47 Nights in Gotham [Night 3 now up]
Posted: 2008-05-15 02:31am
Night 1
Elm Valley gated community.
The word had been growing on the streets for a while, a new supplier had arrived in Gotham. They had been smart, hadn't flooded the streets with product, hadn't started any gang wars and they certainly hadn't raised their profile enough to bring themselves to the attention of any masked vigilantes. Their product was heroin, very high quality, Afghan in origin. The stash house turned out to be in a new housing development, far into Northern suburbia. The stash house hid inside a gated community. He'd only been able to track it this far after stumbling upon a courier delivering the product during one of his sweeps of the ghettos.
The plans for the house had been easy enough to find, but they didn't match what he was seeing now. The walls were too thick around the windows. The windows had steel security shutters, the doors were probably solid steel with a wood finish, tiny surveillance cameras and sensors hid under the eaves and gutters. For all this however the house fit nicely into the neighbourhood aesthetic, a clever work of camoflage to disguise the fortress that actually existed on this suburban street. For all it's impressions of a family dwelling he'd only seen two people enter and leave the home in the two nights which he'd been watching. They were both men, late thirties from his estimate with athletic builds and a style to their motions that could only mean military training.
The word on the street was that they were a group of retired special forces sorts. They'd lost enough friends, been "stop-lossed" too often and had decided that they could make more money on their own than playing hired gun for some rebuilding project. The actual stories varied from gang to gang that bought off them, probably as much rumour and speculation as any truths, but from what he had seen so far he didn't doubt their expertise.
Gangs only required one demonstration of force from these men to be placated. Many stories started to fall into place - lieutenants in one organisation or another simply disappearing, shootings on drug corners where the dealers hadn't even drawn their weapons before being brought down by precision shooting and one event where it was rumoured that a gang had been somewhat hesitant in switching to the new supplier, so the entire gang had been taken out in one night.
For people used to intimidating local residents into submissiveness and occasionally trading shots with their enemies in 0% accuracy pistol matches, to be so violently and suddenly attacked forced their hand. The gangs were scared of this new group. So much so that it had taken a lot to get them talking. The police had little on their radar - the shootings raised eyebrows, but to those higher up it mattered little. What were a few more dead dealers? Some had tried to keep open cases on the new flow of drugs, but such crimes were usually well under the radar in Gotham City.
But not now - there was too little going on. Some would say it was too quiet, but for the obsessive vigilante this simply meant that it was time to focus on the smaller fish for a while. He had seen a carload of men arrive earlier in the evening, all of a similar age with the same athleticism and practiced smoothness of motion. The old team looked to be back together for a meeting. This was the time to strike, when he could catch them all in the one place.
The darkness shrouded his movement as he approached the house - night was his friend and fear his ally. But the same had always been true for the people he hunted tonight. He stole across the street, hidden in the river of darkness that flows around the islands of light. A few deft motions with his hands launch adhesive explosives towards some of the cameras and windows - distract and confuse, it's the best plan under these circumstances. The shaped charge is on his back, hidden beneath the cape, ready to blast a window out of its mounting and grant him entry to the interior. He rushes towards the stairs to the front verandah and his point of entry as the lights in the suburb all die at once, courtesy of a small device hidden in the transformer station that feeds the area.
His foot hits the first step and the street is light by momentary flash. The sound of the explosion rips through the night followed by the noises of breaking glass, car alarms and of hundreds of metal hailstones landing on rooftops, cars and the streets. The shattered form of the black armoured figure and his shredded cape come to rest several paces back down the front path.
As the first calls go out to 911, the men who had been in the house speed away in their cars. As the facade of the house continues smouldering along with the most of the plants in the garden, the incendiary devices inside the home detonate. By the time the first emergency services arrive on scene the house is nothing more than a gutted concrete bunker with flames licking at it's windows providing the only illumination. The flicker of the flames reflects from the glossy surface of the streams of blood running to the gutter from the broken body of the Batman.
Night 2
Commissioner Gordon's Office
"So the word is out?" Behind the Commissioner the massive windows look out over the city at dusk. The last light on the horizon just makes the streets seem darker, down in the canyons of steel and concrete.
"It is Sir." Commissioner Gordon couldn't control himself. The IN/OUT trays on his desk sail onto the plushly carpeted floor as he lashes out. The police major giving him the news braces himself for the outburst to follow.
"How? How did we let it come out? The moment the first responders got there surely the protocols for this should have been followed!"
"They were Sir, but this event happened outside of the city limits, so GCPD protocols weren't immediately used, it was only once he was airlifted to Mercy Hospital that we were able to take control of the situation. Numerous people on the street had already witnessed the events. And some of them filmed it. Within an hour of it happening we already had footage of him with the neck brace, spinal board and all being carefully loaded into the ambulance on YouTube." The Major carefully side-steps the next thought: your protocols were based on your own police work back in the seventies you old fart, of course they failed. "The moment it was online we lost control. Every news station has been running it all day. And for the first time in god knows how long half the papers put out an afternoon edition just on this story."
"DAMNIT! He's been out there - keeping this city safe for nearly twenty five years! And now... Now he's in pieces in hospital, in a medically induced coma. They've had to amputate his goddamn legs! This man has been a fucking saviour for this city for so long and now he's being treated like nothing more than Britney fucking Spears with her legs wide open! Just something to kick up the ratings. A new talking point!"
"It is sad, Sir."
"Fuck. We need to act on this to keep the city under control. I want to vist the Mayor ASAP. Set it up."
The Major makes a quick exit, glad to escape from Gordon's fury. He respected the man and what he had done for the city, but his long term relationship with the Batman had destroyed his vision. For the Major, like many of the younger officers in the force the Batman had been a hero, until his enemies kept growing in power and time and time again he failed to finish them off. The DA's had never made a case stick to any of them. Nor the US Attorney's who tried later. After all, it's very hard for a prosecutor to win when the defendant's lawyer can point out that they were kidnapped, denied their liberty and delivered to the police without any admissable evidence.
