DC Comics novels--Batman

by Christa Faust

  Without warning, where there had been a gecko, a fireball appeared with a deafening bang. The explosion shattered numerous windows in the large room. A second blast erupted toward the unoccupied end of the room where the crates and supplies were stacked, while a third burst forth from the laboratory, knocking the swing doors off their hinges. The concussive force sent packets of Giggle Sniff flying everywhere.

  She screamed and dove under the long table. Other women raced for the exits, some of them with frightful-looking burns on their bare, unprotected skin. By some miracle, no one seemed to have been killed. As they clustered at the doors, the crush made it impossible for them to get any further. There was more screaming as some of them were trampled in the crush, but all still managed to get back on their feet.

  Two of the drug cookers wearing rubber aprons raced out of the lab, screaming, engulfed in flames. The women assemblers scattered in every direction to avoid them.

  “Hold up!” a guard bellowed, raising his assault rifle. No one paid him any attention, and he was quickly knocked to the ground by the force of the mob.

  A second guard, leaning his rifle against a wall, tried to help the first one when the door to the stairwell was blown open by a shotgun blast. The guard grabbed for his weapon as an overweight man in a weird Halloween mask rushed into view. Before he could reach it, the intruder hit him in the head with the stock of his shotgun. The guard collapsed instantly.

  The fire was spreading.

  * * *

  This wasn’t going down quite like Bullock had planned, but there you had it. As the chump he slugged hit the ground, Bullock pointed the business end of the Mossberg at the one already on the floor.

  “Where’s the money?” he demanded.

  If the guard was scared, he didn’t show it.

  “You don’t know the kind of trouble you’re in, asshole,” he said defiantly. Clearly he needed some more encouragement. There wasn’t much time, Bullock realized.

  He pressed the barrel against the guy’s shoulder.

  “You wanna be called Lefty?”

  The man thought about it, then jerked his chin toward the burning lab.

  “Go ahead, tough guy,” he growled. “Your ass is—”

  Bullock kicked him in the face. Grabbing up the assault rifle, he held it in his free hand and ran toward the smoke-filled room.

  A bullet zinged off an upturned assembly table. He spun and saw that two more hoods were there, standing in the doorway and shooting at him with their handguns. Instantly Bullock was on a knee and returning fire with the AR-15, temporarily forcing the other two to seek cover. Twisting around he flopped down on the floor. With the oily smoke rising and drifting over him, he belly crawled into the lab, and found the fire climbing a wall like runaway kudzu. There was no telling how long he had before the place went up in a huge blast or burned to the ground around him.

  Clambering to his feet he searched the metal cabinets in the room, and knew the guard had lied to him. There was no money here—it had to be upstairs in Palmares’ office.

  “Shit,” he growled. Since the scratch would be the first thing the gangster would grab he had to double time it. The masked plainclothesman began to pick his way back out of the lab when one of the light fixtures dropped from the ceiling, grazing his arm. The fluorescent tubes popped, wires dangling from the fixtures, crackling with electricity as Bullock pushed past.

  Back in the assembly room the women had all made it out, and as he had hoped, there were no bodies. Visibility was compromised by the fire and smoke, and as he crept closer to the exit, he heard a cough. Glancing around he spotted a tennis shoe that was on fire—somebody had bolted out of here that fast.

  Scooping it up and holding it away from him, he moved over a patch of sagging floor, the beams underneath creaking beneath his weight. The guard swung into view from the hallway, and Bullock hurled the shoe at him. Instinctively the man ducked aside, and the rumpled cop peppered his lower legs with buckshot.

  “Shit!” the guy bellowed as he dropped to the floor. He still held onto his weapon, though, and rattled off a few rounds. But Bullock moved like he was chasing a naked woman carrying a plate of barbequed ribs. He used the Mossberg like a baseball bat and connected solidly with the side of the guard’s jaw, sending him over and out.

  Off in the distance, there was the sound of sirens.

  Crap!

  Abandoning the assault rifle, he hit the stairs moving as fast as his bulk allowed.

