The Way Back #20

Not for the first time, Bruce wished he'd come into the store in a $2000 suit, exuding money and charm. As much as he hated being fawned over by obsequious sales clerks when he wanted to browse, when the time came to actually conclude the sale, he'd always known he could look up to find one hovering at hand. You decided to put on the army fatigues, this time out. Nobody else suggested it to you. Maybe, he thought grimly as he trotted up and down the aisles, somebody should have. He might even have listened. Spying a manned service desk, he quickened his pace. "Hi," he said. "I'm looking for some help in wallpaper."

The man behind the counter smiled apologetically. "Sorry, this is flooring. I'll have to page someone."

Bruce sighed inwardly as the clerk picked up the phone and made the announcement. "Should I wait here?"

The man shook his head. "No, they'll meet up with you in wallpaper. Anything else I can help with today, sir?"

"I guess not." He turned on his heel and headed back the way he'd come.

From some distance away, he could see that Jim had apparently run into some old friends. There were three men clustered around him, apparently happy to see him. He frowned. Something about their body language rang false. Trouble. Even as the thought crystallized, he saw Jim head off with the other men toward the exit without so much as a backward glance. Now Bruce knew something was wrong. Jim wouldn't leave without him. And one of the men... the way he kept his hand in his jacket pocket... gun.

Bruce assessed the situation automatically. As far as he knew, Jim wasn't wearing any sort of tracer. He reached into his pocket for his cell phone. Barbara could... Barbara would be hard-put to track a car if it didn't have a GPS transponder. Running plates would only tell her who the vehicle's owner was, not where to find the car. Besides, if he called her, there was every chance that he would be distracted long enough to lose sight of his quarry. And if she knew that he was following, she'd try to talk him out of it. Or, he smiled faintly, since it was her father, she might actually encourage him. His jaw set. Jim was in trouble, and he was the closest help available. He couldn't allow himself to be deterred and he didn't need a pep talk. He took his hand out of his pocket and made his way carefully to the parking lot.

--

Tailing the other car was proving to be a challenge. It wasn't that the car was hard to follow, but doing so without the driver being aware of him was trickier. So far, his knowledge of the city was working in his favor. He was sticking mostly to parallel streets and making educated guesses as to where the other car might turn off. Once they got out of Midtown, however, he was going to have to risk moving behind them. The other vehicle was headed directly for Old Gotham, a maze of dead ends, twisting side streets, and signs prohibiting left or right turns. If he lost them there, he'd never locate them again.

Despite the gravity of the situation, as the last red vestiges of sunset gave way to a November evening, Bruce felt a smile form on his lips. It had been far too long since he had last sat behind the wheel of a car, speeding into the night in response to a crisis. And as much as he tried to focus on the car and remind himself that this was anything but a game, he couldn't quite keep himself from feeling a small surge of excitement as a long-buried part of him woke up with a start.

--

The two men on either side of him started involuntarily when his cell-phone went off. In retrospect, keeping the 'Bad boys' ring-tone might not have been the best idea. He turned to the captor with the handgun. "Mind if I get that?" He asked calmly. "It's probably my daughter. She'll worry."

"No funny business," the thug warned. "Or..."

"You'll put a bullet in me that, depending on your ammo, will likely nail your friend on my left, too." He hit the 'speak' button before he had the phone out of his pocket. "Got it."

The thug on the left froze for a moment. Then, angrily "Put it down, you moron! He's right!"

"Daddy?" Barbara asked in some confusion, "is everything okay?"

Gordon thought fast. He had to communicate his circumstances quickly, and in a way that his captors probably wouldn't pick up. "Same-old, same-old," he said heartily. "Now to what, pray tell, do I owe the honor?"

Barbara paused for a moment. Then, cautiously, "I didn't mean to catch you at a bad time. Are you... alone?"

