From the darkness along Dixon Docks came the mournful cry of a foghorn.
A figure in black leather moved through the abandoned factory, slipping between corroded steel beams and shattered windows without making a sound. She scaled the side of the main warehouse building, finding handholds, and finally slid through a third-floor office window, one of the few that still had intact glass.
Selina landed in the center of the room, straightening slowly. She took in the scene: four armed men positioned in the shadows on either side of the room, and a figure standing by the window, admiring the night view of Gotham's diseased skyline.
"Evening, Mr. Sionis."
The figure at the window turned.
"So, you know who I am." The man's face was hidden behind a mirror-black mask of carved ebony. "Good evening, Ms. Kyle."
"A cat's eyes can always see in the dark. You looked into my background, so naturally I looked into yours."
The black mask tilted slightly. "Even the police haven't tracked me down yet. And that troublesome bat in his cape is still chasing shadows. But you..."
"They're not as light on their feet as a cat," Selina cut him off. "And small talk doesn't substitute for payment. There's still a hundred thousand outstanding. I hope you haven't forgotten."
"Of course not."
Black Mask made a casual gesture. One of his men stepped forward carrying a canvas duffel bag. He set it down in the open space between Selina and his boss, unzipped it, and stepped back. Inside were neatly bundled stacks of worn twenty-dollar bills.
"All old twenties. Easy to hide, easy to spend. Just like you asked."
"How thoughtful." Selina's eyes never left the mask's empty eyeholes as she moved forward. Something felt wrong. The fine hairs on the back of her neck were standing up. But she'd come this far. She reached for the bag. "Payment complete. Then... goodbye."
"Wait, Ms. Kyle. I've learned something recently. It's best never to meet again with partners who know too many secrets."
The moment the words left his mouth, powerful searchlights flared to life from the warehouse's upper reaches, flooding Selina's position with blinding white light. The four gunmen raised silenced submachine guns, dark muzzles spitting fire as they targeted her.
She was already moving before conscious thought caught up, throwing herself backward into a twisting flip as bullets tore through the space where she'd been standing half a second before. Her whip snapped out mid-air, the tip coiling around an exposed steel beam overhead. She yanked, swinging toward the wall as gunfire chased her through the air.
Rounds cracked past her head. One grazed her shoulder, burning a line across the leather. Another went through her whip's tail, severing the last few centimeters. She hit the wall feet-first, pushed off, and flipped onto the overhead pipe system. The pipes groaned under her weight but held. More gunfire chased her footsteps, bullets clanging against rusted metal and kicking up clouds of red-brown dust.
"You're not just cheap, you're a terrible dance partner!" she shouted. "No style at all!"
"Style? You're just a tool, sweetheart. Use it once, throw it away. And you know my real name, which makes you a liability. Your corpse will be my next gift to Falcone. Maybe I'll even wrap it with a bow."
"Sorry, not interested in being anyone's exhibit."
Selina's whip cracked out, wrapping around the nearest searchlight. She yanked, and the fixture tore free from its mount, sparking as it crashed to the floor. Darkness swallowed part of the room.
Crack!
Second light. More darkness.
Crack!
Third light. One of Black Mask's men tried to climb the pipes after her, but Selina's whip shot out of the gloom, coiling around his ankle. She pulled, and he went down screaming, his gun clattering away across the concrete floor.
"Don't let her escape!" Black Mask roared.
"We'll settle this later, Mr. Sionis!"
Selina swung higher into the rafters, racing toward the nearest window. Just a few more seconds and she'd be free, out into the night where she could disappear into Gotham's maze of rooftops and alleys.
That's when Black Mask drew the revolver from his waist and fired three shots.
Selina threw herself forward in a desperate lunge. The first round grazed her ribs, the next her hip, leaving burning lines across her skin. But the third bullet tore clean through the back of her thigh, spraying blood across the floor.
She let out only a muffled grunt. But she didn't stop. She slammed into the window ahead at full speed.
CRASH!
Glass shattered on impact, sparkling fragments bursting outward like a sudden downpour. She hit a shipping container below, her wounded leg buckling under her. She stumbled, caught herself on the container's edge, and kept running.
Behind her, Black Mask's furious roar echoed across the docks. But that wasn't the most urgent problem.
The bullet hadn't hit bone, but it had torn through muscle and nicked an artery. Blood poured out with every heartbeat, soaking through her suit and leaving a dark trail across the pavement. She bound the wound as tightly as she could with a strip torn from her suit, but it wasn't enough. By the time she'd cleared the dock district, the cobblestone streets were tilting beneath her feet like a ship's deck in rough seas. The Gothic spires of the surrounding buildings swayed drunkenly in her vision. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, and her consciousness was fraying at the edges.
"Not here," she muttered through gritted teeth.
Cold sweat soaked through what was left of her suit. She drew a shaky breath and snapped her whip out one more time. The tip caught around a rusty drainpipe on the rooftop across the street. She pulled hard, her body lifting into the air as she swung toward safety.
Almost there.
Just a little further.
Her fingers were inches from the roof's edge when her grip faltered. The whip slipped. Her body twisted in midair, momentum carrying her over the edge and down toward the dark street below.
The sensation of falling swallowed her whole, wind shrieking in her ears.
Is this how it ends?
Light and sound drained from her vision. Exhaustion wrapped around her. She let her eyes close and surrendered to the fall. But in the final instant before darkness claimed her completely, she felt something vast descend from above, great wings enveloping her, lifting her away from the street.
Safe.
Warm.
Then nothing.
---
"Dude, get the hell away from me."
Marco looked at Darnell and shoved him toward the door. "Where did you even find that at this hour? That's revolting."
"What, you can't handle it either?" Darnell grinned and held up the dessert he'd been eating, some kind of brain-shaped pastry filled with red jelly that looked disturbingly realistic. "During that prison transport last month, you were the only one who didn't puke. I've been working on building up my tolerance ever since."
"Go to bed before I arrest you for crimes against good taste."
Marco chased Darnell out of the forensics lab and shut the door, then turned to Edward, who was working at one of the analysis tables.
"I can't figure out if Cobblepot was involved or not," he said, dropping into a chair. "My gut says no, but my gut's been wrong before."
"From the footage, definitely not." Edward set down the report he'd been reading and frowned slightly. "I saw him when he came looking for you last time. The person in the video imitates his movements and gait very well, but if you look closely, you can still tell the difference. The timing's off. But even if it really were him, there'd be no reason for him to do it personally. Whoever the cameras caught couldn't possibly be the real Cobblepot, it would be meaningless as a disguise."
"So either someone's framing him, or he's playing victim, making himself look innocent while he's behind it." Marco rubbed his eyes, exhaustion catching up with him. "Another one of Falcone's lieutenants makes more sense than Black Mask, though. From what I hear, Cobblepot rose too fast. He must've made plenty of enemies in the family. How bad are his injuries?"
"Real enough," Edward replied. "The doctor says one cracked rib, broken nose, mild concussion, lost a tooth. Everything else is superficial."
Marco couldn't help but laugh. "Falcone and his enforcers are professionals. They've been breaking bones for decades. They know exactly how much force to use." He shook his head. "Still... twelve million dollars. That's a hell of a score."
Edward's breathing quickened slightly. "If Cobblepot really did take it..."
"We'd have to get at least half back," Marco said. "Maybe more. Call it a recovery fee."
"Yeah... With that kind of money, we wouldn't have to worry about the lab budget for years."