The Batman had always shown such flagrant disregard for the law which he claimed to uphold. The fact that these violent, dangerous men kept getting back on to the streets because some masked idiot kept on insisting that he was above the law infuriated the Major, as it had so many others. Slowly Batman's support amongst the populace had eroded, and after so many terrible and violent acts that claimed so many innocent lives, it seemed that only Gordon still had any faith in him. The "Bat-Signal" had last been switched on nearly seven years ago, and it was only at Gordon's absolute insistence that it remained in place and maintained, a remnant of the time when Batman was still a hero, when the people weren't sick of him ruining their lives. All of the villains who that masked fool had spent his life chasing were going legitimate, or had decided that life inside Arkham Asylum was a damn site more relaxing and safer than having some lunatic clad in black suddenly appearing in your life over and over again. The Penguin had even made a successful civil suit against "The Batman" for destruction of property when his limo had been trashed during one of the Batman's last escapades. Of course, no money was paid out as the Batman was anonymous. Now however, it was a different story.
BBC News
"Batman, who for nearly a quarter of a century has been alternately been amongst the most loved and despised of America's celebrities was unmasked today. The videos taken by mobile phones at the scene of his incapacitation show the familiar face of Bruce Wayne - the billionaire CEO of Wayne Industries, who inherited the business in 1966 following the death of both his mother and father in a botched robbery to which he was the sole witness, aged just eight years."
Fox News
"...experts believe that it was a Claymore mine type explosive. As you can see in this file footage, this is an exceptionally lethal device."
"It certainly looks like it was only Batma- I mean Mr Wayne's armour that prevented his instant death. We now cross to Wayne Manor and our on the scene reporter Jake O'Brien."
"A pall has been cast over Wayne Manor today as the shocking events which started last night continue to unfold. As you can see behind me, local, national and international media is crowding around the gates of Wayne Manor waiting for any glimpse of staff or friends. Thus far the curtains have remained drawn all day and the only movement was a single vehicle leaving early this morning which was later reported to have been the butler Alfred travelling to Mr Wayne's bedside in hospital. There is a strong police presence here - there are search teams scouring the grounds for evidence, there are police guards at the gate and we are being told that Bruce Wayne is actually under police guard in the hospital. There has been no comment as to whether this is protective custody or whether he is being detained by the police."
CNN
"Wayne Industries stock has been in free-fall all day as more and more class action suits are being levelled at Bruce Wayne, who as CEO and owner of Wayne Industries looks like he may be taking the whole company down with him. At the opening of the market today Wayne Industries was at 420, within half an hour it had fallen to 300 and when the closing bell was rung early it had hit 150. Now these lawsuits are primarily from the families of those who were killed or injured during attacks by people like The Joker after they had been acquitted due to the actions of Batman, who of course was un-masked today as Bruce Wayne. The reason for the market closing early was that the massive free-fall of Wayne Industries sparked a lot of fears, after all Wayne Industries is a big beast, it requires a lot of resources and supplies, lots of smaller companies rely of Wayne Industries buying their product to stay in business. Similarly Wayne Industries also supplies a lot of major producers in this country and abroad. Detroit is looking at massive shortages if Wayne Industries has to shut down, this could be the nail in the coffin of the US car manufacturers. I don't think that we can really understate the kind of impact that this will have."
Mercy Hospital
Commissioner Gordon stood at the podium before the throng of reporters in the Hospital's small teaching room which had been taken over as a press room. "I will read a prepared statement, there will be no questions taken." The hubbub in the room quickly dies away. "We are announcing that at 0322 this morning, that is approximately fifteen minutes ago, Bruce Wayne entered cardiac arrest and doctors were not able to revive him." The room explodes into deafening noise and is filled by the bright silver-blue glare of camera flashes, coming so fast that there seems to be one constant light. Gordon waits for the noise to die down before continuing. "The GCPD is investigating a possible link between Bruce Wayne and the vigilante known as Batman. We can confirm that it was Bruce Wayne who was fatally injured in the explosion in Elm Valley last night. We are not releasing any information on the nature of the explosion or reasons for Mr Wayne's presence in the area. We will not comment on this ongoing investigation. Thank you."
Office of Rolley, Klein, Odgerman and Turner - Attorneys
There had been instructions for this kind of event and they were now being followed to the letter. Mr Wayne had been quite specific in drafting his will and last wishes. A group of envelopes were retrieved from a safe and quickly sorted. Addresses, names and instructions were attached to the front of each. One such A4 manilla envelope which felt as if it could contain no more than one or two sheets of paper was dispatched via courier immediately to a specific address. Immediately, even at four in the morning, the instructions given to the firm to be enacted in the case of his violent death were being followed.
24 hour internet cafe in Downtown Gotham
The manilla envelope was opened in a backroom and the contents quickly perused by the recipient. He takes the sheets of paper over to a secure fax connection and dials a number from memory. Once the document is confirmed as sent, he feeds it through a shredder, burns the remains and then flushes the ashes down the toilet before returning to his seat in the main area of the cafe overlooking a few students playing a marathon session of something or other.
London
The small office block was right on the banks of the Thames in the centre of London, with views across to the Houses of Parliament from certan corner offices. Though, it was in the centre of the building behind many layers of glass, steel, concrete and all manner of physical and electronic shielding that the fax was now being read. It was a room that looks like one would expect it to - a situation room, a war room - the walls covered in electronic maps, screens and clocks, the massive wooden table in the centre and very expensive chairs surrounding it. The fourteen chairs were mainly empty at the moment, but quorum was being met via the secure teleconferencing.
"Seven targets? All very high profile? This seems like a lot of work. As soon as one is hit, at least some of them will go to ground."
"We've dealt with that kind of thing before, and besides - the time limit on the contract isn't exactly pressing. One year? We'll be able to work with that."
"Payment for this job?"
"$25 million for six of the targets, $50 million for the last one. $100 million bonus on completion."
"That much?"
"You've seen the target list? I'm surprised it's not more money."
"I'm surprised they're all still alive anyway."
"Never-the-less, we are all in agreement on the fact that this is a job worth taking?" The chorus of responses was all in the affirmative. "Very well, then this will have to be a top priority job. I propose that we terminate his current assignment and bring him in." They all knew who he was, and that he was probably the only person on their books who had a chance of pulling off the assignment. The chairman presses a button on the phone unit infront of him, "Pull Diana from wherever she is and get her in here, right now."
Marseilles
The deal had been arranged only a few days before. A pay off for a mission in Africa carried out in Africa. The security detail was clever, but it wouldn't help. They were looking for surveillance teams from all manner of intelligence agencies or rival firms. They weren't looking for one more businessman going up to his room. The swipe card had worked, just as any master copy should. When the first party had arrived he'd not even seen his killer. The garotte was tight around his neck before he'd registered something was wrong. Now it was just time to wait.
