The diner smelled of burnt coffee and fried grease, the kind of place that never closed and never cared who walked through its door. Neon buzzed in the window, casting tired red light across the cracked linoleum.
Colt slid into a booth by the wall, duster trailing dust instead of rain this time, hat tipped low to shadow his eyes. He set his revolver-heavy satchel down beside him like it was just another piece of luggage.
A waitress with a face carved by years of cigarettes shuffled over, pad in hand.
"What'll it be, hon?"
Colt lit a cigarette with a match struck off the table, smoke curling lazy above his grin.
"Coffee. Black as midnight. And a plate of eggs, sunny side. Bacon too—crispy, if it ain't too much trouble."
She scribbled, unimpressed, and gave him a flat look.
"You want toast with that?"
Colt tipped his hat back just enough to meet her eyes, drawl smooth as whiskey.
"Darlin', I'll take toast if it comes with your good company."
The waitress snorted and walked off without another word. Colt leaned back, one boot propped on the opposite bench, cigarette dangling. The night outside was clear, stars faint against Gotham's smog, the streets quieter than usual.
But his eyes still cut toward every shadow that passed the windows. Word of Rico's bounty was already spreading through the gutters. It was only a matter of time before some fool walked in thinking they could collect.
The plate clattered onto the table—eggs glistening, bacon crackling, toast stacked at the side. The coffee steamed dark in its chipped mug.
Colt leaned forward, hat tipped back, and set the cigarette aside. He forked into the eggs slow, like a man who hadn't eaten in days but wanted to savor every bite.
The waitress lingered a little longer this time, pouring his coffee until it nearly spilled.
"You ain't from around here," she said, matter-of-fact.
Colt dabbed toast into the yolk, lips curling into a lazy grin.
"Now what gave me away? The hat, the boots, or the fact I still say 'ma'am' like it means somethin'?"
She smirked, shaking her head.
"Don't hear much 'ma'am' in Gotham. More like 'hey lady' if you're lucky."
Colt raised his mug, giving her a little toast before sipping.
"Well, reckon I'll do my part to bring the standards up, then. City like this could use some manners."
The waitress leaned on her notepad, curious despite herself.
"You been here long?"
Colt chewed bacon, washed it down with coffee, and spoke through that easy drawl.
"Long enough to know Gotham's a mean dog with sharp teeth. Long enough to know she don't care if you come in with clean hands or bloody ones. Question is—do you bite back, or just hope she don't notice you?"
She gave a dry laugh.
"You sound like half the drunks that sit in that booth. Except they don't tip."
Colt's grin widened, and he slid a couple bills from his satchel onto the edge of the table. Not much, but more than the meal was worth.
"Then consider me the better half, darlin'. I aim to leave folks smilin' when I can. World's grim enough as it is."
She eyed the money, then him, then gave a short nod.
"Keep talkin' like that, Cowboy, and you'll last about a week before this city eats you alive."
Colt chuckled, setting his fork down and lighting another smoke.
"Darlin', where I'm from? Lastin' a week's a luxury."
Colt cleaned his plate like a man who'd earned every bite, dragging the last corner of toast through a smear of yolk before popping it in his mouth. He leaned back, sipping the dregs of his coffee while the smoke from his cigarette curled lazy above him.
He set the fork down, slow and deliberate. The din of the diner carried on—cutlery scraping plates, a jukebox crooning faintly in the corner, someone laughing too loud two booths away. But Colt felt it. That prickle between the shoulder blades. The kind that don't come from nerves, but from eyes.
The waitress came back with the check, slipping it onto the table with a smile. Colt tucked a folded stack of bills under the porcelain saucer, more than double the tab.
"For the company, ma'am," he said, voice easy, though his gaze never left the faint reflection in the diner's window—two men at the counter, trying awful hard to look casual over half-finished coffee.
The waitress glanced down at the tip, then back up. "You sure?"
Colt rose, smoothing his duster and dropping his hat low over his brow. "Darlin', only thing I'm sure of in this city is when a meal's worth payin' for." He tipped the brim, left the smoke trailing behind him, and stepped out into the night air.
The bell above the door jingled soft, but behind him the hush of voices dropped lower. He could still feel those eyes.
