Randolph stepped out of the office building and the cold hit him. Every breath filled his lungs with stabbing air, as if he were inhaling tiny shards of ice. He pulled his coat tighter and headed toward the parking lot.
The shop windows along the street were packed with manufactured warmth, like ribbons, fairy lights, stuffed reindeer with stupid grins plastered across their faces, but none of it could mask the edge of the winter wind. He hurried to his car and reached for the door. His fingers were so numb the key scraped against the lock a few times before catching. Then, in the reflection of the car window, illuminated by the dull glow of the streetlight, he noticed a tall silhouette behind him wearing a ski mask.
The hair on the back of his neck stood straight up. Before he could turn around, an arm wrapped around his throat, cutting off both breath and scream in an instant. A gloved hand clamped over his mouth. His feet left the ground as something with terrifying strength dragged him toward the deeper darkness behind a nearby dumpster.
"Shhh... Santa came early this year. You'd better cooperate."
The voice behind him was rough. Something cold and sharp pierced through his expensive wool coat and the suit beneath. The chill of it was worse than Gotham's wind. Every muscle in his body locked up tight, leaving only an uncontrollable trembling.
"Don't... don't hurt me. My wallet's in my inside pocket. Please, I swear I won't call the police!"
The man behind him smelled like the docks, thick fish stench mixed with cheap tobacco and dried sweat. The combination was so overwhelming it made Randolph's throat convulse. A hand rummaged through his inner pocket, clumsily flipping open the metal clasp and pulling out a stack of bills.
"Well, well... a pleasant surprise. I only came to deliver a message tonight." The raspy voice chuckled. "Hall Randolph. Program director at Child Protective Services."
"Y-yes. Yes. What do you want?"
"Listen very carefully. Mr. Falcone sends his regards. He says you'd better drop CPS's involvement in the case of those two siblings at Gotham Charity Clinic. It's best for everyone involved. Otherwise..."
The voice leaned in close to his ear and softly recited his home address. Every number and street name.
"You wouldn't want your son ending up in CPS custody, would you?"
The knife lifted from his rib, sliding slowly up his coat until the tip came to rest just beneath his chin, forcing his head back.
Randolph's vision blurred. His gaze locked on the narrow flat of the blade near the guard. The metal was twisted, reflecting his own face, crushed and distorted under the stranger's palm.
"Yes. Yes. Mr. Falcone's will..."
Randolph was still terrified. Just two kids. Who cared who they were? If CPS didn't take them, then that was that. Nothing serious.
"Good. I hope you don't forget." The pressure on the knife increased slightly, just enough to make Randolph gasp. "Merry Christmas, Mr. Randolph."
The arm around his neck loosened. Randolph doubled over, coughing violently, his hands clutching at his throat. When he finally caught his breath and straightened up, the surroundings were empty.
Across the street, a huge shop window displayed a delicate plaster angel suspended above a glowing "Happy Holidays" sign, smiling gently down at the street.
---
"No holes in the performance, right?"
Marco slipped into his car, pulled off the old coat he'd bought specifically for this job, and scrubbed his face hard with both hands. He yanked a small device from around his neck, and tossed it onto the passenger seat.
"Ed's gadgets really are top-notch," he muttered as he started the engine. After driving a few blocks, he pulled into an empty underpass, found an abandoned fuel drum, and tossed the coat, gloves, and mask inside. He doused them with gasoline from a jerry can in the trunk and struck a match.
The flames leapt up.
"No wonder people like being villains. Being a thug is actually kind of fun." He flipped through the bills he'd taken, maybe five or six hundred bucks. "Life and death in your hands. Fast cash. No taxes. Learning to be good takes years, but turning bad? One slip and you're there."
He watched the fire burn.
"One day... am I really going to turn into something like that?"
The flames crackled and popped, devouring the evidence. In the distance, scattered across Gotham's night, the familiar sound of gunfire echoed between buildings.
He got back in the car and drove away.
"Good night, Gotham. Though that's probably asking too much."
---
For the next few days, nothing happened. Miraculously.
CPS rejected Harper and Cullen on the grounds of not meeting medical criteria, leaving them in Dr. Thompkins' care at the clinic. Their father, Marcus, finally showed up, but at GCPD headquarters, in handcuffs, charged with theft and aggravated assault. He wouldn't be coming out anytime soon.
Other than that, everything was quiet.
Marco had developed the habit of reading the newspaper every morning. But despite all his watching and waiting, billionaire Bruce Wayne showed no trace of any nocturnal activity. Just business meetings, charity galas, and supermodel dates.
"Is he really this patient?"
He checked his watch, a Rolex steel model that Waylon had mailed him from Metropolis not long ago. It was worth about five grand on the market. He'd thought about selling it for cash, but decided to keep it out of respect for Waylon's gesture. The big guy had good intentions, even if his methods were rough around the edges.
Well, fine. The longer Bruce stayed quiet, the longer Gotham could avoid chaos.