Damn. Was she asking if Bruce was with him, or if people were listening in? Bruce. The very fact that he was resorting to oblique phrasing was enough to tell her he wasn't alone. "I was until I ran into some friends." The thug on the left nudged him and made a 'hurry up' gesture. "I'll call you later. Don't wait," he paused for a fraction of a second longer than he had to, "up." He ended the call before she had a chance to say good-bye. I just hope your hi-tech tracking doohickeys let you get a fix on that call, Babs. These people mean trouble. Send your team in. Don't wait.

--

At Delphi, Oracle fixed her attention on the small dot on the computer map, moving toward Old Gotham at twenty-five miles per hour. "Maybe I can't tell the Birds of Prey, Daddy," she said softly, "but there are a few other winged creatures I can call..."

--

Tim held his nose as he gingerly dropped a soiled diaper into the attendant bucket. It wasn't exactly a pleasant task, but if you considered that a night's work in Gotham might include anything from a dip in the Finger River to wading through several miles of raw sewage while chasing down Killer Croc or the Rat King, changing one dirty diaper barely warranted an entry on the grossness scale.

Pinning on a fresh one, however, was proving to be far more challenging. Why couldn't Selina have gone for Pampers like anyone else? There was such a thing as being too environmentally conscious!

Yeah, and it's called Poison Ivy on the warpath. This is easier to deal with.


Or was it? On any given night, he could probably take down Ivy. He wasn't so sure about pinning the diaper. And Helena was growing restless. He could hear the phone ringing from the table in the outside hallway. He ignored it. Then his cell went off. "Oh man!" He pulled the phone out one-handed and looked at the caller ID display. "Oracle, this is kind of a bad time," he said hurriedly.

"Can't help that," she said, almost as quickly. "My father's in trouble and Dick's not currently reachable."

Tim reached down and scooped up Helena as her bare feet touched the carpet, depositing her back on the bed. "Better give me the details," he said, "but unless you know where I can leave Helena, the best I can do is pass the word on to the Titans."

Barbara sighed. "I'm feeding you co-ordinates now. I don't suppose Rose could look after her? She has experience." She took a deep breath. "I'd really like you on this one."

"As soon as Bruce comes in, I'll..." Tim stopped. "Bruce was with your dad."

"Yes."

"Is he still?"

"Not according to Daddy."

Tim hesitated. "You think he's gone after him."

"Do you think he didn't?" Barbara suddenly sounded tired. "Look. If Cass had better detective skills, I'd be briefing her, but she doesn't, and it could be my father's life at stake, and I hate being stuck here trying to arrange things while wondering why the hell Bruce hasn't called in and—hold on!"

"Huh?" A giggle brought his attention back to his surroundings. "Helena!" He wedged the phone between his cheek and shoulder as he dashed for the door. Helena, naked from the waist down, scampered into the hallway. "Get back here!"

He sprinted after her, caught her at safety gate at the top of the stairs, and hauled her unceremoniously back to the bedroom. "Stay!" He ordered. Then he winced. Going to tell her to sit up and beg, next? It's a good thing neither of her parents just heard you.

Oracle came back on the line. "You're off the hook. Dick just called in; he's on it."

"Good." Then, "If you want me out there, and you can get over here..."

"Trying to distract me?" The smile in her voice sounded forced. "No. I need to stay on top of this. If we're wrong and Bruce does come back, call me."

"Will do. Um... Babs? Do you know how to pin a cloth diaper?"

--

Bruce stole cautiously around the perimeter of the lot, keeping as much to the shadows as possible. He noted the two guards at the main gate. There didn't seem to be any others. The eight-foot high chain-link fence didn't appear to be electrified, but climbing wasn't an option. Not when those eight feet were capped by an additional twelve rows of barbed razor wire at two inch intervals. There had to be another way inside.

A moment later, he smiled and went back to where he'd parked his car. So it wasn't titanium alloy, he thought, as he opened the trunk and flipped open the lid of his emergency roadside kit. A grappling hook at the end of a seventy-five foot nylon tow rope would still do in a pinch. He'd learned early in his career that little things—such as carrying longer-than-standard cables, brighter flares, and deluxe first aid kits—could make a huge difference, should he find himself in an emergency situation and cut off from his 'professional' equipment. Those lessons were coming into play now. Bruce slipped the loose coils around his arm and made his way back to tall oak tree with low-hanging branches. It was a good thing that it was already dark, he thought wryly. His army jacket and camouflage pants would have stood out starkly against bare trees and dead leaves. At night, it was a different story.

