Ch. 2- Gun Raid

A female police officer needed a break from her latest investigation and walked to the station's rooftop. The gloomy moon peered through the night's ash-blue clouds, its rays beamed down at her feet.

"Amy." A masked figure's voice emerged from the roof's shadows.

"Nightwing." His old co-worker stared, baffled by his visit, and gave the hero a short hug.

"How's the chief? Is it bad?"

"He's better than some of the others." She sighed, eyes among the cement, "The doctor says he can come back to work late next week." Officer Rohrbach tucked her hands within her jacket's pockets, "Did you come for leads?" A skeptical smile graced her lips.

"I got a tip the station found a grenade."

"A shattered one. My guess from what we've put together overnight is an M26. Don't know what twisted bastard found it logical to set it off downtown. "

"A desperate one." Nightwing replied, facing the city's red and blue streets, "One that needed to get away." His framed gaze met Rohrbach's, "Can I see the grenade?"

Her face smeared with reluctance as she pulled her lip with her teeth, "You know I shouldn't be talking to you-let alone show you classified evidence for an ongoing investigation." but the officer withheld a smirk and displayed her phone, peeking over her right pocket, "Does that help?" She questioned after the man viewed the grenade's pictures.

"Yeah. It gives me an idea." Nightwing nodded, "That bomb was custom made. There's a mark inside one of the fragments. See?" The officer scanned the single photo once more as he pointed, "Can you do me a favor? Call your husband. You're pulling an all-nighter."


Bulky men pooled around a table in an abandoned warehouse, smacking off cobwebs as noses curled with dust stirring the stale air. Ink-black bandanas concealed each man's identity, and the cleaner group lugged a sealed suitcase on top of the table.

A buff veiny hand tugged a dangling metal rope, washing the lamp's light over their revealed weapons, "I'll give you ten-grand for the ARs. Boss doesn't need the glocks." A second crook whipped banded money from his coat, "Shame about that bar." The first mused as he accounted the group's stated wages, "My ex-girl loves that place."

"They'll have it up and running again when our boss' deal goes through." A man across the table answered.

"And what deal is that?" The seven men pulled out pistols when glimpsing Nightwing perched above their transaction, "Oh, come on, " he falsely whined as the tall wall's shadows colored and cooled his crouched stance, "I was only asking a question. You don't really want to shoot me, do you?" He front-flipped into the spotted moonlight as golden bullets flew toward his spying place, and the masked man glued his proficient feet onto the warehouse floor, "I only came for a few answers."

"Yeah?" The lead dealer mocked, holding his re-loaded gun straight out, "Well, you won't be gettin' any unless you can double the ten-grand on this table!"

"Ten-grand? That's pretty steep." Nightwing heaved, as clicks ticked across the room, "They always want to do things the hard way." Cartwheeling toward a near corner, the vigilante tackled two thugs and smashed their gun's barrels against the wall while bullets whizzed past.

"Hey!" A swift black fist rendered his second opponent unconscious, a dust cloud layering his back.

"Can't any of your boys shoot? He's hard to miss!" The gun buyer yelled, missing time and time again behind a corner across the warehouse.

"My boys'll shoot when your boys shoot!" The gun seller retorted as the disguised ex-gymnast flipped and twirled to a new location on the second floor, smoke clogging the warehouse.

"Oh, I hate seeing Mom and Dad fight." Their enemy jested, startling the two, leaning down on a bar set over their heads.

"Now, you hold still!" The first thug swiveled, gun ready.

"Yeah, right." The vigilante scoffed, kicking the gun buyer in the gut when once looping his powered form around the wooden bar, catapulting the winded man into two others.

"Good god! Were you in the Olympics?" The remaining leader gaped.

"Something like that." With a triple back-flip, Nightwing's soles restored onto the top floor, "Are you and the others ready to call quits and tell me who you're working for?" Two guns ticked behind his head.

"You tell me." The lead seller grinned below.

"Say goodnight, Nightwing." A thick tone taunted as the vigilante turned.

"Don't worry. I plan to." Wingdings, piercing palm-sized boomerangs the vigilante owned, sliced his opponents' hands through, spilling crimson over the mold-ridden walls.

"What-" the ground-bound thug blinked, his vision blocked concerning the smashing wood and falling glass above, "Is he dead?!" he growled, fists balled.

Feet patted the dirt behind him, but the thug didn't dare to switch his head: blood dripped from the second floor's railing as a partner's hand dangled off the side, scarlet splashes staining the main level.

Finding himself alone, the thug hit his knees, and released his gun, "Look, I don't want no trouble!"

"Oh, now, you don't want trouble." Nightwing considered, the trembling man cowering on the dirt like a rag doll,"Who do you work for?"

"An underground mob. You've never heard of us!"

