Operation Sea Ghost

15

Monte Carlo

THE FOUR BIKINI models had been a fixture in the Grand Maison penthouse since Beta Squad’s arrival.

They’d tried valiantly to get Twitch’s laptop connected online via Wi-Fi. They’d kept the penthouse’s bar well-stocked. They’d made the luxurious surroundings that much more luxurious just by lounging around and looking gorgeous. They’d also used a lot of towels.

But now, almost two hours had passed since Maurice’s visit and yet the girls never returned from their swim.

But that was OK with Batman and Twitch. Maurice’s last instruction to them was to sit tight, stay low, and await further information on the time and place of the grand gagnant.

And that’s what they were doing, without the girls distracting them.

* * *

THEY WERE OUT on the balcony again when they heard the penthouse elevator coming up.

Batman was waiting when the door swished open and a thirtyish somewhat world-weary man stepped out. He was dressed informally for Monte Carlo—jeans and a t-shirt—but because he looked like someone who made a living working with his hands, Batman’s first thought was that he might be the real technician, really here to fix the Wi-Fi.

Then the guy said: “Maurice sent me. I have some information for you.”

Batman and Twitch led the visitor out to the balcony and had him sit down. Batman poured him a Portuguese Sagres beer.

“So, what can you tell us?” Batman asked him. “You have the details on the grand gagnant?

“Even better,” the man replied—like Maurice, he was an American. “I have details about the Z-box itself. What’s in it, what it’s all about.”

“You’re joking,” Twitch said.

The guy shook his head no. “I’ve seen it myself, just recently,” he said. “Maurice had me flown in just to brief you guys.”

Batman and Twitch were suddenly paying rapt attention.

“Tell us everything,” Batman urged him.

“I work the docks on Little Nicobar Island,” the guy began. “Ever hear of it?”

Batman and Twitch nodded yes. Little Nicobar, aka “Little Nicky,” was part of an archipelago off the northwest coast of Sumatra. Though physically closer to Indonesia, it was claimed as part of India. It was a weird little place, a real tropical paradise but also notorious as a smuggling center for everything from drugs and weapons to stolen luxury cars and jewels. A lot of human trafficking also took place there. Extremely high Acapulco-style cliffs made up its northern coastline and many of the natives spent their time diving off these peaks into the ocean below, near suicidal behavior for anyone less than an expert. It was said anyone who lived there was wacky because Little Nicky seemed to be hit by tsunamis, typhoons and/or major earthquakes on almost a monthly basis.

“I was in the U.S. Navy until a few years ago,” the visitor went on. “We stopped at Little Nicky on a tsunami relief mission and I fell in love with the place. It’s really paradise. When I mustered out, I went back to visit and decided to stay.

“But as you must know, there’s also a lot of illegal activity happening there. Drugs, stolen merchandise, forced prostitution—weapons. Lots of weapons. The Indian police do very little because the place is so far away from the mainland.

“I was there about a year when the Agency contacted me and asked if I could keep an eye out for anything terrorist-related transiting through Little Nicky’s port. They said they’d pay me a couple hundred bucks a month, so I signed on.”

He took a long swig of his beer.

“Fast forward to just a few days ago. These guys come to us; they’re pirates, Indonesian types, though they’re sailing a Vietnamese eel boat. They had some rifles they wanted to put in storage. That sort of thing is done a lot on Little Nicky, too. My boss on the docks asked me to help unload these things. They were crates that looked pretty old; I’m not sure any rifle inside them would even work.

“Once everything was off loaded, I saw these guys had this other thing, something they were keeping with them. It looked like a little metal coffin. It had a large ‘Z’ carved into it and a weird locking device that looked like it needed a special key to open it.

“Three of these guys were just grunts fooling around with this box while their boss was helping store their weapons. One of them had a battery-powered screwdriver and wanted to use it to open the box. They argued for a while about whether they should try to break the lock, to see if the box would open.

“They finally decided to do it. But as soon as they did, as soon as that lid opened, this green glow came out, and seconds later these three guys standing closest to it all dropped dead.”

Batman and Twitch were stunned. “Dead?” Twitch asked. “As in no-longer-breathing dead?”

The guy nodded emphatically. “I don’t know if it was radiation, or some kind of biohazard? Or something chemical? Maybe a combination of all three,” he said. “But they were DOA, just like that.”

“Son of a bitch,” Twitch groaned. “So, it is a weapon.”