It didn't take him long to reach the higher branches and then to crawl out onto a broad limb that extended several feet over the adjacent lot. From his vantage point, he had an unobstructed view of the rear of the unfinished high-rise—little more than iron girders and safety rails after the first three stories. The area appeared to be deserted. Didn't they have any backup at all? Someone was extremely overconfident, extremely short-sighted... or extremely mistrustful. Bruce smiled. He could use this.

He slid the coil off his arm. He didn't have a launcher. He'd have to compensate for that. He paused. Barbara had to be frantic by now. Well, with any luck, in a matter of minutes...

And without any luck, did anybody have a clue where to find them?

He could do this. There was no need to involve anyone else. Who needed backup?

Anyone who wasn't overconfident, short-sighted, mistrustful...

Bruce closed his eyes. Then, he took a deep breath and pulled out his cell phone. "Barbara. I can't talk long, in case this signal is being traced. Your father—"

"I know," Barbara cut him off. "I... I'm glad you're on this. Dick is still about forty minutes from your position. There's nobody closer."

Bruce nodded. "Understood." That made it easier. Once inside, he wasn't going to blow anybody else's cover. As long as he had her on the line, "Do you have intel?"

"Just on the current owner of the building."

As she spoke the name, Bruce's jaw hardened. "That clarifies more than it doesn't."

"Bruce?"

Don't ask me if I'm sure I'm up for this. Don't give me a reason to doubt. I've had too many of those, and I have to banish them all or I am going to fail.

She must have intuited some of what was going through his mind, for all she said was, "Good luck." Then the line disconnected.

Bruce nodded, a slight smile on his face. Then he took several coils of slack rope in his left hand and the end, with the grappling hook attached, in his right. He whirled the hook as he would a lariat, faster and faster, feeding it more slack, waiting for the right moment to make the cast. When the moment came, it came with the clarity of a thunderclap. The hook soared, straight and true, to loop around a third-story girder. He tugged it taut.

Listo? He seemed to hear Dick's call. Bruce smiled.

Yes. I'm ready.

Hep!

And for the first time in nearly two and a half years, he sailed through the night sky.

--

Eddie took up his post next to the book case by the door. Someone had told him once that undercover work was 99 per cent boredom and one per cent adrenaline, and whichever one you had, you wished it was the other. So far, he was waiting for the adrenaline. Actually, he was longing for it. All Penguin seemed to want him to do was stand in a corner and look dangerous. For the past few nights, he'd stood in corners of the Iceberg Lounge and looked dangerous when it seemed that a brawl might break out. He'd stood in corners and looked dangerous when the bartender was informing some low-rent mobster—the kind that they'd have normally left for the police to deal with as a goodwill gesture—that she was cutting him off for the evening. Now he was standing in a corner and looking dangerous while a never-ending line of humanity shuffled past him to approach the imposing pedestal desk.

Some carried attaché cases, others small velvet pouches or bulging manila envelopes. Some came empty-handed, asking for favors or investment capital. Most were middle-aged men with flannel shirts hanging over worn jeans, or suits that had seen better years. He'd seen two women, one clearly terrified to be there, the other moving with the sinewy grace and serene confidence of an experienced fighter. Some of the others in the room had leered openly at the first woman, but not the second.

Penguin was sitting next to him in a padded armchair. At first glance, it appeared that he had scant interest in the proceedings, as he focused his attention on the table before him. Seven rows of seven overlapping playing cards were arrayed face-up. To the left of the piles, three jacks lay in a vertical line. His eyes, however, darted periodically up from the solitaire game to lock with those of the clerk behind the pedestal desk. A slight smile, a faint frown, the shake of his head, the maneuvering of his monocle... Each gesture conveyed to the clerk whether to grant a loan or extend the repayment time on an existing one. They signalled whether a payoff was in keeping with the agreed-upon terms, or whether someone was attempting to short him—and what consequences would be exacted in that case.