The street was quieter now, only the rumble of a distant train and the bark of a dog carrying through the night. He tugged his duster tight, boots steady on the cracked pavement.
He felt the eyes first. Not loud, not clumsy—just that heaviness that came when men were waiting on your back. He didn't look over his shoulder. Didn't need to.
Instead, Colt veered right, slipping into a narrow alley between two old brick buildings. The air smelled of damp concrete and rust, the only light spilling weak from a streetlamp at the far end.
Colt slowed halfway down the alley, eyes sliding over the stacked trash bins and a half-broken fire escape ladder hanging low. He didn't stop in the open. No, sir—never give a man a clean shot.
He slipped behind a rusted dumpster, crouching low as he struck a match with his thumb. The glow lit his grin as he pulled deep on the cigarette, letting the smoke curl up and around the steel edge.
The footsteps drew nearer, echoing sharp against the narrow brick walls.
Colt waited until the two shadows stretched long, their boots crunching glass and gravel. Timing was everything.
The first man passed the dumpster without a glance—Colt exploded out, one hand clamping on the thug's collar, yanking him tight against his chest. Cold steel kissed the man's temple as Colt's revolver cleared leather.
The second thug froze mid-step, eyes wide as the barrel swung his way.
"Now, partner," Colt drawled, cigarette still burning at the corner of his mouth, "I suggest you think real careful 'bout your next move."
The hesitation was all it took. A flicker of doubt in the thug's eyes. Colt didn't wait for the gun to come up—his revolver cracked once, the shot splitting the night. The second man crumpled to the wet concrete, smoke still curling from Colt's barrel.
The man in his grip thrashed, stammering curses, but Colt's arm was iron.
"Easy now," he said, voice low. "You and me got us a little talkin' to do."
The thug's pulse beat quick against Colt's forearm as the revolver dug into his jaw.
"I know there's a price on my head," Colt drawled, cigarette smoke drifting lazy from his lips. "Question is, how'd you hear it? Ain't like Rico's postin' flyers on lampposts."
The man squirmed, eyes flicking to his dead partner on the ground. "Bars—word's been spreading in the back rooms. Basile's people makin' calls, passin' the word hand-to-hand. I heard it at Slim Jim's over in the Narrows. Rico's pushin' it hard."
Colt's grin sharpened. He pressed the revolver harder, enough to make teeth grind.
"Bars in the Narrows, huh? That where Rico's hidin', or just where his dogs are barkin'?"
"I—I don't know where he is!" the thug blurted. "Nobody sees Rico direct. But he's got a middleman, a guy named Chet. If you wanna know where Basile is… Chet's the one makin' the runs, settin' up deals. People say he's been workin' outta the old boxing gym off Harlow Street."
Colt let the silence drag, smoke curling through the dark, weighing the man's words. Then, soft as whiskey but twice as bitter, he said.
"See? Now that's useful."
He let the thug breathe one second of relief—before pistol-whipping him into unconsciousness. The man crumpled beside his partner, both sprawled in the alley's filth.
Colt tucked his revolver away, drew long on his cigarette, and muttered to himself: "Harlow Street it is, then."
Colt kept to the alleys, boots striking quiet against wet pavement. The bandana rode high over his face, brim of his hat shadowing his eyes. Gotham's Narrows breathed different—hotter, meaner. Every corner felt like a loaded chamber.
He was three blocks out when the first shots cracked the night. Not sharp and clean like police work, but sloppy—pistols barking wild, bullets ricocheting off brick and tin.
Colt froze, body low, slipping behind a stack of busted pallets. He peeked around, smoke curling from the cigarette clenched between his teeth.
Up ahead, the alley split wide into a half-lit back lot. Two cars sat nose-to-nose, headlights cutting through the dark. On one side—four young punks with cheap automatics, hooded and jittery. On the other—three older muscle, leather jackets and shotguns, already taking cover behind the sedan.
Lead was flying, but nobody was hitting much more than dumpsters and shadows.
Colt let the smoke drift from his nose, thumb brushing the hammer of his revolver.
"Well now," he muttered under his breath, "looks like a family squabble."
