“Need a ride?” Alfred said.
Bruce broke into a grin. He and Harvey rushed into the car. Bruce had barely shut the passenger door when Alfred slammed his foot down on the pedal, sending them barreling out of the parking lot. In the rearview mirror, they saw the young officer stumble out of the precinct just in time to see them speed away.
“A little slower on the turns, Alfred,” Bruce managed to say as they screeched around a corner and bolted into a freeway tunnel.
Alfred chuckled. He still had his hospital band wrapped around his wrist. “WayneTech cars aren’t made for slow turns, Master Wayne.”
“And you wonder where I get it from.” Bruce felt as if his stomach could touch his spine. Even in his Aston Martin, he’d never been able to drive the way Alfred was now.
“I used to be in the Royal Air Force, Master Wayne,” Alfred answered in a dry tone. “At least I have an excuse. Just because one can doesn’t mean one should. I expect you not to use this against me the next time you go for a joyride.”
“I’ll try not to,” Bruce managed to reply as he clutched the edges of his seat. In the back seat, Harvey looked green. “Why’d you agree to get me out, Alfred? I thought for sure that you would’ve refused. Too dangerous and all.”
“Your Madeleine makes a poor friend,” Alfred replied as they entered another turn.
“I’ll say,” Bruce muttered.
“No, I mean literally. I received an alert from your bank accounts half an hour ago. There has been some suspicious activity.”
“Suspicious activity?” Bruce’s words faded as Alfred handed him a phone, showing him an overview of his accounts.
“Looks like someone’s organization needed a boost of funds,” Alfred replied.
Bruce stared down at the zero balances in three of his older accounts, the ones that he’d had prior to turning eighteen. All three had been completely emptied. His throat turned dry. Madeleine.
“Holy shit,” Harvey muttered as he looked on from behind Bruce’s seat.
More lies, more deceit. None of what Madeleine said to me at Arkham was true. She had been after his funds this entire time. And when he had decided to soften and open up to her, she’d sent him to jail and taken his money in the process. Just like the Nightwalkers. Just like what they had done to every single one of their past victims before they killed them. And that meant they would target everything Wayne Industries stood for now, if the pattern of their past victims continued to hold. They would target the new accounts that had opened to Bruce, where the bulk of his family’s fortune sat.
“With all due respect, Master Wayne,” Alfred said politely, “hell if I’ll let your parents’ legacy end up in the hands of a bloody criminal mastermind.”
Bruce swallowed hard and tried to channel his rage into action. Focus. Think. His thoughts went to Lucius, who was currently sitting among those held hostage at the gala. Didn’t he rig up a new security system for my new accounts? Bruce thought. Then he straightened.
The security system placed on his new accounts. No wonder Madeleine hadn’t touched those yet; maybe she was having trouble breaking past the shields Lucius had put up. Maybe she…
An idea began to brew in his head.
“I’m going to need some more help, Alfred,” he said. “And from you, too, Harvey.”
He half expected Harvey to hesitate, but his friend didn’t even flinch. “Tell me what you need me to do. Do you have a plan?”
Bruce nodded grimly. “The start of one, at least. Harvey—I need you to alert the police. Tell them not to open fire on the drones. Tell them to stay back. I don’t know what Madeleine and the Nightwalkers will do to the hostages if the police try to move forward. Stall them, okay?”
“I’ll throw myself at them if I have to,” Harvey said, leaning forward to grip Bruce’s headrest. “Just be careful, got it?”
“You too.” Bruce exchanged a smile with his friend. As Alfred pulled up to the side of a street, Harvey got out of the car and, without a backward glance, headed toward the flashing lights.
Bruce watched his friend go. Then he glanced at Alfred. “We need to make a pit stop.”
“Where?”
“WayneTech.”
Alfred shot him a wary glance. “Lucius would warn you none of those prototypes are ready for use.”
“Says the man driving this car. Lucius is currently being held at gunpoint at the concert hall,” Bruce replied. “I think he’ll forgive us.”
“Not if you don’t make it out of there alive.”
“Come on, Alfred.” Bruce cast his guardian a fleeting smile. “What’s the point of being a billionaire if I can’t have a little fun?” At the withering look on Alfred’s face, he added, “I have to do this. I will do it with or without your help. But with your help, I’ll have a better chance.”
Alfred shook his head. “I first realized you’d be a handful when you accidentally set that old garden toolshed on fire with a blowtorch,” he replied. “Do you remember that? You were thirteen. Five years later, here we are, aiding and abetting you as a fugitive.” His voice lowered. “My job is to keep you safe, Master Wayne. But if that means making sure you don’t try something absurd behind my back, then so be it.”
—
This time, there was no one to greet Bruce as they pulled up to the back entrance of WayneTech—only two streetlights illuminating the road.
Bruce hopped out of the car first. As Alfred followed, Bruce reached the door and put his palm down on the security pad. Please open, he begged it silently. It beeped once, then glowed green, and the door slid open. Bruce let out a breath in relief. Inside, slivers of moonlight sliced the floor into stripes, leaving the rest of the dome-roofed interior bathed in deep blue.
