James Gordon leaned against his patrol car, sipping coffee that was rapidly losing its warmth, when a roar of an engine echoed from the far end of Kings Way.
He turned to see the headlights of the East Precinct's armored riot van cutting through the night. In an instant, it swept past him in a cloud of dust and screeched to a halt nearby.
A damn fine piece of machinery.
Gordon spat out a mouthful of dust and grit, walking toward Jay as he hopped out of the driver's seat.
"Jay, what are you doing out this late?"
"That dismemberment case you asked me to help with. Ed…" He jerked a thumb toward the back of the van as Nygma stepped out. "He used a bunch of words like 'propofol,' 'metabolism,' and 'flow rates' to narrow down a search area. I didn't catch half of it, but I'm here to kick in the door."
"Hi, Jim."
"Hi, Ed." Gordon shook Nygma's hand. "Honestly, Loeb should never have let you go."
Nygma smiled but said nothing. Jay took a closer look at Gordon's haggard face and frowned slightly.
"Jim, you look like you're about to have a heart attack."
"You're not wrong. I've practically lived in my car for three days," Gordon sighed. "We don't know when Black Mask is going to snap next. This morning, I got an anonymous tip saying he's planning something big and that we need to step up security."
"Even so, you don't need to—"
"I reported it up the chain… but while Loeb is still officially here, his word doesn't mean a thing anymore. Everything is being handled by the incoming Commissioner, Barnes. And then…"
Gordon let out a heavy sigh. "He ordered all officers to cancel their leave. No one is allowed to leave their post."
"That is just…" Jay shook his head, speechless. "Worse than Loeb?"
"I wouldn't say that," Gordon gave a bitter smile. "He's at his desk too, only sleeping three or four hours a day. If anyone's going to drop dead first, it'll be him… Wait, you guys in the East Precinct don't have to follow the order?"
"Who knows? I didn't hear a word about it. Besides, in the East End, even if we hear an order like that, we tend to develop temporary deafness." Jay patted Gordon's shoulder sympathetically. "Good luck, Jim. But we're in the same boat—the suspect I'm looking for is holed up in Black Mask's territory."
"That's too dangerous. I'll go with you." Gordon tried to rally his energy. "I'll go wake up Harvey."
"No, no, no, thank you, but no." Jay quickly held him back. "In the state you're in, if something goes sideways, I really don't want to have to give you mouth-to-mouth."
He waved goodbye to Gordon and climbed back into the van with Nygma. From the passenger seat, Wilson glanced at the rearview mirror.
"He's a good man."
"Yeah, but don't forget what Bob says: the good die young." Jay floored it. The massive run-flat tires spun, and the van's silhouette was quickly swallowed by the exhaust and the dark of night.
"Let's hope we're all villains tonight."
"Approaching target location. Stay sharp."
The E350 came to a stop about a hundred meters from the processing plant. Jay cut the lights and pulled an AR from the rack.
"Wilson, you're with me… put that Remington down! Use your Glock. Ed, you and Otis watch the van. If Black Mask's guys show up… I trust you have a way to deal with them."
"Not a problem." Nygma nodded confidently in the dark. Otis extended his arm, and a large rat scurried from his pocket into his palm.
"Captain, let Bastian go with you."
"Fine."
Jay cracked the door open, and a foul stench immediately hit him.
"Damn, does no one collect the trash in the West End?"
Crouched low, the two quickly approached the side door of the plant. Before pushing it open, Jay glanced back at Wilson.
"How many spare mags?"
"Two."
"Enough. Remember: safety first."
…
"And Gabe, stay outside. Remember, nobody gets in."
"Got it, Boss."
The heating in the hospital room was cranked up high, warding off the chill of the Gotham spring night but creating a stifling, oppressive air.
Oswald Cobblepot was propped up in his bed. He looked pale, with gauze on his temple and a cast on his arm—a perfect picture of a severely injured man—as he looked at his visitors.
"I am… deeply grateful you all could come."
He used his uninjured hand to shakily pour expensive Scotch for his guests.
"The doctors told me to rest, but with the current state of affairs, how could I stay in bed? Lord Falcone has suffered such misfortune… it breaks my heart."
"Cut the crap. You're the waddling Penguin, not The Roman's lapdog." A burly man with a shaved head and facial tattoos sneered. "I'd sooner believe you'd become Mayor of Gotham than believe you're actually loyal to him."
"Rick Torino, mind your tongue. Show some respect for Lord Falcone."
"Sobieski, stop pretending. If you were truly loyal, you wouldn't have accepted this guy's invitation to come here tonight."
Torino gave a cold laugh and looked at the refined man in the suit, then at the middle-aged man in a jacket and jeans standing by the door. "Paul, let's be real. We're all here because we're looking for a better way out—or a better way up."
The other two shared a look and nodded slowly. All three turned to look at Cobblepot.
"Speak up, Oz. What's your angle?"
"Don't misunderstand my intentions, friends." Oswald struggled to sit up straighter, offering a gentle smile. "In these turbulent times, Lord Falcone has made some errors in judgment due to his anxiety. Perhaps he lacks the energy to look after us right now. As 'family,' we must look after ourselves so that we might better serve him later."
"Paul, you lost a lot of product last week. Your most valuable route was blocked by Black Mask. Did the Lord have time to handle that for you?"
Paul snorted. "Why ask what you already know?"
Oswald didn't rush. He turned to the man in the suit. "Mr. Sobieski, there have been two 'incidents' at Lord Falcone's vault recently, with significant losses. That is something no one wants to see.
However, his demand that the finance department falsify the records to… hide the truth from everyone? I don't agree with that. After all, that responsibility might fall on your shoulders in the future."
"As for—"
"Enough," Torino interrupted. "Stop beating around the bush. I just want more money. Tell us what kind of leverage you have to back this meeting."
"Because we are still using the old ways to fight an enemy who doesn't play by the rules," Oswald sighed.
"Lord Falcone is our Godfather; I have the utmost respect for him. But he… he belongs to an era of tradition, order, and patience. Black Mask represents chaos and destruction. To face destruction, we need flexibility, decisiveness, and the nerve to use whatever means necessary."
He paused, letting the silence ferment in the room, before speaking slowly: "We need a leader who understands traditional values but also knows how to deal with the threats of a new age."
"I know you are all loyal to the family." Oswald's voice was full of sincere concern.
"But loyalty shouldn't mean sitting around waiting to die. Perhaps we could… share resources? Form a small alliance? At least regarding the Black Mask problem, to ensure our respective territories and businesses aren't the next to be put to the torch."
Silence filled the room. The four men looked at each other, their eyes darting about, but no one wanted to be the first to speak.
"Why don't we have a drink while we discuss this further? Forgive me, I cannot drink right now." Finally, Oswald tentatively raised his water glass, looking warmly at the other three. It looked like a toast, or perhaps the opening of a devil's contract.
"To Gotham's… stability?"
The other three hesitated, then raised their glasses.
"Right. To Gotham's stability."
——————
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