampant in Gotham, there could never be too much caution.
Creeping up the steep staircase which led to the secret entrance, he listened for any more sounds. Nothing. At the top landing he waited about a minute, but still didn’t hear anything. Perhaps something had fallen on its own—that happened from time to time. Maybe a book had been precariously placed on his desk, and had somehow fallen off. Or maybe a window or a door had been slammed shut by a breeze.
Had he left a window open? The night was chilly…
After several more moments of absolute silence, he was ready to accept that it had been an anomaly and was about to return downstairs to finish up his work, when he heard voices—men’s voices—coming from inside his study.
Thomas couldn’t make out what the men were saying, nor could he tell how many men there were. Then he heard more movement—maybe furniture shifting. Thomas’s pulse quickened. People were upstairs. They had made it past the security system, and entered his home. Bruce, Martha, even Alfred, could be in danger.
Then there was a banging, as if someone was pounding on something, and the sound of more objects hitting the floor.
He rushed back down the stairs, going as quickly as he could without falling. Into the keypad, he typed in the password—B-R-U-C-E—and the basement door swung open. He went right to the landline and tapped in three digits.
“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?” the female operator asked.
“This is Thomas Wayne,” he said, keeping his voice low. “There appears to be a break-in at Wayne Manor.”
“Sorry, what’s your name?”
“Wayne. Thomas Wayne.”
A pause, then the operator said, “Wait, Thomas Wayne. The Thomas Wayne? The billionaire? The richest man in Gotham?”
I don’t have time for this. Impatient, Thomas said, “What’s your name, please?”
“Jessica.”
“Jessica what?”
A pause, then, “Meyers.”
“Send the police here immediately, Ms. Meyers,” Thomas said, “or you’ll never work in Gotham again.” Without waiting for a response, he hung up on her. In general, he hated threatening people, but sometimes it seemed the only way to get anything done.
Thomas kept a loaded handgun in his office, just for emergencies—and this qualified as an emergency. He retrieved the Walther semi-automatic from the back of one of his filing cabinets, and then moved again for the door.
Staying in the basement, waiting for the GCPD to show up, simply wasn’t an option. He figured it could take ten minutes or longer for the police to get here at this time of night. He thought about Bruce and Martha, hopefully still asleep in bed, but he had to do whatever he could to protect them. Besides, someone had broken into his property,
invaded his space. His home. This was a violation—felt like it on a gut level. It reminded him of the way he’d been feeling at work lately—vulnerable, disrespected, irrelevant, cast aside. He hated playing the part of the victim, and remaining passive wasn’t in his nature. For centuries, the Waynes had been fighters.
Again locking the office, he headed back up the stairs, padding quietly. The door at the top led to a secret entrance behind the fireplace in his office. There was no subtle, quiet way to enter the study—once he pressed the button the shelves would part, and if there were in fact an intruder or intruders in the room, Thomas wouldn’t exactly be taking them by surprise.
He listened carefully at first—didn’t hear anything.
To hell with it. He pressed the entry button.
The two halves of the door parted, and he saw that the study had been ransacked. Heavy, leather-covered furniture had been overturned, drawers pulled out of the desk and dumped. Classic, valuable books, papers, antique statuettes, all had been thrown about, some shattered, and office supplies were strewn all over the floor. A massive grandfather clock lay on its side, the glass broken out. That must have been what he had heard from the office below.
What the hell? There were large gashes in the walls, and the plasterboard had been pulled away in several places, revealing insulation and exposed electrical wiring. Here and there he saw gaping black holes in the wooden slats that lay underneath.
Aiming the gun ahead of him, Thomas crept into the room. Thoughts swirling, he made his way through the study, avoiding the stuff on the floor.
Who did this? he asked himself, over and over. Random thieves? Professional criminals? Then he noticed the empty space on the wall opposite the windows. One of his most valuable paintings—Picasso’s Le Picador—had been taken, frame and all.
Thomas was gutted. Not over the money. True, the painting was worth tens of millions of dollars, but even if it were gone for good it wouldn’t make a dent, or even a smudge, in Thomas’s private fortune. It was the painting’s sentimental value that couldn’t be replaced. Thomas’s great grandfather had bought it from the young, struggling artist himself on a street corner in Seville. Or at least that was how the family story went.
He paused a moment, and frowned. Was that what the break-in was all about? A painting? If professional art thieves had come here to steal a painting, then why ransack the study?
Unless they were looking for something else. Maybe still looking for it.
The thieves could still be in the house, even upstairs.
Intent upon making sure his family was safe, Thomas left the study. If he saw an intruder he planned to shoot first, and to hell with asking questions later—he wouldn’t ask questions at all. All he needed was a good look, and he’d get his man. Cool under pressure, he was a good shot. He had never served in the army, but his grandfather used to take him hunting and skeet shooting, and he practiced at a private shooting range north of Gotham. Alfred had helped him with that, pressing his training until he was satisfied with the results.
He continued into the foyer. The only light came from several night-lights, and he had to squint to see at all, especially as he approached the main hallway where it was even darker. Then he detected movement to his right. He shifted, and was about to fire his weapon, when he realized he was looking at the mirror, at his own dim reflection.
Feeling ridiculous, he stayed put, catching his breath. The house was almost silent—the only sound Thomas heard was his own breathing. He passed through the dining room, then the drawing room, noting that all the windows were secure and there was no sign of a break-in.
Then he saw them.
Three men coming toward him, from the direction of the kitchen—or the servants’ staircase. They were all in black, wearing Halloween-style masks. There was a werewolf, a zombie, and a gorilla. The gorilla was holding the Picasso, while the zombie had something in his right hand. A knife? No, it was wider than a knife. It looked more like a meat cleaver.
