The phone screamed into the darkness like a banshee.
Marco jolted awake, fumbling for the lamp switch with one hand while his other groped across the nightstand. His fingers closed around the phone. He squinted at the screen, eyes burning from sudden light.
2:40 AM.
"You've got to be fucking kidding me."
The caller ID flashed: Cobblepot.
He swiped to answer. "What are you—"
"He came. Just now."
Marco's brain, still foggy with sleep, took a second to catch up. Then the words clicked into place, and adrenaline dumped into his system.
He sat up straight, sheets falling away. "Is he near you? Can you talk?"
"I'm safe. He's not here. He sent someone to deliver a gift."
"Stay put. Don't touch anything. I'm on my way."
Marco was already moving before he hung up. He splashed cold water on his face at the bathroom sink, grabbed his service weapon from the lockbox, snatched his keys off the kitchen counter, and was out the door in under three minutes. His Jeep Cherokee coughed to life on the second try, and he peeled out of the parking lot.
The streets of Gotham at this hour were a different animal. The usual daytime traffic had been replaced by something quieter and infinitely more dangerous. Figures lurked in doorways. Cars cruised past with tinted windows and no plates.
He ran two red lights and didn't see a single other cop car.
When he pulled up outside the Iceberg Lounge, it was desolate. Usually at this hour, the place would still be jumping, the peak rush over, sure, but replaced by the hardcore crowd riding out their highs on booze, pills, or whatever else they'd managed to score inside. Tonight, though, the place looked like a morgue. Two of Cobblepot's guys stood outside the front entrance, and the moment they spotted Marco's car, they sprinted to open the door for him.
Not a good sign.
He stepped into the lounge. The bar was dark. Even the usual ambient music had been cut. The only sound was the hum of the refrigerators behind the bar and the distant drip of water from somewhere in the back.
He walked deeper into the room. "I already called Gordon. He's not going to be happy about getting woken up at this hour, and when he gets here—"
"Come look." Cobblepot's voice floated out from the back corner. "Just come look."
Marco moved toward the back booth. Cobblepot was slumped in the seat. His ever-present shadow, Gabe, was nowhere to be seen. On the table in front of him sat a rough wooden box, maybe thirty centimeters square, the kind you'd find in a hardware store filled with nails or screws.
Marco approached slowly. Cobblepot didn't even seem to notice Marco's presence.
"Cobblepot."
No response.
He pulled a surgical mask and a pair of rubber gloves from his coat pocket, and snapped them on. He took a breath, and lifted the lid.
The box was lined with filthy sawdust. Sitting on top of it, almost delicately arranged, was a severed human hand. The wound was ragged, hacked rather than sliced, like someone had used an axe or a cleaver and needed multiple swings to get through the bone. The blood had already darkened to a rust-brown color, crusted around the edges. The fingers were curled inward. Dirt and dried blood packed the nail beds.
The smell hit him a second later.
He forced himself to breathe through his mouth and brushed aside some of the sawdust. Underneath the hand, folded neatly, was a slip of paper. He lifted it out with two fingers.
The message was assembled from letters cut out of newspapers and magazines:
"Prepare the weapons and ammunition as listed. Tomorrow night. Same location. Fail, and the next box will contain your mother's eyes. - B.M."
On the back was a long list, also pieced together from clipped text. He scanned it quickly: automatic rifles, submachine guns, pistols, grenades, C-4, even a few anti-armor weapons.
"Marco."
Marco looked up. Cobblepot had finally raised his head. His eyes were locked on the box in Marco's hands.
"He threatened my mother. He thinks he can threaten my mother. I'm going to kill him myself."
"Whoa, hold on." Marco set the box down and raised both hands. "First things first, are you sure this is from your mother? Could be—"
"No. I don't know." Cobblepot's whole body trembled. "I already sent Gabe and the others to check on her. If he... if he really..."
His nails dug into his palms.
Before Marco could respond, the front door banged open, and Gordon strode in, bringing a gust of freezing air with him. His coat was buttoned wrong, his tie was missing, and his hair stuck up at odd angles like he'd been dragged out of bed. Which, of course, he had.
"What's the situation?" His eyes swept the room, then landed on the box. His expression went flat.