  * * *

  “Sounds like the fire department, and the cops won’t be far behind,” Palmares said to Frankie Bones. “Let’s get the hell outta here.” He gestured to another man, too—a thick-necked individual who went by “Scale.” The bruiser brandished an Ingram MAC-10. “Bad enough I gotta deal with the goddamn Scarecrows, now this,” he said. “If they’re behind it, there’s gonna be blood.”

  “Told you we should have kept the sprinklers working,” Bones said, lifting a duffle bag stuffed with cash, settling the strap on his shoulder. “All these damn chemicals.”

  “Yeah, yeah, next time,” Palmares said. “This was supposed to be a deserted warehouse,” he added, looking up. Through the skylight fifteen feet above, they could see black smoke rising into the sky.

  “If there is a next time.”

  The three thugs spun to find a guy standing in the doorway, wearing a cheap Batman mask. The newcomer didn’t wait for a reply, and shot Scale in the kneecap, cartilage and blood exploding from his tattered cotton pants. Moving fast for a fat guy, he crossed the room and kicked the Ingram away. It came to a stop against the wet bar.

  “Fuck,” Scale shouted, landing on his side, both hands gripping what remained of his bloody kneecap. “I’m gonna fix you, dickwad.”

  * * *

  “Uh-huh,” Bullock said, but he wasn’t paying attention to the wounded gangster. He eyed the three full duffle bags, two of them lying on the floor.

  “The hell you supposed to be, beer belly?” Palmares said. “Batman’s hillbilly relation?”

  “Your mama’s a hillbilly, punk,” Bullock replied, trying to figure out how to carry all three bags. Briefly he considered forcing one of the thugs to carry them for him, but common sense interceded.

  One bag would have to do.

  “Back the hell up,” he said to Palmares and his sidekick. He recognized Frankie Bones.

  “You ain’t gonna get away with this, scumbag,” Bones said.

  “You want to join big boy on the floor?” Bullock shook the shotgun he held in both hands. Bones and Palmares took a few steps back. “I didn’t think so. Now drop the bag.” Bones let his duffle drop to his side, leaning it against him as it stood on end.

  The sirens were getting closer.

  Abruptly there was a whoosh of turbines, and fire-retardant foam began sliding down the windows. Like the GCPD, the Gotham Fire Department had been experimenting with the use of blimps. One of their aircraft had to be hovering near the building, spraying it to keep the flames contained.

  One hand still on the trigger of his Mossberg, Bullock bent down to take hold of a duffle bag of cash.

  “I thank you for your contribution,” he said, straightening up with the prize.

  Bones barely twitched his upper body as he threw his bag at Bullock.

  “What the fu—” the masked cop blared, leveling a blast at the bag. Hundreds, fifties, and twenties erupted into the air as the shotgun pellets tore through the canvas. Green-tinged confetti rained down as Bullock reared back. Before he could recover, both hoods were on him.

  Bones socked him in his flabby middle, doubling him over. Palmares grabbed what was left of the tattered duffle bag to slam it down on Bullock’s head. He staggered, bent over like a drunk sailor with osteoporosis. Bones swung at him again, but Bullock fended off the blow and countered with a punch to the man’s chin, sending him backward.

  Bullock turned, dropping into an amateur’s version of a boxing stance, figuring to defend himself as Palmar
es came at him again. The drug lord grabbed a desk lamp and cracked it against Bullock’s skull. Stunned, pinwheels cascading behind his eyes, he sagged and Frankie Bones got his arms pinned behind him.

  Palmares unloaded a salvo of blows to his face and gut.

  “Teach you to mess with me,” the tattooed gang chief raged. Bones let him go. Blood and saliva dripping from his gaping mouth, Bullock sagged to the carpet. A grinning Palmares took a knee, grabbing the cop by the shirt and pulling him into a sitting position.

  “I’ve been itching to try these out.”

  What the fuck? Bullock’s eyes went wide, and he blanched at the sight of snake-like steel fangs shining in the crime boss’s mouth. Only in Gotham, he thought, realizing he was about to die.

  “Let’s see if you still got something funny to say after I take a bite out of your face.”

