His first year had been a maze of dead ends and shattered leads. But slowly, whispers surfaced. Now, a network stretched across the city like roots under pavement.
There was Oney in the Narrows. Saagar Patel in Crime Alley. A club promoter in Robbinsville. A pawn shop owner on the Eastside. Late-night clerks, diner waitresses, bouncers, busboys even cabbies.
Tonight, he'd need every one of them.
Alfred worked the phones, patching contacts through the comm in his ear. Those who didn't answer got paged. He gave them names. Naturally, curiosity stirred, but they knew the drill. No questions. Just intel.
But the first page didn't come from them. It came from someone he hadn't called or paged. She'd already done more than enough.
Freckles lingered beside a phone booth in Coventry, hoodie pulled low over pink hair, combat boots glistening with rain. Her hands stayed buried in the fabric, eyes tracking a car that crawled past like a shark circling bait.
"How much?" the driver called from his window.
"Not on the menu, pal," she fired back.
"I'll make it worth it."
"Unlikely."
"Come on, girl. Top dollar."
Then as suddenly as he'd stopped, the car jerked forward and vanished down the block.
"What do you know?"
His voice made her flinch. She turned, then grinned when she saw him.
"So do you get a kick outta creeping up on people?" she said.
"You paged?"
"Heard you're hunting cops."
"Who told you that?"
She smirked. "Found two for you—Captains Roger Fulman and Mike Mazzocchi. They're at Backdoor Betty's in Crimson Row."
"You're certain?"
"Oh, I'm certain," she said, dragging out the words like a tease. "I know a Betty. Told me the cops are regular there. The Russians give them discounts. But the top dogs get in free. I called her. She said Fulman stopped by—he's in 619. Mazzocchi's across the hall in 620. Said both looked like they'd been in a fight."
He didn't respond. Just turned and fired a grapnel at the building, rising fast.
"You're welcome!" she shouted after him.
Mid-swing over the rooftops, Alfred's voice crackled in his ear.
"Roger Fulman is middle aged and clumsy, he should be easy, Michael Mazzocchi on the other hand is forty-three and ex-army. Has a reputation for violence as they all do, but he's also an alcoholic. Might I suggest backup?"
Silence. As he zipped through the city making his way deeper into Coventry.
"He could watch your flank. He can be the eyes where yours can't go."
Silence.
Crimson Row was Coventry's red-light district, a gaudy noise of neon that was just the right trap for those thirsting for skin. The signs above the doors shined bright over brothels and strip clubs with names like The Pink Poodle, Kitten Korner, and Nickel Nancy's.
He watched from above. The street throbbed with foot traffic, a churn of bodies beneath flashing signs and twitching red strobes. Women posed in doorways and behind glass panes, their silhouettes mechanical and rehearsed. Hired muscle leaned against thresholds, arms folded, eyes darting.
The men at the doors were part of the so-called Russian gang, a misnomer. It was a blend of first-and second-generation Russians, Ukrainians, and Balkans. Their boss was a Russian-born Soviet named Davor Turik, but none of them would be a problem. Not this time. Not when it concerned a cop.
Backdoor Betty's sat on the eastern corner of Crimson Row. A cursive neon script glowed blood-red over the double doors. The six-story walk-up, once a residential block, now served as a brothel.
He touched down on the roof and slipped through a rusted maintenance hatch.
Inside, the hallways bled red under dim bulbs. Paint curled like flaked scabs. From behind the walls came the slap of skin and muffled music from radio speakers.
He found 620. Across from it: 619. He pressed an ear to the door, bass pounded behind it like a second heartbeat. He slipped inside.
A narrow, stifling room. A twin bed wedged against the window. A topless woman wore a pink feather boa draped over one shoulder, coiling down her arms. She straddled a man, slowly rubbing his back. The man's head was turned toward the window.
A radio hissed low from the nightstand.
When she spotted him, she froze. Slipped off the man, grabbed a beaded top from a chair, and squeezed past to the door.
"The hell?" the man grunted, rolling over. "Ah, shit."
One punch shattered Fulman's nose, blood streaking from his nostrils. He was dragged off the bed and slammed to the floor with a dull thud. A second blow landed, then a third until his face was a smear of red swelling flesh.
"Wait—whatever this is—don't—" he babbled, blood slurring his words, his hands raised.
A forth punch to silence him. Then zip ties lashed around Fulman's wrists and ankles.
He moved to 620.
The door creaked open, but the music was too loud for either to notice. Mazzocchi's back was to the door. He stood behind a girl, bent over a bed. The bedpost banged against the wall. A choke hold caught Mazzocchi by surprise. His arms flailing as he was dragged from the room and tossed against a wall in the hallway. The girl screamed.
Mazzocchi staggered, naked and glassy-eyed. Squared his shoulders, readying himself for a fight. He swung drunk and wild, but each were easy to dodge. It only took a quick jab to his ribs to crack them. He cried out then sagged, one hand on his side, falling to his knees. One punch to the jaw and he collapsed to the floor.
Doors creaked open. Curious eyes peeked out then quickly disappeared.
He bound Mazzocchi and dragged him into 619, where Fulman writhed on the carpet, gnawing at the zip ties like a rat. His jaw went slack when he saw Mazzocchi's naked body.
"Okay, okay—Look, I'll tell you whatever you want. Whatever this is about. I'll talk!"
