| Issue 1 | Issue 2 | Issue 3 | Issue 4 | Issue 5 | Issue 6 | Issue 7 | Issue 8 | Issue 9 |

Issue #9

STREET SWEEPERS

Day Three – What Lies Beneath

By D. Golightly

 

“Want to try that again?” Renee Montoya asked the henchman as he rubbed his swollen hand.

“Please, officer, there's no need for such brash behavior.”

Montoya's dark hair slid off her shoulder as she turned her head to peer through the darkness and match the voice to a face. The henchman, some idiot that had tried to frisk her, grimaced as best he could before hobbling off to the far side of the warehouse. A portly man took his place, a top hat upon his head and an umbrella adorning his wrist. It would have looked silly on anyone but Oswald Cobblepot.

Montoya snorted gently at his comment. “Do you greet all your guests with a pat down?”

“You of all people must recognize the need for security, especially after what happened last night, officer,” the Penguin said with perfect enunciation. He considered himself a gentleman among the legally challenged, above the street hoods he employed.

“I haven't been a police officer in over a year,” Montoya replied. “But that doesn't mean I'm not here on business.”

“Ah, yes,” Penguin countered. He stroked the top of his umbrella with his flipper as if petting a precious animal. “I heard you had switched over to the private sector. Harvey treating you well?”

“Better than you were treated last night it seems.”

Her words caused a slight hiccup in his otherwise cool demeanor. Penguin shot a quick glance around the inside of his warehouse, a building the tax records indicated as his budding nightclub. In reality it had been a drug lab where he coordinated the street urchins of Gotham to peddle his wares…at least it had been until the gun fight last night.

Three unmarked sedans had pulled up and ripped into the building with machine guns, forcing the Penguin's men to fight back. If it hadn't been for the intervention of Nightwing the building probably would have been laid completely to waste, along with the henchmen inside. The altercation had called the attention of the GCPD, however, and the Penguin was walking on thin ice.

“The authorities have cleared me, m'lady. As you can see I'm rather busy packing up to move to greener pastures. You're more than welcome to accompany me if you so—”

“Stop right there,” Montoya said, raising a hand to add to her words. “I said I was here on business, not to vomit in my mouth. Tell me who ordered the hit last night and I'll leave you to do…whatever it is you do.”

“To the point, as always, officer.” Penguin waddled back a few steps and turned to sit in an office chair, one of the few that wasn't torn to shreds by bullet holes. “Why should I help you exactly? I'm sure you have enough information available to you through other channels, such as annoying rodents with wings. Basically, my dear, what is in it for me?”

“I won't kick your ass for undressing me with your eyes, for one thing. Point me in the right direction and I'll make sure whatever rival wants you dead is taken down a few pegs. You've got nothing to lose and everything to gain by telling me.”

Cobblepot leaned back in his chair, rubbing his fat chin with a flipper in contemplation. He smiled, his disgusting tongue visible through the jagged teeth. “The criminal underworld is not without its honor, my darling. However, ask the right questions and we will see what…arises.”

Renee felt more like shoving her boot into Penguin's larger than average rear end, but Nightwing had given her an assignment and she needed to pull through. Organized crime in Gotham had been in total chaos over the last few months and it was only a matter of time before the vacuum was filled. The Minh Family was already killed off and now somebody had taken a swipe at Penguin. Once someone was able to wrangle enough control there would surely be a blood bath in the streets.

Montoya swallowed her pride and decided to play Penguin's game. “Who's been putting the biggest dent in your operations?”

“Your costumed associate, obviously. Next question.”

“Okay, then what new players are in town?”

“Ah, much better,” Penguin said, settling the chair back down onto all four legs. “I see why Nigma gets such delight out of his queries. The answer to that, my blossom, is a single name: Thorne.”

“Rupert Thorne?”

Penguin replied with a nod that caused his hat to tilt forward slightly. “Evicted but not forgotten it would seem. He's returned to Gotham and has been putting pressure on my deliveries. I recognized some of the men who perforated my humble abode last night; they work for Thorne.”