Meanwhile, Eddie was discovering that his armor hadn't been designed to be worn sixteen hours per day. He was sure that he was getting blisters from the metal boots. He guessed that his discomfort was helping him to stay awake, but it was hard to concentrate on anything beyond how heavy the suit felt, and how much his feet ached, and the fact that he couldn't scratch an itch—and now, he couldn't stop thinking about that itch, no matter how hard he tried!

He wondered where Megan was. She'd said that she was going to try doing her own sleuthing while he was busy here. He envied her.

Finally, Penguin smothered a yawn. The clerk behind the desk nodded. "That's it for today, people. Those of you who have debts to settle, please note that the terms of your contract state that all payments are due by seven p.m. It is now seven-thirty. We will accept your contributions tomorrow, along with the fifteen per cent surcharge for delinquency."

There were moans of protest. "We've been standing here for six hours, man! Cut us some slack!"

"Sorry, folks, but if you're going to leave things 'til the last minute, it's a risk you take. We'll be open again tomorrow at noon."

The protests grew louder. The clerk nodded in Eddie's direction. "Devilbane, if you please..."

Eddie wasn't sure what he was supposed to do, but he squared his shoulders and took a step forward, trying to think menacing thoughts. The protests died down to angry mutters as the people nervously stepped back.

"See you tomorrow," the clerk repeated. "Come early."

After they left, Cobblepot took a linen handkerchief from his breast pocket and mopped his brow theatrically. "Well. That was invigorating," he said, with a supercilious smile. "In fact, between that excitement and the thrill of my game," he pointed to the solitaire setup, "I think I'm going to head off into the lounge for some refreshment." He looked at Eddie. "I don't suppose you're familiar with Penguin solitaire?" he demanded.

Eddie shook his head. "It looks a little like Freecell," he said hesitantly.

Penguin sniffed. "Freecell is entertaining enough for the masses," he said, "but those of some degree of breeding prefer something with a bit more challenge. Aha!" He quickly moved his remaining cards to the foundation piles. Did you see that?"

"Yes, sir," Eddie said. "But I'm not sure how you did it."

Penguin inspected his monocle. "Be in my office in thirty minutes and we'll see whether you're capable of grasping the fundamentals. For now, the lounge awaits me."

Eddie sighed. He was tired of standing up and he didn't think he'd be able to rise again, once he sat down. There were chairs in the office, however. And Penguin hadn't told him he couldn't get there early. He headed off in that direction. After spending the day on his feet, he had to have earned a chance to sit down by now!

As he pulled open the door to Penguin's office, he stopped short. Someone was in there ahead of him, and from the way he was rifling through the contents of the desk drawers, it didn't look like he was there on sanctioned business. "Wh-what are you doing in here?"

--

Bruce moved carefully down the stairs, making as little noise as possible. The stairwell wasn't particularly clean or well-lit. He held the small flashlight before him with one hand as he brushed the stucco walls with the other.

He wasn't at all sure that he was going in the right direction. The upper levels probably weren't safe for anyone—construction had been stalled since Cataclysm. Nobody had done any work on the site in ages. Still, if the kidnappers were looking for a place to keep Jim, it might make sense to use an area that wasn't so easy to walk away from—particularly if the person behind this was short on manpower.

Bruce shook his head slightly. If the man whom Barbara had mentioned was behind the abduction, there was no way he'd be risking his own neck up on the girders. And he wouldn't want to miss a chance to gloat, either. No, wherever Jim was, it would be someplace comparatively safe. Bruce was sure of it.

It occurred to him that his life seemed to be coming full circle again. He'd started his career in this same get-up, feigning a confidence he nearly felt, sure of his training, but not entirely certain what he was doing with it. He hadn't had much of a plan then, either—just an ideal. Fight injustice. He had to smile. Had he ever been that... young? Well, this time, he had something a bit less abstract: Save Jim. But much like that first time, tonight he didn't have much of a plan beyond accomplishing his goal.