Colt slid the revolver back into leather and reached under his duster, pulling the long rifle free. The metal gleamed dully under the streetlamp, worn but cared for. He checked the chamber, worked the lever once, and braced the stock against his shoulder.
The gunfire ahead was still wild, half panic, half anger. One punk leaned out too far from the car, spraying lead at shadows. Colt's eye narrowed.
Crack.
The report thundered down the alley. The punk jerked back, clutching his shoulder, weapon clattering across the pavement. Both sides froze, the whole lot of them turning to find where the ghost shot had come from.
Colt stepped out from behind the pallets slow, rifle steady, brim low. His boots echoed sharp against the pavement as he closed the distance.
"Well, gentlemen," his drawl carried over the ringing silence, "reckon y'all could use a referee."
The rest of the alley erupted. Gunfire split the dark, wild and sharp, bullets sparking brick and tearing rust off dumpsters. Colt ducked, pressed himself behind the sedan, feeling the slam of rounds in the metal just inches away.
He breathed steady. Counted the shots. One, two, three… He leaned out only when the rhythm stuttered, sight already settled. The rifle barked—one man pitched backward, clutching his chest. Colt ducked back down before the return fire chewed the wall.
Another volley came. He slid across the wet pavement, boots kicking grit, and rolled behind a trash bin. The lever worked smooth, brass clinking against stone. When a head rose from behind cover, Colt's answer was already waiting. The bullet ripped the man's hat clear off before the next tore through his cheek. He went down screaming.
The gang pressed harder. One charged, shotgun pumping. Colt didn't flinch. He pivoted, used the dumpster as a shield, and when the man rounded it, Colt jammed the rifle forward, barrel-first, into his gut. The shot at point-blank lit the alley, throwing the man off his feet and into the wall with a wet thud.
The last pair got smart—splitting opposite directions, trying to box him in. Colt stayed low, boots moving quick, every step measured. He ducked under the fire escape, caught the flicker of a shadow, and fired through it without hesitation. A scream followed, body hitting the concrete above.
The other came from the side, teeth bared, pistol steady. Too close. Colt spun, rifle empty, and swung it like a bat. The stock cracked jawbone, sent the man sprawling. Before he could rise, Colt drew one revolver, thumb cocking it smooth.
The alley fell quiet but for groans and dripping water. Colt holstered slow, spun the revolver once before tucking it back down. His rifle hung from his hand, smoke still trailing from the muzzle.
Colt stepped over the bodies, boots scraping the pavement. The one with the shotgun still clung to life, wheezing wet through his teeth. Another bled heavy from the cheek, hands pressed useless against the wound.
Colt crouched low, rifle dangling in one hand, revolver loose in the other. His shadow spilled long across their faces.
"Name's Basile," he said, voice low, steady as a train track. "Street boss. Runs guns through the Narrows. Where do I find him?"
The shotgunner coughed, blood flecking his lips. He shook his head. "We—we don't know nothin'—just paid muscle."
Colt's grin was thin, humorless. He pressed the hot barrel of the revolver under the man's chin. "Friend, I didn't ask who signs your checks. I asked where Basile lays his head."
The man whimpered, eyes wide. "I swear—I don't know!"
Colt shifted, eyes flicking to the one with the ruined cheek. "You, then. Speak up."
The man spat blood, shook his head weakly. "Never seen him. Only hear the name. Word is, he don't show his face unless you're already in his pocket."
Colt leaned back, revolver lowering slow. He exhaled, the sound more like a growl than a sigh.
"Seems I've wasted my good manners on the wrong crowd."
He stood, holstering his gun. For a moment, he let silence hang thick—then he turned, leaving them bleeding in the dark.
The sharp wail of sirens cut through the night, bouncing off the brick walls like a warning bell. Colt froze for half a breath, head tilted, listening. Too close. Too many. Somebody had dialed quick.
He slipped his rifle strap across his back, adjusted the bandana higher, and kept moving. No running—running drew eyes. He ducked deeper into the maze of alleys, boots soft against the wet pavement.
Behind him, the glow of red-and-blue began to splash against the buildings. Shouts carried—cops barking orders as they swarmed the bodies he'd left cooling.
