Batman: No Man's Land Page 16

  But still the men kept coming, and now she was exhausted and praying for daylight, for what she hoped would mean an end to the battle.

  That, and she prayed for the Batman, that he would arrive, and soon, before it was all too late.

  She was leaving the EMS Barracks, where she had gone hoping that she might find something—anything—that would give her an edge, when she saw Penguin himself waddling up Sixth Avenue, surrounded by almost twenty men. He looked complacent, self-satisfied, and it made her furious, filled her with a righteous anger that took her back onto the street and up the side of the first building she found. She stayed low, racing along the broken rooftops until she managed to get ahead of him at the corner of Sixth and Peterson, in front of the ruins of the Eagle Cinema.

  Good coverage, she thought, at least her back wouldn’t be exposed. She leapt from the rooftop, snapping the cape out to slow her descent. She landed in a roll and came up fast, stopping dead, shouting.

  “Penguin!”

  He raised a hand, gesturing for his men to stop. She watched as several readied arrows for their bows, noting positions. All of his men were armed, clearly ready for the battle. A couple even had firearms, pistols and rifles. One of them, standing beside Penguin, had a crossbow.

  “Have you come to parlay, my dear?” Penguin asked. He used his umbrella to indicate the surrounding area, drawing a half circle in the air between them. “It’s over, you must realize. This land is mine now.”

  “You have a truce with Batman! You can’t—”

  “Indeed, yes, and where is he? Hmm?” Penguin shook his head, as if explaining the situation to a very slow child. “Don’t you see, my second-rate rodent? He’s left you here to fight this battle on your own. I’d advise you to surrender now, while you still can. Or else you might just get your wings clipped.”

  “I think your men can testify it won’t be that easy.”

  “Indeed. But then again, those men you’ve dealt with thus far didn’t have bullets. Since I don’t think you want a lead injection to the brain, I’m giving you one last chance. Surrender.”

  She opened her mouth to tell him where to stuff his last chance, and then she heard one of Penguin’s men shouting for his attention from the back of the group. She watched while the crowd parted, and as all eyes turned she took the opportunity to free her Batarang from where it was hooked at the back of her belt, feeling the metal hard in her hand.

  “How about a hostage?” one of Penguin’s men was saying, and Batgirl saw that a man was forced to the front of the group, driven at spearpoint.

  “Excellent,” Penguin said.

  The man was white, young, and thin, but evidently healthy. His beard and hair were black, and his eyes moved quickly, finding Batgirl, taking in everything.

  One of Penguin’s thugs pushed the man to the ground, holding a spear to the back of his neck.

  “And what’s your name, my fine fellow?” Penguin asked.

  “Charlie,” the man said. “Chas.”

  “Charlie, well, you’ve just distinguished yourself.” Penguin moved his attention from Charlie back to Batgirl. “The situation is now slightly different. Instead of wasting a bullet, I have a far more compelling offer. Surrender or this poor fellow springs a sudden and fatal leak in the gray matter area.”

  “Go to hell,” Batgirl said, and threw the Batarang. She knew as she let it go that it was a good throw, dead on target. The Batarang sailed over Charlie, over the head of the spear, and Bargirl jerked the line down, and the metal end dropped, wrapping tightly around the shaft. Another yank and the spear was out of the man’s hands, and whoever Charlie was, he was good, because he was already running.

  She went low, hearing Penguin shouting for his men to kill her, and she heard the gunshots, felt the whistle as a round punched into the Kevlar lining of her cape. There was only one tactic she could think of, the one that had worked with Black Mask, to go for the head of the dragon, such as it was. But Penguin was backing away, and the guard next to him, the one with the crossbow, was turning to track her. She came up at his side, reaching around his body for his arm, pivoting him with her until she had the shot lined up and then she forced the man’s hand back on the trigger. The cable snapped forward with a crack almost as loud as the shots, and the quarrel flew and hit Penguin dead in the right thigh.