He could hear the footsteps coming and going in the hallway - they'd chosen a good room for the meet, midway between the fire stairs and the central lifts. The body was hidden in the closet, by no means the best solution, but a good temporary fix. Only a few minutes until the second party is mean to be here. His concentration is broken by the vibration of a phone in his pocket. The phone that is never meant to ring. Not while he's in the field. Holding his pistol by his side, he answers the call.
"47, this is Diana. It's a scrub. Be at the airport in forty minutes, there's an Air France flight to Gotham that you're booked on under Henri Nieuberg, papers for that identity are in locker 29 in Terminal 2. Leave anything that you can't get past security in that locker." The connection is broken. He quickly goes to work checking the room for anything he may have left behind, runs a mental inventory of his equipment and confirms he has it all.
He opens the door to leave and see's the target standing on the other side, about to swipe his card. Stepping past the stunned man and beginning to walk down the hallway he remarks, "The money is in the briefcase on the bed. And I wouldn't open the closet."
Night 3
Air France 747 over the Mid Atlantic
First class was always good, and if there was one thing that the French knew how to do it was opulence. Flights offered 47 a rare chance to relax, as between airport security, the segregation of general passengers from the first class area and the keen eyes of the stewards it would be nearly impossible for anyone to get close enough to him to be a threat. Except of course, members of the carrier's national intelligence or police services. Like the GIGN man sitting next to him playing the dumb Clouseau-esque role perfectly.
"Monsieur Quarante-Sept," he begins, "I am here to extend to you a warning. Do not operate in our country again. The incident in Paris, though impeccably executed by yourself was inevitably linked to you. Causing a quite disproportianate amount of anxiety at the highest levels, and consequently a lot of pressure on certain groups for future results. And your most recent escapade in Marseilles - well, let us just say that it was fortunate that the only casualty was a useless Belgian mercenary. Had it been a French citizen in that wardrobe and this conversation would not have been as polite." The Frenchman pauses to sip his champagne. 47's cool indifference was to be expected, he never thought that he'd get much of a reaction from the assassin, and certainly knew better than to press his point even a little bit too far. But the way that the man looked straight through him was terrifying at a primal level. He has the eyes of a shark, the Frenchman thinks to himself, with a glance he has analysed me completely, no doubt spotted some weakness or vulnerability that is exploitable - and, mon dieu, that first piece of eye contact - the way he can make a man freeze with the cold, soulless intensity of his stare, that miniscule hesitation which he can use. No wonder he has such a reputation.
Finishing his glass of champagne, he turns back to 47 who is now distracting himself with the inflight television. It had been a superhuman feat to track him - they'd received a report that he had entered the country from Italy and immediately had gone to work. Every intelligence and police source was tapped until rumours of a covert meet in Marseilles were confirmed. Urban hides in other hotels, several helicopters, a business jet converted to surveillance work, two micro-UAVs and a boat offshore with a specially stabilised telescopic camera mount all contributed to the mammoth task of tracking the man. Then, to have their prize slip through their fingers as he suddenly departed the scene prior to completing the anticipated hit - it was nothing less than the one of the most forceful body blows to the intelligence services since the latest round of unexpected violence in Algiers.
The DGSE man had been a member of a surveillance team which had been closest to his 47's tracked route of escape. He'd been ordered onto the flight at the last moment to deliver a warning to the assassin. The prospect of being in such close quarters was not relished by him, but he took some comfort in the fact that 47 would have to be mad to try anything on a flight. Movement in the adjacent seat startles him momentarily. "Excuse me," 47 speak softly as he sidles past, "I have to go to the bathroom." The Frenchman watches 47 move back along the wide aisle to the toilet stalls.
The rest of the flight passed without a word being spoken between the two men. The intelligence officer knew better than to risk the wrath of 47 by peering at his laptop screen whenever 47 chose to use it, and respected the assassin enough to know that the killer wouldn't risk looking at any sensitive while he was next to him anyway.
47 knew that his bluff was solid when the Frenchman put on his own headset and settled back into his seat to watch some in-flight programming. The briefing details on screen told a disturbing story, but his rewards for this job were to be higher than for anything previously done. The choice of targets and the timing left him with no doubts as to who the client for this job had been. And the Agency had always made sure never to take blind jobs since the house had been cleaned out a few years back. It was just too risky if you didn't know who the client was, what repercussions there may be. The client didn't always willingly reveal themselves, but until the board was 100% certain of the origin of the contract, it didn't get assigned. It cost them a lot of spur-of-the-moment work, but that kind of messy, improvised hit wasn't the Agency's style anyhow.
He looked at the briefing on Batman, now revealed as Bruce Wayne. The data was still being updated on the ICA servers as the discussions and debates amongst the Agency's profilers, psychologists, psychiatrists, behavioural experts and all manner of other specialists progressed. Information was being mined from every available source on Bruce Wayne and Wayne Industries, and 47 was digesting it as quickly as the Agency could generate it.
It was a study in ego and obsession really. Bruce Wayne had been exposed to serious psychological trauma as a child during the death of his parents. The experts agreed on that much, but beyond that it was all a mess of differing opinions. Some were saying that it was purely ego driven, a narcissistic need for adoration and adulation hidden below the self-serving veneer of "helping the city". Others had put forward that all these years of cat-and-mouse with various criminals was nothing more than an abstract game being played by a high functioning autistic. That one elicited a smirk. Certainly Mr Wayne had shown certain traits that might fit the profile, but it seemed unlikely.