Colt's mouth twisted into a smirk under the cloth. GCPD'll be scratching their heads for a week. Still, it meant his night just got shorter. Every squad car in earshot would be prowling the Narrows soon enough, and Basile's boys would know someone was hunting.
A stray cat hissed as Colt brushed past, slipping into the back door of an abandoned laundromat. He stopped there in the dark, leaned against the cracked tile, and listened to the sirens fade, spread, multiply. Gotham was waking up to his presence already.
Colt cut out of the alley, bandana still high, rifle hanging loose in his grip. The street stretched narrow and dim, a row of cracked brick tenements watching him with dead windows. He thought he'd bought himself breathing room—until boots hit the pavement fast.
Three men came barreling in from the corner, pistols and a sawed-off shotgun raised, eyes wide at the echo of the last fight. They weren't cops. They weren't civilians. They were hunters, pulled to the noise like vultures to blood.
The first one spotted him. "There! That's him!"
Colt didn't wait. The rifle snapped up, the report rolling down the block like thunder. The lead man folded in the middle, knees buckling before his face kissed the street.
The others split without thinking—one ducking behind a mail drop box, the other sprinting toward the steps of a stoop. Bullets sang sharp across brick, hot chips stinging Colt's cheek as he slid back against the wall.
He worked the lever smooth, brass clinking to the sidewalk. When the shotgun peeked around the mailbox, Colt put a round straight through the steel. The box sparked, metal shrieked—and the man behind it screamed as lead tore through him. He stumbled out, clutching his side, and Colt ended it with a second shot to the chest.
The last one kept low, pistol cracking steady, trying to pin Colt in place. Colt moved careful, steady—boots whispering across pavement as he eased toward a fire hydrant. Timing it with the rhythm of shots, he popped out, rifle leveled.
The man's aim broke at the sight of it, but too late. Colt squeezed once, clean. The shot spun him, pistol clattering from numb fingers as he crashed against the stoop.
The street went quiet but for the drip of leaking hydrant water and Colt's boots crossing the open. He stepped over one body, eyes sharp for movement, rifle never dropping. Nothing.
He tilted his head, listening. Sirens still close, closer than before. He'd made more noise, dropped more men.
The alley was still coughing smoke when Colt heard it—a low groan. One of the last shooters hadn't bled out yet. He crawled toward the curb, dragging a ruined leg behind him, pistol lost somewhere in the dark.
Colt walked over calm, rifle still loose in his hand, revolver heavy at his hip. He nudged the man's ribs with the toe of his boot, rolling him half onto his back.
"Evenin', friend," Colt drawled, voice flat as dust. "I'm lookin' for Rico Basile. Figure you wouldn't mind pointin' me in the right direction before you run outta blood."
The man coughed, spit red, and tried to laugh. "You… you think Basile cares about you? You're dead already, cowboy."
Colt crouched low, eyes hard under the brim. He set the rifle aside, drew his revolver, and pressed the barrel against the man's cheek. Not a shout, not a threat—just a quiet pressure.
"Reckon you're runnin' outta choices. Where is he?"
The thug shook, words spilling now. "N-Not here. He's been holdin' up in the Narrows. A warehouse, old steelworks on Harlow Street. Everybody knows. You won't make it two blocks."
Colt holstered slow, stood tall, and tugged his bandana higher over his face.
"Two blocks is all I ever need."
He left the man groaning in the gutter, rifle swinging back into his hand as he slipped deeper toward the Narrows.
By the time Colt cut through the last alley, the city had thinned into the bones of the Narrows. Half-collapsed factories and shuttered mills loomed like tombstones, the streets cracked and dark. Harlow Street was quieter than most—but not dead.
The steelworks sat like a carcass at the end of the block. The old warehouse hunched low and wide, its corrugated siding eaten with rust. Broken windows gaped black across the second floor, a skeletal catwalk barely clinging inside. The main doors, a pair of warped steel slabs, were chained shut but watched.
Colt slid down into the shadow of a loading dock, rifle across his chest, eyes sharp. He counted slow.
Two men by the front doors, leaning on shotguns, smoking and laughing low.
One on the roof, pacing along the edge with a scoped rifle slung lazy in his hands.
Another pair circling the lot, carrying pistols, flashlights cutting arcs through the dark.
