The sidewalk was scored with long, sharp grooves, jagged like glass shards glued to the surface, worn in by years of abuse. His hands hit first. Then his face. His cheek scraped across the concrete, skin splitting open.
A thin wire snapped tight around his ankles and yanked him skyward. His scream trailed behind. He flailed, twisting as he swung side to side, until he stopped.
Then he saw them.
His whole crew, all nine of them, dangling from lampposts across the block like silent offerings. He screamed again. The street was empty, or so it seemed.
From the rooftop, a figure stood, watching. Thinking.
"The Dregs is narrow," he said. "No fire escapes."
"Which you prefer," Alfred replied. "Fewer exits."
"Right. But if there's a crowd, and they spook—"
"Ah. Should you swoop in, it might cause panic. A stampede even."
"She can lure him out."
"There's a chance he'll do something worse before she has the opportunity."
"She usually carries pepper spray."
"That did little for our cheeky source in Amusement Mile? Might I suggest an alternative?" Alfred said. "A fellow crimefighter, perhaps?"
"No."
"He could walk in unnoticed, keep an eye out. A safety net."
"I work alone."
"Right. I'll remember that when Detective Gordon pages."
"I don't know him."
"People trusted you, and they knew even less. And might I remind you, this isn't about your ego, sir—but the safety of source."
He hated when Alfred was right and when his options were boxed in. Fear was a tool, sure, but in this city, everything had a price. Sometimes his name costed him.
A squad car pulled into the street. It's red and blue lights flashing bright.
"Call him."