"Try me." The stronger man scowled, and the shaking thug confessed the mob's name, "Your boss partnered with someone. Give me his name."

"You're better off bringing the cops on us now. I'm not ratting out my boss' partners!" Sirens whirled toward the deserted warehouse, "Did you call the cops? How did you know we were here?" he glared.

"I'm always a step ahead. Give me the name, and I'll convince police to take time off your sentence."

"Yeah, like they'll listen to you! You're one of their top bucks to bring down."

"After this week's bar bombing, your boss' friend bumped me down in the ranks." The white layer shielding the masked man's eyes diminished, eerily similar to the mentor that once trained him, "Trust me, when we catch him, you don't want to be on his side. Give me his name." His gloved fist clutched the thug's collar, "I won't ask again." He seethed.

Sweat trickled the crook's cheeks, "Deathstroke!" He shouted as Bludhaven's police squad drew near, tires screeching the closer thin roads. Rohrback's car lights lead the way, "His name is Deathstroke. I've never met the guy, but that's what my boss calls him. I only saw him in the papers once a year or two ago." The thug's hands palmed the dirt, and the night's victor vanished through a top window, "Hey! What about my sentence?!"


Officers tossed a handcuffed mob member in the backseat of a squad car, "I didn't do it! I swear!" The door slammed, "I just want my mother..."

Batman turned to Commissioner Gordon as the police car steered down Gotham's street.

"Thanks for the tip, Batman. We've been looking for that guy for-"

"Three months. I know."

After working together for almost twenty years, the Caped Crusader always found a way to make the commissioner feel awkward. Was there any mystery the man couldn't solve? Distant sirens rolled through the midnight air.

"What do you make of that bar explosion over in Bludhaven?"

"I don't." The Bat's visible features exuded pure sobriety while he raked over their avenue, "There are vigilantes there who can solve that."

"None as good as you!" Gordon chuckled, bushy gray brows shifting along his profile.

"I know one in Bludhaven that could change your mind." Batman's glove flashed, reporting an incoming call, "I'm sorry, Commissioner. I've got to take this." He initiated typing a code.

"I understand. I've got more work to do before morning myself-starting with the latest garbage waiting for me at the station." The experienced officer directed his thumb over his shoulder, acknowledging the linking street, "See you soon." Gordon strode back to his car, parked at the city's curb.

Batman turned and sat on his motorcycle, "Dick."

"Bruce, Deathstroke was behind the bomb." Nightwing answered while on patrol, lodged at the side of a Bludhaven skyscraper, "He's planning something, Bruce. Something big. I don't what, but he's working with mobsters for money. I just broke up a gun deal of his an hour ago. Keep an eye open in Gotham over the next few weeks 'til I figure this out."

"Copy that." Batman ignited his motorcycle's engine and zoomed through cars into the heart of Gotham.


Deathstroke's single eye sided as a mob leader's clock chimed twelve.

The ex-militant wasn't a patient man and detected the leader's suddle fidgets, "Your men are late."

Fifteen minutes past, and by the half-hour, the criminal in leather lobbed a glass bottle against the motel room's wall.

"Something's up." The other man agreed, straightening his coat's edges as he stood, "It doesn't matter. We have other places to be."

"What?" Deathstroke winced; traveling together never entered their agreement.

"I've told a friend of mine good things about you. He wants to meet you. We'll take my car." A guard unlocked their suite's door, "No charge." The mobster bothered to add.

The hefty criminal grabbed the shorter man by the neck and slung him back against the door. Deathstroke glinted his sword's blade near the mob leader's fatty throat. The assassin's impulse alarmed the room's guards, and they drew out their weapons.

But the mob man was still, and silently urged his faithful employees to settle down, despite the criminal's leather being legible stitch for stitch as his equally chilling blade set a breath from the leader's chin, "You looked for me out in the streets! You know our deal: I smuggle the guns, you sell them, I get sixty-percent profit. I want my six-grand while I don't owe you a damn!"

"Who I want you to meet can make us all rich. If we do our jobs correctly." The mobster's bomb-brown orbs hinted toward Deathstroke's sword, "If I were you, I'd put that sword of yours away, and go enjoy a small car ride." The dominant partner's blade angled the other's collarbone as he weighed the offer, "Because if you don't, in the next seconds, my men here will blow out your brains. Neither one of us will leave this motel alive."

The assassin studied his blade then sheathed it behind his back. He re-opened the motel room's door before connecting with the four mobsters' smug stares, each also dressed in matching grins, "This better be good."


A/N: That's chapter two! REVIEW, REVIEW, REVIEW. Thank you for reading and thank yous and shout-outs to the reviews, favorites, and follows on my last post. I'll post the next chapter as soon as possible (I usually leave notes in the story's description to keep you updated for when I'm close to posting content. So be on the lookout.). Be safe out there, everyone.