Three box trucks sat bumper-to-bumper along the curb outside Express Movers. A group of armed men were hauling crates and duffel bags out of the stairwell and loading them onto the vehicles.
Marco barely had time to register what he was seeing before one of them spotted the police vehicles.
"Cops!"
Several of the gunmen loading the trucks immediately swung their weapons around and opened fire.
Bullets hammered into the E350's armored plating, throwing off showers of sparks and leaving shallow divots in the steel. The windshield spiderwebbed instantly.
"All units, 10-33! Shots fired, shots fired!" Marco barked into the radio. "Prepare to engage! Darnell, hang on!"
He yanked the steering wheel, slamming his palm on the siren button. The E350 carved a wide arc through the intersection, tires screaming, then Marco slammed it into reverse and floored the accelerator. The engine let out a high-pitched roar, and the vehicle surged backward, straight toward the box trucks.
"Fuck!" Darnell grabbed the oh-shit handle above the passenger door, his other hand braced against the dashboard. "I'm still recovering from getting shot, you crazy bastard!"
Bullets swarmed onto the rear door, pinging off the armor. One of the gunmen was standing between the last box truck and the one in front of it, still loading a crate.
He looked up.
His eyes went wide.
He tried to move.
Too slow.
CRUNCH.
The E350's rear bumper slammed into the box truck. The truck lurched forward, metal screaming, and the gunman disappeared between the two vehicles. For a split second, there was just the shriek of twisting metal. Then came the screaming.
It cut off almost immediately.
Marco felt the impact through the steering wheel. The E350 shuddered, the rear end compressing something that gave way with a series of sharp cracks that sounded like branches breaking. Except they weren't branches.
"Heads down!"
He yanked Darnell low just as several rounds struck the front passenger window. The bulletproof glass instantly exploded into a white spiderweb of cracks, blurring the view.
"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" Darnell was pressed against the seat, hands over his head. "Don't you fucking get out of this car!"
Too late.
Marco grabbed his AR-15 from the rack between the seats, kicked open the driver's door, and rolled out into cover behind the engine block. Gordon's car screeched to a halt behind him.
The gunmen weren't amateurs. They'd already repositioned, using the box trucks as cover, laying down suppressive fire. Marco leaned out and fired a three-round burst at the nearest truck's cab. His rounds blew out the driver's side mirror and pierced through the door, but the gunman inside had already ducked below the dash.
Muzzle flash erupted from the truck's window. Bullock jerked the wheel, his car swerving wildly before slamming into a fire hydrant. Water exploded skyward in a geyser, spraying across the street.
"All units, pursue! Suspects fleeing northbound on Brandon Avenue!" Gordon's voice crackled over the radio as he shoved his car door open and fired several shots at the lead truck.
The gunmen had no interest in a prolonged firefight. They piled into the trucks, engines roaring to life. Tires shrieked against pavement, smoke billowing, and the two front trucks peeled out, scattering the pursuing police cruisers.
"10-80, suspects in vehicle! All units in pursuit!" Gordon's car lurched backward, fishtailing as he spun it around and tore after one of the fleeing trucks, siren wailing. The flood of backup units screamed past Marco's position.
Marco lowered his rifle and watched them go, water from the broken hydrant pooling around his boots.
"They're fast." He knocked on the E350's door. "Come on, Darnell. Back to work."
Darnell climbed out slowly, his face pale, pistol gripped tight in both hands. "We're not going after them?"
"Go after them for what? To cheer Gordon on?" Marco leveled his rifle at the stairwell entrance of the Express Movers building. "Cover me. There might still be people inside."
"Copy!"
Darnell took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and moved up to a covered position. That's when he got his first clear look at the wrecked box truck behind them.
The entire left rear of the vehicle was caved in like a crushed soda can. The rear doors hung at odd angles, hinges groaning. And between the two trucks, wedged in the gap like meat in a press...
Jesus Christ.
The gunman had been compressed to almost half his original thickness. His torso hung limp, arms dangling, legs bent. Shattered ribs jutted through torn fabric. Internal organs bulged through ruptures in the skin. His face was pressed against the cold steel of the truck, one eye wide open, staring at nothing.
Blood sprayed outward in arterial spurts from his mouth, nose, and the ruptured wounds across his chest and back. It painted the E350's rear door and the box truck's side in wide red arcs, pooling on the pavement in thick, dark rivulets that steamed slightly in the cold air.
Darnell tasted bile.
"Cover me. I'm checking the truck."
Marco moved past the corpse. He yanked open the rear door of the box truck. No survivors inside, just cargo. Wooden crates, canvas bags, some kind of long objects wrapped in oiled paper. But his eyes locked onto several gray canvas bags near the back, stamped with official lettering: Gotham Police Department Evidence.
The bags weren't fully closed. Through the gaps, he could see bundles of green bills.
Holy shit.
His throat went dry. His pulse kicked up. This was it. The money Black Mask had stolen. It was evidence. Which meant it was supposed to go back to the department.
But.
His hand hovered over one of the bags.
Crack!
Darnell's Glock barking three times in quick succession.
"Contact!" he shouted.
Marco spun, rifle coming up. A figure crumpled on the stairwell, a pistol clattering down the steps.
"Good shooting." He turned back to the truck.
