"Why are you dragging me to a headquarters meeting?" Marco stared at the Gotham Central parking lot ahead, or more accurately, at the endless line of cars blocking access to it. His left hand hung out the window, drumming against the door. "I'm not good at this political bullshit."
"Don't sell yourself short." Bob rolled his window down halfway and lit a cigarette. "Last time, you left Falcone speechless. That takes talent."
"That was different. I wasn't in a room full of white shirts looking for someone to crucify. And quit smoking in your own car. You'll tank the resale value."
"I'm not selling it. I'm dying in it." Bob took a long drag. "And quit hitting my door."
"Fine." Marco pulled his hand back inside, then immediately started drumming on the dashboard instead.
Bob sighed but didn't say anything. The traffic inched forward about one meter, then stopped again. Somewhere up ahead, a siren wailed, probably an ambulance stuck in the same mess they were.
"So what's this meeting about?" Marco asked. "Black Mask?"
"Yeah. But it might not be good news."
"What do you mean?"
"Barnes." Bob said the name like it tasted bad. "He used to work in the Mayor's Office of Integrity and the Ethics Committee."
Marco's hand froze mid-drum. He turned to stare at Bob. "Gotham has an ethics committee?"
"Of course it does. You still need to keep up appearances, even in a sewer." Bob glanced at him, one eyebrow raised. "It's supposed to oversee the professional conduct of government officials. High status, lots of authority on paper. But no investigative power or real budget, and their annual reports get filed under 'for reference only.'"
"So it's completely useless."
"Worse than useless." Bob flicked ash out the window. "It's full of Boy Scouts who scream about 'procedural justice' and 'rooting out systemic corruption' like they're the moral conscience of humanity. In reality, the only thing they know how to do is write reports and hold meetings. They can't even get their own budget approved."
The traffic finally started moving. Marco gunned it, cutting off a Ford trying to merge from the right lane. The driver leaned on his horn. He flipped him off without looking.
"So basically, they're the 'clean' ones."
"They point out a mountain of problems and can't fix a single one. Completely fucking useless, but their eyes are always on everyone else." Bob leaned his head out the window, eyeing the angle into the parking structure. "Slow down, don't scrape my paint!"
Marco eased the car into a tight spot with about ten centimeters of clearance on either side. The engine died with a sputter. "Next time, you drive."
"Deal." Bob shoved his door open and squeezed his considerable bulk out. "Point is, Barnes isn't like the old commissioner. He believes the shit he preaches."
"Is that supposed to be a bad thing?"
"Yeah." Bob straightened his uniform jacket, which immediately wrinkled again across his stomach. "Gotham is a sewer. You pour clean water into it, and in the blink of an eye, it's just as filthy as you and me. Difference is, we know we're dirty. Those people burn the toast and blame the stove."
Marco locked the car and followed Bob across the parking structure toward the main building. Headquarters' lot was cleaner than the East End's by an order of magnitude. Only the statue of the Goddess of Justice at the entrance showed any signs of Gotham's usual decay, a wet clump of pigeon shit clung to the corner of her eye.
"Once we're inside," Bob said quietly as they approached the doors, "keep your mouth shut and your ears open. Got it?"
"Got it."
---
They passed through the revolving doors and crossed the crowded, noisy lobby. The main conference hall was on the second floor, accessible via a wide marble staircase.
Inside the conference hall, the heads of different precincts and departments stood in small clusters. Cigarette smoke hung in the air despite the NO SMOKING signs posted every few meters. Marco spotted Brown. He was whispering urgently to two subordinates who looked like they wanted to be anywhere else.
The heads of Major Crimes, Narcotics, Organized Crime, and even ESU were all present. Gordon stood near the front with Bullock, both of them looking uncomfortable in their dress uniforms.
"Quite a lineup," Marco muttered.
Bob grunted in agreement and found a seat near the back and off to the side. Marco dropped into the chair next to him, feeling the weight of too many eyes tracking his movement.
Before long, a side door opened. The murmurs died instantly.
