On the night Bruce’s parents were gunned down in the alley, Bruce had sat on the curb beside an officer and repeatedly counted the eight police cars and two ambulances on the scene. Now, as they drove as close to the edge of the concert hall blockade as they could, Bruce counted more than two dozen sets of flashing police lights, a cluster that could be seen from as far as four blocks away. A crowd of people had gathered on the outskirts of the blockade; beyond that, the streets were eerily empty as everyone holed away in their homes.
“A ransom note has come in,” Alfred said. He nodded at Bruce as he brought up the news on the car’s screen. “Look.”
Bruce read the top headline: NIGHTWALKERS DEMAND $500 MILLION RANSOM, RESIGNATIONS OF CITY OFFICIALS, RELEASE OF ALL PRISONERS FROM GOTHAM CITY PENITENTIARY AND ARKHAM ASYLUM.
“That’s absurd.” Bruce looked away, feeling ill. And they must know it. It was a political statement, to try to force their twisted justice. They must know the city cannot possibly release all their inmates, and they will use it as justification for killing everyone inside that building. His heart seized at the thought. Dianne would be among the casualties.
Alfred pulled the car around the corner into an alley and looked at Bruce. “Still there?” he asked.
Bruce looked down at his phone. The Ada drone had followed them on a different route through the streets and was now stopped a block away from them. Already, Bruce could see it gathering data and details about the standoff up ahead, its shields raised in defense mode and ready for possible assailants. As Bruce shifted, he could feel the cold smoothness of the protective mesh he wore, the suit of fitted black armor that secured him from head to toe. He picked up the opaque black helmet that came with the armor. In it, he could see the reflection of his face staring back at him, pale and uncertain. He took a deep breath and pulled it on.
To his surprise, sounds immediately magnified inside the helmet, and through the visor, the world looked sharper, the colors brighter and more vivid. It would be easier to distinguish people in the darkness.
“I’ll go on foot from here,” he said. His voice came out muffled and slightly different. “Alfred, keep an eye on our drone. Make sure it watches my back. If anything goes wrong with it, power it down immediately.” He revealed a small tracker on the skin of his waist. “You’ll know where I am inside the concert hall.”
Alfred looked ready to argue with him one last time, to tell him how ridiculous this entire plan sounded. And it wasn’t much of a plan at all. Steal a bunch of equipment and force my way in. What would he do if he could actually get inside? What then? How would he ever get close enough to find and rescue Dianne? Or Lucius? Or any of the others?
Bruce hesitated, heart pounding. A part of him wished that Alfred would tell him not to go. When he met his guardian’s gaze, he realized that the light he saw in those eyes was not disapproval, incredulity, or skepticism. It was fear. Fear of losing him.
“I’ll keep an eye on you,” Alfred said. “Get Dianne and Lucius—and get yourself out of there safely. Do you understand me, Master Wayne?”
Bruce swallowed hard. “Yes, Alfred. I promise.” He lingered for a moment, wondering if he would make it out of this alive, if this was the last time they’d get to speak.
Alfred gave him a single, steady nod. “You can do this.”
Bruce found himself nodding back, trying to believe the words, feeling small again. He thought of the night when Alfred held an umbrella over him and escorted him back to the mansion, led him away from the alley and his parents and the blood and the rain.
Bruce opened his mouth to respond, but the lump in his throat had lodged too tight. If he waited any longer, he wasn’t sure if he could ever work up enough courage again.
So he tore his gaze away, got out of the car, and, without a backward glance, headed toward the flashing lights.
The murmur and shuffling of the crowd of onlookers grew louder as Bruce neared the block with the barricade. Officers were trying unsuccessfully to clear the area—people would disperse, then slowly drift back. One police officer was shouting in vain for everyone to return to their homes.
Over a loudspeaker from the concert hall, they could hear a man’s deep voice spelling out new demands for the police. His voice rang across the night. “We want the city’s treasury transferred over to our accounts within the hour,” he called out. “If you do so, we will release some of our hostages to you. If you fail, then we will start sending out some bodies. It’s your choice, Gotham City.”
Not if I can help it, Bruce thought. He paused in a narrow side street, hidden from view. Double-checking the intersection, he then headed in a small side door that led into an empty skyscraper lobby. His footsteps echoed as Bruce hurried straight to an elevator and hit the button for the lowest level.
Alfred was right. The Seco Financial Building’s basement level connected directly to the city’s underground tunnels—including one running underneath the kiosk across from the concert hall. It would get him past the police barricade. Now Bruce entered the subterranean space and walked along the empty corridor, ignoring the construction materials on either side.
As he reached the end of the hallway, he found the elevator that would take him back up to the surface. He took a deep breath, then got on. As he did, he sent Alfred a message. If he was lucky, the drone would already have made its way toward him.
“Here we go,” Bruce whispered.
Reaching street level, the elevator stopped and the doors slid open.
A whirlwind of sound hit him. The roar of helicopters overhead. The pop-pop-pop of gunfire as a SWAT team tried to break the drones’ formation. The blare of an officer’s voice from a megaphone, demanding the Nightwalkers stand down. Bruce looked on in horror from the kiosk as the drones pushed the line of heavily armed police back even farther. Across the street from him, a cluster of drones guarded one of the doors leading into the concert hall. Behind him, a full block away, was the barricade of police cars trying to keep people back from the fighting.
Bruce glanced down at his phone, his hand trembling. His drone had reached the edge of the police barricade. GCPD would see it any second now. Once he made a run for it, he couldn’t afford to stop moving.
This was his last chance to stay out of the fight.
His muscles tensed. Now, Alfred, he mouthed silently.
A burst of commotion came from the barricade—a chorus of screams. Bruce looked on as an Ada drone leaped over the barricade, completely unharmed by the police’s attempts to shoot it, and then made its way toward him. The two drones nearby turned their heads, rearing up—but when Bruce’s drone drew closer, they relaxed, recognizing one of their own.