Batman Arkham Knight Page 3

  He grabbed the crowbar, looked around to make certain he wasn’t being watched, then smashed in a window on one of the police cars. Glancing around again he reached inside, unlocked the door then scrambled inside. There had to be a weapon here somewhere.

  As he rooted through the back seat, he didn’t see the taxi pull up beside the car. His fingers closed around a shotgun, and he pulled it free from under a blanket.

  Bingo!

  He stared at it—not the best weapon, he knew. He would have preferred an automatic. But this was better than nothing.

  “Hey, creepo. What do you think you’re doing?” The voice came from the cab.

  “Who the hell are you?” he responded, not really caring. He tightened his grip on the rifle and raised it so his annoyer could see it. “Or maybe you should just get the hell out of here.”

  The figure in the taxi leaned to the window and Louie gasped. He knew the face… or maybe it would be better to say he knew both of them.

  “Two-Face?” Louie could barely spit out the killer’s name. Everyone knew Harvey Dent, formerly Gotham City’s crusading district attorney—the once great hope of the city. But that was before acid was thrown at him by one of the mobsters he was trying to put behind bars. Half of his face was burned to the bone. Strips of flesh dangled from the few patches that were still in place. From one side he looked like the worst monster from the most disgusting movie ever filmed. From the other side—the side not hit with the acid—he still looked like whatever handsome actor they had cast in the hero’s role.

  “You were saying, creep?” Two-Face grinned a sickly smile.

  Louie didn’t know how to respond. The mob boss had a special dollar coin he loved to flip. Both sides had a face on them, but he’d taken a knife and gouged one of the faces. Now his coin looked like him.

  “Please, Mr. Two-Face… Mr. Dent… I didn’t mean anything. I thought you were a cop. I was just mouthing off.”

  “Shhh.” Two-Face put a finger to his lips. Then he held up the coin, and flipped it into the air. As of that moment, all that mattered was which side of his coin would come up once it landed. Perfect head, you were allowed to live. Scarred head, you died. All the pleading, all the prayers, they all meant nothing. Your life, your future, was left to a coin toss.

  The coin flipped six times up, six times down, then landed in Two-Face’s hand. He looked at it and smiled. Instinctively, Louie smiled back.

  Before it could register, the former Harvey Dent squeezed the gun’s trigger, and fired.

  Blam!

  Louie flinched, and thought he might have pissed himself. He was waiting for it to register that the bullet had gone through his brain, and that he was dead.

  That moment never came.

  He was still alive.

  Yet there was no way Dent could have missed him, not from less than five feet away. He looked up incredulously, and Two-Face nodded past Louie, making the thug turn.

  Behind the police car he saw a freshly dead cop, probably the cop in whose car Louie was sitting. He had been coming back to reclaim it.

  Two-Face had saved him.

  “Thank you, sir,” he choked. “Thank you.”

  Without a reply Two-Face turned his head to show his monster side, where his flesh was ripped away from bone and he grinned a revolting smile. He wasn’t looking at Louie, but at his own taxi driver.

  “What are you waiting for?” Without warning the engine gunned, the car took off and rounded the corner, moving quickly out of sight.

  Louie took another minute to calm his wild breathing. The coin must have come good side up. He’d been half a flip away from dying. But he was okay now. He was better than okay. He was alive.

  Then he remembered the shotgun in his hand.

  He still had Newton and his men to deal with. His night wasn’t over. Indeed, it was just beginning.

  * * *

  Harvey Dent stretched out in the back seat of the taxi and grinned another of his nauseating grimaces. He knew the effect he had on others, and he enjoyed playing the game. If he liked you, he’d angle his face to show his demon side. If he didn’t, you’d see how movie-star handsome he once had been.

  Keep them off balance, he always said. Never let them know which side you’re coming from. He laughed, showing his fellow passenger his monster face.

  * * *

  The Penguin wanted to vomit but knew that wouldn’t be the best tactic when working with a new partner.