All of them agreed on one thing however, that the contract that Bruce Wayne (or Batman, whichever persona he wore while writing this) had issued was one based purely on ego. He had toyed with the criminals of the city for years, and now like a petulant child destroying his toys rather than sharing them he had ordered the deaths of men who for years he had lacked the will to murder himself. Ego was something that his upbringing had scrubbed from him as much as possible, to feel superior was to invite complacency. And that was a bad habit. 47 was aware of his status, reputation and abilities, but the years of indoctrination ensured that he never allowed this knowledge to taint his thoughts. He recalled Ortmeyer's words during one particularly brutal lesson, "It doesn't matter how strong, fast or smart you are, if you are not ready you will still fail." The subject of this lesson had been some enforcer from a crime syndicate in the area who had been drugged and brought in to demonstrate the principle. He stood in a soundproofed cell now pacing back and forth like a caged animal on the other side of the two-way mirror from the attentive classroom of children sat. "This man is much larger and stronger than any in this room. His weapons are still on his person, but he is still weak." The door to the room opened and instantly the prisoner turns to look at what is coming. He seems startled by the young boy, no more than ten, who comes into the room dressed in a hospital gown. Despite the knife in the thugs hand, the children can all see his stance relax as he realises that it is just the child. The thug moves towards the open door and in a flash of motion the child draws something from beneath his gown and stabs towards the crotch of the much larger man. The thug staggers and drops to his knees, blood already pooling on the floor, all he can manage is a feeble swipe at the child before the pain and shock become too much and he falls forward. "That man allowed himself the illusion that he was superior to the child. He didn't think that the child may have been a threat. He was a bully, a thug and unprepared for an opponent to attack. Never allow yourself to reach that point. Never think for a moment that you are safe, or that you are better than your opponent, or that there is nothing to worry about. I will not tolerate a lazy attitude from my pupils." The lesson had been well learnt. And punishment for a failure to apply the lesson to their lives was as terminal as one would expect.
Ego, he thought. Ego and money. Always a dangerous combination, and from all reports, Mr Wayne had both in spades. The list of targets was on the screen now. And the prices on their heads. 47 had read of their exploits in the past, and the Agency had extensive files on each, as they did for any potential target. All of them were dangerous once, some still were. It didn't matter to 47. Morality, like ego, was another failing that he had to work to supress. He'd had his brushes with this in the past, his time at the monastery, remembering the people who he had chosen to save and more often the people who he had killed. He could remember vividly the dreams which had rocked his mind as he lay, apparently dead, on a slab in a secluded chapel, prepared for his own cremation. It wasn't the only time he had been close to death, but it was the first time that he had lost control and his thoughts had run without his conscious mind to keep them in check. Realising that his mind was beginning to wander he clamps down on his thoughts once more, plugging the leaks in the dams holding back the stream of consciousness and moving once again into the cold, calculating mindset which his profession required.
Wayne Industries HQ, Gotham City
"I'm afraid the warrant is very comprehensive Sir." The corporate lawyer looked up from the document to the newly appointed CEO of Wayne Industries, Oliver Carmichael. They were in Carmichael's office, still ten floors below Bruce's own and well below anyone else who had been on the board of management. But none of them had been willing to step up. They'd dumped their stock and lodged their letters at the first sign of trouble. So Oliver Carmichael, formerly Deputy Head of Domestic Operations had been thrust forth to take the helm of the most rapidly sinking ship since Enron.
"How comprehensive?" Carmichael had taken on what the commentator's were calling the kamikaze role. Wayne Industries was going down like a brick from the heavens, and many were concerned that when it hit rock bottom it would take a sizable chunk of America's remaining industry with it. Still, he looked confident, it was his job to. He'd even had the Secretary of the Treasury on the phone letting him know just how important it was to keep Wayne Industries going until the crisis which had been created was resolved. He looks back to the lawyer, "It's not just for things that Bruce had a hand in?"
"Sir, they could strip out every piece of furniture, every light fitting, curtain and powercord in this building and they'd still be able to come back for the carpet and the glue that holds it down. And that's not all, there's multiple warrants here from multiple jurisdictions and multiple agencies. Our security staff have seen Gotham City Police, FBI, ATF, Department of Defence, Customs, Secret Service and more coming through. They're even saying that there's been a few who they felt weren't who the ID's said they were - meaning CIA or NSA. I'm surprised that they haven't had a gunfight yet over who gets to take what."
"And we've got copies of all the warrants?"
"Yes sir."
"Make sure that nothing leaves this building without it being receipted by our security staff, they're to record the details of whoever carries it out the door - name, badge number, agency and the specific warrant it is being seized under. With this many agencies involved, it will be a nightmare to find any of our documents and data without doing that much."
"Might I also recommend that you have a quick conference with the lead investigators of the respective agencies to try and get things operating smoothly."
"Try and round them up, I'd like to see them tonight. What's the latest count on the civil suits?"
"When the courts closed, we were looking at 358 cases lodged so far. Everything from property damage to negligience resulting in death. There's also a good number of class actions being prepped and those won't be ready for registration in the courts for another few weeks at least."
"How bad is it? Really." The lawyer sinks down into a chair across the desk from where Carmichael is standing.
"Sir, it's beyond bad. To simply meet our legal obligations in all of these cases, that is to just show up and avoid any contempt charges is going to mean thousands of billable hours to the firms we have on retainer. We can't do this internally - our legal department is large, but we're contract law focused, and we don't have the people to cover this many cases anyway. Once we start talking about actually going to trial with these, it's going to just to probably in the low hundreds of billable hours for the most simple case." The lawyer looked drained now, and Carmichael's face was beginning to show the signs of recognising the issues that they faced. "That's without taklking about the class actions. Sir, we're looking at the low billions, minimum just to cover our legal expenses resulting from the civil cases. And that's assuming that we win them. From our point of view, just to cover the costs of the most frivolous of these cases - my favourite in this case being the man claiming for damages to his azaleas, which was received when Bruce allegedly threw a main into his flower bed - that's going to cost us at least twenty thousand dollars before we even set foot in court, let alone settle outside of court."
"Is settling outside an option?"
"No. It can't be. It would be seen by too many as an acceptance of guilt by ourselves as a corporate entity. Not to mention opening the floodgates for more and more of these suits. You said it yourself - we have to play it safe, recover control, stabilise and try and build the business all over again. Now, stay here - I'll go and find the chiefs amongst all the indians and get them here for a chat."
Arkham Asylum, Gotham City
"Even in the blackest night the Batman still did fly! Now we hear that under the hospital lights he did die. DIE! DIE! It's kind of like a dictatorship don't you think? While he's alive people fear him, let him reign over their city, above it laws. Rule by terror. Now that he's dead, people aren't afraid anymore - they'll say what they think of him. I do believe, that if there was a statue of him, they'd have pulled it down by now. No conversation from you tonight Charlie? I know that you're outside my door. You always are at this time of day. Anyhow - you keep distracting me with all your silence. What on earth was I talking about. Oh - that's right, fear. You know something Charlie," his voice lowers to an barely audible hiss as he speaks through the meal slot, "I wouldn't want this city to forget what it is to be afraid."