“Did Thorne take the guns you were using Joshua Milton to transport?”

“Guns? I'm sorry, officer, but I'm at a loss as to what you—”

“I know you were operating an Underground Railroad for hot weapons. I know you were only using the drug running to finance the gun trafficking. Don't play dumb, Cobblepot. It isn't your forte.”

One of Penguin's eyebrows raised, knocking his monocle off of his face. For the second time he had shown surprise, something that instantly irritated him. A gentleman was to have complete control of his mannerisms when in the presence of a lady, no matter how rude or uncouth she may be.

“I see,” he finally said. “Well, at least your elegance in the matter borders on the polite. You had help from one of the insufferable bats, I assume. But never mind that. The jig, as they say, is up.”

“It would seem.”

“In answer to your original question, I would have to say that I doubt Thorne was responsible for pilfering my fine weaponry. Those guns were unique; powerful. Thorne is the type that respects that type of power and would use it every chance he had. I got wind of the unfortunate deaths of the Minh family, and the description I've received of that devastating attack befits my stolen merchandise. Thorne's attack on my humble building last night was a typical low-grade scenario. Nothing special on his account.”

Montoya remembered looking over the crime scene at the Minh estate and nodded slowly. “You're saying if he had stolen the guns he would have used them last night.”

“Precisely, my dear.”

“Then who has them?”

“For that answer,” the Penguin said as he stood up, “you will have to search elsewhere.”

Montoya ignored the insufferable smile that Cobblepot shot at her. She imagined disgusting thoughts running through his mind. The mannerisms he displayed as a so-called gentleman of crime were obviously a façade to anyone who had the misfortune to here him speak. Quite simply, he made her skin crawl.

She had what she had come for, so instead of honoring the Penguin's subtle gestures with a reply she turned and headed for the exit, a list of potential informants already forming in her mind to shake down. Someone in Gotham had to know where the missing weapons were and she was going to find them.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“You're going to run out of ribs to fracture,” Barbara Grayson said to her husband.

Dick mumbled something as he pulled in a sharp breath, wincing in gentle pain. All of the acrobatics he had gone through in foiling the previous nights' hit and run on the Penguin had reopened some old wounds. Bruised and broken ribs from past fights were shallowly aching, the pain just enough to make him squint every time he walked.

“Don't complain,” he replied with a wink. “You'll take any old excuse to get my shirt off.”

Barbara shot him a fake look of irritation, all the while taken gentle precaution not to cut off her lover's circulation with the medical tape. Housed high above the Grissom Bridge in their headquarters, dubbed the Nest, rested an entire medical station equipped with the latest emergency supplies they might need, including a first-aid kit that looked more like a mobile hospital unit.

The place had served as their home as well as their base of operations. The top of the tower was constructed like a lavish apartment while the bottom opened not only into the river but also a series of tunnels that could provide safe passage into South Gotham . Babs could usually be found tinkering with her computers at the height of the central pillar while Dick, when he wasn't out jumping rooftops, was at the lowest level training or fiddling with his car.

Neither of them had known what to expect from marriage, but they quickly fell into a comfortable daily scenario where each of them were able to keep up with their own activities. In their line of work sometimes it was best to have hobbies and distractions.

“You're in no shape to go out crimefighting tonight,” Babs scolded. “You should just stay in and give yourself a chance to heal.”

The lights hanging over the pair blinked and then sputtered completely out. Barbara's hand slipped right before cutting the final piece of medical tape from around Dick's midsection, slicing her finger open on the scissors.

“Damn it,” she said as she sucked on the tiny cut. It wasn't a serious wound, barely a centimeter wide.

“Hey, I was just kidding about the shirt thing,” Dick said. “But if you really want—”

“I didn't turn the lights off, Romeo. We just lost power. The generators should have automatically kicked in by now….something's wrong.”

Still in the majority of his Nightwing uniform, Dick felt along the table for his domino mask. Once it was on he slid the night-vision lenses into place and looked around the darkened room. Behind the green hue of the lenses he saw Barbara sitting in her wheelchair, shaking her cut finger to toss away the last bit of pain. The rest of the room was empty – they were alone.