  “When you squeezed that trigger, Ross probably pissed his pants,” Penguin said, and he laughed with a perverse squawk. “He’s a bloody waste of flesh.”

  “So why do you keep him, Oswald?” Oswald Cobblepot was the name Penguin had been given at birth. There was never any question why he’d changed it.

  Penguin laughed. “Everyone needs expendables.”

  Two-Face roared with laughter, and it again made the Penguin want to throw up.

  * * *

  Gordon walked across the G.C.P.D. rooftop to where the Bat-Signal was mounted. It had taken him three years and countless fights to get its installation approved, but here it was. Either he’d worn down City Hall with his endless memos, or the city’s aldermen had decided to indulge him a bit, on the likelihood that Gotham City’s criminals would eliminate the vigilante—and possibly Gordon, as well. Then they would hire a new police commissioner—one who was more… pliable.

  Not gonna happen. Gordon hoped the signal would help usher in a new Gotham City. That it would fulfill the people’s need to put a face on their heroes. Under Gordon’s leadership, Gotham City would not be business as usual.

  Gillian Loeb and Jack Grogan were Gordon’s predecessors, and they’d depicted Batman as nothing more than a dangerous vigilante with an unknown agenda. The problem was, Batman worked on his own, outside the law, and often overstepped the basic rights of citizens.

  Criminals, yes, but still citizens.

  Gordon didn’t want to admit, publicly or even to himself, that he felt there were times the law and its necessary restrictions proved ineffective. That the police could be helpless, even when hell itself was about to swallow them whole. Lots of cops privately believed that was the case—the honest ones, at least.

  Dangerous situations could bring out the worst in anyone. All too often shortcuts had been taken to solve problems, “in the name of public safety,” but those shortcuts just made things worse. And so rules had been put in place, to prevent such excesses. Restrictions that all too often handcuffed the police in doing their jobs.

  It was a contradiction that couldn’t be dodged, and it led directly to the Batman. Defending him caused Gordon no end of problems, but in a city like theirs, where law enforcement was hamstrung by judges who had been paid for long ago, the caped vigilante’s litany of victories made the citizenry shout their support.

  Save one or two innocent people and you’d be forgotten by the next news cycle. Save an entire city—time and again—from the most insane of madmen, and the people began to look to his appearances as the only measure of security they might ever hope to get. Knowing he existed gave them a tangible measure of comfort. Knowledge that there was at least one man out there who would fight for them, no matter the risk.

  There were still politicians who demanded that the police stop Batman any way they could. Many of them were crooked, but there were honest politicos who still chastised his methods. Gordon couldn’t argue with anyone who truly believed in the law above all, but in his heart he was thrilled that the people of Gotham City had a savior to call their own. And that their hero always towed the line.

  God willing, he silently prayed, he always will.

  “Jim, I’ve seen you look better,” Batman said, walking up from behind. Gordon nearly jumped out of his skin. As always, he hadn’t heard the man approaching.

  Shouldn’t that cape at least make a sound? he thought irritably.

  “Been up thirty hours straight,” Gordon said. “I think I’m pissing caffeine.”


  “Not an image I’ll easily forget.” Batman peered at him. “How is the evac going?”

  “About how you’d expect. Riots break out every time a loaded bus leaves the station without the thousands of people who had to be left behind. The train tracks out of Bleake were sabotaged about an hour ago, so that cut off another avenue of escape. We’ve had more desertions, so I think I’ve got no more than eight hundred cops, give or take. That’s barely enough to patrol a single neighborhood, let alone the entire city. And you?”

  * * *

  Batman looked past the rooftop and out over the city he’d pledged to protect. It was hard to believe Gotham City had rebuilt itself, for the most part, after the devastating earthquake that hit it several years earlier. But the city was back, and it was just starting to recover.

  Then this had to happen.

  “Don’t know if you heard,” Gordon said, “but the power grids were attacked, and they’re down. Here and there we’ve got some lights, but it’s not good.”