He stood over Fulman who trembled.
"You're going to deliver a message."
"Y-yeah. Sure. Anything you want."
Then the screaming started. High, ragged, slicing through the stairwell and out into the street. Doors flew open. A tide of people poured into the hall, then spilled onto the sidewalk, running from the sound, the shriek folding into a sob. Across the block, engines snarled and tires screamed as cars tore away into the night.
On Midtown's Eastside, across from Robbinson Park, sat a bar called Tightends. A topless sports joint with girls in knee-high black socks, shorts that hugged their cheeks. Beneath their eyes, black ink smudged like war paint. The job requirements were simple: stay rail-thin, memorize a few sports catchphrases, and smile like your rent depended on it. For many it did.
Alfredo Lorenzo cradled a beer, his gaze fixed on the soccer match overhead. He was alone but not by himself. At the opposite end, a handful of young guys barked at the screen.
"Another, Fred?" the bartender called.
His glance drifted to her perky chest. "Sure, Murphy, give me another." He slid the empty to her then touched his ribs and winced.
There were options to lure him out of the bar away from civilians. Murphy, her alias here, was his contact.
Real name: Alexandra Ruelento. G.U. undergrad, med school hopeful. He could've used her as bait. But that had complications. Not worth it. Waiting came with its own risks. Some drunks clung to barstools like lifeboats, hanging around until closing or collapse.
He chose the sharper route. Riskier. Quicker. Off-brand for him, but the night was ending, and he had one more stop to make.
When Murphy returned with the second beer, it slipped from her grip and shattered.
The men across from Lorenzo followed her gaze to the hallway that led to the restrooms and a back alley.
Lorenzo turned last. When he caught sight of the figure, the color drained from his face. "Fuck," he muttered.
He sprang from the stool and sprinted, but a blade spun through the air, burying itself in his calf. He screamed but pushed through the doors. Outside, he yanked it free, tossing it aside then hobbled into the street.
No one chased him.
Murphy and the others, watched from the door.
Lorenzo staggered across the slick pavement. A cab fishtailed, horn blaring. Headlights caught his face, rain streaking down his skin. He turned to keep running.
Then impact. A fist cracked across his jaw. Another slammed into his gut. The world tilted.
He hit the asphalt hard.
When his vision cleared, the street was empty. The cab driver had cracked his door open and stepped out, staring toward the alley.
Lorenzo followed his gaze.
White eyes blinked from the dark.
He tried to rise, but it was too late. A wire cinched tight around his ankle.
He vanished into the alley.
For a moment, there was silence. Then a wailing scream ripped through the night, high and ragged. Barflies scattered, diving back inside. The cabbie slammed his door, tires shrieking as he sped off.
On the upper Westside, along the Gotham River and across from Tricorner, sat a dive owned by Jake "Tidbit" Tooley. Scrawny, bug-eyed, beak-nosed. He saw too much and said just enough to stay useful. Like Thanh Ha, he moved in the black market. He also hated cops but loved their wallets.
On certain nights, he ran poker over beer-stained felt and folding chairs that squealed at the slightest shift.
Tonight, Scott Brandon hunched over a table with two regulars: Vic Thames, muscle-for-hire with Crows Security, and Derek "the Cowboy" Long, a military contractor tied to Hamilton Dynamics. They were low-stakes players, careful not to bleed more than a few grand, and they preferred quiet rooms.
Tidbit dealt the cards with his usual mix of flair and chatter.
"Flass landed in the ER, right? Mugging was it?" Tidbit asked, flicking a card across the felt toward Brandon.
"Car jacking. Dumb luck. But what do you expect from Tricorner," Brandon replied.
Vic's face stayed unreadable, hard as black stone. He peeked at his cards. "He get a look at the fuckers?"
Brandon shook his head. "Didn't see a thing."
"Lucky punks," Long muttered, fighting a grin.
The table smelled the lie. No one said it out loud.
"Tragic," Tidbit said, tossing a few chips in, then froze mid-throw. His face drained, eyes locked on something past Brandon's shoulder.
Vic turned, then slowly raised both hands. Long followed, sweat already beading on his brow.
Brandon started to turn, but too late.
His face slammed into the felt, air punched from his lungs. His left hand twisted and shoved up his spine. A gloved hand clamped over his jaw and yanked his head back like a broken doll.
"Open up," said a voice low, with an edge.
Brandon clenched his teeth.
The grip shifted. A thumb jammed into the hinge of Brandon's jaw, grinding cartilage until something popped.
"Last chance. Or I tear it off."
Brandon's mouth fell open. Something cold and wet was shoved in, they rattled against his teeth. A gloved hand clamped over his lips.
"You're going to deliver a message to Loeb and to all the dirty cops in Gotham," the voice rasped. His eyes razor sharp and bright, "Tell them—eye for an eye. Do you understand?"
He nodded.
Then eyes, the hand over his mouth vanished.
Brandon lurched forward and opened his mouth. Three teeth clattered onto the felt, slick with blood.
He shoved back, chair tipping, and hit the sticky floor. One hand pressed to his mouth, wiping away the blood.
"Holy fuck," Long breathed.
"God damn," Vic muttered.
Tidbit leaned in, eyes locked on the teeth like they were poker chips.
"Whose are they?"