When the men saw Thomas they stopped, as if surprised. They stood about ten yards away, and it was an awkward standoff—like deer in headlights, staring at one another. It seemed to go on forever, but it was no more than five seconds. Then motion. The werewolf guy took out a gun, and it glinted in the dim light.
Thomas raised his weapon, aimed it as best he could, and fired, hitting him in the chest. The intruder grunted in agony and fell back, keeping his feet.
“Come on,” the zombie said, “let’s get outta here. Thomas didn’t recognize the voice, muffled as it was, but the accent was pure, working class Gotham.
The zombie and gorilla took off toward the front door, but the werewolf remained and aimed his gun at Thomas’s face. Thomas leapt to his right, ducking behind the grand piano. A bullet hit the piano, and another whizzed by overhead.
Leaning to his left, Thomas saw a sliver of the man, visible between the legs of the piano, and he fired the Walther, hitting the intruder again. He groaned and stumbled backward, toppling over a club chair.
Leaping to his feet, Thomas rushed past the body and went outside. Dull orangeish light coming from old-style lampposts illuminated the long driveway. The other two intruders were getting into a car, slamming the doors and revving the engine. The car sped away along the driveway toward the front gates. The night guard, Nigel, was supposed to be on duty, but the gate was wide open. Where the hell was he?
Dropping his gun hand to his side, Thomas went back into Wayne Manor and turned on the lights. He was heading toward the main stairway, to go up and check on his family, when he heard a muffled voice.
“Hey, rich guy. Where you goin’?”
Thomas stopped and turned back. The werewolf guy stood in the doorway to the drawing room. With a bleeding gash in his leg, he was aiming his gun. Thomas still had his own weapon by his side.
“You got what you wanted,” Thomas said. “Why don’t you just leave?”
“You wanted me to leave, you should’a thought about that before you shot me.”
The werewolf guy’s finger moved against the trigger.
Thomas flinched as a shot rang out.
A bullet ripped into the side of the guy’s neck—knocking him off of his feet. The gun fell to the floor, along with his dead body.
Then Thomas saw Alfred on the mid-landing of the stairwell, holding his Browning 9mm sidearm, crouched a full twenty feet from his target. In his sixties, Pennyworth was still as fit as a man half his age, and possessed a lethal set of skills honed in the British Royal Marines. That was why Thomas had hired him. A butler who could make tea was easy to find. A butler who could save lives? Not so easy.
“Nice going,” Thomas said, “but I had the situation under control.”
In the distance, sirens blared.
“Of course you did, sir,” Alfred said. “I don’t doubt that for a moment.”
TWO
Before sunrise, GCPD Detectives Harvey Bullock and Amanda Wong arrived at Wayne Manor.
“I should be in bed right now,” Harvey said, “getting all rested up for tomorrow morning’s hangover.”
Harvey and Amanda had been partners for about a week now, ever since Harvey’s last partner got killed in a shootout during a drug store robbery. He’d liked his last partner. Marv was a good guy, but what could you do? It seemed like Harvey went through partners faster than rock bands went through drummers.
So enter Amanda, stage left. Ideal partner?
Not quite. First problem—their personalities. Harvey was a husky, rugged Irish-American with a scraggly beard. He liked to wear old suit jackets and fedoras, and didn’t give a damn if his clothes were in style now, or if they’d ever been in style. He lived by the adage, “It’s not how you look, it’s how you feel,” and he always felt like the coolest dude in the room. If he hadn’t become a cop, he would’ve been a sailor, or a dockworker, or maybe a lumberjack if he lived in the woods and knew how to swing an axe.
Amanda, meanwhile, had Asian features, wore
her hair in a tight bun, and her clothes were neatly pressed. If she was attractive, Harvey hadn’t looked long enough to notice. She was in shape, but thin—way too thin, as far as Harvey was concerned. He liked women with meat on their bones and if they had a temper, liked to slap him around a little, so much the better. Amanda couldn’t win a fight with a punching bag.
Worse, she was a snob. For example, when she was off duty, she liked to go to wine bars and to the theater and freakin’ museums. What was up with that? For Harvey, it was bars—real bars, ones that sold beer and whiskey—and maybe an occasional trip to a pool hall or the racetrack.
They got out of the car and headed along the graveled driveway. Beat cops and medical personnel were working the scene, and there were black-and-whites, emergency medical services ambulances, and a Gotham TV news truck. Lacey White, the young, curvy brunette reporter was chatting with a cameraman, prepping to report from the scene.
“Never too early to break a hot news story, huh Lace?” Harvey called out.
When she spotted Harvey, her expression brightened.
“Harvey!”
She handed the cameraman the mike, then rushed over. He met her halfway and she gave him a big, tight hug. Damn, she felt good. Smelled good, too—a combination of lady soap, whatever perfume she had on, and her own natural scent. It gave him flashbacks to the nights they’d spent together, how she’d tossed him around like a giant beanbag and had her way with him—just the way Harvey liked it.
He whispered into her ear. “I miss you, sweetheart.”
She whispered back, “Me, too. What’s wrong, Harv? Lose my number?”
They’d gone out a few times a couple of years back, always had a great time—hell, if they hadn’t, he would’ve forgotten about her by now. If he was a relationship kind of guy, which he definitely wasn’t, she might’ve been the one for him. She was definitely his type—fun, sexy, no attitude.
“Maybe I did,” he said, “but I promise I’ll find it soon, sweetheart.”
She nodded, and he smiled, feeling good about himself. Not all guys could make that work—blow off a woman, and then call her “sweetheart.” Not without seeming like a total sleaze ball. Harvey could work the magic.