  Even from the rooftop Batman could see candles flickering in the growing dark. Scarecrow said he wanted fear. Forcing the people to live in an uncompromising night fit right into his plans.

  “Truth to tell,” Gordon said, “I’d hoped once the Joker was gone that the other madmen who had followed him to Gotham City would leave, too. You know, maybe move to Coast City or Central City—or better yet Metropolis. Let the alien deal with them. It didn’t work out that way.”

  “I had that dream, too,” Batman admitted. “Then I woke up.”

  Gordon forced a fake smile. “There is some good news, believe it or not. I’d say about seventy-five percent of our people made it out of Gotham City. That’s a lot of people we won’t have to worry about. The last bus should be crossing the city limits within the hour. Personally, I’m just happy that Barbara got out of the city in time. If she’d been trapped here, stuck in that wheelchair, God knows how long she’d last.” He paused, then added, “It’s another reason I so looked forward to pushing that red button, and sending the Joker to the hell he deserved.”

  Batman felt his comm vibrate. Ironically, its particular pattern indicated that a call was coming through from Barbara Gordon. Despite the commissioner’s belief and desires, Barbara was still in the city, ensconced in the Clock Tower, doing her job as Oracle, monitoring the city for any—she called them—“aberrations.”

  He couldn’t tell that to Gordon, though. Both he and Barbara thought the truth might kill him. At the very least, it would cause irreparable harm.

  “Everyone should be safe, Jim,” he said. “That’s what we’re working for.” Then he turned back to face the commissioner. “Why did you ask me to meet you here?”

  Gordon shook his head and gave an embarrassed grin.

  “Right. Sorry. Family worries have to be put on the back burner.” He held up his phone and quickly entered some data. “I’m sending you a file. We’re tracking an unknown military vehicle that’s speeding through Chinatown—we have reason to believe it belongs to Scarecrow. It’s not much but it’s the only lead we’ve had all night. Trouble is, it gave us the slip. I don’t have the manpower left to look for it. I was hoping—”

  “Already on it, Jim.” Batman held out his glove. A series of hologram images rose from the gauntlet. He scrolled through them until he reached the photos. “A word of caution,” he said. “If your men find the tank, tell them not to engage. I’ll handle it.”

  “You know, with all the desertions, it seems as if you’re the only one I can count on. Thank you.”

  “You don’t have to thank me for doing my job.”

  “A job, should I remind you, that you’re not paid to do. Anyway, between the two of us, is Scarecrow truly so insane that he’d detonate a chemical weapon in Gotham City?”

  “I won’t let that happen, Jim.” Batman reached into his cape and pulled out a small cell phone, handing it over. “In case you need to reach me. It’s going to be a long night.”

  Gordon took the phone and looked down at it, then back up. But Batman was already gone. He shook his head and gave a tired smile.

  “Every damn time.”

  5

  As the Batmobile roared through the city, autopilot guiding its way, Batman tapped his gauntlet, activating its holo screen. Barbara Gordon’s image flickered into view.

  “I’ve been wondering when I’d hear back from you,” she said. “That chemical data arrived—I’m working on it now. So, what’s the latest?”

  “Your father and I were talking. He’s gotten reports that an unmarked military vehicle has been spotted in the Chinatown area. Can you set up a trace?”

  “Yeah. Heard the report on the police band. Hold on while I patch you into the GPS tracker.” A moment later she added, “So tell me, how is he?”

  “Holding up.”

  Oracle smiled. “Somehow he always does.”

  “He’s a good man, Barbara,” Batman replied. “Perhaps it’s time to confide in him.”

  “You first, Bruce,” she countered. “Seriously, after all this time, I’m not sure what his reaction would be. He still blames himself for what happened to me.”

  “He had nothing to do with it. That was the Joker.”

  “I know. You know. But he feels that if he had been doing his job right, the Joker would never have been given the opportunity…”

  Even over the low-res holographic image, Batman could tell she was looking at her legs, tucked onto the wheelchair footrest. Unmoving and useless as they’d been for the past several years.

