Justice League_Wings of War

by Michael Jan Friedman

  One figure after another walked by the detective, unaware of his presence in the alleyway. But none of them was Murtaugh. Batman was starting to wonder if he had miscalculated when he caught sight of the face he had been looking for.

  Instantly, Batman reached out and pulled Murtaugh into the alley—no easy task, considering the guy was six-three and weighed two-fifty. Then the detective thrust the crook backward into the shadows so no one would witness their conversation.

  Murtaugh stared at him, his eyes widening under his dark brows. “You . . . ,” he said. “You’re real.”

  “And you’re Donnie Murtaugh,” said Batman, his voice as cold as a wind in a wintry graveyard.

  “Yeah,” said Murtaugh, his voice rising in pitch, “but I ain’t done nothin’. I swear it.”

  “Really?” said Batman. “Then it must be some other Donnie Murtaugh who got Bane the men he needed to kidnap Boris Gorinski.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” Murtaugh told him. “I wasn’t part of no kidnapping.”

  “Bane’s men told me otherwise.” Batman took a step forward, watching Murtaugh’s hands in case he had a weapon in his jacket. “Now you can play the ‘I’m innocent’ game all night, but that might not be so smart. I’m bound to remember a couple of other stunts you’ve pulled that the Metropolis police department would be interested to know about.”

  Judging by the way Murtaugh’s Adam’s apple slid up and down his throat, he knew what activities Batman was talking about.

  “All right,” said the big man. “I got some men for somebody. But I didn’t—”

  Before he could finish, something moved on Batman’s right. He whirled to face it, ready for anything. But it wasn’t an adversary.

  It was just a big, sleek cat that had darted out from behind a plastic bag full of garbage. If he hadn’t been so jumpy from lack of sleep, he wouldn’t have given it any more than a glance.

  Batman turned back to Murtaugh—but he did so too late to defend himself against the meaty fist flying at his face. Rolling with the punch, Batman took the edge off it, but it still hit him hard enough to send him staggering backward over a trash can.

  Seeing his chance to escape, Murtaugh bolted past the Dark Knight. In a heartbeat, he had exited the mouth of the alleyway and was out of sight.

  Batman recovered and took off in pursuit. But before he could get very far, he saw something green and yellow and red sweep Murtaugh off his feet and propel him high into the starry night sky.

  It was Hawkgirl. And though Batman couldn’t hear what she was saying because of Murtaugh’s strangled curses, she seemed to be posing him the same kind of questions Batman had been asking.

  But at a height of a few hundred feet, Hawkgirl had a bit more leverage.

  Murtaugh couldn’t even struggle for fear of the winged woman letting him go. All he could do was hang there and plead for her to let him down. But she wouldn’t do that, of course. She would let him dangle until he told her what she wanted to know.

  Or at least that was what Batman thought. Suddenly and without warning, Hawkgirl let go of

  her prey. Murtaugh filled the night with a long, blood-chilling scream as he plummeted toward the street below.

  Batman knew he couldn’t break the man’s fall— not when he was dropping from three hundred feet up. But he couldn’t let Murtaugh die either. No matter what he had done, it wasn’t Hawkgirl’s place to punish him for it.

  The Dark Knight launched himself toward the spot where Murtaugh would hit the hard, unforgiving pavement. But before he could get there, he felt a rush of air and saw a blur of feathered wings, and realized he wasn’t the only one intent on saving Murtaugh’s life.

  As Murtaugh gibbered hysterically, scared out of his wits by his brush with death, Hawkgirl soared with him to the same height as before.

  But they didn’t stay up there long. A minute later, Hawkgirl descended almost to ground level and dropped Murtaugh into a pile of bulging garbage bags.

  “He doesn’t know anything,” she said sourly. “Are you sure?” Batman asked.

  Hawkgirl nodded confidently. “I’m sure.”

  Batman frowned. “A dead end.” Just like the alley they were standing in.

  “Looks that way,” said his partner. “But there’s another way we can go.”

  He looked at her. “And where’s that?” “Back to Finger’s Crossing.”

  Batman didn’t know what Hawkgirl had in mind. However, considering she had been by far the more effective member of their partnership, he could hardly question her recommendation.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  As before, the winged woman lifted him off the ground and made her way through the night sky. As they left the alley, Batman took a last glance at the unconscious form of Donnie Murtaugh.

  “Was that really necessary?” he asked.

  Hawkgirl chuckled. “Sometimes you’ve got to take extreme measures.”

  “What if you had missed him on the way down?” Batman asked.

  His partner smiled. “I never miss.” Batman believed it.

  Martian Manhunter would have preferred to see the talks between Kaznia and Luristan continue.

  However, President Gorinski’s kidnapping had effectively put an end to the negotiations. So instead of standing in a conference room in human guise, J’onn was hovering outside the World Assembly building watching General Sikander conduct a heated press conference.

  As always, Sikander had a pipe in his hand. He poked the air with it, adding emphasis to his assertions.

  “Premier Melnikov never wanted these talks to bear fruit,” said the general. “That is why he had President Gorinski eliminated.”

