The conference room went silent.
Everyone was waiting for the explosion. Barnes stood frozen at the podium. Around the room, precinct chiefs and department heads sat motionless, eyes wide, not even breathing. Some looked horrified. Some looked like they were fighting not to smile.
The silence stretched out. Five seconds. Ten.
Then Barnes' face went from red to purple, the veins in his neck standing out like cables.
Bob suddenly sprang to his feet, his bulk making the chair screech backward across the floor.
"Calm down!"
He held up both hands in a placating gesture.
"What Captain Vitale meant is... the fighting was intense that night. Maybe he saw things wrong. You know how it is... first time experiencing something on this scale, witnessing so many colleagues wounded or killed... stress can mess with your head. PTSD is a real thing."
He cleared his throat twice.
"As for that rifle, I'll investigate when I get back to the East End. I'm sure this is just an administrative oversight. We'll have a proper, by-the-book investigation result soon."
Under the table, his hand found Marco's jacket again and yanked, hard enough that Marco had to shift his weight to keep from stumbling.
The message was clear: Sit the fuck down.
Barnes' expression shifted.
"All right, Chief McGinnis. If he has PTSD, then what about you?"
Bob's smile faltered.
"Are you going to step forward and take responsibility? Because we might as well talk about your responsibility. I think it's just the way things are in your East End Precinct, leadership sets the tone. You've grown accustomed to an atmosphere of indiscipline and reckless behavior. As the highest-ranking officer of the East End Precinct, not only did you turn a blind eye to your subordinate's serious violations, you even attempted to shield him. I now seriously question whether that illegal weapon appearing on the battlefield had your tacit approval, or even your direct authorization."
Bob's face went from flushed to pale so fast it looked like someone had thrown a switch. His smile died completely.
Barnes stepped forward, both hands on the podium. "The East End Precinct under your leadership has gone far beyond mere oversight. Chaotic financial records. A one-million-dollar donation from Wayne Enterprises... how long has that been sitting in your accounts? And already you're scrambling to plug holes in your budget. And then there's your relationship with certain figures from Gotham's gray zones. Do I need to lay that out here, in front of all your colleagues? For example, providing escort services for Falcone's convoy through a businessman named Oswald Cobblepot?"
Embezzlement. Skimming. Taking dirty money from the mob. Those were open secrets in the GCPD, everyone knew it happened, everyone looked the other way, because that's how you survived in Gotham. But no one ever said it.
Barnes had just pulled the pin on a different grenade.
"You're talking out of your ass." Bob's voice came out hoarse.
"Am I?" Barnes raised an eyebrow. "Would you like me to present the financial records? The communication logs? The witness statements?"
"Fuck you. When I was out on the streets trading gunfire with gangs, you were sitting in an office writing your goddamn moral reports. What right do you have to question me? You don't know what Gotham is like at all. Without us, this city would've collapsed decades ago."
Bob was shaking now, trembling with fury. He pointed at Barnes.
"Fine. You want an investigation? I welcome IAD moving into the East End. But let me remind you, while my officers are dealing with your witch hunt, they might not have the extra energy to maintain order and stability on the streets. If anything happens, you'll bear full responsibility."
"Look at yourself, Chief McGinnis!" Barnes refused to back down. "This is the cancer of the Gotham City Police Department! Corruption, collusion, and you still think you're a hero! I'm telling you right now, I'll investigate your problems down to the last penny. The East End's books? I'll go through them line by line with you."
Bob stared at him for a long moment.
"You know what?" His voice was suddenly calm. "Fuck this."
He grabbed his chair and flung it aside with a loud crash that made half the room flinch.
"This meeting is over for me. You can play your little make-believe games by yourself."
He turned and headed for the door without looking back.
Marco glanced at Barnes on the podium. The commissioner's face was ashen. He flashed him a smile, then looked around at the other officers. The remaining precinct chiefs showed varying degrees of shock, with a few failing to conceal their satisfaction.
He said nothing. He just turned and followed Bob out.
---
The hallway outside the conference room was nearly empty. Most of the rank-and-file officers who'd been milling around had scattered the moment Bob came storming out, reading the mood and deciding they wanted no part of whatever was about to happen.
He walked fast despite his bulk. Marco had to lengthen his stride to keep up. Neither of them spoke until they reached the stairwell, and even then Bob just grunted and started down the stairs, taking them two at a time. They didn't talk in the parking structure either. Bob fumbled for his keys, dropped them, cursed under his breath, picked them up, and unlocked his car. Marco climbed into the passenger seat and shut the door, and only then did Bob finally stop moving.
He sat there for a moment, hands on the steering wheel. Then he slammed his fist into the dashboard so hard the glove compartment popped open.
"Bastard son of a bitch!"
He hit the dashboard again, then a third time, each impact making the car rock slightly on its suspension.
"I should've let you keep going! I should've let you curse that asshole until he had a goddamn stroke! How could he bring this shit down on me—"
"Chief. Hey. Stop. You're going to break your hand."
Bob froze, fist raised for another punch, then slowly lowered it. He stared at his knuckles, which were already starting to bruise.
"Fuck."
"Yeah." Marco leaned back in his seat, exhaling slowly. "That went well."
Bob let out a sound that might've been a laugh or might've been a sob, hard to tell. He rubbed his face with both hands, then reached for the pack of cigarettes in his jacket pocket. His hands were still shaking as he lit one.
"I'm too old for this shit," he muttered, taking a long drag. "I really am."
They sat in silence for a moment, the only sound Bob's heavy breathing and the faint tick-tick-tick of the engine cooling down.