Elm Valley gated community.
The word had been growing on the streets for a while, a new supplier had arrived in Gotham. They had been smart, hadn't flooded the streets with product, hadn't started any gang wars and they certainly hadn't raised their profile enough to bring themselves to the attention of any masked vigilantes. Their product was heroin, very high quality, Afghan in origin. The stash house turned out to be in a new housing development, far into Northern suburbia. The stash house hid inside a gated community. He'd only been able to track it this far after stumbling upon a courier delivering the product during one of his sweeps of the ghettos.
The plans for the house had been easy enough to find, but they didn't match what he was seeing now. The walls were too thick around the windows. The windows had steel security shutters, the doors were probably solid steel with a wood finish, tiny surveillance cameras and sensors hid under the eaves and gutters. For all this however the house fit nicely into the neighbourhood aesthetic, a clever work of camoflage to disguise the fortress that actually existed on this suburban street. For all it's impressions of a family dwelling he'd only seen two people enter and leave the home in the two nights which he'd been watching. They were both men, late thirties from his estimate with athletic builds and a style to their motions that could only mean military training.
The word on the street was that they were a group of retired special forces sorts. They'd lost enough friends, been "stop-lossed" too often and had decided that they could make more money on their own than playing hired gun for some rebuilding project. The actual stories varied from gang to gang that bought off them, probably as much rumour and speculation as any truths, but from what he had seen so far he didn't doubt their expertise.
Gangs only required one demonstration of force from these men to be placated. Many stories started to fall into place - lieutenants in one organisation or another simply disappearing, shootings on drug corners where the dealers hadn't even drawn their weapons before being brought down by precision shooting and one event where it was rumoured that a gang had been somewhat hesitant in switching to the new supplier, so the entire gang had been taken out in one night.
For people used to intimidating local residents into submissiveness and occasionally trading shots with their enemies in 0% accuracy pistol matches, to be so violently and suddenly attacked forced their hand. The gangs were scared of this new group. So much so that it had taken a lot to get them talking. The police had little on their radar - the shootings raised eyebrows, but to those higher up it mattered little. What were a few more dead dealers? Some had tried to keep open cases on the new flow of drugs, but such crimes were usually well under the radar in Gotham City.
But not now - there was too little going on. Some would say it was too quiet, but for the obsessive vigilante this simply meant that it was time to focus on the smaller fish for a while. He had seen a carload of men arrive earlier in the evening, all of a similar age with the same athleticism and practiced smoothness of motion. The old team looked to be back together for a meeting. This was the time to strike, when he could catch them all in the one place.
The darkness shrouded his movement as he approached the house - night was his friend and fear his ally. But the same had always been true for the people he hunted tonight. He stole across the street, hidden in the river of darkness that flows around the islands of light. A few deft motions with his hands launch adhesive explosives towards some of the cameras and windows - distract and confuse, it's the best plan under these circumstances. The shaped charge is on his back, hidden beneath the cape, ready to blast a window out of its mounting and grant him entry to the interior. He rushes towards the stairs to the front verandah and his point of entry as the lights in the suburb all die at once, courtesy of a small device hidden in the transformer station that feeds the area.
His foot hits the first step and the street is light by momentary flash. The sound of the explosion rips through the night followed by the noises of breaking glass, car alarms and of hundreds of metal hailstones landing on rooftops, cars and the streets. The shattered form of the black armoured figure and his shredded cape come to rest several paces back down the front path.
As the first calls go out to 911, the men who had been in the house speed away in their cars. As the facade of the house continues smouldering along with the most of the plants in the garden, the incendiary devices inside the home detonate. By the time the first emergency services arrive on scene the house is nothing more than a gutted concrete bunker with flames licking at it's windows providing the only illumination. The flicker of the flames reflects from the glossy surface of the streams of blood running to the gutter from the broken body of the Batman.
Night 2
Commissioner Gordon's Office
"So the word is out?" Behind the Commissioner the massive windows look out over the city at dusk. The last light on the horizon just makes the streets seem darker, down in the canyons of steel and concrete.
"It is Sir." Commissioner Gordon couldn't control himself. The IN/OUT trays on his desk sail onto the plushly carpeted floor as he lashes out. The police major giving him the news braces himself for the outburst to follow.
"How? How did we let it come out? The moment the first responders got there surely the protocols for this should have been followed!"
"They were Sir, but this event happened outside of the city limits, so GCPD protocols weren't immediately used, it was only once he was airlifted to Mercy Hospital that we were able to take control of the situation. Numerous people on the street had already witnessed the events. And some of them filmed it. Within an hour of it happening we already had footage of him with the neck brace, spinal board and all being carefully loaded into the ambulance on YouTube." The Major carefully side-steps the next thought: your protocols were based on your own police work back in the seventies you old fart, of course they failed. "The moment it was online we lost control. Every news station has been running it all day. And for the first time in god knows how long half the papers put out an afternoon edition just on this story."
"DAMNIT! He's been out there - keeping this city safe for nearly twenty five years! And now... Now he's in pieces in hospital, in a medically induced coma. They've had to amputate his goddamn legs! This man has been a fucking saviour for this city for so long and now he's being treated like nothing more than Britney fucking Spears with her legs wide open! Just something to kick up the ratings. A new talking point!"
"It is sad, Sir."
"Fuck. We need to act on this to keep the city under control. I want to vist the Mayor ASAP. Set it up."
The Major makes a quick exit, glad to escape from Gordon's fury. He respected the man and what he had done for the city, but his long term relationship with the Batman had destroyed his vision. For the Major, like many of the younger officers in the force the Batman had been a hero, until his enemies kept growing in power and time and time again he failed to finish them off. The DA's had never made a case stick to any of them. Nor the US Attorney's who tried later. After all, it's very hard for a prosecutor to win when the defendant's lawyer can point out that they were kidnapped, denied their liberty and delivered to the police without any admissable evidence.
