Nightwing #36--Over A Barrel and Under the Gun

Nightwing raised his binoculars to his eyes again, and studied the figure in the house across the road. The woman he was watching leaned over and deposited dishes in a dishwasher. The woman glanced around before she headed into the next room, switching the light off as she went.

Within a moment, Nightwing was across the road, trying the back door that he knew led to the kitchen. It was locked, and he had to fiddle with his lock pick, for several minutes before he could open it. He quickly stepped through the door to the dark kitchen, and closed the door softly behind him. Crossing the linoleum, he glanced into the living room, where he saw the woman browsing the Internet. Leaning slightly further out, he caught a glimpse of a young boy coloring a picture on a piece of paper on the coffee table. He stepped in.

“Ms. Sloan?”

The woman whirled around, her hand going automatically to her hip. Off-duty, she wasn’t wearing her gun—something Nightwing had made sure of before going in. She stopped and took a good look at her intruder. “Nightwing?”

He nodded briskly. “S’what I’ve been told.”

The woman glanced at the wide-eyed boy sitting on the living room floor. She pushed back her dark curls. “Anything in particular you want?”

“There’s a few things we need to discuss.”

The woman held his gaze for a moment before turning to the boy. “Joey, why don’t you run upstairs for a few minutes,” she said, a false, bright smile plastered on her face.

“But, Mom—”

“Now, Joey,” she commanded, her hand shaking ever so slightly as she again brushed her curls back. The boy looked heartbroken, but he headed slowly for the stairs.

“Can I have your autograph?” He asked his hero, from the fifth step up.

Nightwing smiled. “Sure.” He would alter his penmanship, of course—so as not to leave anything for a handwriting analyst to discover, however slight the chance. But there was no reason he couldn’t sign something for the kid.

“Cool!” Joey exclaimed, heading up the stairs somewhat more happily. His mother watched him go before turning to her unexpected visitor.

“What was it you wanted to talk about?” She asked, tapping her finger nervously on the computer table.

“It’s about Joey,” Nightwing stated grimly. “Have you talked to Sloan lately?” At her nod, he continued, “What did he tell you?”

The woman scowled. “What does it matter? You want to put him in jail, again?”

“Right now, I’m just gathering evid—”

“You think he… altered the dough,” she said, for the benefit of little ears listening above, “himself?”

Nightwing held up a hand. “I didn’t say that. If someone really is out to… get… him, I need to find out who it is. But he tells me that he’s received phone calls about someone else,” he said, raising an eyebrow at her. The kid upstairs was hanging on their every word.

“He did, just as he’s told other stories in the past.”

“What if this isn’t a story, Lisa? I saw the holes in the wall, and evidence of the… man who put them there.” He wished the kid were gone so they could talk plainly.

Lisa shrugged. “Maybe he put them there himself. I wouldn’t put it past him.”

“He didn’t,” Nightwing said flatly. “If you don’t have any idea who did, then I think we’re done—for now.”

“I don’t,” Lisa said, sounding relieved. As soon as the words left her lips, there came a thump, thump, thump as Joey ran down the stairs. He ran to the computer table and grabbed a piece of paper out of the printer, snatched a pen from the coffee table, and shoved both at Nightwing. Nightwing grinned. Then, using the coffee table for a hard surface, he obligingly scrawled the name of his alternate identity on the paper. The boy grabbed it delightedly and held it out for his mother to see. She tore her gaze from the intruder just long enough to smile down at her son’s new treasure, then glanced back up. She arose quickly, looked around, and then ran to the kitchen. The only sign that he had left that way was the curtain swaying on the door.

“Can she get police protection?” Tim asked Dick at lunch later that day. Dick shook his head.

“What would she tell them? She doesn’t have what they would consider a valid reason, since technically she shouldn’t even know about the murder attempts on Sloan. Since there’s no real evidence to tie the attempts to Marty—and Sloan probably has more than one person who hates his guts—the police wouldn’t do anything until something happens.”

“But by then, it could be too late,” Tim said glumly. “How are you going to manage taking care of Sloan and Tiffany at once—not to mention being Batman?”

“I’ll manage,” Dick grinned tiredly. “How about this? Why don’t you read over the details of the Sloan and Tiffany case? Alfred can show you the files.”

“Sure, but… why?”

Dick winked. “You can’t help solve a mystery without knowing the details.”

“Sweet! I’ll read over those files right after school.”

“Don’t get your hopes up, though—this’ll be more of an evidence-gathering mission. I don’t expect any action.”

The door was old, but shining conspicuously from the worn wood was a very new, very good, lock. Assuming the windows in the building would be just as well-secured, Nightwing frowned.