That was just what he could see. Colt knew better than to trust the surface. Basile wouldn't keep his hideout this close to the Narrows without more iron inside.
The outlaw adjusted his bandana, let his breath slow, and stayed low in the shadow. He tapped the butt of his rifle against his knee, thinking.
Colt stayed crouched in the dark, the warehouse lights spilling weak across the gravel lot. Rifle slung on his back, he drew the long hunting knife from his boot — steel dulled to keep from glinting.
The first patrol strolled by, half-bored, whistling low. Colt waited until the man's shadow broke past him, then slid forward. His hand clamped over the guard's mouth, knife flashing once across the throat. The man went stiff, then slack, gurgle swallowed in Colt's grip. He lowered him to the dirt like he was laying down a child, then melted back into the black.
The roof sentry came next. Colt circled around, found the water pipe again, and climbed with care. Boots barely kissed the metal. The sentry turned at just the wrong second — just enough for Colt to step in, hook an arm around his neck, and drive the blade between the ribs from behind. The breath left the man in a shudder. Colt hauled him down behind a vent, wiped the blade quick on his coat, then dropped back to the ground.
At the door, the two guards were talking low, cigarettes glowing. Colt used the wall's shadow, sliding right up against the bricks until he was beside them. He moved fast — the knife punched under the ribs of the first, his free hand muffling the scream. Before the second could turn, Colt spun, blade dragging across his throat in one brutal slash. Both went down twitching, their blood soaking into the cracks of the concrete.
He crouched still for a beat, eyes scanning. The night was quiet again, save for the distant hum of the city. Colt slid the knife back into his boot, dragged the bodies into the shadows, and straightened his coat.
The outside was clear.
Through the dirty warehouse glass, Colt finally spotted the man he'd been itching to find.
Rico Basile.
The crime boss stood near the back of the warehouse, coat draped open, gold ring flashing as he gestured at the tables. He wasn't lifting crates or counting rifles — he didn't need to. His men did that for him, a whole swarm of them, fifteen… maybe twenty strong.
The place was alive with movement. Crates marked with foreign stamps were cracked open, spilling pistols and boxes of ammo. A couple of Rico's men argued over a sawed-off, while others stacked rifles in neat rows on pallets. On the catwalk above, four guards paced lazy circles, rifles slung, watching for trouble.
Rico himself leaned in close to the lieutenant in the tan coat, voice carrying just enough through the glass for Colt to catch it.
"By tomorrow night, the Narrows'll be ours. And when that cowboy brat shows his face again, he won't be breathin' come sunrise."
The words hit Colt like a match strike. Rico wasn't just whisperin' threats — he was planning to bleed the Narrows dry and hang Colt out as an example.
In the far corner, a prisoner sat slumped in a chair, hands bound tight, face bruised raw. A guard flipped through a deck of cards nearby, shotgun leaning casual against his leg.
Colt's jaw set tight beneath the bandana as he listened. Rico struttin' around, barking promises like he already had the Narrows in his pocket. Talking about him like he was already a corpse.
Colt shifted his rifle strap, eyes narrowing past the glass at the prisoner slumped in the corner. Whoever the poor bastard was, Rico wanted him alive — which meant leverage, or bait. Colt didn't much care which, but it was enough to know Rico had one more card on the table.
The cowboy leaned back from the window, crouching low against the roof. He thumbed the edge of a dynamite stick in his satchel, the weight of it heavy and familiar. Rico thought he owned the night. Thought he could run guns and stack bodies until Gotham bent knee.
Colt figured it was time to take the whole board away.
One by one, he worked across the roof, tucking dynamite where rusted beams met brick, where the steel groaned soft in the wind. Fuses twisted together, snug in his hand. It wasn't neat, wasn't elegant — but it didn't need to be. It just needed to fall loud enough to bury Rico's little empire in rubble.
Back at the window, Colt took one last look inside. Rico, standing tall, laughing with his lieutenant. The guards on the catwalk too busy jawing to notice the danger above their heads. The prisoner barely breathing, chin on his chest.
Colt pulled the bandana higher over his nose. Lit the first fuse.
He slipped back, boots light, as the fire raced down the lines. The night held still for just a heartbeat — then the dynamite roared.