“How close were you to this box?” Batman asked the informant.

The guy sipped his beer. “I’m not sure,” he replied. “Maybe ten feet or so.”

“And the inside of this box—you said it was glowing?”

He nodded. “Like something from a horror movie.”

“Pretty powerful stuff,” Batman said.

The guy nodded again.

“Who finally closed the box?” Batman asked him.

“I did,” he said. “Shielded my eyes. Tried not to look at it. Just kicked it closed.”

Batman glanced over at Twitch. His expression told him he was beginning to smell a rat, as was Batman.

Twitch then asked: “So you got pretty close to it.”

“I did…”

“Then how come you weren’t killed? Or affected at all?”

The man suddenly tensed up.

“I don’t know,” he sputtered. “Beats me.”

Batman came nose to nose with the man.

“You want to tell us why you’re really here?” he growled at him.

The guy half smiled.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I did,” he replied.

Then without another word, he stood up, climbed onto the balcony’s railing and to the astonishment of Batman and Twitch, did a perfect dive off the railing and into the huge pool, six stories below.

“What the f*ck?” Batman yelled.

The man expertly hit the water, swam a bit under the surface and then got out of the pool at the opposite end. He took a gracious bow to the delight of those people sunning themselves poolside. Then he saluted Batman and Twitch up on the balcony and ran off.

“F*cking guy?” Twitch cried out. “He was a disinformation agent? A ‘disinformant?’”

The wholly invented word, created right then and there, just tumbled out of Twitch’s mouth. But it applied.

Batman repeated the word. “A disinformant … trying to punk us.”

“But why us?” Twitch asked, scratching his head. “We’re bit players in this. Unless one of Maurice’s guys just went nuts or something.…”

Batman thought a moment, then said: “Let’s find out.…”

“Find out how?” Twitch asked him. “I’m not jumping off here.”

Batman retrieved his Glock 9 from his travel bag, and said, “Maybe it won’t be so hard to find the only soaking wet guy running around Monte Carlo.”

* * *

THEY WENT DOWN the elevator, Twitch also grabbing his handgun as they were leaving.

They arrived in the hallway just off the casino’s main lobby. As before, the lobby was mobbed with guests and dignitaries in town for the Grand Prix.

The repair sign was still on the elevator’s door and the hallway leading to the lobby was even further blocked off by yellow tape and scaffolds and what now appeared to be equipment belonging to plasterers. All this conveniently separated Batman and Twitch from the rest of the casino.

They went out the side door and ran around to the main entrance. The area in front of the casino was just as busy, just as hectic, as the inside. Many Rolls taxis were coming and going. Some were carrying celebrities traveling with large entourages and dozens of pieces of luggage; others were full of models and model wannabes. But everyone they saw was well dressed—and absolutely dry.

They made their way through the crowd, finally locating the attendant in charge of retrieving guests’ cars. They tried to explain that a car had been reserved for them, a Maserati. But the man did not speak English.

They used sign language to urge him to call over a nearby coworker. This man understood some English. Batman showed him the gold key. The man then asked them in a thick accent: “Which color Maserati would you prefer?”

“Any color is good,” Batman told him hurriedly.

“Convertible or hardtop?” the coworker asked. “It’s a bit hot today, but it might rain, so…”

But Batman cut him off by growling: “Whatever—just get us a car!”

Chastened, the man ran off, returning a minute later with a solid gold Maserati GranTurismo Stradale hardtop. It looked like a car from twenty years in the future.

But then … another problem.

Batman started to climb into the driver’s seat, but stopped. He could fly a helicopter with one hand—but how was he going to drive this ultraexpensive car? He had to shift with his right hand, meaning he’d have to steer with his mechanical hook? It wasn’t going to work.

Yet the thought of Twitch driving the $250,000 beauty was downright scary. It was just not in his skill set.

But they had no other choice.

“I guess I go shotgun,” Batman said. He’d been high as a kite—still intoxicated on life itself—until the guy went off the balcony. Now his buzz was long gone.

Twitch happily switched places and jumped behind the wheel. He took off with a screech, startling everyone huddled around the casino’s main entrance. Some even hit the ground.

No surprise, Twitch was a maniac behind the wheel. Batman was soon holding on for his life as they rocketed through the narrow, winding streets of Monte Carlo. The noise, the faces, everything started going by in a blur.

“How the f*ck do people race on these streets?” Batman cried out.