Nobody saw him right now. Nobody except Darnell. The convoy had chased after the fleeing trucks. Gordon was blocks away by now. It was just the two of them, a pile of evidence money, and about thirty seconds before backup arrived.
He grabbed two of the heavier bags and hauled them out of the truck. He moved fast, adrenaline overriding the pain in his side from the still-healing wound. He climbed into the E350, squeezed past the front seats into the rear compartment, and shoved the bags into the storage space beneath the seats. He covered the bags with a blanket, then checked the compartment to ensure nothing looked out of place.
After that, he jumped back out, slung his rifle over his back, and waved to Darnell.
"Let's clear the building."
Darnell followed Marco toward the stairwell.
---
The Express Movers building was mostly empty. A few battered desks, filing cabinets with their drawers hanging open, papers scattered across the floor. The windows on the upper floors were broken or boarded up, letting in cold drafts that whistled through the empty rooms. They swept it top to bottom, moving through each room with weapons raised, checking corners.
When they came back down to the ground floor, Darnell paused next to the body he'd shot.
The guy was still alive.
Barely.
He was lying on his side in a spreading pool of blood, gasping for air. One of Darnell's rounds had caught him in the chest, another in the stomach. The third had missed. He wasn't going to make it.
"What about him?" Darnell asked quietly
Marco looked at the dying man. "His wounds are too grave. He won't make it," he said flatly, jerking his head toward the street. "Release him from his pain."
He turned and strode toward the exit.
Two gunshots echoed behind him.
Darnell caught up a moment later, his face tight.
"So..." His voice was strained. "What now?"
"First, we find a safe place to stash this. Remember, this stays between you and me."
"Not even Bob?"
"Especially not him. When he needs us to make money for him, we'll make it then. Until that happens, this is ours."
Darnell nodded slowly. He didn't look happy. But he nodded.
---
The chop shop was tucked away in a industrial wasteland on the outskirts of the East End. Marco had used it before for off-the-books repairs. Junker and Dren were professionals in their own right. And they sure as hell didn't talk to cops.
Well. Most cops.
Junker walked over and tapped the E350's crushed rear bumper with a wrench. He picked a chunk of flesh off the metal and tossed it into a nearby trash bin.
"I told you," he said with a grin. "Short of a tank, nothing's going to out-ram you. Though whoever you hit probably had a bad day."
"Could've been worse." Marco handed him a wad of cash. "A thousand. Get it done fast. Things are heating up out there."
"Oh ho!" Delon beamed as he took the money and tossed it into a desk drawer. He pulled out half a bottle of whiskey from under the table. "See? I told you he was one of us. You got something going on? Some kind of score?"
"Hey! Delon!" Junker dragged over a hose and started washing blood off the vehicle. "Don't ask questions you shouldn't. Remember what kind of work we do. Get over here and help."
"I'm just asking. We're all friends here, right?"
Junker pulled on his own coveralls and ambled over. "Relax. We'll restore it to factory condition. Not a single trace left behind."
---
Several miles away, in an abandoned auto repair shop near the docks, Black Mask leaned against a workbench. His smooth ebony mask reflected the overhead lights. The sleeve of his left arm had been cut open, revealing a shallow knife wound crudely bandaged with gauze already soaking through with blood.
"How did they find us?"
He looked at the bodies scattered outside.
"We moved here less than forty-eight hours ago. And Falcone's people came straight for us. Like sharks smelling blood."
Silence.
Only a dozen men remained in the room, all keeping their heads down.
He turned to one of them, a pale-faced man with a bandage wrapped around his head.
"Number One. When the police arrived at Brandon Avenue, how did you escape?"
The man flinched. "It... it was a phone call. Just a few minutes before the cops showed up, someone called the safehouse landline. The number was unknown, and the voice was scrambled, like a modulator. They said the cops were coming, and told us to run."
Black Mask went still.
Slowly, he turned to face Number One fully.
"A stranger called you," he repeated quietly. "To warn you."
"Y-yes, sir! If it wasn't for that call, we would've been trapped inside when the cops hit us! We would've—"
"You would've held that building for hours," Black Mask cut him off. He stepped forward, closing the distance until he was inches from Number One's face.
"That call wasn't saving you, you idiot. It was helping the cops."
Number One's eyes went wide.
"Don't you understand? If you'd stayed inside, you'd have had cover, firepower, defensive positions. The GCPD would've bled for every inch. But one phone call sent you running into the street like panicked rats. Out in the open, easy to chase, easy to split up"
He gestured toward the window.
"And easy to escape. Which is what someone wanted." He pointed to the wound on his arm. "The same person who tipped you off could've tipped off the police. And Falcone. They're tracking us."
"I didn't know! I swear, I thought—"
BANG.
A hole appeared in Number One's forehead. His body toppled backward, hitting the concrete.
"You don't need to think anymore."
Black Mask holstered the still-smoking pistol and pointed at another gunman. "You're Number One now."
He walked to the window, staring out at Gotham's skyline. The plan to recruit more soldiers would have to be accelerated.
"Clean this up," he said without looking back. "This place isn't safe anymore. We're moving."
---
Several blocks away, on a rooftop overlooking the repair shop, a figure lowered a pair of binoculars. Through the scope, she'd watched Black Mask execute his own man.
"Run," she whispered. "Run as fast as you can. You'll find hounds everywhere. And when you're finally exhausted..."
She didn't finish the thought. She didn't need to.