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Chapter 43: Late-Night Housekeeping
In the vast, silent darkness of Kane Manor, a figure moved with predatory grace. She was a shadow among shadows, her form clad in form-fitting tactical gear that hinted at a lethal physique. Her movements were methodical, silent, and professional. This was no burglar.
A specialized scanner in her hand swept the cavernous living room, its soft chirps the only sound. It detected nothing unusual.
"It's clean. Too clean," she murmured under her breath, her voice a frustrated whisper.
In her earpiece, a calm, authoritative voice responded. "If it's him, we need confirmation. The pattern fits."
"I know," she hissed back, her impatience clear. With a sharp flick of her wrist, she muted the comms channel. Her handler's distractions were a liability.
She needed to find something, anything. A hidden door, a weapons cache, server hardware—anything that would betray the true nature of Wick John Kane. A manor this size, devoid of staff or security, was inherently suspicious. Did the playboy billionaire cook his own meals? Clean his own floors? Unlikely. This place was a front, a mask made of stone and marble.
As she moved towards a paneled wall, her instincts screaming there was something behind it, the world turned blindingly white.
Every light in the grand hall blazed to life simultaneously.
"I wasn't aware I'd scheduled a housekeeping visit for this evening."
The voice was calm, conversational. She spun. Leaning against the arched doorway was Bruce Wayne, wearing a dark silk robe. In his hand, held with casual familiarity, was a sleek, modern pistol, pointed at the floor.
The agent's mind raced, but her training held. She raised her hands slowly, showing empty palms.
"If I said I was here to deliver some misplaced documents, you probably wouldn't believe me, would you?" she asked, her tone matching his false calm.
"You're welcome to try," Bruce replied, gesturing with the gun for her to move toward the center of the room. He followed, settling onto a large sofa as if hosting an unexpected guest. He rested the pistol on his knee.
"Let's see," he mused, studying her gear. "FBI? No. They prefer battering rams and warrants. CIA? They'd borrow the FBI's name, but their field kit isn't this polished." He tilted his head. "So. Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division. I'm curious. What does S.H.I.E.L.D. hope to find in my home?"
The agent, her cover blown, dropped the pretense. Her blue eyes, cold and assessing, locked onto his. "Don't you already know, Mr. Kane?"
"Why don't you introduce yourself first?" Bruce countered, unflustered.
She stared, trying to break through his placid exterior, to see the calculation she knew was there. It was like trying to stare down a statue.
"I'm sure the press would love the story," Bruce continued, a faint, dangerous smile touching his lips. "S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, breaking and entering into a private citizen's home in the dead of night. What would the headline be? 'Government Overreach Targets Grieving Heir'?"
The agent's expression shifted. A new tactic. "What is it you want, then?" she asked, her voice dropping, becoming huskier. "Information? Or something more... personal?" As she spoke, she began disarming herself with deliberate slowness, placing each piece of high-tech gear on a nearby table. Then her fingers went to the zipper of her tactical suit. "This body?"
She peeled the suit down to her waist, revealing a toned physique and a black sports bra. She moved toward the sofa, confidence in every step. Men with power were often predictable. They saw beauty as a prize, a weakness to be exploited.
Bruce watched, his gaze appreciative but detached, like a man studying a fine painting.
She sat beside him, close enough to feel his body heat. Her hand started to rise, to touch his arm, to begin the seduction that was her most reliable weapon.
It never connected.
In a movement faster than she could process, Bruce's hand shot out. Not in desire, but in devastating efficiency. He grabbed her wrist, twisted, and used her own momentum to slam her face-first into the thick Persian rug. Before the shock could even register, a crushing blow descended on the base of her skull.
Darkness.
It seems you've attracted the wrong kind of attention, Thomas's voice noted in Bruce's mind.
"In a world with Batman comic books, it was inevitable," Bruce replied silently, standing over the unconscious agent. "Civilians see a fantasy. Agencies see a potential asset or threat."
He ignored the woman for a moment, instead collecting and examining her discarded equipment. High-grade S.H.I.E.L.D. issue. The comm unit was off—she'd muted it before her approach. Good. That meant her handler hadn't heard their exchange or the takedown.
He frowned. S.H.I.E.L.D. was stretched thin, dealing with alien incursions and rogue gods. For them to allocate a deep-cover operative to investigate a new billionaire... unless they were desperate for capable personnel. Or unless someone—perhaps a corrupt official fearing exposure from Fisk's missing ledger—had pointed a very specific finger his way.
He walked to a cabinet, opened it, and retrieved a compact, high-voltage Taser. He pulled on a pair of insulated gloves.
Dragging the agent to a clear space on the floor, he arranged one of her own scanner rods near her outstretched hand. He then pocketed her sidearm.
Methodically, he aimed the Taser at her torso and fired.
ZZZZZAP!
The agent's body convulsed violently as thousands of volts ripped her from unconsciousness. Her eyes flew open, glazed with pain and disorientation. Before her mind could piece together where or who, Bruce fired again.
ZZZZZAP!
Her body arched once more, then went limp, sinking back into a deeper, electrically-induced stupor.
Bruce put the Taser away, walked to the landline phone on a side table, and dialed.
His voice, when he spoke, was a masterpiece of panicked, breathless outrage—a far cry from the icy calm on his face.
"Hello?! I want to report a break-in! There's a—a crazy woman in my house! She just... she broke in and she started taking her clothes off! She's got weapons! Please, you have to send someone, now!"
He listened, playing the terrified victim.
"Yes, yes, Kane Manor, out on the old Westchester road. Please, hurry! I've locked myself in the study, but I don't know what she'll do!"
He hung up and looked down at the staged scene: the "disturbed" intruder, the scattered "weapon" (her scanner), the evidence of a struggle. It was messy, illogical, and perfectly designed to muddy the waters. S.H.I.E.L.D. would have to extract their agent from local police custody, and explaining her presence would be... problematic.
The playboy had been attacked. The Batman's trail, for now, remained cold.
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