What annoyed him, though, was that Wayne Enterprises had donated a shipment of equipment to GCPD headquarters, supposedly out of respect for Gordon, while the East End precinct didn't get so much as a goddamn paperclip.
Now he fully understood how Bob felt. But there was nothing he could do. Eventually, Bob would just have to swallow his pride and beg headquarters for scraps.
He glanced at the snowy rooftops and streets outside, then at the officers decorating the station hall with ribbons and cheap ornaments. He turned to Alan, who was organizing files at the front desk.
"It's Christmas today. Are you religious?"
"Yes, sir. My whole family is."
"Good man." Marco gave him a thumbs-up. Just then, his phone rang. He checked the screen, shook his head, and stepped into the hallway for privacy.
"Don't tell me you got discharged."
"Of course not!" Darnell's voice was as unserious as ever. "Actually... actually... A nurse caught me trying to sneak out and dragged me back to bed. Who wants to spend Christmas in a hospital?"
"If you want to spend the rest of your life in a wheelchair, then by all means, keep it up." Marco felt his earlier good mood evaporate. "So what do you want?"
"Are you coming to the hospital for Christmas tonight? Lisa will be here. And I heard Selina might show up too."
"No."
Marco refused immediately. "I'm on duty at the precinct tonight."
"What the fuck? Bob made you work on Christmas?"
"I volunteered. It's not like I buy into the whole virgin birth thing anyway." Marco lowered his voice and chuckled. "Honestly, I kind of feel bad for Joseph the Carpenter."
On the other end of the line, Darnell burst into loud, honking laughter. "If any believer heard that, they'd murder you!"
"Why do you think I stepped into the hallway to take this call?"
"So you were planning to say that shit!"
"Hahaha..."
Both men laughed openly before chatting a bit more about nothing important. Marco hung up and walked back inside. Alan was binding the case files he'd sorted, standing at attention the moment he saw Marco.
"Hey, relax. We're colleagues, not drill sergeants."
"Yes, sir!"
"And stop calling me 'sir.' It creeps me out. Just call me Marco."
"Understood, sir!"
"...You know what? Suit yourself." Marco shrugged and eyed the stack of files. "All done?"
"Yes, sir. These are all the unsolved cases from this year and..." He lowered his voice. "...and the potential wrongful convictions, cases where the evidence is clearly problematic."
"And this..." He pulled out a thinner folder. "These are all this year's crimes involving children. Seventy-eight cases in total."
"...Give it here. I'll look it over." Marco tossed the files onto his desk and flipped through a few pages. The layout was neat. "Alan, I'm guessing you'll be a superintendent someday. Serious people succeed at everything."
"Thank you for the praise, sir!"
"By the way, you and Anna should go home for the holiday tonight. No need to stay."
"But sir, according to the Officer Duty Manual, we must—"
"One day won't break protocol. Besides, I'm afraid you two will slow me down." Marco waved dismissively. "Don't make trouble for me."
"Y-yes. Thank you, sir!"
"Don't thank me yet. No one leaves before six. We're definitely getting a flood of petty thieves and muggers before dinner, and I'm not spending all night on paperwork."
---
In the afternoon, Marco drove slowly around the streets, picking up supplies and dropping them off in logistics. As expected, starting around four o'clock, suspects began flooding into the station: theft, robbery, assault, drunk and disorderly. The holding cells filled up fast, and it didn't ease off until nearly six-thirty.
"All right, get out of here." Marco waved Alan and Anna toward the door. Everyone except the officers on duty had long since vanished. "You two have already helped more than enough."
"Then... Merry Christmas, sir!"
They saluted and left the station. Marco looked at the dozen or so bored, half-awake officers still in the hall, then at the senior duty sergeant in charge.
"Sir, mind if I say something?"
"Oh, go ahead."
As someone only a few months from retirement, the sergeant couldn't care less what they wanted to do. As long as they didn't burn down the station on his watch, they could do whatever the hell they wanted.
"I'm not spending Christmas eating frozen pizza and stale sandwiches, drinking sour cheap coffee." Marco clapped his hands together. "Who's hungry?"
Most of them perked up immediately. Once someone stirred up excitement, that was all it took. Instantly, every officer, and even several detainees behind the bars, raised their hands and shouted:
"Food! Food! Food!"
"All right then. Time to show you how it's done."
Marco took off his uniform jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and headed into the kitchen. The precinct kitchen wasn't much, just a cramped space with a beat-up stove, a few dented pots, and a refrigerator that wheezed like it had emphonia. But he had grown up helping his nonna in a kitchen half this size, and he knew how to work magic with limited resources.
He'd picked up ingredients earlier: cheap cuts of pork and chicken, rice, tomatoes, garlic, onions, peppers. Nothing fancy. But in the right hands, even cheap ingredients could sing.