“Who needs secrecy, anyway?” he muttered as a tiny bit of C4 removed the problem. As soon as it was safe, he stepped through the gaping hole that was left, and ducked down immediately as he saw a gun swing toward him. Tossing a nightarang, he hit the man on the wrist, causing his gun to drop to the floor. Before he hit the ground, Nightwing was already past him and heading for the next room. A man was reaching into a desk drawer, casting desperate glances in the direction of the door, when Nightwing rushed in. The vigilante flipped onto the desk and stomped down on the man’s hand.

“Let go of the gun,” he commanded. He raised his foot. The man drew his hand back slowly, eyes wide and breath coming in loud, quick gasps.

“What—what do you want?” the man asked.

Nightwing hopped onto the floor, not turning his back to the open doorway. “I came to check your stupid-thug-for-hire gig. Y’know, not this corner-shop front,” he waved at the room vaguely. “The one where someone could presumably hire a thug to kill someone else for an outrageous fee.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“Aw, c’mon, be original. Everyone says that.” Nightwing shook his head, disappointed. Reaching into a pouch on his utility belt, he pulled out the smudged scrap of paper he had taken from one of the thugs at Sloan’s. “I have to admit, this is pretty darn incriminating.”

“N-no…” the man stuttered, his mind racing.

“Who wants Sloan dead?”

“He’ll kill me…”

“Not if I stop him. You think he won’t punish you for this failed murder attempt?”

The man considered that for a moment. “He-he’ll understand…”

Nightwing half-turned and whipped a nightarang at one of the man’s ‘employees’ who had just run in armed. “I don’t think so,” he stated coolly. “I’ve had a run-in with Marty myself, and he didn’t seem the forgiving type.”

The man was silent. Then he muttered, “No, guess he’s not.”

“I appreciate your cooperation,” Nightwing nodded as he left.

“So this is why they called Robin, ‘Boy Hostage’,” Tim commented dully as Nightwing strode in. His wrists and ankles were both tied to a chair that was in the middle of the room. Several feet away from him, Jake was in a similar position. Tiffany’s neck was currently in the crook of a man’s arm, uncomfortably close to a knife blade.

“I hope you don’t, but seeing as you’ve adopted the identity, you’ll probably get used to it,” Nightwing nodded in his direction, relieved to see that he was alright. “Okay, Marty, you’ve got us all here, we’re at the climax of your little drama. If I’ve followed the age-old script right, we’re at the part where you reveal your evil plot and I beat you senseless before handing you to the police.”

Marty stepped around from behind Robin. “You obviously didn’t get a copy of the new script.” He nodded at a group of thugs, who started for Nightwing. Nightwing instantly whipped out his escrima sticks.

“No, no, no,” Marty shook his head. “This is where the revision is. You don’t put up a heroic fight, kid. You put your toy sticks down and put your hands behind your back for some pretty bracelets. Harder to break than rope is.”

Nightwing backed up a step. “Or you’ll kill Tiffany, eh?”

Marty nodded. “Ex-actly.”

“Didn’t I put you in jail?”

“I’ve got friends,” Marty grinned. Abruptly, he became serious. “Now, hand ‘em over.”

Nightwing shrugged, his cool demeanor hiding his anxiety. “Sure, sure.” He handed over his sticks.

“I’m sure you’ve got more nasty tricks up your sleeve—probably quite literally,” Marty growled. “Hand over your whatchamacallits. The flying razors.”

Nightwing reached into one pouch, withdrew several razor-sharp nightarangs and held them up for Marty to see. They glimmered dimly in the light. He tossed them lightly to one of the thugs who had his hands out.

“Ahhhh!” the man yelled, as he unconsciously closed his fist around them. Marty rolled his eyes as the man wiped his bloody hand on his shirt, carefully switching the nightarangs to his other hand before he did so.

“Frank, frisk him,” Marty commanded one fellow. “But give Tom your gun first—I don’t want Hero Boy to get a hold of it.”

Frank nervously walked up to Nightwing. After a moment, he had checked all of the pouches on the vigilante’s utility belt, and amassed a small fortune in gadgets. Marty grinned appreciatively at the camera.

“I’ll bet there’s lots of shots on there that plenty of people would rather didn’t see the light of day,” he commented thoughtfully, already planning how he could profit off the pictures.

Frank, nervous as he was, hadn’t been completely thorough in his search, but Nightwing wasn’t planning on mentioning it. To his credit, Frank had checked all of the obvious places, however, it hadn’t occurred to him to check for hidden compartments in Nightwing’s suit.

“So, how are you planning on killing all of us?” Nightwing asked with seeming indifference as one of the thugs handcuffed him. “That’s a lot of bullets.”

“Or explosives,” Marty replied. “This place is falling apart, and is already scheduled to be demolished. No one’ll bat an eye when it goes down.”

“Um, hello? Bombs are kinda noticeable,” Robin informed him.

“Not small ones. I doubt there’ll even be an investigation here. A small bomb would be the last straw for this place, and would only finish what twenty years have been doing. This place’ll go down in no time.”