Barnes stepped onto the small podium at the front of the hall. He wasn't tall, maybe five-ten, but he was built like a fire hydrant. His dark blue commissioner's uniform was pressed so sharply it could cut glass. The stars on his shoulders gleamed under the lights.
He stood ramrod straight, and slowly swept his gaze across every face in the hall. It felt less like being looked at and more like being inventoried.
"Gentlemen." His voice came through the microphone clear and hard. "First, let us observe thirty seconds of silence for the seventeen colleagues who gave their lives in the Wayne Tower attack."
He bowed his head first. Chairs scraped against the floor as everyone stood. Then came silence, broken only by the faint hum of the ventilation system.
Marco lowered his head. Images flashed behind his closed eyes.
Seventeen.
Seventeen funerals. Seventeen families getting the news that their father, son, brother, husband wasn't coming home.
After thirty seconds, Barnes raised his head. "Their sacrifice upheld the dignity of the Gotham City Police Department and safeguarded this city. They are heroes. We will remember them. Please, sit."
The scraping of chairs again.
"Before we address the issues that brought us here today, I want to acknowledge the units and individuals who distinguished themselves during the crisis." He pulled out a paper. "Detective James Gordon and the Major Crimes Unit held the line under extreme disadvantage and displayed extraordinary courage in the face of overwhelming firepower. West Precinct intercepted flank infiltration and prevented the attackers from establishing a secondary position. East End Precinct provided swift support and maintained critical communication links throughout the engagement. I would also note that under specific circumstances, the private security forces present at Wayne Tower shared the burden of defense. While their presence raises questions we will address shortly, their contribution in that moment cannot be dismissed."
He set the paper down.
"But... While acknowledging these achievements, we must face the shocking failures that were exposed that night. Failures of leadership and judgment. Failures that cost lives."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.
"The first issue." Barnes' gaze locked onto Brown. "Chief Brown, why did not a single officer from West Precinct enter the main combat zone that night?"
Brown's face went pale. He opened his mouth, closed it, then managed, "Sir, we were establishing a perimeter—"
"You were five kilometers away from the engagement. Your officers were equipped with nothing but sidearms and soft body armor. While your colleagues were dying in the plaza, you were establishing a perimeter in the financial district where nothing was happening."
"Sir, I made a decision based on—"
"Based on what? Cowardice?" Barnes leaned forward slightly. "Your precinct had the second-closest response time to the scene. You should have been the first reinforcements to arrive. Instead, officers from East End beat you there by twenty minutes despite being twice as far away."
Brown looked like he wanted to sink through the floor. Several other chiefs shifted uncomfortably, probably wondering if they were next.
"I will be launching a full investigation into West Precinct's response protocols and command decisions that night." Barnes straightened, moving his gaze across the room. "If incompetence is found, there will be consequences. If cowardice is found, those consequences will be severe."
He let that hang in the air for a moment, then turned his attention to Gordon.
"The second issue. Detective Gordon."
Gordon stood up slowly. "Yes, sir."
"I've read your file. Your reputation for integrity and courage precedes you. Which is why I'm asking you directly: why were Falcone's private forces better equipped than our frontline officers?"
Gordon blinked. "Sir, I don't control department budgets or—"
"I'm not asking about budgets." Barnes cut him off. "I'm asking why a criminal organization had AT-4 rocket launchers, military-grade automatic weapons, and tactical coordination that exceeded some of our professionally trained rapid-response units."
The hall went dead silent. Everyone knew where this was going.
"What does this tell us, Detective Gordon?"
"I don't—"
"It tells us," Barnes said, "that among some of our colleagues, perhaps within certain departments, there has been a longstanding policy of accommodation toward organized crime. Or worse. Active collusion."
"Carmine Falcone." He pronounced the name with undisguised contempt. "He and the rotten system he represents are one of the primary breeding grounds for evil in this city. In the past, some people turned a blind eye to this. Some may have profited from it."
His gaze swept across the older precinct chiefs, Bob included, like a searchlight hunting for targets.