  Penguin hollered in pain, pitching forward, using his umbrella to stay his fall, and then they all heard the shout, echoing, loud enough that it demanded everyone’s attention.

  “Cobblepot!”

  Penguin’s men turned to the source of the noise, and Batgirl used the chance to retreat, pulling back and then finding herself alongside Charlie, who had stopped in the shadows between two buildings, still watching. Without a word she put an arm around him, then used her last jumpline to hoist them on top of what remained of the Eagle Cinema. She let Charlie go, turning back in time to see Penguin’s men clearing the street.

  Two-Face was approaching, and behind him was a mob the size of which Bargirl had yet to see in the No Man’s Land.

  Easily twice, maybe three times as many people as had been following Black Mask, and as much as ten times as many men than Penguin had on the street before her. Two hundred armed men and women, at least.

  “Harvey,” she heard Penguin say. “Come to lend a hand?”

  “Leave. Now.” Two-Face’s voice echoed on the street.

  “We had a deal, Harvey, you duplicitous—”

  “You had a deal with Bats, too, didn’t you? I’ll explain, Oswald. This is me using you, you arrogant, waddling buffoon. Always so certain you’ve got every angle covered, always certain you’re the smartest of the bunch. Not this time. This time you’ve been played like the loser you are. And while you’re standing here, gaping at me and bleeding out from that wound in your thigh, Gordon and his cops just annexed your southern border, all the way to the Park.”

  Penguin tried to stand upright, using the umbrella as a crutch. Batgirl heard him murmuring something in response. Whatever it was, Two-Face laughed.

  “That’s right. It means that your territory, instead of doubling, just got cut in half. Now leave my territory before I have you killed.”

  Penguin stood utterly still for a moment, head down. Then he turned, and using the umbrella, walked painfully to his men at the side of the street. Two of his crew took him by the arms, and slowly they made their way past Two-Face’s army, heading back down Sixth, southward again.

  Batgirl heard a sharp whistle and looked down to see Two-Face waving at her from below. “Batman’s tied up right now,” he shouted. “Think he’ll be surprised when he gets back?”

  She glared at him, trying to think of something to say, something to do.

  But there were two hundred men on that street behind him, and Batgirl knew there was nothing left that she could do.

  She turned, making her way off the roof.

  Batman’s territory was lost.

  NINETEEN

  IT SURPRISED HER ONLY A LITTLE THAT TWO-FACE had been so correct. Not that Montoya had thought she’d been lied to—she knew, intuitively, that Two-Face wouldn’t lie to her—but more that he’d been so unerringly accurate.

  They’d beaten Penguin’s men, forcing them to retreat east, back into the Fashion District. They’d uncovered seven different caches of equipment and food, including medical supplies, MREs, and ammunition.

  And they had taken losses, eleven men dead, all of whom had worn the badge, and another seven wounded.

  One of the wounded was Sarah Essen, who had taken a bullet to the ribs as they were rushing the Penguin blockade at MLK and Thirty-eighth. She’d been in the front, three steps ahead of Montoya, with Foley coming up behind and the Commissioner in the lead, and the shots had been coming at irregular intervals, Penguin’s men trying to make each bullet count.

  And then Essen had gone down, and Montoya had thought at first that the lieutenant had tripped, and Renee stopped to help her back to her feet. Then sh
e’d seen the blood.

  “Commissioner!” Montoya had shouted. “Essen’s hit!”

  Gordon, already twenty feet ahead, had spun in place, waving Pettit’s squad past him. His face had been the white of a sheet; and he’d rushed back to where Montoya was kneeling by Essen’s side, had almost bodily moved Renee out of the way. He’d scooped his wife up, looking around frantically, then finally focused on Montoya again. She had seen the fear in his eyes, even behind the lenses of his glasses.

  “Keep fighting,” he’d said, and then he’d begun running south, making for the Clock Tower.