The Batman had always shown such flagrant disregard for the law which he claimed to uphold. The fact that these violent, dangerous men kept getting back on to the streets because some masked idiot kept on insisting that he was above the law infuriated the Major, as it had so many others. Slowly Batman's support amongst the populace had eroded, and after so many terrible and violent acts that claimed so many innocent lives, it seemed that only Gordon still had any faith in him. The "Bat-Signal" had last been switched on nearly seven years ago, and it was only at Gordon's absolute insistence that it remained in place and maintained, a remnant of the time when Batman was still a hero, when the people weren't sick of him ruining their lives. All of the villains who that masked fool had spent his life chasing were going legitimate, or had decided that life inside Arkham Asylum was a damn site more relaxing and safer than having some lunatic clad in black suddenly appearing in your life over and over again. The Penguin had even made a successful civil suit against "The Batman" for destruction of property when his limo had been trashed during one of the Batman's last escapades. Of course, no money was paid out as the Batman was anonymous. Now however, it was a different story.
BBC News
"Batman, who for nearly a quarter of a century has been alternately been amongst the most loved and despised of America's celebrities was unmasked today. The videos taken by mobile phones at the scene of his incapacitation show the familiar face of Bruce Wayne - the billionaire CEO of Wayne Industries, who inherited the business in 1966 following the death of both his mother and father in a botched robbery to which he was the sole witness, aged just eight years."
Fox News
"...experts believe that it was a Claymore mine type explosive. As you can see in this file footage, this is an exceptionally lethal device."
"It certainly looks like it was only Batma- I mean Mr Wayne's armour that prevented his instant death. We now cross to Wayne Manor and our on the scene reporter Jake O'Brien."
"A pall has been cast over Wayne Manor today as the shocking events which started last night continue to unfold. As you can see behind me, local, national and international media is crowding around the gates of Wayne Manor waiting for any glimpse of staff or friends. Thus far the curtains have remained drawn all day and the only movement was a single vehicle leaving early this morning which was later reported to have been the butler Alfred travelling to Mr Wayne's bedside in hospital. There is a strong police presence here - there are search teams scouring the grounds for evidence, there are police guards at the gate and we are being told that Bruce Wayne is actually under police guard in the hospital. There has been no comment as to whether this is protective custody or whether he is being detained by the police."
CNN
"Wayne Industries stock has been in free-fall all day as more and more class action suits are being levelled at Bruce Wayne, who as CEO and owner of Wayne Industries looks like he may be taking the whole company down with him. At the opening of the market today Wayne Industries was at 420, within half an hour it had fallen to 300 and when the closing bell was rung early it had hit 150. Now these lawsuits are primarily from the families of those who were killed or injured during attacks by people like The Joker after they had been acquitted due to the actions of Batman, who of course was un-masked today as Bruce Wayne. The reason for the market closing early was that the massive free-fall of Wayne Industries sparked a lot of fears, after all Wayne Industries is a big beast, it requires a lot of resources and supplies, lots of smaller companies rely of Wayne Industries buying their product to stay in business. Similarly Wayne Industries also supplies a lot of major producers in this country and abroad. Detroit is looking at massive shortages if Wayne Industries has to shut down, this could be the nail in the coffin of the US car manufacturers. I don't think that we can really understate the kind of impact that this will have."
Mercy Hospital
Commissioner Gordon stood at the podium before the throng of reporters in the Hospital's small teaching room which had been taken over as a press room. "I will read a prepared statement, there will be no questions taken." The hubbub in the room quickly dies away. "We are announcing that at 0322 this morning, that is approximately fifteen minutes ago, Bruce Wayne entered cardiac arrest and doctors were not able to revive him." The room explodes into deafening noise and is filled by the bright silver-blue glare of camera flashes, coming so fast that there seems to be one constant light. Gordon waits for the noise to die down before continuing. "The GCPD is investigating a possible link between Bruce Wayne and the vigilante known as Batman. We can confirm that it was Bruce Wayne who was fatally injured in the explosion in Elm Valley last night. We are not releasing any information on the nature of the explosion or reasons for Mr Wayne's presence in the area. We will not comment on this ongoing investigation. Thank you."
Office of Rolley, Klein, Odgerman and Turner - Attorneys
There had been instructions for this kind of event and they were now being followed to the letter. Mr Wayne had been quite specific in drafting his will and last wishes. A group of envelopes were retrieved from a safe and quickly sorted. Addresses, names and instructions were attached to the front of each. One such A4 manilla envelope which felt as if it could contain no more than one or two sheets of paper was dispatched via courier immediately to a specific address. Immediately, even at four in the morning, the instructions given to the firm to be enacted in the case of his violent death were being followed.
24 hour internet cafe in Downtown Gotham
The manilla envelope was opened in a backroom and the contents quickly perused by the recipient. He takes the sheets of paper over to a secure fax connection and dials a number from memory. Once the document is confirmed as sent, he feeds it through a shredder, burns the remains and then flushes the ashes down the toilet before returning to his seat in the main area of the cafe overlooking a few students playing a marathon session of something or other.
London
The small office block was right on the banks of the Thames in the centre of London, with views across to the Houses of Parliament from certan corner offices. Though, it was in the centre of the building behind many layers of glass, steel, concrete and all manner of physical and electronic shielding that the fax was now being read. It was a room that looks like one would expect it to - a situation room, a war room - the walls covered in electronic maps, screens and clocks, the massive wooden table in the centre and very expensive chairs surrounding it. The fourteen chairs were mainly empty at the moment, but quorum was being met via the secure teleconferencing.
"Seven targets? All very high profile? This seems like a lot of work. As soon as one is hit, at least some of them will go to ground."
"We've dealt with that kind of thing before, and besides - the time limit on the contract isn't exactly pressing. One year? We'll be able to work with that."
"Payment for this job?"
"$25 million for six of the targets, $50 million for the last one. $100 million bonus on completion."
"That much?"
"You've seen the target list? I'm surprised it's not more money."
"I'm surprised they're all still alive anyway."
"Never-the-less, we are all in agreement on the fact that this is a job worth taking?" The chorus of responses was all in the affirmative. "Very well, then this will have to be a top priority job. I propose that we terminate his current assignment and bring him in." They all knew who he was, and that he was probably the only person on their books who had a chance of pulling off the assignment. The chairman presses a button on the phone unit infront of him, "Pull Diana from wherever she is and get her in here, right now."
Marseilles
The deal had been arranged only a few days before. A pay off for a mission in Africa carried out in Africa. The security detail was clever, but it wouldn't help. They were looking for surveillance teams from all manner of intelligence agencies or rival firms. They weren't looking for one more businessman going up to his room. The swipe card had worked, just as any master copy should. When the first party had arrived he'd not even seen his killer. The garotte was tight around his neck before he'd registered something was wrong. Now it was just time to wait.