The blast punched the air from Colt's lungs, shaking the rooftops for blocks. The warehouse groaned, screamed, and then the roof caved in all at once — steel, brick, and fire raining down. Gunfire sparked wild from panicked men before being swallowed in dust and screams.
The dust hadn't even settled when Colt dropped from the rooftop. Boots hit the broken pavement with a crunch, revolver already drawn. The bandana shadowed his face, eyes sharp as glass.
The warehouse was half a carcass now, beams twisted and groaning, fire licking across shattered crates. Men crawled through the wreckage, coughing, bleeding, some trying to drag themselves to their feet.
Colt stepped through the doorway, slow and steady.
One survivor raised his rifle, blood dripping from his brow. Colt didn't wait. The revolver cracked, one shot through the chest, and the man crumpled back into the rubble.
Another staggered from behind a pile of splintered crates, hand reaching for a pistol. Colt's answer was two rounds, quick and clean, each one snapping the air before dropping him flat.
He walked deeper, smoke swirling around him. Every sound was magnified — boots on glass, groans of the dying, the hiss of fire eating through wood. A guard tried to crawl toward a shotgun half-buried in debris. Colt put a bullet in the floorboards an inch from his hand, just to make him freeze. Then he ended him with a second shot, merciless and quiet.
No wasted words. No hesitation. Just one methodical step after another, revolver barking whenever a shape twitched wrong.
By the time Colt reached the center of the warehouse, the groans had thinned to silence. Only flames and falling brick kept the place alive.
Through the haze, Rico's silhouette staggered upright, blood streaked across his temple, jacket torn. His lieutenant wasn't so lucky — pinned under a steel beam, screaming until the fire smothered him.
Rico's eyes found Colt. And for the first time, the gangster didn't have a grin on his face.
Colt thumbed back the hammer of his revolver, voice calm, low, cutting through the crackle of fire.
"Evenin', Rico."
Rico coughed through the smoke, stumbling back as Colt stepped into the wreckage, revolver still hot in his hand. The fire painted the cowboy in hellfire, every step echoing off twisted steel and broken stone.
"You…" Rico's voice cracked before he caught it, forcing a laugh that rang hollow. "You think you can just walk into my city, blow my roof off, kill my boys like they're nothin'?"
Colt stopped ten feet away, bandana hiding the curl of his mouth. "Don't recall askin' permission."
Rico's bravado faltered. His eyes darted to the corpses, the collapsed catwalk, the smoke swirling like a storm. He licked his lips, hand twitching near the pistol he'd already dropped.
"You're— you're crazy," Rico spat, but it sounded more like prayer than insult. "I don't even know who the hell you are. You got no name in Gotham. No rep. You're nothin'. Nothin'!"
Colt tilted his head, revolver steady as stone. His drawl cut low and sharp.
"Funny. 'Nothin'' just put you on your knees."
The words hung heavy, louder than the crackle of fire. Rico's breath came short, his swagger gone. He tried to grin, but his teeth just clattered against each other.
"You want somethin'… Basile, yeah? I heard you callin' his name." Rico's voice trembled. "We—we can deal, cowboy. Just… put the gun down."
Colt's eyes narrowed, smoke curling from his lips. "You talk straight, or you don't talk again."
Rico wiped blood from his brow with a shaking hand, trying to puff his chest back up. The warehouse smoldered around them, beams still groaning under the cave-in. Colt's revolver never wavered, its barrel gleaming in the firelight.
"You ain't gonna pull that trigger," Rico said, voice raw but sharp. "Nah, you want me breathin'. You came all this way, raised hell, just to ask me questions."
Colt tipped his hat back a notch, the bandana shadowing his grin. "Only question worth askin' is whether you walk outta here or get carried out."
Rico laughed, but it cracked halfway through. "You think you're the first lunatic tried to make a name off me? This is Gotham, cowboy. People like you don't last. You're a spark in the wind — and sparks burn out." He shifted, buying seconds, eyes flicking to the skylight blown wide above them.
Colt took a slow step closer, boots crunching over glass. The revolver lifted an inch. "You're talkin' too much. Means you're waitin' on somethin'. Trouble is, I don't got the patience of a priest."
