"I stored the collectionn in a small bank's insurance vault. That bank has a special connection with—"
"Stop. I don't have time for your sales pitch."
Martin cut Andy off, staring ahead. "You'd better pray I find the entire collection, or you'll be rotting at the bottom."
Andy panicked. "But you promised—"
"I promised you'd serve your time in a metropolitan prison, but I don't control your sentence length. The more I recover, the shorter your jail time. Is that so hard to understand?"
Martin's tone was cold and merciless. Andy slumped in his seat, paralyzed with fear. He wanted to run but had no way out. Instead, he closed his eyes and prayed.
Ten minutes later, they arrived at the bank.
A group of robbers in green question-mark shirts were loading large crates into a truck.
Andy clasped his hands together, eyes shut. "Thank God!"
"You should be thanking my accelerator," Martin muttered.
He parked a street away and secured Andy's hands to the steering wheel with the seatbelt.
"Stay put if you want to live. And don't even think about running."
Andy, terrified, nodded and shrank under the wheel.
The Gotham sky was a sheet of lead-gray clouds, blocking out the sun. A cold wind carried the noxious fumes from the ACE Chemical Plant down the street.
The Riddler's crew worked like ants, hauling stolen gold and artwork from the blasted vault into the truck's container.
Suddenly—a gunshot.
The truck's tire exploded.
"Where the hell did that shot come from? Since when is the Gotham PD this fast?"
The Riddler grabbed his weapon, ducked behind cover, and scanned the surroundings.
No sign of the shooter—only another flat tire in the distance, leaking air.
His crew had no choice but to move in and replace it.
Martin, hidden in the shadows, knew the truck was their only way to transport the loot. Disabling it meant delaying their escape.
A pistol wasn't ideal for long-range shots, but he adjusted, recalling the instincts of a legendary gunslinger.
Breath steady.
The wind brushed his face.
Everything around him slowed. The target became crystal clear.
Bang!
A spent shell clinked onto the pavement as his bullet shredded another tire.
The panicked henchmen ducked behind cover, blind-firing in all directions.
None of their shots hit.
The brief "bullet time" sensation faded, but Martin had regained his rhythm. He shifted positions, using the buildings as cover, widening the gap between himself and his enemies. At 100 meters, he fired again.
Bang!
A crimson bloom. A riddler thug collapsed, a gaping hole in his skull.
The Riddler was brilliant, but his goons? Not so much.
Gotham's criminals were no soldiers. Even when their leaders tried to instill discipline, no one wanted to die for them.
The moment the robbers realized their cover was useless, they ran—big mistake.
At 100 meters, they were nothing but easy prey.
Martin fired, each shot striking a vital spot. One by one, they dropped. Most never got up again.
One, however, was spared.
Unlike the others, he moved differently—an outlier. Martin shot him in the thigh instead.
Now he lay on the ground, wailing like a slaughterhouse pig.
"If you don't want to end up like your friends, tell me where the Riddler is."
Martin pressed the gun to his head.
The Riddler wasn't like the Joker—he valued money. If he risked this job, something more important had his attention.
The robber stopped screaming, his face pale.
Pain was unbearable, but not as much as the fear of death. He looked at the bodies around him and knew—this wasn't a man to beg for mercy.
"U-Uncle! Father! Ancestor! I'm just a grunt! I don't know where he went!" he sobbed.
Martin didn't budge.
"You're not deaf or blind. Find a way to save yourself."
He pressed the trigger slightly—the click of the firing mechanism sent chills down the thug's spine.
His skin turned ghostly white. Death was closing in.
"I'll talk! I'll talk! The Riddler's at a meeting—someone invited the bosses to a banquet."
"Where?"
"The Penguin's Club. 'Last Offer.' Tonight! That's all I know! Please, let me live—I'll be your servant, your dog, anything!"
Silence.
The thug cracked an eye open—Martin was gone.
Relief flooded him. He tried to run, but as the adrenaline wore off, pain crashed into him like a wave. Blood loss sapped his strength.
He collapsed, unconscious.