He could hear the footsteps coming and going in the hallway - they'd chosen a good room for the meet, midway between the fire stairs and the central lifts. The body was hidden in the closet, by no means the best solution, but a good temporary fix. Only a few minutes until the second party is mean to be here. His concentration is broken by the vibration of a phone in his pocket. The phone that is never meant to ring. Not while he's in the field. Holding his pistol by his side, he answers the call.
"47, this is Diana. It's a scrub. Be at the airport in forty minutes, there's an Air France flight to Gotham that you're booked on under Henri Nieuberg, papers for that identity are in locker 29 in Terminal 2. Leave anything that you can't get past security in that locker." The connection is broken. He quickly goes to work checking the room for anything he may have left behind, runs a mental inventory of his equipment and confirms he has it all.
He opens the door to leave and see's the target standing on the other side, about to swipe his card. Stepping past the stunned man and beginning to walk down the hallway he remarks, "The money is in the briefcase on the bed. And I wouldn't open the closet."
Night 3
Air France 747 over the Mid Atlantic
First class was always good, and if there was one thing that the French knew how to do it was opulence. Flights offered 47 a rare chance to relax, as between airport security, the segregation of general passengers from the first class area and the keen eyes of the stewards it would be nearly impossible for anyone to get close enough to him to be a threat. Except of course, members of the carrier's national intelligence or police services. Like the GIGN man sitting next to him playing the dumb Clouseau-esque role perfectly.
"Monsieur Quarante-Sept," he begins, "I am here to extend to you a warning. Do not operate in our country again. The incident in Paris, though impeccably executed by yourself was inevitably linked to you. Causing a quite disproportianate amount of anxiety at the highest levels, and consequently a lot of pressure on certain groups for future results. And your most recent escapade in Marseilles - well, let us just say that it was fortunate that the only casualty was a useless Belgian mercenary. Had it been a French citizen in that wardrobe and this conversation would not have been as polite." The Frenchman pauses to sip his champagne. 47's cool indifference was to be expected, he never thought that he'd get much of a reaction from the assassin, and certainly knew better than to press his point even a little bit too far. But the way that the man looked straight through him was terrifying at a primal level. He has the eyes of a shark, the Frenchman thinks to himself, with a glance he has analysed me completely, no doubt spotted some weakness or vulnerability that is exploitable - and, mon dieu, that first piece of eye contact - the way he can make a man freeze with the cold, soulless intensity of his stare, that miniscule hesitation which he can use. No wonder he has such a reputation.
Finishing his glass of champagne, he turns back to 47 who is now distracting himself with the inflight television. It had been a superhuman feat to track him - they'd received a report that he had entered the country from Italy and immediately had gone to work. Every intelligence and police source was tapped until rumours of a covert meet in Marseilles were confirmed. Urban hides in other hotels, several helicopters, a business jet converted to surveillance work, two micro-UAVs and a boat offshore with a specially stabilised telescopic camera mount all contributed to the mammoth task of tracking the man. Then, to have their prize slip through their fingers as he suddenly departed the scene prior to completing the anticipated hit - it was nothing less than the one of the most forceful body blows to the intelligence services since the latest round of unexpected violence in Algiers.
The DGSE man had been a member of a surveillance team which had been closest to his 47's tracked route of escape. He'd been ordered onto the flight at the last moment to deliver a warning to the assassin. The prospect of being in such close quarters was not relished by him, but he took some comfort in the fact that 47 would have to be mad to try anything on a flight. Movement in the adjacent seat startles him momentarily. "Excuse me," 47 speak softly as he sidles past, "I have to go to the bathroom." The Frenchman watches 47 move back along the wide aisle to the toilet stalls.
The rest of the flight passed without a word being spoken between the two men. The intelligence officer knew better than to risk the wrath of 47 by peering at his laptop screen whenever 47 chose to use it, and respected the assassin enough to know that the killer wouldn't risk looking at any sensitive while he was next to him anyway.
47 knew that his bluff was solid when the Frenchman put on his own headset and settled back into his seat to watch some in-flight programming. The briefing details on screen told a disturbing story, but his rewards for this job were to be higher than for anything previously done. The choice of targets and the timing left him with no doubts as to who the client for this job had been. And the Agency had always made sure never to take blind jobs since the house had been cleaned out a few years back. It was just too risky if you didn't know who the client was, what repercussions there may be. The client didn't always willingly reveal themselves, but until the board was 100% certain of the origin of the contract, it didn't get assigned. It cost them a lot of spur-of-the-moment work, but that kind of messy, improvised hit wasn't the Agency's style anyhow.
He looked at the briefing on Batman, now revealed as Bruce Wayne. The data was still being updated on the ICA servers as the discussions and debates amongst the Agency's profilers, psychologists, psychiatrists, behavioural experts and all manner of other specialists progressed. Information was being mined from every available source on Bruce Wayne and Wayne Industries, and 47 was digesting it as quickly as the Agency could generate it.
It was a study in ego and obsession really. Bruce Wayne had been exposed to serious psychological trauma as a child during the death of his parents. The experts agreed on that much, but beyond that it was all a mess of differing opinions. Some were saying that it was purely ego driven, a narcissistic need for adoration and adulation hidden below the self-serving veneer of "helping the city". Others had put forward that all these years of cat-and-mouse with various criminals was nothing more than an abstract game being played by a high functioning autistic. That one elicited a smirk. Certainly Mr Wayne had shown certain traits that might fit the profile, but it seemed unlikely.