“You should try it in Shanghai,” Twitch yelled back, laughing crazily.

Batman finally got his shit together and began navigating. He got Twitch going around the immense block that housed the Grand Maison Casino. The disinformant had disappeared to the rear of the casino’s concourse, heading west. So, they had to go west too.

This necessitated a right onto Avenue des Beaux-Arts and then a very sharp left onto Avenue Albert I. They made both turns and stayed in one piece—and then, almost immediately, Batman spotted their quarry.

He was walking on Avenue Albert I, hurrying away from the casino grounds, trying to look inconspicuous, though he was still dripping wet.

“There’s the a*shole—right there!” Batman yelled, pointing.

But Twitch was driving so fast down Avenue Albert I, that by the time he heard Batman, he’d completely overshot the man.

Batman yelled for him to stop and turn around, but Twitch just wound up spinning the sports car in a triplet of screeching 360-degree turns.

Even in a place where Maseratis were common, this display attracted a lot of attention. The soaking wet man saw it all and ducked down the nearest alley.

Twitch finally got the car under control. They sped off toward JFK Drive hoping to catch the dripping man on the other side of Regent Square. By the time they made their way through the traffic, though, there was no sign of him.

They drove up and down De La Costa Boulevard and then D’Ostende Avenue, but still no luck.

Then Batman got an idea.

He told Twitch to stop. They pulled over to the side of Boulevard de Suisse and just waited.

Monte Carlo was more like a small town than a city. There just weren’t many places a soaking wet man could go. So, what would happen if they stayed still, just another Maserati parked along the curb, and waited?

They sat there for two minutes, engine idling, handguns on their laps. Then, sure enough, they spotted their prey again.

He’d popped out of an alley three short blocks away and began walking west again, this time toward Avenue Saint-Laurent. Twitch jammed the Maserati in gear, hit the gas and resumed their pursuit. But after fighting traffic and blasting the horn all the way up the Escalier des Fleurs they were stopped by a line of policemen cordoning off a section of the roadway for a practice lap of Grand Prix cars.

Once more the dripping man managed to lose himself in the crowd. But Twitch was not going to let him get away so easily this time.

Steering around the policemen, he again slammed the Maserati into gear and started driving right on the famous racecourse itself. And for a third time, they actually caught up to the mystery man. Walking through a crowd of Japanese tourists, still dripping wet from his dive, he stuck out easily from everyone around him.

They had him …

But … at that moment the sky darkened. Where just minutes earlier there were no clouds, now a huge black overcast had moved over Monte Carlo. It opened up and the sunny place for shady people was suddenly treated to a massive downpour.

People scattered. Windows were slammed shut. Awnings were quickly lowered. Even the policemen ran, as if they would shrink if they got wet. The deluge was so intense it was impossible to see much of anything. Twitch had to pull the car to the curb again to wait it out.

The torrent lasted just a minute, and then the clear skies returned. But now everything had changed. Now, just about everyone within their view was walking around soaked to the skin.

Batman couldn’t believe it. This was crazy.…

I knew I should have gone to Gottabang, he thought suddenly.

But then came a bit of luck. Just as they were about to give up, a taxi went by them, weaving through the post-storm traffic. As it passed by, the passenger in the back seat looked out his window and right into the Maserati.

It was their dripping man.

“Son of a bitch!” Batman cried. “There he is…”

The taxi immediately accelerated with a squeal and was off.

Twitch turned to Batman and asked: “What do we do?”

“Chase him!” Batman yelled.

Another deafening screech, and Twitch was again in pursuit.

The taxi was really moving. Apparently in Monte Carlo during Race Week, everyone thought they were in a Formula One car and, therefore, drove like a madman.

But Twitch was a madman all year round. He wheeled his way in and out of traffic like a pro. Riding the curb, downshifting, upshifting, double clutching, triple-clutching—he was doing it all, and with a prosthetic leg no less. It was madness—and they weren’t doing the Maserati any favors either. But Batman could do nothing but hold on and hope for the best.

And somehow it worked. Because by the time the taxi reached the outskirts of Monte Carlo, the Maserati was only a few blocks behind.

But then the game changed yet again. The taxi began climbing one of the steep winding roads that led out of Monte Carlo, heading toward France.

Now the advantage was greatly in the taxi driver’s favor. Not only was he driving as insanely as Twitch, his little Fiat was more than a match for the powerful sports car at taking turns, especially when traveling at more than 100 mph. They lost sight of the taxi within seconds.

