Nightwing

Barbara Gordon tapped furiously at the keyboard, her evening routine interrupted. Even in the midst of altering the course of world politics, Babs usually found time to fall into a routine. She was in the middle of four chess games with opponents across the globe. She was a regular poster on no fewer than fifteen message boards, tools she used to monitor – as well as start, when it suited her – various rumors.

So when the call came in from Bludhaven, she reacted immediately. Explosion. Near where Dick was heading. Emergency services would respond eventually, but there was no harm in speeding them up.

“Dick? Dick?” she called into her radio headset. “Can you hear me? Are you all right?” But all she could hear was static from the receiver Nightwing wore on his corset. “Dammit!!” Her fist pounded her keyboard. One of these days she’d have to learn to control her temper at moments like this, but so far it was an art lost on her.

“Nightwing?!? Come in, Nightwing?” No answer.

The acrid scent of smoke filled the air, heat from the burning storage unit enveloping half a square block. Redhorn must have used a heavy-duty explosive, Nightwing thought as he fit a gas mask into place, then slid a second one over Lady Vic’s prone form.

“*skrik* -twin*skrik* -ome, in, N*skrik*.”

“Oracle, is that you?” No answer. The receiver must have been damaged by the blast.

Nightwing took inventory of his body parts, relieved to learn that the receiver was the only thing to be damaged. Lady Vic, still bound tightly, was shaking at his feet. Other than her broken arm (for which he was responsible), she didn’t appear to have sustained any serious injuries, as he’d managed to pull her away from the blast in the nick of time. The shaking was bad, though – it seemed that she was going into shock. Nightwing regretted breaking her arm now – it had seemed necessary to subdue her effectively, but now he chastised himself for excessive force.

Nightwing scanned the area for a sign of Chief Redhorn. Police chief turned madman. He was nowhere in sight. Nightwing dropped to his knees and began administering emergency first aid to Lady Vic.

“Ni*skrik**skrik* -me in, plea*skrik*.” It was getting harder to hear the receiver over the sirens nearing the area.

“Oracle?” Nightwing spoke as calmly as possible into his corset. “It’s me. I don’t know if you can hear me, but I’m fine. I’m fine.”

It was at that second that Nightwing’s heart dropped into his gut. He’d never learned what Redhorn had in the storage unit. He’d assumed it was just a collection of documents. But what if it wasn’t?!?

Nightwing dropped Lady Vic to the pavement and began waving at the approaching police cars. “Stay back!! Stay back!! There could be more- ..”

And then there were. Apparently Redhorn had also seen fit to store some explosives in his hidey-hole. Nightwing scooped up Lady Vic and swung away just as three secondary explosions sounded off. A police car flipped over from the impact, and cops scurried away from the scene.

“Dammit!!” Nightwing shouted out loud as he landed on a nearby roof. This was so far over the top, even for a rat like Redhorn. He’d changed. Nightwing had seen it in his eyes before he tossed the grenade that started all this. His eyes were dead in a way they’d never been before. Before, he’d cared. Now he didn’t. In other words, Redhorn had snapped.

“Police are still trying to identify the source of the explosions, but are encountering difficulty in securing the area, due to the risk of further secondary explosions.”

Marksman shut off his radio as he pulled his sleek Mustang into the parking deck beneath his building. Deftly, he slid the vehicle into the space numbered 614-G, corresponding to his apartment building. Shame the animals they’re letting run loose, he thought. Cutting off the car, Marksman reached over and pulled his Jersey Mike’s sub out of the passenger seat.

He was shutting the driver’s side door when he realized something was amiss. He hurled the sub in the direction of the anomaly, diving to the deck, rolling over onto his back, a gun drawn.

“Ow!! Goddammit!!” Deidre Scarpatti stood about ten feet away, the sub at her feet. In her hand was a .22 caliber handgun, pointed directly at Marksman.

He aimed the gun squarely at her, knowing he could nail her from this distance. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“You bastard! You threw a sub at me!”