  “You’re certain that Melnikov is to blame for President Gorinski’s kidnapping?” asked a reporter.

  “Of course,” said Sikander. “Who else had anything to gain from the president’s disappearance?”

  “Have you any proof ?” asked another reporter.

  Sikander frowned. “Your American judicial system may have the time to seek proof. I do not. I must act immediately in my country’s best interests.”

  “What will you do?” asked a third reporter.

  Sikander’s eyes narrowed. “If Premier Melnikov wishes to resort to violence instead of diplomacy, I will respond on the same level.”

  “Is that a threat?” asked a fourth reporter.

  “No,” said Sikander with grim determination. “It is a solemn vow.”

  J’onn sighed and activated his comm link. “General Sikander seems to be promising retaliation against the Kaznians.”

  “This could get ugly,” said Green Lantern, who was watching the other side of the World Assembly building. “Real ugly.”

  “We’ll have to be on our guard,” said Wonder Woman. “Against what?” asked Flash.

  “Against anything,” Superman replied. “And everything.”

  J’onn felt worse for the Man of Steel than for anyone else. He had had such high hopes for these meetings, such lofty expectations.

  And now, it seemed, those expectations would never be realized.

  For the last few hours, as night gradually gave way to day, Batman had stood by the red barn where they had found Bane’s helicopter, and watched Hawkgirl. But as far as he could tell, his partner hadn’t actually done anything.

  She had simply walked back and forth along the fringe of woods, turning her head every so often as if she was listening for something.

  But all Batman could hear was the occasional birdsong. So he could draw only one even remotely reasonable conclusion—that the birdsong was what Hawkgirl was listening for.

  Finally, his teammate turned to him and pointed west. “They went that way,” she said.

  Batman figured he would ask, even though he didn’t expect a straight answer. “How do you know?”

  “Trust me,” said Hawkgirl. “I know.” She gazed westward. “Unfortunately, I don’t know where they went after that.” She glan
ced at the Dark Knight. “Have any ideas?”

  He thought about it for a moment. “Yes,” he said, eager to make some contribution to their partnership. “As a matter of fact, I do.”

  John Stewart, also known as Green Lantern, had seen his share of anxious political situations on other worlds—but he hadn’t seen any more volatile than this one.

  So he wasn’t too shocked when he saw a black car pull up in front of the Kaznian embassy in the middle of the night and spit out half a dozen men with automatic weapons.

  John didn’t doubt that they were Luristanians. After all, General Sikander had spelled out his intention to strike back at his enemies. The only questions had been when and where.

  Now, it seemed, those questions had been answered.

  The Green Lantern swooped down out of the sky and interposed himself between the gunmen and the embassy. Then he said, “What do you think you’re doing?”

  The gunmen didn’t answer him—at least not with words. Instead they opened fire and let their weapons do their talking.

  John frowned. Without his ring, he would have been a dead man. Fortunately, its emerald power was a lot stronger than any projectile.

  With a sudden wide-angle burst of energy, he vaporized his opponents’ bullets. Then he used his ring to spear the weapons out of the gunmen’s hands.

  Of course, they could still have recovered them if the Green Lantern had given them half a chance. Knowing that, he blasted the guns to bits one at a time.

  He was beginning to feel that he had the situation in hand when one of the gunmen pulled a hand grenade out of his pocket.

  John couldn’t act quickly enough to keep the man from pulling the pin on the explosive device or throwing it at the embassy. But he was quick enough to throw a green energy bubble around it.

  When it exploded, the bubble contained the devastating impact. The Green Lantern scowled and turned to the man responsible for it.

  “Now that,” he said, “was way out of line.”

  To make sure it didn’t happen a second time, John dropped a green energy dome over the gunmen. They wouldn’t be tossing any more grenades if they were going to be standing there when the things went off.

  By then, the Metropolis police had begun arriving on the scene. The Green Lantern had a lot of respect for police officers. After all, he was a lot like one himself.

  All at once, John made the green dome vanish. Then he herded the gunmen in the direction of a paddy wagon with a few low-impact jabs of green energy.

  Only when he was sure the police had the situation well in hand did he contact his teammates. “This is John,” he said over his comm link. “Don’t look now, but I think this pot we’ve been watching is about to boil over.”

  Batman sat in the pilot’s seat of his Batwing and used its onboard computer to call up a street map of Finger’s Crossing.

  It didn’t take long. The next part—hacking into the data network of the Metropolis police—promised to be a little more difficult.

  “What are you doing?” asked Hawkgirl, who was standing beside the open cockpit.

  “If Bane went in the direction you indicated,” Batman told her, “he took a road called Kubert Drive—which doesn’t intersect with any other roads for about a mile. Then it crosses a major highway.”

  He pointed to the intersection in question as it was represented on his computer screen.

  “The light there tends to be a long one,” Batman noted, “so impatient motorists will often shoot through the intersection as the light is turning red.”

  Hawkgirl looked at him. “And?”

  “To discourage this,” he went on, “the police installed a surveillance device that’s activated when a car goes through the intersection illegally. The device takes a picture, electronically relays it to headquarters, and the motorist is issued a ticket in the mail.”