Still, the chase continued. The sun was gone and suddenly it was night and Twitch had a hard time finding the Maserati’s headlamps switch. Batman tried to help, but he had his seat belt pulled so tight he couldn’t move but a few inches forward. These few particular moments of madness, driving on the incredibly twisting, recently wet road, with no lights, going in excess of 100 mph, with Twitch at the wheel, were simply terrifying. Batman found himself wondering if such a fancy sports car might have an ejection button he could push.

Finally, Twitch found the headlights switch, and suddenly the road was illuminated, just as they were going around a very sharp bend at warp speed.

That’s when they saw the taxi again.

It went cruising by them—going in the opposite direction.

Twitch made yet another heart-stopping 180-degree maneuver, overtaking the taxi, then turning wildly a second time. There was dust, smoke and burnt-rubber fumes, but when it was over, the Maserati was blocking the road. The taxi could not get by.

Batman and Twitch jumped out of the steaming car, weapons in hand, and rushed up to the taxi. But they quickly discovered only the driver was inside. No one was in the backseat.

Twitch yanked the driver out and threw him to the pavement. Batman vigorously searched the backseat and even the trunk. But there was no sign of the passenger, other than the backseat was soaking wet.

“Where did you drop him?” Batman screamed at the driver.

The driver was frightened—and he couldn’t speak English. But he knew what they wanted.

With shaking hands he pointed to the top of the mountain.

“Drop off!” the driver was telling them. “Right there … top of mountain.”

The top of the mountain was a gradually sloping rock that ended in a conical peak jutting up into the night sky. It almost looked like a naturally formed Tower of Pisa.

“There!” the man insisted. “Crazy man, all wet, jump out.”

They let the driver go, climbed back into the Maserati and resumed driving up the steep mountain.

Inside a minute, they were close enough to see the peak clearly. And climbing up the face of the weird rock formation was the dripping man.

Twitch cried, “Who is this guy? And what’s he going to do up there? Dive off?”

Batman said, “We got him cornered. He can’t come down from there without us catching him.”

They jumped out of the car, weapons in hand.

“After all this,” Batman growled, “I’m going to personally kick his ass—then ask him what the f*ck this is all about.…”

They ran up the sloping field and were soon approaching the rock formation. They could see the dripping man’s silhouette against the night sky. He seemed to be waiting for something.

Then they heard an awful roar behind them. The ground started shaking. The air around them felt like it was vibrating.

Batman and Twitch looked over their shoulders and saw an amazing sight.

A jet fighter was passing right over their heads.

It was not a typical jet fighter. It was a Harrier jump jet, one of the few airplanes that could take off and land vertically, without the need of a runway. It was also devoid of country markings or tail numbers.

Batman and Twitch watched in astonishment as the hover-jet stopped right above the rock formation and, with admirable skill, put its nose wheel on the rock itself. Its canopy slowly opened.

The dripping man clambered up the last bit of the peak and, with some impressive dexterity himself, scrambled up onto the wing and crawled into the open cockpit. The canopy was just closing as the pilot started moving away.

Then the plane quickly picked up speed and roared off into the night.

* * *

THE MASERATI’S DASH back down to Monte Carlo was even more terrifying than the trip up.

There was no conversation. Twitch was focused on getting to the bottom of the mountain as quickly as possible. Meanwhile, Batman had two enormous questions spinning around his head. Who could call in a Harrier jump jet to get them out of a jam like that—an unmarked Harrier no less? And why would someone with that kind of capability go to such great lengths to mislead them with such a lame sci-fi story of glowing boxes and death rays killing people?

None of it made sense.

He was sure of only one thing: Whoever the dripping man was, he knew about the Z-box and he at least knew Maurice’s name.

This meant Beta Squad had to find Maurice.

The problem was, they didn’t know how. They had no phone number for him, they had no idea where he was staying or even his real name.

But they knew four people who probably did.

* * *

THEY FINALLY REACHED the city and sped back to the Grand Maison.

The same car attendant took their Maserati, doing so without a word. They headed straight for the penthouse, hoping the four girls had returned. The reasoning was simple: If Maurice had arranged for the penthouse, he must have somehow arranged for the four bikini models as part of the ornamentation. They might know where to find him.