“So? Did it really hurt that badly?”

“Bastard.” Steadying the gun. “I’m going to kill you.”

Marksman didn’t flinch. He didn’t ask how she’d found out where he lived, how she’d learned his real name. “No you’re not.” he replied evenly. “For one thing, you’re holding the gun all wrong. Even a little gun like a .22 has a recoil, and you won’t be able to shoot it with one hand. Even assuming you’re a decent shot, and can hit me from there (which I doubt), you’ll miss me because you’re holding the gun wrong.

“I, on the other hand, know exactly how to fire my weapon. I will – make no mistake, WILL – hit you right between the eyes from here. You will be dead before you hit the ground. Even on the IMPOSSIBLY slim chance that you manage to hit me, and even on the even more impossibly slim chance that you kill me – you’ll never know it. You will – there’s that word again – WILL be dead.”

Deidre didn’t back down. “Son of a bitch. You’re a son of a bitch.”

“Yup; and my mother too. Nevertheless, do you want to explain to me why you’ve picked today – of all days – to try to kill me?”

“You told. You told. I paid you. I paid you. And you told anyway.”

A light went off in his head. “Whoah, wait. I see where this is headed. Sweetheart, I’ve got a news flash for you – I haven’t ratted about you killing your hubby. I didn’t tell.”

She was clearly not convinced. “Yes you did. You’re the only one who knows. And now they know. Or they will know. They’ll find out.”

“Listen to me. The Scarpatti’s do not know about you, and they do not know about me. I met with Charles earlier. He told me the whole thing. They got some letter. An anonymous letter. It’s probably just bullshit, but they got some letter. So now they’re running around trying to figure out who sent it.”

“YOU SENT IT!!” For the first time Marksman thought Deidre might actually pull the trigger.

“No. No. I did not – DID NOT – send it. And I don’t know who did. Look, apparently the letter made some mention of me. Do you think I’d implicate myself? Do you? Does that make sense?

“No. If I was going to rat you out – which I haven’t done – I’d leave my name out of it altogether. Why draw suspicion, right?” Deidre could see the logic in Marksman’s words, and wanted to trust him, but wasn’t sure if she could.

She lowered the gun just a little, and Marksman thought about plugging her now. Her defenses were down, just slightly, and any chance she had of actually killing him were gone. But his weapon was still trained on her. He could end this with a squeeze of the trigger.

Except it’d be hard to cover up, seeing as how they were in the parking deck of his building. And he wasn’t getting paid – pro bono work was always a bitch.

Marksman placed his gun on the deck, making sure Deidre could see him do it, then slowly stood up, his hands in the air. “Now,” he said. “What say we figure out who did send it?”

“So you made it out in one piece, Hunk Wonder?” Babs’ voice had just the right mix of concern, as if she’d been worried but not overly so. Dick smiled inwardly as he discarded his costume, tossing it into his washing machine. “You think that’ll come clean?” Babs asked, watching him over her video monitor.

“Dunno, Babs.” Dick never knew quite how much detergent to use. He fiddled with the box of Tide and dumped in an amount that was probably too much. “These Kevlar-reinforced suits are hard to clean in the wash, but what choice do I have?” He shut the washer and switched it on. He shut the sliding door to his small laundry room and headed back into his apartment, a towel around his neck.

“So what’d you do with Lady Vicious?”

“Left her at a precinct downtown. She’ll be out in no time, I’m sure – there’s not much to charge her with.”

“Did you really break her arm?”

“Yeah.” Dick’s voice fell. “I’m kinda bothered by that, actually. In retrospect, it was pretty over-the-top.” Babs didn’t immediately respond. “I usually make an effort to.. you know.. match the means to the ends. I guess it was because I’d been out of action for awhile. I knew I missed swinging around, but..” He left unspoken, I didn’t realize I’d miss the violence.

“Hey, don’t beat yourself up, Champ. I’ve never scrapped with Miss Vic myself, but..”

“-yeah..”

