Adam pushed open the office door just in time to catch the tail end of the conversation. He stepped inside, eyebrows raised.
"What's going on? I just heard someone say Gordon's been kidnapped."
Commissioner Loeb—usually smugly in control—was pacing like a man sitting on a live stove. At the sight of Adam, he looked almost… relieved. Adam's lightning-fast casework was known across the department, and Loeb knew he'd worked with Gordon before to take down the Scarecrow. If anyone could cut through this mess, it was him.
"You're just in time," Loeb said, leaning forward urgently. "Gordon's in trouble. There was a strike this morning at the East Wharf—two thousand protestors. Gordon was ordered to suppress it… but he was taken by them instead. Word is he's being held in the slums not far from the docks."
Adam froze for half a beat. Two thousand?! That wasn't a scuffle—that was an army. Gordon could only lawfully mobilize a few hundred officers at most. That meant he'd walked straight into the lion's den.
"With numbers like that, you need the National Guard," Adam said, frowning. "The precinct can't match that kind of force."
Loeb shook his head. "The Mayor's office doesn't want a public spectacle. It's an election year—they've ordered us to keep this quiet. Luckily the kidnappers know this can blow up on them too. They've offered to negotiate. That's our only window."
Before Adam could reply, the office door slammed open so hard it rattled the frame.
Brock, Gordon's deputy, stumbled in—face red and breath soaked in alcohol.
"Chief!" he blurted, eyes blazing. "For everything Gordon's done for this department, for you—send someone to get him out! He was injured when they took him. If we wait, he won't make it!"
Brock rarely broke ranks or raised his voice; the outburst alone told Adam how bad things were. But the stench of whiskey carried its own message.
Loeb's expression chilled. The Commissioner prided himself on "gentlemanly" order, and drunken disruptions were his pet hate.
"You think this is how you help?" he said, voice cold and hard. "You abandoned your post when Gordon was taken, and you barge in here demanding rescue? This is an operational meeting. Maybe Arkham would be a better place for you to cool off."
Adam's jaw tightened at that—Loeb loved using "Arkham" as a threat, but for Adam it was personal territory now. Hearing it tossed like a slur was grating.
Arkham's reality for most cops was grim: poor, gang-stripped, and almost no black‑money income to skim. For rank-and-file officers, being posted there was career exile unless you were running the place.
Brock clearly didn't care. He'd already burned out on the department's corrupt grind, had no illusions of promotion, and saw Gordon as the last halfway‑decent cop left in Gotham.
"What do I care if you send me to the moon?" Brock shot back. "I'll sit there on a paycheck without lifting a finger. But you—look at you peacocks. All you do is line your pockets. Gordon's been taking the heat for your filth for years, and now you're happy to watch him die? You're a pack of bastards!"
The other detectives turned stony-faced. Experience told them never to argue with a drunk on a tirade. Let him bark—what was a few insults between colleagues in Gotham PD? Words didn't kill.
Adam decided the scene had gone on long enough. He stepped forward deliberately.
"Brock," he said evenly, "if you want to vent, at least know the facts. I'm here with the Commissioner discussing the plan. I'll be there in person to oversee the rescue. All you're doing right now is stalling us and cutting into our window."
That gave Loeb his opening. "Exactly. I'm assigning Adam, Acting Director of Arkham, to command the rescue. And you," he snapped at Brock, "have wasted enough of my time. If Gordon comes to harm, the first blame will fall on you."
Brock ignored the threat. Hearing Adam would take point, he broke into a sudden, sloppy grin and clutched Adam's hand in both of his.
"Detective Adam, this is good… Gordon's always said you're different from the rest of these clowns—capable, fair… You'll make one hell of a police leader someday—"
Adam felt a bead of sweat run down his neck. Compliment or not, this was the wrong place, the wrong audience. A drunk man's praise was a loaded grenade; the hostility in the room just ticked up a notch.
He quickly pulled Brock toward the hallway before he could blurt out more.
Once they were far enough from the office, Brock suddenly straightened. The glassy look in his eyes was gone, replaced by a wry smile.
"That's far enough, kid. Ease up—the grip's bruising my arm. I'm not drunk."
Adam's eyes narrowed. The old fox's gaze was crystal clear now. No slur in his words. Not a trace of inebriation.
The man had walked into the lion's den, played the drunk to perfection… and fooled everyone. Everyone except Adam.