The next few days passed in a blur.
Gordon got released from the hospital on a Wednesday morning. By afternoon, he had already restarted the citywide manhunt for Jonathan Crane. But he had vanished into Gotham's shadows.
Marco assumed the bastard was either dead in a ditch somewhere or smart enough to keep his head down until the heat died off. Either way, it wasn't his problem. Major Crimes could waste their time chasing ghosts if they wanted to. He had more pressing concerns to deal with.
The East End precinct had turned into a construction site.
Massive trucks rumbled up to the front entrance in a steady stream, day and night, hauling everything from steel I-beams to bulletproof composite panels. The roar of machinery never stopped. Circular saws screamed through metal. Jackhammers pounded concrete. Workers shouted over the din, coordinating lifts and installations.
And overseeing it all was Darnell.
"Slow down, slow down! That's reinforced steel, not a fucking pizza!" Darnell had a yellow hard hat perched crookedly on his head, probably stolen from one of the construction crew, and he was waving his arms like he was directing traffic at a demolition derby. "You drop that beam, I am making you pay for it out of your paycheck! Yeah, you! I see you laughing!"
The workers didn't seem to mind. Most of them were grinning as they hauled materials back and forth. Double pay bought a lot of tolerance for Darnell's bullshit.
Marco climbed out of his car. The old precinct building was barely recognizable. Steel mesh covered the windows. Thick concrete slabs reinforced the outer walls. Barbed wire coiled along the roofline.
It looked less like a police station and more like a military bunker.
"Darnell!" he called out.
Darnell turned, spotted him, and jogged over, adjusting his hat. "Hey. We are making good progress. Another week and this place will be a fortress. Ed says we will be able to hold off a small army if it comes to that."
"Let us hope it doesn't come to that." Marco glanced at the construction. "Any problems?"
"Nah. Everyone is playing nice. The money helps." Darnell grinned. "Also, I may have told them the chief is watching, and anyone who fucks up gets fired and blacklisted from every construction job in Gotham."
"Did he say that?"
"Hell no. But they don't know that." Darnell's grin widened. "Fear is a great motivator."
Marco shook his head. "Just don't get us sued."
"I got this." Darnell turned back to the construction crew and immediately started yelling again. "Hey! You! Yeah, you with the cigarette! No smoking near the oxygen tanks! You want to blow us all to hell?!"
Marco left him to it and headed inside.
---
The interior of the precinct was just as chaotic as the exterior. Walls had been knocked down and rebuilt. New firing positions had been installed on every floor, with reinforced cover and clear sightlines down the hallways. The stairwells had been fortified with steel doors. Even the ventilation ducts had been fitted with metal grates.
Edward's fingerprints were all over the design.
Marco found Bob sitting in his office with his feet propped up on the desk. He was smoking a cigar while studying a set of blueprints.
"Chief," he said, knocking on the doorframe.
Bob looked up and grunted. "What is it?"
"Just checking in. How are the renovations going?"
"Over budget and behind schedule. So, normal." Bob tapped ash into an empty coffee mug. "But Edward says we will be ready in time."
Marco stepped into the office and closed the door behind him. "Any word from Bruce?"
"He is keeping his distance for now." Bob leaned back in his chair, the springs creaking under his weight. "But he has been funneling money through intermediaries."
Marco hesitated, then asked, "And the other thing? The weapons?"
Bob's expression didn't change. "What weapons?"
Marco got the message. If anyone asked, Bob knew nothing about the crates of AK-74s and RPGs being smuggled into the basement. "Understood."
"Anything else?"
"Yeah. Cobblepot is coming by today. He wants to talk about the procurement contract."
Bob's eyebrows rose slightly. "He has the balls to show his face here?"
"He is trying to play nice. Probably thinks he can buy his way into our good graces."
"Let him try." Bob stubbed out his cigar. "If he wants to throw money at us, I'm not going to stop him. Just make sure he knows we are watching him."
"Will do, chief."
---
Marco spent the rest of the morning running errands. In practice, that meant visiting every church, psychic, and self-proclaimed spiritual expert in the East End in search of someone who knew how to deal with demons.
The results were depressing.
His first stop was St. Michael's Cathedral.
Father O'Malley received him in a small office behind the nave. The priest was a heavyset man in his sixties with kind eyes and a habit of wandering off topic.
"Exorcism?" Father O'Malley said, looking uncertain. "Well, yes, the Church does recognize the existence of demonic possession, but it's quite rare. Most cases can be explained by mental illness or trauma—"
"I'm not talking about mental illness," Marco interrupted. "I'm talking about real demons."
Father O'Malley blinked. "I... see. Well, in that case, I would need to consult with the diocese. There are specific protocols..."
"How long would that take?"
"Oh, several weeks at least. Possibly months."
Marco thanked him and left.
The second stop was a New Age shop in the Narrows run by a woman who called herself Madame Seraphina. She had long gray hair, too many crystals, and a disturbingly intense stare.
"Demons? Oh yes, I can sense the darkness around you. For a small donation of five hundred dollars, I can perform a cleansing ritual..."
Marco pulled out his M1911 and set it on the table between them.
Madame Seraphina's expression changed instantly. "Or, you know, sometimes these things resolve themselves naturally."
Marco left without another word.
The third, fourth, and fifth stops followed the same pattern. The priests spoke confidently about exorcism but admitted they had never performed one. Self-proclaimed mystics demanded donations before they would even consider offering help. A few psychics insisted they could commune with spirits, yet they panicked the moment Marco asked for anything concrete.