“from what I can tell, she’s pretty tough. Shed’ve been up and after you in no time.” Another pause as Dick nodded in tentative agreement. “If I were you,” Babs broke the silence, “I’d be more worried about the larger question.”

“Which is?”

“What the hell is going on? Lady Vic was obviously trying to set up Redhorn.” Not to mention Dick Grayson, she thought.

The wheels began to turn for Dick, as the adrenaline of the physical battle finally wore off. “Vicky knew about the storage unit, and must have known someone would be coming. She was waiting, setting up an ambush.”

“Meaning..” Babs was just playing sounding board now, letting Dick fill in the pieces.

“That she either works with Angela Shay, or is eavesdropping on Angela Shay.”

“The latter’s possible, but I’d stake my chair on the former.”

Dick was excited now, the thrill of discovery racing through his brain. “So it’s not a big leap to suggest that Shay has been pulling Dick Grayson’s strings at Lady Vic’s request.”

“Leaving the question of Redhorn. I thought he and Shay were tight.”

“Redhorn. Clearly he’s not working with Lady Vic – he tried to kill her. If Vicky and Shay are in cahoots, and he’s against one of them, he’s against both of them. There was something else, Babs. Redhorn’s changed. He’s come unhinged.”

“Seems to be how most Bludhaven cops end up, doesn’t it?” Babs was thinking of Dudley Soames, the former Inspector who’d had his head twisted around backwards by Blockbuster, and had subsequently devolved into a lunatic. “Something to think about, Detective Wonder?”

Dick ignored the barb, plotting his next move. Lady Vic had been taken off the board temporarily. That left Shay and Redhorn, apparently operating independently of one another, and pursuing a goal that was, so far, elusive. Of the two, Redhorn was the more immediate threat, due to his growing instability. The explosion at the storage space was not his ultimate goal, Dick knew. It was a step. A step toward something bigger.

He needed to find Redhorn. Fast. Spare costumes ought to be clean.

The cold always bothered Chester’s stump. It wasn’t so bad in the summer, but in the winter, especially when it was windy, he ached. It was the kind of ache that would go away if he had a few Alleve, but he usually couldn’t afford Alleve. When he was lucky, he got his hands on another elixir that dulled his senses and made the pain go away.

But not today.

Today he sat in a coffeehouse, having managed to make himself reasonably presentable. He was sure he smelled, but he’d cobbled a shower at a rest stop, and discarded his more disgusting clothes. Buckman’s Coffee was right across the street from the east gate of the Leonardi Street Subway Tunnel. From his current vantage point, he had a perfect view of the entrance. He could see everyone that came and went. He’d know if Romeo Scarpatti showed.

Chester struggled to open the packet of sugar with one hand, and cursed his disability once again. Behind him a television droned on. “Jury selection continued in the Blockbuster Trial today, as plaintiff and defendants questioned jurors about their backgrounds in order to identify any potential bias. Four potential jurors were excused for cause, and the plaintiff exercised two of his eight peremptory strikes. Jury selection is expected to continue for at least one, and possibly two, more days.”

Chester couldn’t help but hear the television, and marvel at the way the trial seemed to be Bludhaven’s center. Everyone in town seemed to have something riding on the trial’s outcome. The courtroom had been closed to cameras, but an artist had prepared a rendition of the attorneys questioning the jurors. Chester marveled at those people, those mythical figures, being the center of attention, playing out this grand drama to an audience of thousands.

Once, he’d been a player. Slipknot may not have set the world on fire, but he was noticed. He was respected; otherwise the government would never have recruited him.

Soon, he’d be a player again.

Chester was so intent on his thoughts that he almost missed Romeo. At first he wasn’t sure. The man walking across the street, carrying a briefcase toward the subway entrance was the right height, the right build. But Chester had never met Romeo in person, and in any event this man’s back was turned to him, so he couldn’t be sure.