  Montoya had done as ordered and kept fighting, falling in with Pettit’s squad, the sixteen men that he’d been training day in and day out for the last couple months. All her other misgivings about Billy Pettit aside, Renee had been forced to admit that the QRT leader knew his stuff. His squad alone had cleared five of the seven blockades they’d encountered, and casualties among his men were nonexistent.

  By three that morning the fighting was over, and the cleaning up had begun. Montoya and Bullock had begun locating the caches, taking inventory, and it was nearly five before she felt she had enough information to actually make a report to the Commissioner. She rushed back down MLK, making her way to the Clock Tower, carrying with her one of the trauma kits they’d recovered. Weir and DeFilippis were on post outside the building, and Renee had seen other cops moving around outside as well. A couple were lining up the bodies of the fallen, covering them with sheets.

  She went inside, through the atrium to where the triage center had been set up. Barbara Gordon was there, hands stained with blood, rolling among the cots that had been lined up, checking on the wounded. Montoya recognized most of the sleeping faces, but see Essen.

  “Miss Gordon?” Montoya called. “Barbara?”

  Barbara turned her chair, and with a quick flick of both wrists had crossed, then stopped, right in front of her. Montoya offered her the triage kit, saying, “We recovered this and another twenty or so like it from one of the caches. Thought it might be of some use.”

  Barbara used the back of one bloodstained hand to adjust her glasses, crinkling a small smile. “That’s great, Renee, thanks.”

  “How’s your stepmother?”

  “Sarah’s okay. It was a graze. The bullet took a piece of meat off her side, but that’s it. She lost some blood and Dad’s gonna have to be judicious with his hugs for a couple of weeks, but she’ll be fine.”

  “I didn’t see her anywhere,” Montoya said, feeling the relief flood through her. “Started to worry, you know?”

  “Dad took her back to TriCorner to get some rest. That was about an hour or so ago. He should be back any time.”

  “Okay, great, thanks.”

  She started to turn to head outside, but Barbara reached out a hand, touching her coat. “Detective?”

  “Yes, Miss Gordon?”

  “How’d it go?”

  “We won,” Renee said.

  Which was true, wasn’t it?

  * * * * *

  The Commissioner arrived a little before six, looking haggard and tired, and he gestured Montoya over as soon as he saw her. She left DeFilippis and Weir, and crossed the street to where Gordon was standing, staring at the line of covered bodies.

  “Renee.”

  “Sir. How’s Lieutenant Essen?”

  “Cranky.” He made a halfhearted laugh. “Gets cranky whenever she gets hurt. Makes it seem like it was her own fault, somehow, as if she did it on purpose.”

  “I doubt she wanted to get shot.”

  “That’s pretty much what I said.” He used his thumb and index finger to push his glasses up, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I need you to go to him again, Renee.”

  “Sir.” Her tone was flat.

  “Just tell him… tell him it worked.” His hand came down and the glasses fell once more into place. She could see the resolve in his face. “And then tell him we’re through. We won’t be dealing with him anymore.”

  She felt herself smiling. “Gladly, sir.”

  * * * * *

  The sun had just finished rising when she made it to Civic Plaza, the gold light splashing across the broken pavement and ruined park, drawing long shadows up the steps of the building. Montoya crossed through a circle of oil drums that she presumed were used for holding fires at night, and stopped just across the street from the building. She counted six guards, all of whom were giving her their undivided attention.

  “I need to see Two-Face,” she called. “Tell him it’s Montoya. Renee Montoya.”

  One of the guards turned and went inside, taking his time about it.

  She waited. The sunlight was warm on her back, heating the leather of her jacket. After what felt like almost three minutes, she saw the guard return, Two-Face accompanying him. He came down the stairs, taking them several at a time, buttoning his suit jacket, a taupe-colored Armani with matching slacks and black loafers. There was no question, he was the best-dressed warlord in the city.

  He misread her grin as he crossed the street, answered it with one of his own, smoothing down his tie with a free hand while extending the other to her for a shake. “Renee! Good morning!”