"But that ends now. One of my primary objectives is to dismantle the Falcone crime family completely. To destroy the outdated, corrupt system of 'understandings' and 'arrangements' that have poisoned this department for decades. I want the people of Gotham to know that the only things protecting them are the law, and the officers who enforce it. Not the 'mercy' or 'rules' of some crime boss."
A few younger officers looked energized, eyes shining. But most of the veterans looked worried. Bringing down Falcone meant war. War meant bodies. And bodies meant funerals.
Gordon glanced at Marco, and their eyes met for a brief moment. Marco could see the conflict there... Gordon wanted Falcone gone as much as anyone, but he'd been a cop long enough to know that righteous speeches didn't win wars. Bullets did.
Bob's mouth had twisted into something between a grimace and a sneer.
The hall was still processing this bombshell when Barnes' gaze landed on Marco.
"The third issue."
Marco felt every eye in the room turn toward him.
"This concerns a weapon that appeared during the Wayne Tower operation. A weapon that far exceeds GCPD equipment regulations and, in fact, violates international conventions on weapons of war."
Everyone knew what he was talking about.
"Captain Marco Vitale. East End Precinct."
Marco's spine straightened automatically. "Sir."
"Can you explain to your colleagues where you obtained a fourteen-point-five-millimeter anti-materiel sniper rifle?"
Barnes continued, not waiting for an answer. "Where is its registration? Who authorized you to use this weapon in a counterterrorism operation within city limits? According to Article Seven, Clause Three of the GCPD Equipment Management Regulations, all police firearms must be properly registered and comply with urban law-enforcement standards. Your rifle is not registered. Its effective range exceeds one kilometer. Its penetration capability can defeat light armored vehicles. Yet you used it for precision shooting in a densely populated area. How did you obtain this weapon, Captain? What was your justification for its use? Did you consider the potential for collateral damage? The civilian casualties that could have resulted from a miss? The political and legal ramifications of employing a weapon of war on American soil?"
Bob shifted beside Marco, his fingers drumming silently on the armrest.
"I need an explanation. And it better be a good one."
The entire hall was silent.
Marco stood slowly.
Deny everything? No, some officers saw me fire the damn thing. Claim ignorance? That makes me look incompetent. Throw someone else under the bus? That's not happening. So what's left?
Attack.
"Sir, with respect, I think you're asking the wrong questions."
Barnes' eyes narrowed dangerously. "Excuse me?"
"You want to know where I got the rifle. Why I used it. Whether I considered collateral damage. Those are all valid questions. But there's a more important one you should be asking first."
"And what's that?"
"Why did I need it?"
Barnes' expression didn't change, but Marco saw the micro-reaction.
"That night, we were facing a hostile force equipped with military hardware, body armor that defeated standard police ammunition, and tactical training that outmatched most of our officers. They had rocket launchers. They had belt-fed machine guns. And they had giants. Standard equipment wasn't working. Officers were dying. So I used what was available to stop the threat and save lives." Marco met Barnes' stare without flinching. "Would you prefer I had let more of our people die while waiting for proper authorization?"
"That's not—"
"Because that's what you're saying, sir. That following procedure was more important than stopping a massacre."
The hall erupted into murmurs. Bob grabbed Marco's arm, trying to pull him back down into his seat, but Marco stayed standing.
Barnes' face had gone red. "Captain Vitale, you do not get to—"
"I have a question for you, Commissioner."
The room went silent again.
"During that firefight, while bullets were flying and officers were dying in the plaza below, where were you?"
Barnes' expression went from angry to furious. "What did you say?"
"I'm asking a simple question, sir. When the shooting started, when your people needed leadership, where were you? Because from where I was standing, I saw you on top of Wayne Tower, behind cover, while the people under your command were being cut down. Is that what leadership looks like now? Hiding in a tower while your officers bleed out on the street, then coming down afterward to lecture everyone about procedure?"
Bob was pulling on Marco's arm, but Marco ignored him.
"Was it fear that kept you in that tower, Commissioner? Or was it cowardice?"