Finally, Marco spoke.
"We need to get out of here before someone comes looking for us."
"Yeah." Bob turned the key. The engine coughed to life. "Yeah, let's go."
---
The drive back to the East End was quiet. Bob chain-smoked the entire way, lighting each new cigarette from the dying ember of the last one. Marco stared out the window, watching Gotham slide past.
When they finally pulled into the East End precinct's parking lot, Bob killed the engine and just sat there for a moment, staring at the building like he was seeing it for the first time.
"Come on," he said finally. "Let's go inside before I do something stupid."
The precinct was quiet. A few patrol officers were milling around the lobby, filling out paperwork or bullshitting with each other, but the moment they saw Bob's face they found urgent reasons to be somewhere else. Bob stormed through the lobby without acknowledging anyone, took the stairs to the second floor, and went straight to his office.
Marco followed him in and shut the door.
Bob stood in the middle of the room for a moment. Then he spun around and punched his desk so hard a coffee mug jumped and clattered to the floor. Miraculously, it didn't break.
"Motherfucker!"
He pointed at Marco with the hand holding his cigarette, ash falling onto the floor.
"Dammit. Dammit!"
"Chief." Marco held up both hands in a calming gesture. "You're going to give yourself a heart attack."
"I should give him a heart attack—"
"You keep hitting things, you're going to break something expensive." Marco gestured at the desk, which was covered in files, paperwork, and, sitting in the corner, an ornate tea set that looked completely out of place in Bob's utilitarian office. "That tea set doesn't look cheap."
Bob stopped mid-rant and looked at the tea set. His anger seemed to deflate slightly.
"Oh. Right." He picked up one of the teacups, turning it over in his hands like he was inspecting it for damage. "This set cost me over two hundred bucks. Supposedly antique. You think it's real?"
Marco raised an eyebrow. "If it were real, two hundred would only be enough to look at it through a window."
"Yeah, that's what I figured." Bob set the cup back down gently. "I knew it was too good to be true."
He took another drag from his cigarette, then stubbed it out in the ashtray.
"Your emotions cooled down pretty fast."
"Yeah, well." Bob slumped into his chair, which creaked under his weight. "I learned a long time ago that aside from the initial burst of rage you can't control, repeatedly losing your temper doesn't solve anything. It just makes you stupid."
He pulled out another cigarette but didn't light it, just rolled it between his fingers.
"Doesn't mean I'm not still pissed. Just means I'm trying to think instead of breaking my own shit."
Marco pulled a chair over and sat down across from Bob's desk. "For what it's worth, I probably was too impulsive back there."
"Don't give me that fake humble bullshit." Bob finally lit the cigarette, exhaling smoke toward the ceiling. "Besides, he was trying to make an example out of you. Out of both of us."
The smoke drifted between them, turning the air hazy. Bob's face blurred slightly in Marco's vision.
"I've got a question," Marco said, waving the smoke away. "Who's backing him?"
Bob's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"
"Come on. You know what I mean. Barnes wants to take down the East End, the West Side, Gordon, and Falcone, all at the same time. Even O'Brien wouldn't be stupid enough to start that many fires at once. So either he is an overconfident idiot who doesn't understand how Gotham works..."
"Or he's got a powerful patron who thinks he can steamroll everyone," Bob said quietly.
"Exactly." Marco drummed his fingers on the armrest. "Do you still have contacts at headquarters? Or in City Hall? We need to dig into his background."
Bob was quiet for a moment, thinking. Then he nodded slowly.
"Yeah. I've still got a few people who owe me favors. I'll make some calls." His expression darkened. "Damn it. You know what I was thinking about during that whole meeting?"
"What?"
Bob's gaze turned cold.
"I was thinking... why don't we just kill him?"
Marco didn't react. He just leaned back in his chair, considering the idea like Bob had suggested getting takeout.
"Killing him wouldn't be hard," he said finally. "But you just had a very public falling-out with him. You'd never shake the suspicion. IAD would be on you like flies on shit."
"Yeah." Bob took another drag. "That's what I figured. So what do we do?"
Marco was quiet for a moment, turning the problem over in his mind. Then he smiled.
"Let's think of it differently. He just declared war on Falcone."
"So?"
"So let's help him."
Bob's head snapped up. "What?"
"Think about it. Right now, Falcone won't move against Barnes just because of some speeches and posturing. He's too smart for that. He knows Barnes has to do something before it becomes a real threat."
"Okay..."
"So we help Barnes create an opportunity." Marco's smile widened slightly. "A gun is useless until the trigger's pulled. We let him pull it, make him think he's in control, and then..."
He trailed off, but Bob was already nodding.
"And then Falcone stops treating him like a joke and starts treating him like an enemy."
"Exactly." Marco sat back. "Barnes wants to be a hero. Let him. We'll make sure it gets him killed."
Bob stared at him for a long moment, smoke curling around his face. Then he started to laugh. It was a low, rough sound that had no humor in it.
"You're a devious bastard, you know that?"
"I learned from the best."
Bob shook his head, still chuckling darkly. He stubbed out his cigarette and immediately lit another one.
"There's one more thing," Marco said quietly. "Barnes knows too much about what we've been doing. That means someone's been talking."
Bob's smile died.
"You need to figure out who's under you are loyal and who's been feeding information to headquarters. Because if we don't clean house, he will use them to bury us."
Bob was quiet for a long moment, his expression grim. Then he nodded slowly.
"Yeah. You're right." He took a long drag, held it, exhaled. "I'll handle it."