There was also a chance that Maurice himself had returned to the penthouse in the time Beta Squad was out chasing the dripping man. Perhaps they had a message from him waiting there. Either way, they were in a hurry to get back to their luxury digs.

They used the casino’s side door again and headed for the elevator. But right away they noticed all of the plasterers’ equipment was gone from the hallway, as was the yellow caution tape. For the first time, they had an unobstructed view of the casino’s bustling main lobby.

Arriving at their private elevator, they saw the work repair sign was also gone. More surprising, before they could enter their pass code to call the elevator down, it arrived on its own. The doors opened and a couple stepped out. She was young and beautiful; he was middle-aged and wearing a cowboy hat. They brushed by Batman and Twitch as if they weren’t there.

The elevator doors closed before Batman could jam his foot between them. So they punched in their pass code, hoping to retrieve it quickly. But the code didn’t work. They tried a dozen times, with the same result.

Left with no other choice, up the stairs they went. Ten steep and narrow flights in all. They were seriously out of breath by the time they reached the sixth floor.

Here they found a hallway full of unmarked service doors. Because all of the penthouses on this floor had private elevators, none of the doors had numbers on them, only computer locks accessed by encrypted card keys carried by the casino’s service staff. Batman and Twitch had no such key, so they spent the next twenty minutes trying to figure out which doors belonged to their suite.

After using rough triangulation, they finally estimated where the six service doors leading into their penthouse would be. They tried all six, but each one was locked.

So, they knocked on one—and were heartened to hear female voices and someone padding their way to the door.

“Ten bucks it’s the blonde,” Batman said.

The door opened, but it was not one of their bikini model friends on the other side. It was a chambermaid. One they’d never seen before.

They’d guessed correctly, at least—this was their penthouse. They were looking through one of the bedrooms and could see the familiar balcony, the empty liquor bottles and spectacular view just beyond.

But the chambermaid would not let them in.

Not without proper ID.

Batman tried to explain to her that while, yes, they had no ID, that they really didn’t need any.

But she was adamant: No ID. No entry.

Both Batman and Twitch fingered their handguns—but hesitated.

What were they going to do? Shoot the woman?

In that moment of indecision, she ended the conversation. She slammed the heavy door in their faces and locked it from the inside.

* * *

THEY HURRIED BACK down to the lobby. The place was crowded, hectic and drunkenly festive. The line waiting at the front desk was a dozen people long, so Batman and Twitch tried to stop ordinary employees to explain their plight. But no one wanted to help them.

Finally Batman grabbed a floor manager and wouldn’t let go. The man barely spoke English, but it didn’t matter. He was clearly uninterested in their story. Batman was persistent though, allowing the man a glimpse of his handgun. His request was straightforward: Who’d reserved the royal penthouse and how could they get in touch with him? Finally the manager told them to wait in the lobby while he disappeared to check the occupancy records. When he returned he told them the penthouse was not listed in either of their names. Nor was it listed under anyone named “Maurice.” In fact, he claimed the penthouse had been unoccupied for the past six weeks while it was undergoing renovations and would not be available for another week or so.

Batman insisted the man accompany them back upstairs, threatening to shoot him if he didn’t. The manager reluctantly agreed. He overrode the elevator’s pass code, and Batman and Twitch rode up filled with nervous anticipation, hoping this was all some huge mistake.

The elevator doors opened, and again, they could see it was undoubtedly their penthouse. But now, from this vantage point, looking directly into the main living area, it was clear the place had been cleaned of all evidence that they’d been there. Plus, it was full of scaffolding, paint cans and plastering materials. And there was absolutely no sign of the four bikini models.

Again, Batman began to protest, but the manager cut him off this time. The penthouse was obviously under repair. And even if it wasn’t, where was their luggage? Their clothes? Their personal effects?

Batman began to sputter, but he had no good answer. The manager hit the “down” button and they were soon back in the casino lobby. The manager told them he’d been working double shifts for the past week and he’d never seen either of them until just a few minutes ago. When they tried to explain that they were always separated from the main lobby by workman’s equipment, he started to walk away in a huff.

Batman caught him by the arm and said: “OK—what about these?”

He and Twitch pulled out the platinum cards the Asian woman had given them when they first arrived at the penthouse; supposedly the cards gave them carte blanche at the casino.

But the manager just looked at them and laughed. “I don’t know what those things are,” he said. “But I can assure you they have no currency here.”

With that, he finally disentangled himself from Batman and walked away.