“I'll head to the base of the pillar and check it out,” Nightwing said. “See if you can reroute things from up here.”

“Be careful,” she urged. “This wouldn't be the first time we've had a rat in the tunnel.”

“Or a bat in the belfry.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Since the elevator that normally transported him from the Nest to the base level ran on electricity, Nightwing had to use the emergency fireman's pole that ran alongside the same shaft. Gently hopping into the mostly open space and wrapping his legs and hands around the pole, Nightwing quickly began sliding toward the waiting sublevel.

I'm about ready to fall over as it is , Nightwing thought. The past couple of nights have really taken their toll on me. I need to stay focused and hope this is nothing more than the result of the hair dryer being plugged into the same socket as the microwave.

He had left his gauntlets down in the garage when he coming home the previous evening, along with the top half of his uniform. His bare palms burned from the friction of sliding down the fireman's pole, but he put most of the pressure on his thighs since the lower half of his costume could take the punishment.

The shaft ran down the entire central pillar. It would take almost a full minute to reach the bottom at the speed he was going. He kept his eyes focused on the green tinted darkness beneath him as he steadily slid down to his destination.

Suddenly, twin metallic noises cut through the silent journey. He caught site of two objects flying straight for him just in time to dodge. He released his grip on the pole and leaned back, holding tight with his legs so the objects missed him, albeit barely. Louder clangs sounded as the objects imbedded themselves in the shaft wall above him. He tossed a quick glance up to see what had almost taken his head off and immediately grimaced with contempt.

The two silver shurikens gleamed in his night-vision lenses, their deadly intent as obvious as their existence. Nightwing seldom swore, instead letting his actions convey harsh emotion for him. As he dangled by his legs at least seventy-five feet in the air, in the dark, while bruised and tired and without most of his equipment, he couldn't help himself.

“Shit on a stick….”

The now familiar noises rung more clearly this time, prompting him to simply let go of the pole completely. He felt, more than saw, three more shurikens slip by him and impact somewhere above him. He began to fall, his back scraping against the wall. Normally he would have shot out a grapple line at this point, but since he didn't have one to save himself with, he had to improvise.

His boots held a few compartments near the brim where he kept various tiny gadgets useful to a vigilante. Gas pellets, extra wingdings, and high-composite cable were among his meager stockpile, the last of which being the most important.

Nightwing's fall quickened as gravity latched onto him. He only had a few seconds before he permanently stained the floor of his own lair. A mere twenty feet from the ground, Nightwing slapped the end of the cable onto the wall where it adhered instantly from the pressure. The cable, specially designed by his past mentor in case of emergencies when using a grapple just wasn't possible, easily saved him just in time.

Nightwing bounced back up a few inches after reaching the end of the cord. He let go and fell into a crouch, his bruised ribs reminding him to be especially careful.

“As sharp as ever,” a familiar voice said from the shadows. “But it looks like I've come at a bad time. A little banged up, are we?”

The vigilante slowly turned to search for his opponent, a deadly assassin whose voice he had recognized. A vicious killer that held a misunderstood vendetta against Nightwing, the villain known as Shrike was waiting somewhere in the sublevel, his voice ricocheting off of the walls and making it impossible to pinpoint his location.

“What do you want, Shrike?” Nightwing knew that his opponent had a deep hatred for him and he might be able to use that to his advantage, as long as he could keep him talking. “Ready for another beating?”

“You think you're so clever, don't you? You have no idea what's going on in your own city. And pretty soon you won't know what's happening at all.”

“What are you talking about?” Nightwing replied as he swung his head once more, trying to cut through the darkness with his lenses. So far the only thing he saw was his own equipment.

“See what I mean?” Shrike countered, the arrogance in his voice evident. “You're clueless. You know, I told my employer I would have gladly killed you for free but he insisted on payment. I've been sitting right under your nose, waiting for just the right moment to strike, and last night I finally got clearance.”

“Your employer? I thought you were done taking orders from windbags, Shrike. What's the matter….times get tough being a washed up, has-been lapdog?”

