SEL Chapter 39

Jim Gordon’s eye is blackened, and his glasses lie cracked on the floor. He sits in one of the chairs in the apartment that he moved into after being removed as commissioner. Barbara had been critical of it, citing “Bachelor energy” and the lack of homey touches. Jim had to concede that he could understand why someone in a wheelchair wouldn’t want to live on the fourteenth floor.

Still, he finds the new place more comfortable than the house where he raised Barbara and James.

He prefers it without intruders. His hands are tied behind the back of the chair, and his ankles are zip-tied to the legs. He can hardly move, and his wrists are raw. He gazes stonily at the man standing over him. His attacker wears dark armor and a smooth mask, which is split down the middle like Harvey Dent’s face: one half is black and one is bronze.

They’ve never met face to face, but this is Slade Wilson, known to some as Deathstroke. Jim has more familiarity than he likes with these masked types, even the ones who rarely visit Gotham.

Wilson’s mask is turned toward the TV. The volume is low, but audible.

Jim glances at the coat rack. He’s not a cop anymore, but he still has a leather shoulder holster with his gun in it by his front door. It’s about fifteen feet away; it might as well be in Japan.

The TV draws his attention. Viti Saxena and Jim’s daughter are coming onstage. Viti strides boldly, waving while Barbara wheels herself out with a smile.

The lovely Summer Gleeson welcomes them. Jim swallows, his eyes on Barbara.

“How are we feeling tonight, ladies?” Summer asks.

“I feel like I’m going to be mayor,” Viti says.

“And you, Ms. Gordon?” Summer turns a slightly frosty look on her.

Barbara laughs. “A little nervous.”

Wilson’s masked head cocks slightly to his right, then he looks at Jim.

“Not what you wanted to see, huh? My daughter has a backbone,” Jim grinds out.

“So does a corpse.” Wilson kicks the chair over, and Jim grunts as his wrists snap under his weight. Wilson looms, reaching over his shoulder to grasp the hilt of the sword sheathed on his back.

A low hum makes the drinking glass on the coffee table vibrate subtly.

Blinding light shoots through the blinds, and Wilson turns and flinches as something dark and pointed punches through the wall of Jim’s apartment.

Wilson’s gloved fingers tighten on his sword, and his other hand finds the pistol on his belt.

There’s a loud clang and a boom. The wall is ripped away, and the sleek silhouette of the Batman’s plane blocks some of the sparkling skyline. Bricks and drywall fall away, filling the air with dust.

Wilson turns his back on Jim, and a figure in purple erupts from the gray cloud, driving a heavy boot straight into his chest. Wilson staggers but doesn’t fall. Huntress lands gracefully and fires her crossbow. Wilson chops the bolts out of the air with his sword in a blur and rushes her. The crossbow is cleaved cleanly in two as she cartwheels out of the way.

Jim can only watch. He doesn’t know the Huntress the way that he knows some of the other costumed vigilantes who have prowled his streets, but he has seen her put herself on the line before. Never for him, and never up close. He grinds his teeth as she draws a knife from the small of her back. She looks very small compared to Wilson.

“You must be joking,” Wilson says.

Huntress snatches a chair from the table. Wilson chops it out of her hand and catches her wrist, stopping her knife a centimeter from his mask. She wrenches it aside and brutally headbutts him, taking him by surprise. He falters, and she breaks free and slams the knife into his chest. Wilson kicks her away and slashes her back as he stumbles.

Huntress falls to one knee. Blood streams from her broken nose and her wounded back while her severed cape flutters to the floor.

Wilson considers the knife buried in him. His armor stopped it from going too deep, but she got him. He pulls it out and throws it aside in time to be blinded by Huntress’ flash grenade. He slashes with deadly speed, and Huntress rushes in, barely ducking in time. Black hairs are caught on the wind through the missing wall as she tries to disarm him. He catches her and slams his knee into her chest, then drops his elbow on the base of her skull. He yanks her up by her hair, but she launches herself into him, wrapping her arms around his body and crashing him into the wall. He clasps his hands and brings them down on her wounded back, but she takes it and knees him in the groin, then rips his mask off and swings at his face. Wilson blocks and strikes her in the chest with his open palm, sending her smashing through Jim’s glass coffee table.

Wilson bends to pick up his sword, then his mask.

Glass tinkles as Huntress picks herself up, shards protruding from her side, her legs, and her back. Her bleeding hand squeezes a jagged shard. Wilson moves before she can react, skipping forward and delivering a kick to her chest that sends her airborne. She hits the wall beside Jim’s front door hard enough to shake dust from the ceiling and crack the big, framed print of a young Barbara Gordon holding up a blue ribbon for gymnastics.

Huntress crumples to the ground.

Wilson advances on Jim.

Huntress’s gloved hand feels through the splinters of the coat rack. She pulls Jim’s gun from his holster and gets shakily to her feet.

Wilson sees her and the pistol. She is in tatters and covered in blood, but her gun hand is steady.

“An unconvincing bluff isn’t a bluff,” Wilson says. “It’s a waste of time.”

Huntress spits out a tooth and cocks the hammer. “You must have me confused with someone else.”

Wilson raises his sword, bathed in the lights of the hovering Batplane.

Shoot him? Or tackle him?