  “You have to understand, Bruce,” she continued. “Guilt explains why he insisted on igniting the crematorium flames himself. Somehow it seemed as if burning up the Joker’s body would bring him, I don’t know, maybe peace.”

  “I hope it did. He deserves peace of mind, more than anyone else I know.”

  “Hey, I agree. Which is why telling him I’m Oracle, that I keep the entire city—his city—under surveillance, that I work with you…” She shook her head. “More than that, admitting that I used to be Batgirl—hell, it’s a litany of lies. Do you really think he’ll take it in stride? I think it would tear him apart even more than what the Joker did. Do you really want to deal with the backlash from that?”

  “Then maybe it would be for the best if you became what your father thinks you are,” Batman said. “Give up being Oracle. Go back to being Barbara Gordon.”

  “The action librarian?” she said, and she shook her head again. “Not going to happen, Bruce. Despite what he did to me, I am not going to allow my limitations to be an excuse. If we intend to save this city, we have to be prepared to fight the tyranny of madness, no matter what shape we’re in.”

  “I’m the last person in the world who would argue with that, but—”

  “Bruce, hold that.” Her holo image looked off to the side. “I’ve got the coordinates. Forwarding them to the Batmobile.”

  “Got it, Barbara. On my way.”

  “Be careful.”

  “Always.”

  * * *

  Minutes later he was in the center of Chinatown, speeding through its narrow, twisting streets. This eclectic neighborhood had been cobbled together in the late 1800s. Unlike the rest of Gotham City, its streets didn’t conform to any pre-established grid, but instead seemed to turn in and around themselves like a maze, making navigation difficult in the best of times.

  Chinatown’s founders had well remembered the many attacks their villages suffered before they left their home country, and they were determined to make access to their new homes as difficult as possible for any enemy that targeted them.

  They more than succeeded.

  “I’m picking up several blips,” Oracle said. “Two tanks ahead on Pel.”

  A half-dozen armed militia mercs blocked the street in front of Batman.

  “Barbara, it may take a few more minutes to get there. I’m facing a phalanx of soldiers, more or less.”

  “Soldiers. How nice. You giving the
m a parade?”

  “No. Just the fireworks.” Batman tapped the car’s computer screen, scrolling to his front weapons system, then tapped the red “armed” icon. With a subtle whirr, the weapons swiveled into position.

  The Batmobile’s side fenders slid back, revealing weapons array 1-A, complete with a half-dozen heat-seeking missiles. No need for the heavy artillery, he thought. As the array retracted back into the car, it was replaced by a non-lethal system.

  “More like it.”

  The soldiers were armed with anti-materiel, anti-tank rifles and high-powered carbines. They were prepared to deal with anything the G.C.P.D. could throw at them, and a bit more.

  But they weren’t dealing with the police now.

  Batman slipped his night lenses into position in his cowl as the Batmobile opened fire. The space between the vehicle and the soldiers exploded with blinding, pinwheeling light that instantly blinded them. While they flailed helplessly, the canopy opened and he sprang to the street.

  He felt his anger starting to grow. It was the Joker’s blood again, trying its damnedest to exert control. But it wasn’t going to work this time, he thought as he fought back. He couldn’t let it. Not ever again.

  He landed and rammed his fist into the throat of the closest soldier, immediately knocking him to his knees, and then he drove his elbow to the back of the man’s neck. He wouldn’t be waking up for at least twenty minutes. Batman moved quickly to the next soldiers. They were still blinded, but the effect would be wearing off soon.

  The blood was making him angry. He was lashing out in blind rage. He had to control it before it controlled him.

  He took down two more without meeting resistance. Three more to go. He allowed himself a smile—he was in control of this takedown. The soldiers were fighting Batman, not the Joker’s spawn.

  One of the soldiers was rubbing his eyes, clearing away the haze. Before he could, Batman slammed his foot into the man’s face. He whirled and quickly took down another.