  “Morning,” she said. She took his hand, and the shake was precise and quick, and he didn’t linger over it, which she appreciated. His hand was strong and big.

  “Didn’t expect to be seeing you again so soon,” Two-Face said. “You want to come in? I was just about to have some breakfast. Got some oranges from Penguin last night, fresh juice. Got to love that.”

  She actually stopped to consider the offer—she couldn’t remember the last time she’d had juice, let alone fresh orange juice, and the temptation for a second was almost irrationally overwhelming—before shaking her head. “I can’t, I’m sorry,” Montoya said. “I don’t have a lot of time, actually. You were right about the fight. We lost some good people. I have to head back and help with the cleanup.”

  The unmarred side of his face registered the disappointment briefly. “Well, perhaps another time.”

  “Well, that’s kind of what I need to talk to you about.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. The Commissioner sent me, wanted me to thank you for your help and your assistance last night. We’re not really certain what part you played but, like I said, it turned out almost exactly as you predicted.”

  He shrugged modestly, and the gesture, paradoxically, reminded Montoya of how big a man Two-Face was. “It was nothing.”

  “So the Commissioner, you understand, he wanted me to thank you,” Montoya went on. “And he wanted me to tell you that he feels the business between the two of you is completed, and he won’t be bothering you anymore.”

  Two-Face blinked at her, once, slowly. “Does he now?”

  Montoya nodded, felt the fear begin moving inside of her, fought to keep it from her face.

  The right half of Two-Face’s mouth closed, his lips coming together tightly. The movement pulled at the skin on the scarred side, drawing the flesh up and revealing half his teeth, even and white. It made him look terribly dangerous and terribly sad at the same instant, and Montoya could see as clearly as ever the two personalities battling.

  The silence stretched.

  “That means you won’t be coming back, doesn’t it?” Two-Face asked.

  “I don’t think the Commissioner’s going to send me again, no.”

  “So… I won’t be seeing you again, will I?”

  “Probably not for a while. Not unless the Commissioner sends me, like I said.”

  Another slow nod. Another blink. In her peripheral vision, she saw Two-Face’s hand dip into his coat pocket, coming out again with the half-dollar. He turned it end-over-end on his knuckles, bringing it to rest finally on his thumb, ready to toss.

  “You should go,” he said softly. “Before I throw the coin, you should go.”

  “Harvey…”

  His shout filled the plaza, echoed and bounced off the rubble, of
f the steps of the courthouse.

  “GO NOW!”

  She took a step back, then another.

  “Please,” Two-Face hissed, and she saw the desperation in his clear eye, and that did it.

  She turned and ran for her life.

  * * * * *

  Told you.

  It wasn’t her fault. You saw her, you saw the look on her face. She didn’t want to hurt us.

  The bitch—

  Don’t talk about her like that.

  … sorry. . . you’re right, it’s not her, it’s him, isn’t it?

  Yes.

  Gordon.

  Yes.

  He knew . . . he knew all along. He never intended to honor our deal, he just wanted to use us.

  Yes.

  We went to him with an offer to help, an honest offer. And what did he do, Harvey? What did he do when we came to him with our help?

  He used us.

  And he used her. He used Renee. He knew…he knew….

  Yes.

  The snake is in breach of contract, Harvey. What say we make him pay?

  Can’t be done. You know that. The arrangement wasn’t witnessed, we don’t have legal recourse—

  Oh, for … would you listen to yourself? I didn’t say we should take him to court, you wimp! I said we should make him pay.

  …make him pay…

  With his lie.

  Murder, you’re talking about murder again.

  As long as Gordon’s around Renee’ll never come back, you know that. He won’t let her. He’ll keep her close to him and we’ll never get a chance to be with her to talk to her to have her listen. You know that, Harvey. You know I’m right.

  Still…

  It’s the only solution.

  But… but we’re talking about murder…

  Wimp. Weak, useless . . . you can’t decide, you can’t commit… not even for her, you can’t be strong. Fine. Flip it. Good heads, Gordon lives.