Two burly security men appeared a few moments later. They firmly escorted Batman and Twitch out the casino entrance and off the grounds.

Then they made it clear—in several languages—that neither should come back again.

If they did, they’d be arrested and put in jail.

* * *

BATMAN AND TWITCH couldn’t believe this was happening.

They were suddenly out on the street, with barely any money, no shelter, just the clothes on their backs and their handguns. They didn’t even have Twitch’s laptop with all the spy gear on it.

Someone was messing with them, that much was clear. And it was imperative that they track down Maurice. However, they couldn’t do so by wandering the streets. They had to find shelter first, and then figure out what was going on.

Batman did have his debit card with him, and that meant they could at least withdraw funds from the team’s private bank account in Aden and proceed from there.

All they needed was an ATM.

They made their way through the crowded streets looking for the nearest money machine. It didn’t take long to find a bank with an ATM out front. They began the process of withdrawing $5,000, feeling that would be enough to start with. But then came a problem … the debit card wouldn’t work. As soon as Batman punched in his PIN, a message flashed on the ATM screen in French: CONNEXION REFUSÉE.

Connection Refused.

Obviously the ATM was malfunctioning. They walked a few more blocks, found another and tried a second time.

But once again they wound up staring at a screen flashing: CONNECTION REFUSED. No matter what they did, no matter how many different ways they inserted the card, or how slowly or quickly they punched in the PIN, the same message kept coming back. They found and tried a third ATM, and then a fourth. But they received the same message every time.

Was something wrong with all the ATM machines in Monte Carlo? If so, it would be an apocalyptic problem. They hung around the last ATM and waited for the next person to approach it. A German couple appeared soon after and used the money machine with no trouble. Behind them, a man from a crowd of Chinese tourists withdrew money, just as easily, as did a couple of American college students after him.

But when Batman and Twitch tried again, the result was the same: the machine just would not connect.

* * *

THEY MADE THEIR way down to the harbor and found the Sun Casino, advertised as Monte Carlo’s “American Casino.”

The place was crowded and everyone seemed to be wearing a cowboy hat. They went to one of the casino’s cashier cages. Their plan was to use the debit card to withdraw money in the form of chips, and then cash in the chips for the real stuff.

The cashier was friendly and cute, but no matter what she did, including calling a 24-hour bank hotline, the same message kept coming back: CONNEXION REFUSÉE

This was getting serious now—and Batman and Twitch were running out of ideas. They discussed returning to the Grand Maison Casino to press the issue with management. At the very least they could make a case that they’d been robbed of their possessions. But the way things were going, they didn’t want to risk being arrested.

They decided a more direct route would be to simply use a public phone to call the Kilos Building in Aden and ask for the cavalry to come to their rescue.

Batman used his last five Euros to purchase a phone card. They found a public phone inside the Sun Casino and started to place the call. But as soon as Batman began dialing the number, the phone ate the card.

They both snapped at that point. Twitch punched the phone, then pummeled it with the handset. Batman took over and did everything but rip the phone off the wall in an effort to retrieve the card. But nothing happened other than them creating a huge scene.

Security arrived to escort them out. But as this was happening, a casino customer walked up and used the same phone with no problems.

Kicked out of their second casino in just thirty minutes, Batman and Twitch knew the time had come to break the rules. Batman took out the special sat-phone the Agency contact had given them back on The Immaculate Perception. They were going to use it not to call the Agency, but to call Aden—and deal with any fallout later.

But though Batman repeatedly dialed the number, the call would not go through. When he finally removed the back of the sat-phone, he discovered the battery was corroded beyond all hope.

“I think I’m going crazy,” he said, hurling the useless phone into the harbor. “I think I’m actually going insane.”

Twitch shook his head. “Welcome to my world.”

They both collapsed to the curb, feeling and looking homeless.

“I guess we’re not going to any of those parties,” Twitch groaned.

“Someone is really f*cking with us,” Batman said. “They get us into the city’s best penthouse, then make it seem like we don’t exist? They have us chase some maniac—and he gets picked up by a f*cking Harrier? I swear they’re f*cking up the ATM machine and pay phones too.”

“But why play with us?” Twitch asked. “Wouldn’t it just be easier to kill us?”

Batman shook his head. There were no answers.

Only their situation was clear. They had no sat-phone. No place to stay. No money. No nothing …

And there was a good chance they’d been taken for ten million dollars.