The man-who-might-be-Romeo stopped abruptly, looked around him, scanning the area. Chester saw him walk over to the trash can near the gate, and his heart beat faster. Tentatively, he approached the trash can and set down the briefcase, feigning casualness as much as possible. He wedged the briefcase behind the trash can, pausing to admire his handiwork, then turned and walked away.

The next five minutes were the longest of Chester’s life. He sat immobile, his eyes locked on the briefcase, as Romeo walked away. Chester forced his eyes to follow Romeo as he trod away from the scene, never taking his eyes off of him until he was totally out of sight. Twice, Romeo turned around and looked back toward the trash can, no doubt hoping his mysterious informant would appear. The briefcase looked so vulnerable, just sitting in the open. Anyone could wander along and take it. It would only take a second.

When Romeo was finally out of sight, Chester scanned the area for anyone matching the descriptions of Charles or Giovanni Scarpatti. Again, it was an inexact science due to his lack of familiarity with them. He’d hoped Romeo wouldn’t tell either of his sons about the exchange, but you could never tell. He’d never be entirely sure there wasn’t someone watching, waiting to pounce once he went for the briefcase. At some point, he’d have to take a chance.

Checking out the area one last time, Chester stood, almost knocking over his chair, and walked out of the coffeehouse. Stay calm stay calm stay calm, he thought as he slowly crossed the street. You don’t want to run over to the briefcase; it’ll draw suspicion. Stay cool. He didn’t want to walk too slow, either. With each step, Chester measured his pace, making the walk across the street longer than any he’d experienced. His eyes focused like lasers on the briefcase, his pulse racing every time someone got anywhere near it. Leave it leave it leave it.

Finally he reached it. Again caution prevailed. Don’t look too anxious to grab it, but don’t look like you’re stealing it. Look like it’s yours, but you’re indifferent to it all the same. As casually as he could, Chester reached down with his one good arm and lifted the briefcase.

“Hey! What do you think you’re doing?!?”

Instinctively, Chester gripped the briefcase as his eyes swung upward. A uniformed cop stood five feet away from him, twirling his baton menacingly. Chester put on his best innocent face.

“I said what are you doing?!? Are you stealing that briefcase?” Chester looked briefly at the case, then back at the cop. People were turning around. This was a spectacle. He said nothing as the cop approached. “Are you deaf, son? I’m talking to you.”

Chester focused on the cop’s badge. It read “BPD”. Something about that seemed off. He tried to remember what.

The cop was rapidly growing impatient. “Hey!!”

Chester snapped to his senses, still groping for a way out. “Oh uh, officer, this is my briefcase. I left it here.”

The cop was having none of it. “Like hell you did. You couldn’t afford that briefcase if you donated your organs.” He looked at Chester’s dangling sleeve. “Looks like you already tried, too. Hand it over, pal.”

Chester couldn’t.. wouldn’t let go of the briefcase. “No.” he replied firmly. “It’s mine.” Just then a light went off in his head, and he knew he had to get out of there.

The cop was still approaching, a pair of handcuffs drawn. Chester saw his car parked by the curb. One chance.

As the cop neared, Chester suddenly swung the briefcase around with all the strength he could muster. The cop tried unsuccessfully to duck, catching the case square in the face and toppling backwards. Chester didn’t hesitate. He dropped the briefcase, then threw himself onto the cop, snarling like an animal. He punched the cop three times with his hand while laying on top of him. In one motion, he rolled off of the bleeding cop, grabbed the handcuffs as well as a set of keys, and cuffed the cop. There was still a little Slipknot left in him after all.

Screams now filled the area as bystanders reacted to the attack. Chester grabbed the cop’s gun, pointing it menacingly at a would-be intervenor. With a kick of his legs, Chester sprang to his feet. Still holding the gun as best he could, he slipped his hand through the briefcase handle and lifted it. Should’ve asked for one with a strap, he thought as he pulled it awkwardly toward him. “Don’t move!” he yelled at the onlookers as he sprinted toward the cop’s car amid shouts and screams, holding the gun in a position so awkward he could never possibly shoot it.