By the time he got back to the precinct, he was exhausted, frustrated, and no closer to finding a solution.
The cooldown time for Precision Strike: Hammer of God still had nearly five hundred hours left. He couldn't rely on that.
Which meant he was going to have to figure this out the old-fashioned way.
---
When Marco pulled into the precinct parking lot, he spotted Cobblepot standing near the entrance.
The man looked out of place among the construction workers. He was wearing an expensive suit and leaning on his umbrella. His bodyguard stood behind him, looking vaguely uncomfortable.
"Oswald," Marco called out, climbing out of the car. "What brings you here?"
Cobblepot turned and smiled warmly. "Marco! Good to see you. I was just admiring your renovations. Although I have to ask, are you preparing for a siege? This looks like Stalingrad."
"Ask the architect," Marco said, nodding toward the building. "He has a thing for over-engineering."
Cobblepot chuckled. "Well, I suppose it is better to be over-prepared than under-prepared. Speaking of which..." He snapped his fingers, and Gabe moved to the trunk of his car, pulling out two cases. One was a sleek metal weapons case. The other was an elegant wooden box with brass fittings.
"What's this?" Marco asked.
"It's a gift to celebrate our renewed friendship," Cobblepot said with a smile.
Marco raised an eyebrow. Still, he took the cases and set them on the hood of his car. "You know the department is handling procurement right now, right? This could be considered bribery."
"Bribery?" Cobblepot looked offended. "This is a gift between friends. Nothing more."
"Friends." Marco repeated the word.
He opened the metal case first.
Inside, nestled in black foam padding, was a SIG SG550 assault rifle. Alongside it was a full set of accessories: a suppressor, a folding bipod, several high-capacity magazines, a precision optical scope, and backup iron sights.
He let out a low whistle. "We have one of these at the precinct, but nothing with this kind of setup."
Cobblepot gave a small smile and tapped the wooden box. He opened the brass clasp, and the faint scent of polished wood drifted into the air.
Inside, two Colt Python revolvers rested on a bed of deep crimson velvet.
The walnut grips were hand-checkered and oiled to a warm honey glow. The barrels were perfectly aligned, and the cylinders rotated smoothly.
Engraved on the inside of the lid were the words:
To the finest marksman in Gotham.
Marco stared at the revolvers for a moment.
Cobblepot watched him. "Do you like them?"
"These are collector pieces." Marco closed the box. "You could sell these for twenty grand, easy."
"I know." Cobblepot's smile returned. "But money is just money. Friendship is priceless."
Marco looked at him, then at the boxes, then back at Cobblepot. "You are trying way too hard."
"I prefer to think of it as being thorough."
Marco picked up the wooden box and turned it over in his hands. "Tell you what. I will take the rifles and the accessories." He tapped the Colt Pythons. "But I can't accept these. Just convert it to cash and donate it to the precinct fund."
Cobblepot's brain short-circuited. "What?"
"Sell them and use the money for something useful."
"But... but they are a gift! You can't just..."
Marco grinned. "I'm fucking with you. I will take them."
Cobblepot let out a breath. "You are a very strange man."
"So I have been told." Marco clapped him on the shoulder. "Come on, let us go see the chief. You wanted to talk procurement, right?"
"Yes, that's correct." Cobblepot adjusted his tie, still looking slightly rattled. "I would like to contribute to the security enhancements of the East End precinct."
"He will appreciate that." Marco picked up both cases and started toward the building. "Just remember, we pay on time, but we don't forget debts. You help us, we help you. You screw us, and you will regret it."
Cobblepot limped after him, leaning on his umbrella. "I would expect nothing less."
They disappeared into the building, leaving Gabe standing awkwardly in the parking lot.
---
Over the next few days, the weapons started arriving.
It wasn't advertised. There were no official requisition forms or budget allocations. The shipments came in unmarked trucks, late at night, driven by men who didn't ask questions and didn't stick around for small talk.
Cobblepot had connections.
The first shipment arrived in a heavy wooden crate filled with AK-74 assault rifles. Each weapon was still coated in cosmoline and carefully wrapped in oiled paper. There were forty rifles in total, along with two thousand rounds of 5.45×39mm ammunition.
The second shipment was heavier and far more troubling. Inside were several RPG-7 rocket launchers and a supply of anti-tank grenades. None of it resembled standard police equipment, but nothing about the current situation could be called standard.
The third shipment worried him the most. The crates contained dozens of F-1 fragmentation grenades, packed tightly inside wooden boxes stamped with Cyrillic markings.
Marco stood in the basement armory and looked over the growing pile of weapons. For a moment he said nothing. Then the familiar thought returned once again.
He wondered if he had made a terrible mistake.
"This is a lot of firepower," Darnell said, standing beside him.
"Yeah."
"You really think we are going to need all this?"
"I think we are."
It wasn't just weapons.
Marco had ordered supplies as well.
There were insulated suits designed for extreme temperatures, industrial fire extinguishers, and gas masks fitted with sealed filters. He added trauma kits stocked with tourniquets and clotting agents, along with oxygen tanks, bottled water, and boxes of instant oatmeal. Flashlights, batteries, and emergency blankets followed.
He ordered everything he could think of that might keep people alive if the worst happened.
The logistics warehouse filled quickly. Pallets of crates rose in stacked rows, and shelves were packed with equipment.
Anna had raised an eyebrow when she reviewed the inventory list.
"Sir, are we preparing for the apocalypse?"
"Something like that," Marco had said.
And the scary part was, he wasn't joking.