  “Aw, sweet Lord,” the detective muttered, damn near wetting himself as the fangs bore down.

  There was a crash above them, and glass rained down as the skylight burst. The thugs looked up, and Bullock figured the building must be collapsing around them.

  “Looks like a party,” a female voice said brightly. “Did you forget to send me my invitation?”

  Batgirl swung down on her grapple line. Bones dove to the side, his arms over his head to protect him from the falling shards of glass. Palmares got to his feet, and was rewarded with a Batarang to the side of his head.

  “Ke-rist,” the gangster swore.

  Not wishing to waste an opportunity, Bullock lurched upward and jammed the heel of his hand under the man’s jaw, shoving him off as he scrambled to get back on his feet.

  * * *

  Frankie Bones pulled his pistol and shot at the costumed newcomer. She whipped her Kevlar cape around for added protection of her upper body, the shots ricocheting wildly. As she went into motion, she glanced at the heavyset figure grappling with Palmares.

  Is that Harvey Bullock in that cheap Batman mask? Sure enough, she recognized a body nurtured by fried food and rotgut. What the heck is he doing here?

  Frankie Bones took another shot at her, and she reminded herself to focus. Pulling a tear gas capsule from her belt, she hurled it at Bones. The thing exploded directly at his feet and he was consumed with a coughing fit. Unlike regular tear gas, this compound was designed to cling to body heat even as the target tried to fan the fumes away.

  She heard movement behind her, spun, and blocked a knife thrust as Palmares tried to gut her. He grinned as he did so, and she was momentarily startled by his grotesque silver incisor implants glinting in the light. Recovering quickly, she used a standing sideswipe kick to knock the drug lord aside. He dodged, however, and it was only a glancing blow.

  “Ain’t no slip of a broad gonna best the Python,” he gritted, coming at her again. Going low, avoiding a slash of the blade, Batgirl kicked Palmares in the nads and he doubled over, howling.

  “You… bitch,” he wheezed. “Gonna kill you… for that.”

  He peered at her with raw hate, and lurched in her direction, but for all of his determination, he was still off balance. Batgirl launched a series of strikes to his head and shoulders. Most of them were for punishment, but one struck a specific nerve, and Palmares collapsed on his expensive rug.

  Behind her she heard a loud thump, someone let out a grunt, and a shot glanced off her shoulder’s body armor. Spinning, she saw Bullock, still wearing that ridiculous mask, holding a heavy duffle. Frankie Bones staggered to the side, his gun held up.

  The gangster took a shot at the detective, who moved quicker than his bulk suggested. He dove behind the wet bar as rounds from the pistol shattered decanters filled with top shelf whiskies and bourbons.

  While the gunman was distracted, she closed the distance between them and landed a solid blow to the side of his neck. Even that didn’t stop him, and when he turned she landed a right hook to the jaw.

  That put him down.

  There was a clatter in the doorway. Bullock was running. She pulled a bolo line and used it to snare his legs. He fell face-first to the floor and the bag he was carrying flew out of his hands. It broke open, and bundles of cash flew out, scattering around him.

  What the…? Checking to make sure the gangsters were, indeed, out for the count, she stepped over to the fallen cop. “Why, Detective Bullock, what have we here?” she asked, hands on her hips. “Can you give me a good reason not to turn you in?”

  He just looked at her, his eyes pleading behind the eye openings in the knockoff rubber mask.

  25

  Dr. Leland headed back to her office carrying a fresh cup of tea and an apple to tide her over for a few extra hours. She’d promised herself she wouldn’t work overtime again that night, but the stack of court documents on her desk wasn’t getting any smaller.

  Was it any wonder she had no life? Not as if it mattered, anyway. There was no one at home but her cat—the only male she’d ever met who didn’t mind her reviewing crime scene photos over dinner.

  She was about to turn down the hall that led to the therapy wing when she spotted her intern moving furtively toward security, and the exit beyond.

  “Ms. Quinzel?” she called. “Harleen?”

  The young intern’s blonde hair was messy and loose, hanging in her eyes and hiding her face, but her shoulders hunched a little in response to Dr. Leland’s voice. She didn’t stop, however, or even slow down as she swiped her badge through the security lock and waved coyly at the armed guards as she pushed the outer door open.