They reached the end of the hall, where a final set of sliding doors waited. Bruce placed his hand on the palm pad again—but this time the pad flashed red. The doors stayed shut.
“It’s not working,” Bruce muttered.
“Allow me,” Alfred said as he came up beside Bruce. He put his own hand out and pressed it against the pad. “Lucius must not have put you in the system yet for this room.”
The pad flashed green, and the doors opened, letting them in. Bruce ran down the halls, eyes scanning each row—until he finally slowed in front of a glass panel displaying the metallic silk outfit inside. With reinforced links like microscopic chain mail, Lucius had said. Not ready for prime time yet, he’d also said—but it was functional, and better than nothing. Bruce glanced at Alfred, who gave him a nod.
“Sorry, Lucius,” Bruce murmured—then threw an elbow at the glass and shattered the panel. Glass rained down around them. Bruce gingerly took the outfit off its hanger, then continued down the aisles.
“This is your plan?” Alfred said incredulously as Bruce stopped before another row, where a series of laser-trained darts were arranged. “To take a whole host of your own corporation’s top-secret experimental gear and head to the concert hall? On your own?”
“That’s the plan,” Bruce replied. He grabbed several of the metal darts from their holsters and carefully arranged them inside his backpack. “If you have a better idea, Alfred, I’m happy to hear it.”
Alfred sighed as Bruce moved down the row, picking out a miniature cable launcher and what looked like a small, round sphere. Both items went into the backpack, too. “Master Wayne,” Alfred finally replied as they moved on down the rows. “You might want to consider how you’re going to get past the hacked drones around the concert hall. I have seen the footage. Lucius ordered enough stationed there that they can hold off nearly all of Gotham City’s police force. Experimental chain mail and a few smoke bombs won’t get you close enough.”
Bruce nodded. “I know—I’ve been thinking about that. But look.”
They reached the end of the block of rows. Across a path in the floor were the rest of the Ada drones, sitting dormant and awaiting commands. “Lucius told me that the drones are designed to not attack each oth
er.” He walked up to the machines. “I can use one to get past the rest. These aren’t infected with whatever the Nightwalkers did to the others.”
Alfred did not look pleased at the thought, but he didn’t argue, either. Instead, he stepped closer to a drone and studied it. “How do you activate them?”
Bruce pulled out his phone, unlocked it, and brought up the app that Lucius had installed. “Give me your phone, Alfred.” When his guardian handed it over, Bruce added the same app to it and tapped a button. The eyes on the nearest Ada drone lit up immediately with a blue glow and swiveled in their direction, focusing on Bruce.
“Hello, Bruce Wayne,” it said. Then it moved into a steady crouch, awaiting more orders.
“Now I need a way into the building,” Bruce muttered.
Alfred frowned. “Master Wayne…”
“You’ve gotten me this far, Alfred.”
Alfred shook his head, but when he spoke again, he said, “The Seco Financial Building, near the concert hall. Wayne Industries is funding the construction on the building’s basement level, which connects into Gotham City’s downtown network of linked halls. It’s unfinished, but probably passable.”
Bruce nodded. “Perfect. That’ll do.”
“And then what, Master Wayne?” Alfred said as they watched the drone turn its head and follow their slightest movements. “Are you sure about this?”
“I’m not sure about anything,” Bruce admitted. He hoisted his backpack onto his shoulders. “But I’m not about to let Madeleine get away with this. And the only way I can stop her is if I go there myself.”
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 ba
rricade—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.
Bruce didn’t hesitate. He hurtled across the street toward the concert hall. Behind him, he could hear the police raise the alarm.
“Hold your fire! Hold your fire! Civilian in the vicinity!”
In a few split seconds, Bruce had sprinted past the drone barrier and onto the path leading into one of the concert hall’s side entrances. The elastic, metallic armor of his suit seemed to give each of his movements strength, enhancing his agility and making each leap feel like little effort. He felt as if he were inside a gym simulation, running a circuit with the ease that came from years of practice. His breaths were steady. Behind him, he saw the two hostile drones advancing on his own. Already, someone from inside was overriding the controls that prevented them from firing on each other. He’d hoped he would have more time—but as he looked on, one of the hostile drones reared up, pointed an arm at Bruce’s drone, and opened fire.
The second drone caught sight of Bruce hovering near the locked side entrance. It craned its neck, then lunged over in his direction. Its eyes flashed scarlet, a clear warning, and it raised its arm at him. “Stand down, civilian,” it said. “You are not cleared for this area.”
Was Madeleine behind the eyes of this drone, looking at him? Would she even recognize him, with his disguise on? And if she did know it was him…would she still attack? Bruce crouched, tense, as the drone stared him down, waiting for him to step away. He stayed where he was. The drone reared higher.
“You are under arrest for resisting police orders,” the drone said. “Hands in the air.”
Bruce narrowed his eyes. “Go ahead, then,” he replied as if he were talking directly to Madeleine.