He reached the bottom step and pushed open the stairwell door cautiously. He looked to his right. The corridor was clear. He peered around the door.

"Hey! How did you get in?"

Bruce darted back into the stairwell. The door slammed shut behind him as he dashed up the stairs. If he could make it to the landing before the thug came in after him, that would give him some cover and the few crucial seconds he needed to plan his next move. If he could find something to which he could anchor his grapnel, a tripwire might be just the tick-

"Hold it." The voice came from the flight of stairs above.

Bruce looked up... and into the barrel of a gun aimed directly at his forehead. His eyes traveled past the gun to a face he hadn't seen in nearly six years—but one he had no difficulty recognizing. He froze for a moment, calculating his options, before he grudgingly raised his hands. Behind him, he heard the door open again and hurried footfalls drew closer.

"Oh," came the voice he'd heard a moment earlier. "I didn't realize you had things under control, Mr. Flass."

Arnold John Flass smiled grimly. "Well, now you do." He took two steps closer. His gun didn't waver.

"You!" he barked at Bruce. "Turn around and follow my... associate. And keep your hands where I can see them."

Bruce obeyed with a mental sigh. Come to think of it, that first night out had been a disaster, too...

--

The man looked up, startled. "I," then he seemed to make up his mind. "The hell with it." All at once, a gun seemed to materialize in his hand. "Keep your mouth shut and come over here."

"Dude!" Eddie was too incredulous to be scared. "I'm wearing armor. Besides, you fire that thing, you'll have a whole lot more of us in here before you can turn around." He was gratified to see the intruder's expression fall. "How many shots do you have in that thing anyway?"

The intruder didn't answer.

"What were you looking for in here?"

That was when the parrot-handled umbrella in the corner said, "Relax, both of you. You're... we're... on the same side." An instant later, the umbrella vanished and Ms. Martian stood in its place. "Kid Devil, this is Detective Jonathan Lonerghan, the person I was telling you about before."

Lonerghan blinked. "You're one of the Teen Titans, aren't you?"

She nodded. "So's he." She frowned. "Penguin's coming. We'll talk later. Close that drawer," she gestured toward the open filing cabinet, "and go." She shifted back into the umbrella. "Now," the parrot-handle said.

Lonerghan glanced from the umbrella to Eddie. Then he nodded and moved toward the door Eddie had come through. "Excuse me."

Eddie moved aside. "I thought your telepathy wasn't working," he thought at Ms. Martian.

"Mostly, it isn't. But there are a few spots where the defenses are weaker. This corner is one of them. Do you suppose Penguin might employ telepaths to listen in on his meetings?"

The door to the lounge opened, and Penguin walked in, interrupting the silent conversation. "So, my little solitaire game intrigued you, did it?"

--

Bruce grunted as Flass drove a fist into his abdomen. Even though he'd tensed his muscles in preparation for the blow, the punch hurt. He didn't have much opportunity to roll with it—not while Flass's henchman held his arms twisted behind his back. He noted clinically, however, that Flass was holding back from doing any real harm. He seemed more focused on inflicting pain than on causing damage.

"Who are you?"

Bruce raised his head, gave Flass a withering look, and turned away.

Flass took a swing at Bruce's jaw. Bruce lowered his head quickly and the blow glanced off his forehead instead.

"Going by the jacket, you're a sergeant—or you were. Me too. Except I was in the Green Berets, while you probably had some cushy desk job, right?"

Bruce ignored him.

"Hey! I'm asking you a question, goldbricker!"

Silence.

"What's your name?" When Bruce failed to reply a third time, Flass laughed nastily. "Oh, come on, goldbricker! You know you're allowed to give out name, rank, and serial number."

Bruce slowly lifted his head and spat full in Flass's face.

Flass reached into his pocket for a tissue and calmly wiped it off. "Now that," he said softly, "was a big mistake." He pulled out his gun. Instead of aiming it, however, he held it by the barrel and whipped the handle toward Bruce's temple.

Bruce lowered his head, barely managing to dodge the blow as he stamped down hard on his captor's instep. The thug howled and Bruce felt the grip on his arms suddenly loosen. He sprang free and threw himself quickly to one side, just as the gun handle hit the other man in the throat. The thug fell back with a gasp.