“Goad me all you want. I'm talking to a dead man anyway.”

Nightwing finally centered his attention on where Shrike's voice was coming from, but it was already too late. The masked assassin shot out from behind the lab equipment and bashed the side of his tonfa into Nightwing's skull, knocking him back against a stack of crates. He managed to roll with the hit at the last second, but it still brought stars to his eyes.

He heard a switch being flipped and ducked just below a newly liberated serrated edge on Shrike's other tonfa. The jagged blade dug into the crates, slicing the entire corner off of the top one. Nightwing thrust out his elbow into Shrike's abdomen and quickly followed it up by slamming his other elbow into the villain's chin. The perfectly executed Muy Thai maneuver sent Shrike reeling back, shaking his head to re-center himself.

“Easy does it, little birdie,” Shrike mocked. The eerie green hues that filtered through Nightwing's lenses made the sneer on Shrike's face even more disturbing than normal. “If you lie down and die like a man I promise to go easy on your little lady.”

Rage built up in Nightwing quicker than he would have thought possible. The bane before him, his own personal antithesis, had the audacity to threaten the person he cared about most. He bent low enough for his hands to reach the cusp of his boots before springing at the assassin, launching all of his momentum behind one powerful kick.

Shrike blocked the attack with his tonfa, easily avoiding what would have been a crippling blow. “Is that the best you've got?” he mocked.

“Nope,” Nightwing eagerly replied. “This is.”

Using the momentum from his jump, Nightwing struck his palms down onto each side of Shrike's masked face. The impact from the connections was enough to shatter the capsules he had palmed from his boot cusps, blanketing the villain is a dark cloud of thick smoke.

Shrike screamed both in surprise and sudden anger. The smoke was heavy, instantly clinging to his costume in the form of soot. He rubbed at his eyes but the handlebars of his tonfas kept his fingers from being able to clear the soot away. He finally dropped the weapons in favor of his vision, letting them clatter to the floor.

“Now we're a little more even,” Nightwing said as he spun around and planted another kick on Shrike's body, this one fully slamming into his chest.

Shrike roared in unsettling brutality as he swung his arms wildly, catching Nightwing's chin with the back of one of his fists. The precise etiquette of his training usually held strong, keeping his anger suppressed during a battle. But after spending what seemed like an eternity cooped up in a tiny apartment, waiting for the order to strike against an opponent he hated with all his soul…something inside of Shrike simply snapped.

Through the haze of the dispersing cloud of smoke, Shrike batted away Nightwing's fist and returned the punch in full force, rattling the hero's teeth. Another hit was followed up by a roundhouse kick, followed by an uppercut, followed by finer jab at his throat.

Nightwing backpedaled during the assault, nearly tripping over his own feet. One of his lenses cracked, scattering his already limited vision even further along into darkness. He stumbled up against his automobile, a custom built hotrod that was currently missing its doors from his attempts to adjust the inner workings of them.

“Tonight is the night you die,” Shrike threatened in disturbing calmness. He stalked toward the former Boy Wonder, sure of the direction his prey was in regardless of the lack of light.

“You know something funny,” Nightwing replied just as calmly, “I hear that a lot and it just occurred to me: I'm the good guy. Good guys always win.”

Nightwing slipped inside the car easily, thanks to the missing door. He heard Shrike stomp his foot against the side of the vehicle right where he had been pushed against. Flipping a series of small switches on the dashboard, Nightwing pressed one last button and bailed out through the opposite side of the car.

“Run all you want,” Shrike said, “but you're already damaged goods. You can't hold out for long and you can't run forev—AHH!”

A piercing shriek filled the sublevel completely, causing both fighters to clamp hands around their ears. The directional sonic emitter under his car, a non-lethal device he had most recently used to subdue street gangs, bombarded the entire chamber with sound waves. Unfortunately the earplugs Nightwing kept in his utility belt were on the other side of the room, so he was just as much a victim of the sonic pelting as Shrike was.