All of them agreed on one thing however, that the contract that Bruce Wayne (or Batman, whichever persona he wore while writing this) had issued was one based purely on ego. He had toyed with the criminals of the city for years, and now like a petulant child destroying his toys rather than sharing them he had ordered the deaths of men who for years he had lacked the will to murder himself. Ego was something that his upbringing had scrubbed from him as much as possible, to feel superior was to invite complacency. And that was a bad habit. 47 was aware of his status, reputation and abilities, but the years of indoctrination ensured that he never allowed this knowledge to taint his thoughts. He recalled Ortmeyer's words during one particularly brutal lesson, "It doesn't matter how strong, fast or smart you are, if you are not ready you will still fail." The subject of this lesson had been some enforcer from a crime syndicate in the area who had been drugged and brought in to demonstrate the principle. He stood in a soundproofed cell now pacing back and forth like a caged animal on the other side of the two-way mirror from the attentive classroom of children sat. "This man is much larger and stronger than any in this room. His weapons are still on his person, but he is still weak." The door to the room opened and instantly the prisoner turns to look at what is coming. He seems startled by the young boy, no more than ten, who comes into the room dressed in a hospital gown. Despite the knife in the thugs hand, the children can all see his stance relax as he realises that it is just the child. The thug moves towards the open door and in a flash of motion the child draws something from beneath his gown and stabs towards the crotch of the much larger man. The thug staggers and drops to his knees, blood already pooling on the floor, all he can manage is a feeble swipe at the child before the pain and shock become too much and he falls forward. "That man allowed himself the illusion that he was superior to the child. He didn't think that the child may have been a threat. He was a bully, a thug and unprepared for an opponent to attack. Never allow yourself to reach that point. Never think for a moment that you are safe, or that you are better than your opponent, or that there is nothing to worry about. I will not tolerate a lazy attitude from my pupils." The lesson had been well learnt. And punishment for a failure to apply the lesson to their lives was as terminal as one would expect.
Ego, he thought. Ego and money. Always a dangerous combination, and from all reports, Mr Wayne had both in spades. The list of targets was on the screen now. And the prices on their heads. 47 had read of their exploits in the past, and the Agency had extensive files on each, as they did for any potential target. All of them were dangerous once, some still were. It didn't matter to 47. Morality, like ego, was another failing that he had to work to supress. He'd had his brushes with this in the past, his time at the monastery, remembering the people who he had chosen to save and more often the people who he had killed. He could remember vividly the dreams which had rocked his mind as he lay, apparently dead, on a slab in a secluded chapel, prepared for his own cremation. It wasn't the only time he had been close to death, but it was the first time that he had lost control and his thoughts had run without his conscious mind to keep them in check. Realising that his mind was beginning to wander he clamps down on his thoughts once more, plugging the leaks in the dams holding back the stream of consciousness and moving once again into the cold, calculating mindset which his profession required.
Wayne Industries HQ, Gotham City
"I'm afraid the warrant is very comprehensive Sir." The corporate lawyer looked up from the document to the newly appointed CEO of Wayne Industries, Oliver Carmichael. They were in Carmichael's office, still ten floors below Bruce's own and well below anyone else who had been on the board of management. But none of them had been willing to step up. They'd dumped their stock and lodged their letters at the first sign of trouble. So Oliver Carmichael, formerly Deputy Head of Domestic Operations had been thrust forth to take the helm of the most rapidly sinking ship since Enron.
"How comprehensive?" Carmichael had taken on what the commentator's were calling the kamikaze role. Wayne Industries was going down like a brick from the heavens, and many were concerned that when it hit rock bottom it would take a sizable chunk of America's remaining industry with it. Still, he looked confident, it was his job to. He'd even had the Secretary of the Treasury on the phone letting him know just how important it was to keep Wayne Industries going until the crisis which had been created was resolved. He looks back to the lawyer, "It's not just for things that Bruce had a hand in?"
"Sir, they could strip out every piece of furniture, every light fitting, curtain and powercord in this building and they'd still be able to come back for the carpet and the glue that holds it down. And that's not all, there's multiple warrants here from multiple jurisdictions and multiple agencies. Our security staff have seen Gotham City Police, FBI, ATF, Department of Defence, Customs, Secret Service and more coming through. They're even saying that there's been a few who they felt weren't who the ID's said they were - meaning CIA or NSA. I'm surprised that they haven't had a gunfight yet over who gets to take what."
"And we've got copies of all the warrants?"
"Yes sir."
"Make sure that nothing leaves this building without it being receipted by our security staff, they're to record the details of whoever carries it out the door - name, badge number, agency and the specific warrant it is being seized under. With this many agencies involved, it will be a nightmare to find any of our documents and data without doing that much."
"Might I also recommend that you have a quick conference with the lead investigators of the respective agencies to try and get things operating smoothly."
"Try and round them up, I'd like to see them tonight. What's the latest count on the civil suits?"
"When the courts closed, we were looking at 358 cases lodged so far. Everything from property damage to negligience resulting in death. There's also a good number of class actions being prepped and those won't be ready for registration in the courts for another few weeks at least."
"How bad is it? Really." The lawyer sinks down into a chair across the desk from where Carmichael is standing.
"Sir, it's beyond bad. To simply meet our legal obligations in all of these cases, that is to just show up and avoid any contempt charges is going to mean thousands of billable hours to the firms we have on retainer. We can't do this internally - our legal department is large, but we're contract law focused, and we don't have the people to cover this many cases anyway. Once we start talking about actually going to trial with these, it's going to just to probably in the low hundreds of billable hours for the most simple case." The lawyer looked drained now, and Carmichael's face was beginning to show the signs of recognising the issues that they faced. "That's without taklking about the class actions. Sir, we're looking at the low billions, minimum just to cover our legal expenses resulting from the civil cases. And that's assuming that we win them. From our point of view, just to cover the costs of the most frivolous of these cases - my favourite in this case being the man claiming for damages to his azaleas, which was received when Bruce allegedly threw a main into his flower bed - that's going to cost us at least twenty thousand dollars before we even set foot in court, let alone settle outside of court."
"Is settling outside an option?"
"No. It can't be. It would be seen by too many as an acceptance of guilt by ourselves as a corporate entity. Not to mention opening the floodgates for more and more of these suits. You said it yourself - we have to play it safe, recover control, stabilise and try and build the business all over again. Now, stay here - I'll go and find the chiefs amongst all the indians and get them here for a chat."
Arkham Asylum, Gotham City
"Even in the blackest night the Batman still did fly! Now we hear that under the hospital lights he did die. DIE! DIE! It's kind of like a dictatorship don't you think? While he's alive people fear him, let him reign over their city, above it laws. Rule by terror. Now that he's dead, people aren't afraid anymore - they'll say what they think of him. I do believe, that if there was a statue of him, they'd have pulled it down by now. No conversation from you tonight Charlie? I know that you're outside my door. You always are at this time of day. Anyhow - you keep distracting me with all your silence. What on earth was I talking about. Oh - that's right, fear. You know something Charlie," his voice lowers to an barely audible hiss as he speaks through the meal slot, "I wouldn't want this city to forget what it is to be afraid."