Robin frowned. “You won’t get away with it.”

Marty laughed. “You’re too innocent to be a superhero, kid. Too confident. I don’t know why Batman ever let you sign up. Just gets a kid like you killed. You realize that, don’t you? Most kids are sleeping right now, or playing a video game. Maybe finishing a paper. What are you doing? Getting blown to smithereens. Since no one knows your identity, when you disappear you’ll just become one of the kidnapping cases on the news, never heard from again. What a way to live, kid.” He turned to his pals in the room. “Alright, let’s clear outta here. Frank, set that thing and then run, you got it?”

Everyone in the room left, except for the prisoners and Frank. While Marty had been talking, the man who’d been holding Tiffany had tied her expertly to another chair.

“We’ve almost got a full set here,” Nightwing commented, looking over the chairs. He craned his neck as he talked. “Five minutes? Aw, c’mon, Frank. Make it at least seven.”

“Just shut up, okay!” Frank waved a gun at him wildly as though Nightwing, handcuffed to the chair, could harm him by talking.

“Alright,” Nightwing said calmly. “Five’s cool.” He glanced around the room, getting a mental picture. Jake was on his left, with Tiffany beside him. To Nightwing’s right was Sloan, who was crying and muttering something, and past him was Robin, looking to his leader for a plan.

“See you, Frank,” he said as the man hesitated. “Have a good life before the cops catch you.” Frank screamed something as he ran out. As soon as they were gone, Nightwing asked, “Anyone in here tied with rope?”

Tiffany, Jake and Sloan all nodded. “Robin?” Nightwing asked.

“Handcuffs,” he replied glumly.

“Same here,” Nightwing muttered. He shook his hands behind him. “Three.” He pursed his lips, thinking, then began to scoot his chair around. Within a moment, he was facing the rear of the room. He launched his chair back. Landing solidly on his wrist, he winced in pain, then felt around on the ground for a nightarang. His pile of tools had been left there, just out of reach… but not anymore! He grabbed one, then scooted back until he was close to Jake’s hands.

“What about me?” Sloan shrieked, watching the timer on the bomb.

“You’d probably bolt out of the room,” Nightwing muttered. “Which, if you did, would probably get you killed, since Marty and his goons probably stayed to watch the fireworks.” Rubbing the razor-sharp blade against the ropes, he soon had Jake’s hands free. “Untie yourself and Tiffany,” he ordered as he wiggled toward Sloan. He soon had the ex-lawyer’s hands loose as well, and the man lost no time in freeing his feet. Tiffany and Jake were rubbing their arms and legs to regain circulation as they waited.

“Is there an axe or something here?” Nightwing asked, glancing around.

“I’ll check the hall,” Tiffany called as she ran out of the room, Jake on her heels. Minutes later, Jake was back with an old hatchet.

“I found one, Tiff,” he called. She came back a moment later and glanced at the clock on the bomb nervously.

“Great,” Nightwing said. “See if you can free Robin.”

Jake hefted the hatchet so unskillfully that Nightwing was afraid for Robin’s neck. “Take your time,” he said, eyeing the steadily-changing timer. “No pressure.”

Jake took a deep breath and again hacked at the chain. “It’s no use,” he said. “The handcuffs won’t break. This thing’s probably too dull, and I can’t get a good angle on it, anyway.”

“Don’t analyze it, just take the chair apart, then,” Nightwing said more urgently. “Hurry.”

The chair was lying in splinters on the floor a moments later. “Okay, go!” Nightwing yelled, as the timer hit 1:03.

“No,” said Robin. He grabbed the hatchet from Jake and began swinging at the chair.

“There’s no time,” Nightwing argued. “We’ll all be blown to smithereens in fifty-eight seconds.” Robin continued hacking wildly. Nightwing glanced around the room desperately. “Sloan, Jake,” he said wearily. Tears streaming down her cheeks, Tiffany tried to set his chair up.

“We’ll carry the chair out,” she said.

“No! Grab Robin and get out!”

Tiffany glanced at the timer, then helped Sloan and Jake subdue Robin. Hoping against hope, she swung the hatchet at Nightwing’s feet, cutting the rope between his ankles and freeing his legs. The three dragged Robin out as he struggled and screamed.

Nightwing rolled onto his side, nearly on his stomach, and drew his knees up. Slowly he stood, hoping that the others had enough time to get out. They were two stories up, and he hoped they’d be able to clear the building. He headed for a window and rammed the chair into it, shattering the glass. With one last look at the bomb, he threw himself—and the chair—out the window. He hit the ground on his injured wrist but barely noticed as he stood, bent under the chair. He wished he could slide the handcuffs up and over, but the idiots had chained him to the turnings. He had barely gotten up, when he heard a small but definite explosion above him. As he tried to run, something hit him from behind and he fell to the ground. Something hit his head hard and he saw stars as a woman screamed in the distance.