Rico's smirk twitched. He leaned back against a half-buried crate, spreading his hands like a man who still thought he had cards. "You go ahead. Pull the trigger. But I promise you—by the time that hammer falls, Gotham's dark knight'll be here. And when he sees this mess you made? You'll wish it was me puttin' you in the ground."
The words hung heavy, laced with desperate bravado. Rico's heart thundered so loud he was sure Colt could hear it.
Colt didn't blink. Didn't move, save for the slight tilt of his head. "So that's the plan, huh? Hide behind the Bat. Let him clean up what you can't handle." He stepped closer, revolver steady, voice low and cutting. "Funny thing is, Rico — I ain't scared of him neither."
Colt's revolver cracked once.
Rico's head snapped back, the words dying with him. His body slumped crooked against the crate, blood running dark into the sawdust. Colt slipped a silver dollar from his coat pocket, polished it once against his thumb, and pressed it gentle into the fresh hole in the man's skull. A final touch, cold and deliberate.
He tugged his hat brim low, bandana still hiding the curl of his mouth, and turned. His boots crunched soft across the wreckage as he disappeared into the night.
The rubble was still warm. Smoke coiled up from the wreckage as Gordon's men worked floodlights across the scene. The warehouse looked like it had been gutted from the inside, half of the roof collapsed into jagged steel and brick. Bodies were scattered, half-buried, the echoes of gunfire still fresh in the minds of the neighbors the GCPD had pushed back behind tape.
Batman moved silent through the debris, scanning with a practiced eye. He crouched near a splintered beam, fingers brushing the blackened metal. "Explosives. Multiple charges. Set high enough to bring the roof down at once."
Damian dropped beside him, small frame cutting through the dust. He picked up a cracked rifle from one of Rico's men, shaking his head. "And gunfire. Close range. Whoever hit this place didn't just collapse it—they finished the survivors. Methodical."
"Execution style. My men didn't find the shooter. No witnesses outside say they saw anyone leave. Just the blast, then silence."
He paused, lowering his voice. "Though a couple neighbors swear they heard gunshots after the explosion. Short bursts, like somebody was moving through, clearing house. By the time patrol cars got here… nothing. Just smoke and bodies."
Batman crouched by the debris, fingertips brushing a spent casing half-buried in dust. His voice was flat, certain. "They didn't run. They finished the job."
Damian's eyes narrowed. "Which means whoever it was didn't just want Rico dead. They wanted everyone dead."
The rubble was still warm. Smoke coiled up from the wreckage as Gordon's men worked floodlights across the scene. The warehouse looked like it had been gutted from the inside, half of the roof collapsed into jagged steel and brick. Bodies were scattered, half-buried, the echoes of gunfire still fresh in the minds of the neighbors the GCPD had pushed back behind tape.
Batman moved silent through the debris, scanning with a practiced eye. He crouched near a splintered beam, fingers brushing the blackened metal. "Explosives. Multiple charges. Set high enough to bring the roof down at once."
Damian dropped beside him, small frame cutting through the dust. He picked up a cracked rifle from one of Rico's men, shaking his head. "And gunfire. Close range. Whoever hit this place didn't just collapse it—they finished the survivors. Methodical."
Gordon joined them, coat pulled tight against the cold night air. He gestured toward Rico's body, now under a tarp with the corner pulled back. "Rico caught one to the head. Execution style. My men didn't find the shooter. No witnesses outside say they saw anyone leave. Just the blast, then silence."
Batman's eyes narrowed behind the cowl. He stood, taking in the entire warehouse with one sweep. "The charges were placed with precision. Not a random bombing. This was surgical. The shooter knew where to hit, knew how to vanish before anyone responded."
Damian's lips twisted into something between admiration and suspicion. "So—someone smart, someone skilled. Couldn't have been Rico's rivals. Not one of them works this clean."
Gordon frowned, pulling his glasses off to rub his face. "So far, we've got nothing but a body count and a crater. Whoever did this… it's like they came outta thin air. No cameras, no prints, nothing."
Batman looked back toward Rico's tarp-covered corpse. His voice was low, measured. "They didn't come out of nowhere. They planned this. Someone with training. Someone who wanted Rico silenced more than anyone else in this city."