  Damn that little brat.

  Dr. Leland sighed wearily and turned back toward her office. She really wanted to give the girl the benefit of the doubt, but her shamelessly inappropriate behavior and surly, insubordinate attitude just wasn’t a good fit for a facility like Arkham. There was chaos enough among the inmates, without having the staff contribute to it. She had no choice but to recommend that the girl be let go.

  Instead of going back to her office, Dr. Leland took a detour. She walked down to the far end of the hallway, past a series of disused storage rooms and maintenance closets and into a dead end with a barred window that looked out over a gnarled and leafless tree. A quiet, forgotten corner of the facility where she often came to be alone and think.

  Putting the apple in her coat pocket, she set her tea on the sill and slid open the window. It only opened a few inches before it was stopped by security blocks, but it was enough for her to reach out and grab the pack of cigarettes she had hidden in the deep sill. Outside she could hear the constant downpour of the rain in the ancient trees that surrounded the estate-turned-institution.

  Leland knew that she really should quit. She had quit, essentially—except for the occasional cheat, and only when she really needed it. Like now. Pulling a cigarette from the pack, she lit one using the lighter she’d also stashed in the pack, and blew the smoke out the open window.

  She couldn’t stop thinking about the Joker.

  Abruptly the relative quiet was interrupted by a sound coming from the nearest maintenance closet, off to her left. A soft, arrhythmic thumping. Leland frowned, crushing out her cigarette against the sill and flicking the butt out the window.

  Stepping over to the closet, she gripped the doorknob, then pressed her ear against the door. It dawned on her how private this forgotten area was. No cameras. No guards. The reason she’d chosen it to sneak a smoke made it a dangerous place to be if an inmate somehow got out of the lockdown ward.

  But this wasn’t Leland’s first rodeo. She’d talked a knife out of a particularly violent patient’s hand, thwarted several suicide attempts, and defused a potential hostage situation before it went out of control. Her patients trusted her, and she was a tireless advocate for their well-being, emphasizing compassionate de-escalation over the use of force. Even the most violent offenders still deserved to be treated like human beings, rather than fractious livestock the staff moved from one pen to another.

  “Is someone in there?” Leland asked.
/>
  The thumping inside the closet increased in tempo, accompanied by a soft, muffled moan.

  “It’s Doctor Leland,” she said, slowly turning the knob. “I’m going to open the door now.” Whoever was on the other side, there was no sense in panicking them.

  She pulled it open just a sliver, waiting to see what—if any—response there might be to her intrusion. It was pitch black inside the closet and all she got was more inarticulate moaning.

  “Now I’m going to turn the light on.” She spoke calmly as she slid her hand through the crack in the door, feeling for the wall switch. “That way we can see each other. Would that be okay?”

  Nothing. Just moaning.

  Leland flipped the switch.

  Inside the closet were stacks of cleaning products packaged in large, industrial-sized tubs. Bleach. Brown paper towels. Powdered soap. A metal roller bucket with wheels and a sad trio of limp, dirty mops. On the floor in the middle of it all, there was a body.

  Harleen Quinzel.

  “Ohmigod, Harleen!”

  She was hogtied and lying on her belly, dressed only in a bra and panties. There was a knotted rag stuffed in her mouth and tied around the back of her head. Black makeup ran down her tear-stained face, mingling with blood from a nasty wound on the right side of her forehead.

  “What the hell happened to you?” Leland pulled the door open and moved quickly to the girl’s side. She untied the drool-soaked rag. “Who did this to you?” It was a rhetorical question, she realized.

  “It was…” Quinzel blubbered between harsh, hyperventilating breaths. “Was… the Joker… he… he…” She was seized by a coughing fit, and gasped to try to get it under control.

  “Calm down and try to breathe slowly,” Leland said, tugging at the stiff rope that bound the girl’s wrists and ankles. “That’s it. Come on, sit up.” As she pulled the bindings away, she saw nasty red welts where they had scraped the skin.