The dangerous assassin fell against the hood of the car. He slid down, screaming from the pain and punishment his eardrums were forced to experience. His proximity to the emitter made him take the brunt of the attack while Nightwing had been able to duck behind some crates, however little buffering they offered. Hitting the cold ground, Shrike knocked against the tip of the sonic emitter, feeling its vibrations against his back. He reluctantly pulled one hand off of his ear, removing the only small amount of protection he had. His hand wavered but he managed to grasp the end of the emitter and rip it from the undercarriage, immediately cutting off the explosive noise.

“Damn you, you little….you….you….” Shrike's voice trailed off as he pulled himself back onto his feet, using the hood to prop himself up.

Nightwing's ears were still ringing but he was obviously fairing better than Shrike. A person's equilibrium can be upset by disturbing their inner ear, which was what the hero hoped had happened to his opponent. Barely able to see through the one good lens, Nightwing swiftly came up behind Shrike and prepared to deliver a final blow.

Something banged off of his foot and clanged around on the ground. Nightwing jumped back, realizing that one of the crate's had broken open during their fight and spilled his spare escrima sticks all over the floor. He fell into a quick stance, planting his feet and getting ready to counter whatever attack Shrike was about to strike with.

But he didn't move. Shrike just stood there, leaning against the front of the car, breathing deeply.

“What's the matter, Shrike? All the bells and whistles still blaring?”

Shrike continued to remain completely still, gasping for breath. The hero approached cautiously, knowing full well that his opponent had played possum on more than one occasion. His hand, tense and ready to spring back to safety, raised out to touch Shrike on the shoulder when the lights suddenly came back on.

The sight before Nightwing was horrific. Blood was pooling at Shrike's feet, slowly being pumped out from his ears. He watched with a sick fascination as Shrike wobbled slightly before falling over completely.

Nightwing rushed to his enemy's side, rolling him onto his side so that he wouldn't choke on his own tongue. He looked Shrike over, wishing that the lights would have stayed off so he wouldn't have to look upon the ugly scene that appeared as if it were lifted straight from a horror movie.

“You won't see it coming….” Shrike muttered feebly. “Anarchy in the streets. You're dead, you little….you….”

Shrike passed out, but whether it was from the pain, the blood loss, or the exhaustion Nightwing wasn't sure. All he had now were even more questions then he did twenty-four hours ago.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Ol' whats-his-face ain't reported in yet, boss.”

The bulky figure stood before his master, the man he owed his rebirth to. The Stetson upon his brow covered most of his face. As soon as his master turned to face him he remembered the hat and immediately removed it, having forgotten that his benefactor preferred to look into the face of whom he spoke to.

“Shrike has been defeated,” the slender man replied. “I anticipated this. I sent the assassin to rattle Nightwing's feathers, never intending the imbecile to actually thwart the young man. Shrike's inability to separate his emotions from the task at hand was his downfall, I'm sure of it. He was careless.”

“So what's up next on our plate?” the larger man asked. “I get to see some action again? Maybe take those guns we yanked for another test drive?”

His master wore a mask covering his entire face, so the smile he gently formed could not be seen. “Soon enough. Tomorrow night I think will be the perfect opportunity to put our plans into motion. Get me Commissioner Bastille. Have him here tonight and don't allow him to disagree with you. We have work to do.”

“Fair enough. I never liked that Shrike guy anyway. I ever tell you Blockbuster sold me out to that bastard? What a co—”

“That will be all, Stallion.”

The bulky figure, reminiscent of a cowboy, nodded in understanding and replaced his hat as he exited the room. He knew better than to cross his master. As a mercenary Stallion had only given respect and loyalty to whoever signed his paychecks, but he had to admit that if he was ever against a wall, he would want his new master on his side.

He closed the door behind him and turned to follow the stairs back down into the top floor of the Gotham City Police Department. He smirked as he thought of the ironic situation he was a part of: Gotham's soon to be newest crime lord lived right on top of the city's own police headquarters.

But soon enough the whole city wouldn't care one bit. In fact, Stallion was ready to bet money on the fact that before long every person in Gotham would look at his master and see their savior, gift wrapped by God.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

TO BE CONTINUED DURING DAY FOUR