Damian glanced up at him. "But we don't know who."
Batman didn't answer. He just stood there, cape shifting in the wind, staring at the ruins like they were pieces of a puzzle.
Gordon exhaled smoke from a fresh-lit cigar, shaking his head. "Hell of a mess. Whoever's behind it—they're a ghost. And right now, the only thing we know for sure…" He looked at Batman, grim. "…is Gotham's got another player on the board."
Batman rose, eyes scanning the ruined rafters and smoke-choked corners of the warehouse. His gaze caught on a blackened security camera, half-tilted but still wired. He moved toward the wall, cape dragging through ash, and tapped the housing. The small red diode blinked faintly.
"Backup feed survived," he said.
Within minutes, he had the recorder pulled from its casing, wires clipped into a small reader on his gauntlet. Static flickered across his lenses, then images sharpened. Damian leaned in, impatient. Gordon hung back, hands jammed into his pockets.
The footage rolled. At first, nothing but grainy silence. Then the rooftop shuddered — the screen rattled as the explosion tore the ceiling inward. Men screamed, dust plumed. Through the chaos, a figure dropped down. A long coat. A slouched hat.
"Evenin', Rico."
Batman's eyes didn't leave the screen. "Rico put a price on the cowboy's head. This was retaliation."
Damian's lip curled. "Retribution. Execution."
They watched the feed continue.
"…Don't recall askin' permission."
Batman paused it. "He doesn't see himself as an outsider. He's not here to ask for territory or approval. He's here to take."
Damian leaned closer, voice sharp. "Or burn down anyone stupid enough to challenge him."
"Funny. 'Nothin'' just put you on your knees."
Batman's jaw tightened. "That's not just bravado. He's dismantling Rico's power with words as much as bullets. He wants Rico humiliated before the end."
Damian snorted. "He's theatrical. Like you."
Batman gave a quiet grunt but didn't deny it.
The screen rolled on. Rico's trembling voice: "…by the time that hammer falls, Gotham's dark knight'll be here."
Batman's voice was level, low. "Rico bet on me being a shield. The cowboy didn't blink. That tells us something."
Damian frowned. "That he doesn't care who you are?"
Batman nodded. "That he's not afraid of me. He knew killing Rico would bring me into this. And he wanted me to see it."
The final line echoed back in static:
"Funny thing is, Rico — I ain't scared of him neither."
Batman let it hang in the silence, his cowl shadowing his eyes.
Gordon shifted his weight, gruff voice breaking in. "So we're dealin' with a cowboy turned executioner. Rico put a target on this guy, and instead of running… he came back with both barrels."
Batman's gaze stayed locked on the frozen frame of Colt in the smoke and fire. "Not just vengeance. A warning. He wants everyone who put a price on him to know what happens when they try."
Damian's mouth curved into a scowl. "Then the question isn't why he did it. The question's how many more names he's carrying on that list.
Gordon rubbed at his jaw, eyes flicking to the frozen image. "Thing is… Rico wasn't the only one bleeding tonight. My people found bodies strung out from the Narrows all the way here. Twenty minutes apart, block by block. Like he was cutting himself a road."
Batman adjusted the gauntlet feed, pulling up GCPD's crime scene logs. Images cycled: sprawled gunmen, spent casings, the red smear of drag marks. "Different crews. Not civilians — every one of them tied to Rico's network."
Damian leaned in, voice edged. "So he didn't stumble into fights. He hunted them down."
Batman's tone stayed even. "Not just hunted. He staged it. Each body positioned in the open, every weapon left where it fell. He wanted Rico to hear the gunfire moving closer. Wanted him to know no one could stop what was coming."
"Like church bells," Gordon muttered. "Each one ringing louder, closer to midnight."
Batman nodded once. "By the time he dropped through that ceiling, Rico was already finished. The revolver was just punctuation."
Damian's scowl sharpened. "He's not just a killer. He's making war."
Batman's eyes lingered on the blurred figure in the smoke. The hat, the coat, the silhouette carved into the chaos.
Gordon let the words settle, then shook his head. "Hell of a message. Whoever else has their name on that list of his… they won't be sleepin' easy tonight."