He crossed to the booth, pulled on a pair of gloves from his own pocket, and leaned over to examine the severed hand. Marco handed him the note. Gordon read it twice.
"B.M." He looked up. "What does that stand for?"
"Black Mask," Marco said. "Think about what they wear. What else could it be? Black Monkey? Black Mouse?"
As soon as he said the name out loud, something clicked in his memory. Roman Sionis. Wasn't he supposed to be some kind of big-time villain? Rich family, total psychopath, obsessed with masks and torture?
Rich people in Gotham were always fucking insane.
"James." Cobblepot's voice was quieter now. "He's going after my mother. You've met her. She's innocent."
Gordon's expression softened. "Yeah. The police will protect her. Give me the address and I'll have officers dispatched immediately."
He turned to Marco. "What's the play here? Any ideas?"
"Sit down, both of you. Take a breath." Marco gestured to the booth. "Cobblepot, walk me through exactly how this was delivered. Did Black Mask show up in person?"
"No." Cobblepot took a shaky breath, forcing himself to calm down. "One of my guys was jumped in the back alley. Someone shoved him in a sack, beat the shit out of him, broke his leg. Then they sent him stumbling in here with the box. I already had him taken to the hospital."
"Can we trust this guy? Could he be compromised?"
"He's solid." Cobblepot nodded. "Been with me for years."
"Alright, let's assume he's clean." Marco leaned back, staring at the ceiling as he thought. "If you're Black Mask, you just beat up one of Cobblepot's guys, sent the 'gift,' what's your next move?"
Gordon caught on immediately. "I'd watch him." He pointed at Cobblepot. "See if he tries anything. Which means right now, during this meeting, someone could be out there in the dark watching us."
"But he didn't say 'don't call the cops,'" Marco said, picking up the thread. "Which means maybe he doesn't care about police involvement. Maybe he even wants to pull something right in front of us... No, wait. Black Mask isn't stupid. That's too risky. Maybe when we leave, he tries to take out me or Gordon, and tosses the head to Cobblepot to scare him shitless."
"But that puts him at war with both the underworld and the GCPD," Gordon countered. "If it were me, I wouldn't make that move. Not before I had the weapons, at least. I'd lay low. Once I told Cobblepot the meeting location, the cops would naturally try to set up a sting. And that's when I'd..."
"Create a distraction," Marco and Cobblepot said at the same time.
The three of them fell silent.
"That's assuming we're right," Gordon said after a moment. "Even if we are, what's his real target?"
"The stuff he's demanding from you is enough to arm fifty people." Marco looked at Cobblepot, then Gordon. "Any gangs doing major recruitment lately?"
"No." Gordon shook his head. "I checked most of the high-risk suspects today. Only a few arsonists are unaccounted for. Everyone else got the message from Don Falcone, they're keeping their heads down."
"Same on the streets," Cobblepot added. "No one's hiring. No one wants to piss off the Roman right now."
"So the weapons are for future manpower," Marco said slowly. "Where do you find that many criminals willing to cause chaos all at once? Unless... Unless he's planning to hit Blackgate."
"That'd be suicide," Gordon said.
"Exactly. So that's not it." Marco rubbed his face. "Then where—"
"No." Gordon's expression shifted, his eyes going wide. "There is one place. If those people got out... compared to Blackgate, it might be worse."
"Where?"
"Arkham Asylum."
The three of them sat in silence for a long moment.
"A bunch of lunatics," Marco said finally. "What can they even do?"
He'd heard of Arkham, of course. The place was infamous. But as far as he knew, there weren't any major villains locked up there. Just regular crazy people. How dangerous could they be?
"The Gotham city government hasn't cared about mental health patients in years," Gordon said. "Anyone unstable just gets dumped in there and forgotten. So no one knows how many people are crammed inside. Maybe I can ask Professor Strange when he comes to headquarters on Friday, but right now we don't have time."
"Then we move now." Marco checked his watch. 4:10 AM. "We need to get ahead of this."
"By regulations, you have to report this up the chain immediately." He nudged Gordon and tapped his watch. "Call Loeb. Wake his ass up."
Gordon's face was still drawn tight, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward.
"I appreciate your dedication to procedure." He pulled out his phone. "Fine. Let's do it. I'll notify the Commissioner right now."