About forty minutes later, he and the logistics staff brought out several large trays. Risotto loaded with vegetables and chunks of seasoned meat. Lasagna layered with rich béchamel and tomato sauce. Sautéed pork with peppers and onions. And a massive pot of hearty minestrone, simmering since the afternoon, full of shredded meat and vegetables.
It had cost him another hundred and fifty bucks from his dwindling cash reserve. But it was worth it.
"Holy shit!"
The hall erupted. Maybe the officers didn't truly care about the food itself, but they loved the energy. Anything to make a dull Christmas shift more bearable.
They crowded around, scooping food onto paper plates or leftover pizza boxes. Behind the bars, the detainees sniffed the aroma, and someone called out hopefully:
"Officer, any chance we could get some too?"
"Yeah! I haven't eaten since noon!"
Marco glanced at them, then back at the officers. "If you can promise to stay quiet tonight and not cause trouble..."
"No problem! We swear!"
Most of them shouted their agreement immediately, except for a few voices yelling "Fuck the police!" who were quickly silenced with punches and curses from the other inmates.
It was a holiday. Things were supposed to be lively. With entertainment like this, Christmas was actually pretty decent.
But good times never last.
---
A little after nine, the dispatch officer grabbed the phone and suddenly shouted across the hall:
"We've got something weird here!"
The hall fell silent. Regardless of rank, everyone turned to stare at Marco.
Why are you all looking at me? So I'm the one who's supposed to deal with this now? he cursed inwardly but jerked his chin at the dispatcher. "What is it?"
"Uh... Bamonte's Restaurant was attacked. Multiple people seriously injured. Heavy property damage."
"Huh?"
Nearly every cop, and even the more experienced detainees, shouted in unison.
"Isn't that Maroni's turf?!"
A shiver ran through the room. If someone had the balls to hit Maroni's place on Christmas, only Falcone's crew would have that kind of nerve. Which meant a full-blown gang war might be about to sweep across Gotham.
But if a mob boss like Maroni got beaten so badly by Falcone's men that he had to call the police for help... he was basically finished. Maybe this meant the chaos would end soon?
"Did they say how many guys Falcone sent?" Marco grabbed his bulletproof vest, putting it on as he spoke. "Any heavy weapons reported?"
"N-no. Witnesses said they only saw... a shadow. Wearing some kind of weird cape."
...Shit.
Marco stopped mid-motion and took the vest off again. This was almost certainly Bruce starting his little crusade. Better not to get in the way.
Play vigilante all you want. But why the hell pick Christmas? Don't other people get to celebrate too?
"I think they were probably drunk. You all know what Bamonte's is like. How many guys they've got. How many guns. A single caped shadow... What does that remind you of?"
The officers looked at each other. Then someone in the holding cell raised a hand tentatively.
"T-The Shadow?"
"Exactly. So I'm guessing they were arguing about some old movie while drunk and started fighting. Nothing to do with us. They should watch less spooky crap."
"True. But Penelope in that movie was hot."
"Nah, man. Cameron Diaz is way hotter."
Officers started arguing about actresses. Marco rolled his eyes and sat back down.
---
But this was only the beginning.
Half an hour later, a second business called in, one of Falcone's warehouses near the docks. The caller was rambling and incoherent, but again described a caped shadow moving through the night like something out of a nightmare.
"All right, I'll take a look." Marco waved over an intern who was decent with paperwork. "Listen up. If another call like this comes in, just tell them an officer is already en route. Then send the address to me. Got it?"
"Awesome!"
Someone else taking responsibility was a godsend. East End officers were masters at avoiding work, and they cheered in relief.
Marco grabbed a small team and climbed into the Ford. The heavy bulletproof tires, wrapped in snow chains, crunched through the thick snow as they sped down the empty streets toward Frost Street.
---
"Mamma Mia. This is brutal."
Bamonte's Restaurant was pitch dark inside and out. Ten or so men were scattered across the floor. None dead, but nearly all had broken bones, arms bent and legs twisted. At least two looked like they had full-body fractures. Shell casings, shattered dishes, burned cash, and puddles of vomited blood littered the floor.
With no one conscious enough to explain what had happened, Marco used the restaurant's landline to call an ambulance, documented the scene with his camera, and headed to the next location.
On the way, the station radioed that the shadow had hit another restaurant in the old district. At the docks, the situation was identical. Even the accountant had his teeth knocked out, and none of the seven or eight guards could give a coherent account of what had happened.
"This guy's a maniac."
The officer accompanying Marco trembled as he took photos, looking pale and sick. "Are we... really going to keep chasing him?"
"What else are we supposed to do? If Falcone's guys can't handle him, you think you can?" Marco patted his shoulder. "Worst case, we just drive slower."
"You're right." The officer sighed. "Never thought being a cop meant dealing with Rambo."
"Be grateful if it's just Rambo. Imagine if it were the Terminator." Marco lowered the speed another notch, letting the car crawl through the snowy streets. "Snowy night driving, safety first. We'll take it nice and slow."