He watched from the rooftop across the street. Gordon stood below, cigarette burning low, rain slicking his coat to his frame. The bag hung heavy on his shoulder. He lingered—eyes sweeping the cruiser, the street, the shadows. Then he crushed the cigarette beneath his heel and disappeared inside.
He'd seen it before—hope dying in real time. Burned out like the last drag on a smoke. Only the young or the stubborn held onto it so tightly when the odds were clearly against him. It never lasted. This city always found a way to gut the decent ones, and it never did it gently. Or with witnesses.
"Officers Morrow and Willis," said Alfred.
He glanced at the patrol car—a rust-bitten '74 Plymouth Satellite, blue and white. The squad car number was stenciled in black across the roof, faded and chipped.
"I wonder why Chief Bronson would protect Gordon?" he asked.
"Because he's a good man."
"Which man might you be referring to?"
"Both."
He opened the case file. The pages were soaked—rain bleeding the ink like bruises. Nights like this made him miss having a car. He read the case number aloud for Alfred, then rolled the file into a soggy baton and stuck it into his belt behind him.
"The report was filed by officers O'Brien and Amaral. One or both were paid off."
"So you're leaving Detective Gordon to his own devices?" Alfred asked.
"I offered to help."
"Yes, I heard. You were quite insistent."
He said nothing.
"How long do you think Bronson's good nature will last?" Alfred went on. When silence answered him, he added, "Sooner or later, Loeb will force his hand."
"Jim drew the line."
"Ah. And what kind of vigilante would you be if you didn't honor boundaries?"
He didn't answer. Alfred's quips had become routine—but they grated all the same.
"He's safe for tonight. Loeb won't drag a cop out in front of his family."
"Gordon won't hide behind them," Alfred replied.
Alfred was right. Gordon wasn't the type to yield or hide. He also wasn't the type to ask for help, but he had drawn the line, and when he was around, cops were off-limits.
"I'd only make things worse."
Alfred went quiet.
"I need you to access records for Uptown Water District. Do you remember how?"
"Yes, I recall your demonstration. It followed your lecture about keeping liquids away from switches and keyboards. Why the Water District?"
"Police arrived on scene at 4:01 AM, which means it was found after hours."
"Ah, I see. That means an on-call worker would have been called or paged."
There was a clatter of aggressive typing in his ear, broken only by Alfred's muttered British curses—"bloody machine," and "bollocks."
He turned from Gordon's street and looked out over Uptown. The city had taken a beating—rain hammering glass, steel, and neon alike. Through the mask, the colors bled out, leaving only contrast: black and white, light and void, and the uncertain grey between.
"There were multiple pages, but only one at 3:33 AM. The pager belonged to a Mister Alvin Meltcher. You're in luck—single, mid-thirties, lives alone in the Buxton apartments on the south end."
He was already moving—rooftop to rooftop, rain scratching at his suit. He pulled the grapnel from his belt, aimed across the street, and fired. The line snapped taut, and he stepped into the void, gliding over wet asphalt and city lights.
The grapnel had two switches—one to release, one to retract. He had things timed perfectly; as soon as his boots hit the opposite ledge, the gun was already retracting. He didn't stop; he kept the pace and the momentum as Alfred fed directions through the comm—street names, turns, the apartment's position in the complex.
He fired the grapnel—cable shooting out with a hiss, latching onto the next building. His arc across the street rose and fell, swinging high, dipping low, cutting through the storm like a blade. Each pass pulled him higher, farther from the streetlights, deeper into the storm. His heart pounded. Blood surged.
This was second only to a good fight.
The Buxton Tower loomed ahead, its concrete balconies jutting like broken teeth. Meltcher's place was on the thirty-sixth floor.
His boots hit the outer wall with a thud. The cable held firm, he flipped the lever and retract it. Rain hammered down as he climbed, fingers clenched around the handle despite the slick. Two digits looped through the custom grip—circular hoops designed to keep the weapon in hand through wind, water, or worse.
When he reached the balcony, he dropped in without a sound. Nothing there to notice—just a cracked plastic lawn chair and a rusted table with an ashtray spilling half-smoked butts. Inside wasn't much better: a sagging couch, beer bottles on the table, takeout containers spread across a kitchenette.
He tested the sliding door. Hook lock. He pulled a black plastic tool from his belt, snapped off the cover, and set it against the latch. The magnet clicked to the metal. He watched the mechanism lift free.
He slid the door open.
Light snoring leaked from a closed bedroom door. He grabbed a half-full bottle from the table and crossed the carpet without a sound.
Easing the bedroom door open, walking silently across the threshold, he found Meltcher—thick jowls, patchy five o'clock shadow.
He dumped the beer over the man's face.
"What the fuck?" Meltcher sputtered, blinking into the dark.
When his eyes adjusted, they went wide. He rolled off the bed, hit the floor hard, and scrambled backward.
"Holy shit! It's you!"
"Don't move."
Meltcher froze.
"Alvin Meltcher?"
"Oh fuck. Are you gonna—like—break my arms or something? 'Cause I didn't do shit, I swear." He looked like a stunned walrus in his boxers, beer soaking into the elastic waistband.
"You paid to have your name scrubbed from a police report."
Meltcher's mouth hung open. "How the hell did you—?"
"Tell me what happened."
He nodded, shaky, reaching back like the bed might offer protection. "I—I paid a cop. Redhead. Didn't catch the name."
"About the hand."
"Oh. Shit, yeah. I got paged to check a sewer line off North Elm. People were bitching about sulfur—common when it rains. I went down there, normal stuff, but then I saw this hole. Maybe a foot wide. Looked like it was bubbling. That's not too weird—pipes are cracking all over town. Infrastructure's garbage. But then this hand floats up. Rotted and bloated. Scared the piss outta me. Nearly dropped my flashlight. I called it in right away."
"Where?"
"Manhole off Conway and Colan. You drop down and walk west about a hundred yards. Look, I only paid the cop because it's close to North B. I didn't want trouble with the Russians."
"Tomorrow, go to the 52nd precinct. Ask to make a formal statement."
"Yeah, okay. I'll do that."
He left Meltcher planted on the carpet.
"The hand surfaced from a fissure," Alfred said over comm. "Quite peculiar."
He stepped out onto the balcony edge. Below, cars weaved through the wet streets.
"Where are you headed now?"
"South Elm," he replied. "Want to know if any of my sources saw something that night."
Rain lashed his face as he dropped.
The freefall was the best part.
Just several yards before impact, he fired the grapnel. The line caught fast, and he swung out into the city's black heart.