"Idiot!" Flass exclaimed, turning once more toward Bruce.

Bruce didn't hesitate. Lunging forward, he seized hold of Flass's gun and wrenched it away with his left hand as he brought the heel of his other hand down on the bridge of Flass's nose, angling carefully to avoid a killing blow. He paused for the barest second before switching the gun to his dominant hand, and delivering a hard kick to Flass' knee.

Flass reeled back with a howl. Bruce pressed his advantage, striking Flass across the face with the butt of the gun. Flass's eyes rolled back in his head and then closed.

The scuff of a rubber shoe on the floor behind him was all the warning Bruce needed. He spun and greeted his former captor by ramming the side of his hand into the thug's throat. As the man reeled back, choking, Bruce punched him in the stomach. Then, for good measure, he took the man by both shoulders and swung him into the wall head-first with a satisfying thud. The thug slumped, unconscious. Bruce took a moment to frisk him and relieve him of his firearm. He quickly unloaded both weapons and shoved the ammunition into his jacket pocket. Much as he loathed the idea of carrying the guns with him, he wasn't about to leave them for the two men to use when they recovered.

He tore off down the hallway. If Flass's goon hadn't been just strolling down the hallway earlier, if he'd been standing guard... It wasn't much to go on, but at the moment, it was the best lead he had toward finding Jim. On the way, he found a trash chute and threw the guns away.

--

Jim took in his surroundings for the fiftieth time. It wasn't hard. The room he was in was completely empty, apart from a thick coating of dust. He was leaning against the wall next to the door, only because he knew that if he sat on the floor, he was going to need help to get back up. He didn't intend to ask his abductors for any assistance, if he could manage it.

The bastards had taken away his cane before shoving him in here. Without it, he could still walk, but he wouldn't get far. They had his cell phone, too.

The door handle turned. Jim flattened himself against the wall. He didn't really think that he'd be able to fight his way out, but he had a bad feeling about the situation. The people who had taken him hadn't worn masks; they hadn't blindfolded him; and when Barbara had called, they hadn't taken away the phone and told her to expect ransom demands—all of which implied that his abductors had no intention of letting him get away alive. Jim set his jaw firmly. If it was his time to go, he was going out swinging.

The door opened. Jim tensed, ready to spring, until he saw who it was.

Bruce had an arm out, ready to check anyone planning to jump him from behind. When he whirled about and saw Jim, his features relaxed in a smile. "I figured you might be planning something like that. Let's get out of here."

"They took my cane."

Bruce frowned. "Can you move on your own? Or do you need..."

"You'd better," Jim sighed. "My dignity's endured worse."

Bruce nodded. Without another word, he lifted Jim up and slung him over his shoulder. "Reinforcements are coming, but might be delayed."

"I wouldn't wait."

"Agreed."

Bruce didn't say anything further until they'd made it up the stairs to the first floor. Then, "We're going out the side door, but the only way off the property is through the main gate. We'll never make it together."

"Fine. Take care of the guards. I'll wait here."

Bruce nodded. "If anything happens, take advantage of the distraction and get out." He pressed a key ring into Jim's hand. "I parked the car two blocks west on Morales. If you get there before I do, don't wait."

"I won't leave y—"

Bruce's expression turned stony. "Yes. You will. They're not getting both of us."

Jim glowered back, but he swallowed whatever retort he'd been about to make.

--

At first, Jim thought that they might have a chance. There were only the two guards outside. Armed or unarmed, Bruce ought to be more than a match for them. Then he heard a startled grunt, the impact of metal on flesh and bone, and an all-too-familiar voice saying, "Looks like you're not the only one who can play 'possum, goldbricker." Then, "Wait a minute. Don't I know...?"

Jim's heart lurched as he heard Flass's next words.

"Well, well, well. If it isn't the man I've most wanted to kill after old Jimbo. Gentlemen, take the Bat inside. And make sure he doesn't go anywhere for awhile."

To be continued....

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