Chester dropped the briefcase when he reached the car, and quickly unlocked it. People raced toward him as he slid inside the car, then pulled the case in after him and slammed the door shut. He hadn’t tried to drive a car since his amputation, and knew it was a bad idea, but had no choice. Thank God the car was an automatic, he thought as he revved the engine.

He thought he might have run over a bystander’s foot as he sped away, but he wasn’t sure.

“You know, I’m really tired of getting beaten up.” Jules Land was sincere.

Nightwing didn’t care. He gripped the gunsmith by the collar, a fist poised to strike. “I’m not here to beat you up, Jules. I want information. About Redhorn.”

“Damn fool. He causes me nothing but trouble. What is it you want?”

“You sold a grenade to Redhorn. He used it to blow up a storage building, could’ve gotten someone killed.”

“I didn’t sell him nothing. He stole the damn thing.”

“Stole it?”

“Stole it. Came in here and beat me up – acting a lot like you.” The accusation in Jules’ tone was palpable.

“He beat you up to steal your weapons? What’s he, short of cash?”

“No, no. He didn’t come in for the weapons. He came in for information. Again, a lot like-..”

“I get the picture, Jules. What did he want to know?”

“He was asking about Marksman?”

“Who is Marksman?”

Jules chuckled. “Wouldn’t you, and Redhorn, and everyone else, like to know. He’s an assassin. Contracts out. He was the one what tried to kill Redhorn awhile back.”

“So he’s a lousy assassin.” Nightwing had never heard of Marksman, and wondered how he’d managed to miss him.

“Hey, even the good ones miss once in awhile, right?” Jules was growing more conversational, his need to feel important bolstered by Nightwing’s reliance on him. “Marksman’s pretty solid. I guess Redhorn wants him now, though.”

Nightwing’s fist relaxed, and he held up two fingers instead. “Here’s how this is going to work, Jules. One: you’re going to tell me everything – and I do mean everything – you know about Marksman. Two: you’re going to identify every piece of equipment Redhorn took out of this store.”

“Why? You gonna charge him with something?”

“Nope. I want to see what kind of arsenal I’m up against.”

“Does anyone know where Deidre is?” Romeo Scarpatti was beside himself.

“She said she’s on her way.” added Charles. He and Giovanni paced cross-ways across their father’s study as Romeo tapped his fingers nervously on his great oak desk. Giovanni was talking on a cell phone, which he finally hung up.

“We messed up.” he said to Romeo as he hung up. “Our cop wasn’t quite genuine enough. The guy who picked up the briefcase made him as a phony, ambushed him, and beat the hell out of him.

“The guy stole his car, which was found wrecked fifteen miles away, outside of town. No sign of the driver or briefcase, but there were blood stains in the car.”

“This guy..” Romeo began. “..he had one arm. Do we even know if he was the guy? Was he working for someone else? Surely..”

Just then Romeo’s phone rang. He answered it before the first ring ended.

“Granny knot.” Romeo gestured wildly to his sons, and they came closer as if they could hear their father’s conversation. “Nice trick with the phony cop. They’re the BFPD now, by the way.”

“I’ve given you what you want.” Romeo said.

“Yes, thank you. Of course you did try to kill or apprehend me in the process.”

“I kept my end of the bargain.”

There was a pause on the other end of the phone, as if the speaker was contemplating his next move. “That you did. Are you paying attention?”

“What kind of question is that?” barked Romeo. “Of course I’m..”

“Don’t take that tone, Romeo. It’s not becoming.” Savoring every delicious moment, trying to drag it out as long as possible. “Now, since I’ve got what I want, it’s only fair you should get what you want. How about if I tell you who killed Antonio Scarpatti?”

“Yes, yes.” blustered Romeo. “Who-..” He was interrupted by a knock at the door. He looked up in annoyance, ready to yell at the intrusion, only to see his study door open.

Deidre Scarpatti walked in hurriedly. “I got your call. What’s going on? Who are you talking to?”

To Be Continued...

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