  His partner considered the information for a moment. “So if the vehicle with Bane and Gorinski in it went through that intersection, and the light happened to be red at the time, there would be a picture of the vehicle.”

  “That’s correct,” Batman told her as he tapped additional instructions into his computer. “Which is why I’m hacking into the police department’s data net. If Bane went through here, there may be a picture of it.”

  “But,” said Hawkgirl, “any number of vehicles could have gone through that red light. How will you know which one was Bane’s?”

  “The police pictures are time-coded. I’m estimating that Bane would have passed through the intersection at approximately five-forty-seven.”

  “And if he stopped for coffee?”

  Batman knew the winged woman was kidding. Still, he had already taken that possibility into account—along with a couple of dozen others.

  “There aren’t any restaurants, coffee shops, or food trucks between here and the intersection,” he replied. “So that needn’t be a concern.”

  Hawkgirl fell silent as Batman worked some more on his keyboard. A few moments later, he had pierced the data net’s firewall. Now it was just a matter of finding the surveillance pictures.

  “Hey, wait a minute . . . ,” said Hawkgirl.

  “What is it?” Batman asked.

  “I thought you operated out of Gotham City. How did you know about a surveillance device at a suburban intersection outside Metropolis?”

  How indeed, Batman reflected. “I have a friend at the company that developed the technology.”

  It was true, more or less. The surveillance system had been developed by WayneTech, and Bruce Wayne was WayneTech’s chief executive officer.

  “Looks like we’re getting somewhere,” Hawkgirl observed.

  She was right. The plane’s computer monitor was displaying the surveillance system’s menu.

  First, Batman identified the location he was interested in. After all, there were other intersections in the greater Metropolis area that had been equipped with the same system. Then he punched in 12:45 and saw that only one vehicle had passed through the intersection within two minutes of the time he had specified.

  A second later, a picture sprang to life on his monitor. It showed a black van that was three or four years old and had seen its share of fender benders.

  But what he was really after were the numbers on the license plate. With a few taps on his keyboard, he zeroed in on the plate and magnified it.

  It was from Delaware. The code was UDH 395.

  “Bingo,” said Hawkgirl.

  But Batman wasn’t done. Having gotten what he needed from the local police, he hacked into the Delaware motor vehicle database. It was a good deal easier than getting into the police net—and it told him who owned the van.

  “Big City Warehousing and Distribution,” he read out loud. “Located at four-fifty Park Ridge Road.”

  The detective didn’t have to consult a computer map to know it wasn’t far away. Five or six miles, maybe. He informed his partner of the fact.

  “I’ll need a lift again,” Batman advised her.

  “It would be my pleasure,” Hawkgirl assured him.

  The Fastest Man Alive had been circling the Luristanian embassy for almost three hours when he saw his first hint of trouble.

  Running into the lobby of the embassy, Flash alerted the guard on duty there to lock the building’s doors and keep everyone away from the windows. Then he went outside, leaned against a street sign, and waited for the troublemakers to get out of their car.

  They were dressed in black and carried automatic weapons, a lot like the gunmen Green Lantern had corralled earlier. Flash had to wonder . . . did these guys all go to the same tailor or did it just seem that way?

  The gunmen cried out in surprise when they saw the Scarlet Speedster standing there. Then they raised their weapons and took aim.

  It all happened in slightly less than a second. But to the Flash, it seemed like an eternity.

  “Okay,” he said, “let me get this straight. The Luristanians attacked your embassy, s
o you’ve decided to return the favor?”

  His question was met with a burst of machine-gun fire. Of course, by the time the bullets reached the spot where he had been standing, he wasn’t there anymore. He was behind his assailants.

  That was one of the benefits of superspeed, the Flash reflected. There wasn’t anything fast enough to hurt you as long as you were ready for it.

  “I’m going to take that as a yes,” he said.

  The gunmen whirled, their eyes wide with amazement.

  “I know,” the speedster said modestly. “I have that effect on people. But getting back to our conversation . . .”

  Not surprisingly, the gunmen fired at him a second time. The Flash dodged this burst as easily as he had dodged the first one.

  “You know,” he told them, “you guys are not making a good first impression on me.”

  They roared curses at him in their language and fired again. And again, he managed to be somewhere else by the time the bullets arrived.

  “Okay,” said the Flash, “I’ve tried to be a good host. But enough is enough.”

  This time, he didn’t wait for his adversaries to fire at him. He zipped from one gunman to the next, plucking their weapons from their hands faster than the eye could follow. Then he deposited the guns in a police station eight blocks away.

  “Keep the change,” he told the sergeant sitting at the desk near the front door.

  The guy did a double take. “What . . . where did you come from?” he said in a startled tone of voice.

  “A place called Blue Valley. Nice there. You’d like it,” the Flash told him.

  Before the sergeant could respond, the Scarlet Speedster had returned to the embassy. The gunmen were still standing there in the street, trying to figure out what had happened to their weapons.

  “So where were we?” asked the Flash.

  The gunmen just stood there for a moment, uncertain whether to attack their opponent with their fists or to try to get away. In the end, they chose escape— for all the good it did them.