The first gunshot from the Penguin's ambush on Batman cracked through the night sky over the Gotham docks with exceptional clarity. The sound did not resemble a call to battle; rather, it felt like the starting pistol at a racetrack.
The Maroni crime family strike team, staked out just beyond the western chain-link fence, reacted instantly like a pack of hyenas scenting blood. Three bulletproof pickup trucks roared to life, their exhaust pipes spewing black smoke that formed a turbid cloud under the streetlights.
The bald brute leading the charge ripped a cigarette from his mouth and stood entirely on the pickup's side running board. Gripping his walkie-talkie so hard his knuckles cracked, the veins on his neck bulging, he let out a raspy roar that drowned out the hum of the engines.
"Ram it! Take the warehouse before Falcone's pussies can even pull up their pants!"
The pickup trucks slammed into the chain-link fence like three runaway iron boars.
The sound of metal twisting and snapping was incredibly piercing, the jagged edges of the fence gleaming a cold white under the headlights.
Gunmen tumbled out of the truck beds, the soles of their boots hitting the concrete with a flurry of heavy, muffled thuds.
The bald brute vaulted over the hood with one hand and landed on the ground, his other hand already raising a submachine gun. With every word he barked, the hideous scar on his jaw--left behind when someone slashed him years ago--flushed deep red with excitement.
"Move! Move it! If you don't take that door, you can look forward to hanging from a lamppost and catching the sea breeze!"
Before his voice could fade, the second-floor windows of the warehouse were violently pushed open from the inside.
The barrels of two automatic rifles thrust outward, their muzzles reflecting a cold, metallic sheen under the moonlight.
The next second, orange-red tongues of fire erupted. The bullets swept downward from their high vantage point, striking the pickup trucks and sending up a continuous cascade of sparks.
The two gunmen rushing at the very front collapsed into the muddy water before they could even make a sound. The remaining men scrambled and crawled behind whatever cover they could find--rusted oil drums, stacked wooden crates, pickup truck doors. In Gotham, this kind of conditioned reflex was etched right into the bones of every mobster.
In an instant, the warehouse district transformed from dead silence into a boiling powder keg.
Falcone's garrison force was no collection of greenhorns pulled together at the last minute, either. Sandbags were piled behind the windows to form firing platforms, the ground-floor entrances were welded completely shut with iron plates, and reinforced steel spikes were driven into the doorposts. A young gunman yelled to his companion at the top of his lungs during a break in reloading.
"The fighting has already started on the Penguin's side! Those bastards are busy dealing with Batman, now is our time!"
In the pier wind, the white smoke of burning gunpowder blended with the salty stench of seawater.
The gunfire rolled in with rust and diesel exhaust, filling the air with an acrid, burning smell that irritated the respiratory tract, like thick phlegm mixed with iron shavings stuck in the throat.
Maroni's strike team was pinned down inside a narrow container alley, unable to lift their heads at all. If anyone exposed even a sliver of scalp, the firepower from the second floor swept down with harvesting precision. Bullets struck the sheet metal like a heavy downpour, sending sparks flying everywhere.
A gunman huddled behind an oil drum exposed half an eye, only for a bullet to strike the rim of the barrel. The ricochet grazed his earlobe, leaving a searing trail of blood.
He pressed the back of his head tightly against the cold sheet metal, curling his entire body like a startled hedgehog.
The bald brute's back was pressed flat against a massive, rusted oil drum. He could clearly feel the vibrations traveling through the iron wall every time a bullet hit the cover. The scar on his face turned completely livid. He grabbed his walkie-talkie, his voice as raspy as sandpaper scraping across concrete.
"Damn it! Isn't that iron gate open yet? The boys are pinned down completely outside!"
From the other end of the walkie-talkie came an extremely brief, almost crazed reply. The tone was so nonchalant it sounded like someone deciding what to have for a midnight snack. "Ram it with the car."
The bald brute froze for less than a second. He slammed his shoulder hard against the pickup's fender, denting the metal plate. "Did you hear that, driver? Time to make use of this piece of junk! Drive through the fire for me!"
Meanwhile, within the shadows on the perimeter of the docks, several pairs of eyes stared intently at the chaotic battlefield through mask eyeholes. Black Mask's False Face Society had been watching from the outskirts like a flock of vultures for a long time.
The leader wore a deathly white, skull-like smiling mask. The moonlight cut in from the left, splitting the frozen smile on the mask into an eerie pattern of half-light and half-shadow. Crouching beside the mast of an abandoned fishing boat, he observed with almost slow-motion patience.
Then he raised a hand and made a clean, sharp downward cutting gesture. "Go take down those two outer outposts. Make it quick, don't get tangled up with them. We're here to make a fortune, not to risk our lives... Oh wait, what am I seeing? Is the Bat here too?"
Black Mask hesitated for a second. Between revenge and profit, he chose the former.
"Change of plans! Go surround and attack Batman!"
Three black motorcycles cut their engines in the darkness, sliding soundlessly into the edge of the pier on momentum.
With the engines completely shut off, there was only the faintest rustling sound of chains and tires rolling over the gravel road. The riders' boots tapped the ground to assist in braking, like three night bats gliding close to the earth.
When this group slipped into the first outpost, they found Falcone's guards had been drawn away completely. The warehouse door was left ajar; pushing it open revealed piles of wooden crates inside.
The leading masked man pulled out a long blade to pry open a crate lid. Inside was full of Falcone's most profitable smuggled tobacco.
The Virginia tobacco leaves were pressed into neat squares, emitting a rich, fermented aroma. The Falcone family crest was branded onto the lid. He reached out to touch the leaves, the corners of his mouth under the mask twitching involuntarily. Turning around, he gave a brief command to the riders behind him.
Several riders pushed out folding flatbed carts from the shadows and began stacking the sealed wooden crates onto them.
On top of a shipping container.
Batman's gaze bypassed the False Face Society riders who were moving the goods, landing on the tongues of fire continuously spewing from the second floor of the warehouse district.
The distance between the two battlefields, the wind direction, the distribution of cover--all data was completely calculated within moments.
He did not jump straight down. Instead, he glided soundlessly along the top ridge of the containers, moving toward the warehouse district.
At least more than half of the people present held a grudge against him; eagerly turning himself into a target for their firepower was truly not a wise move.
Maroni's pickup truck reversed and accelerated, its tires screeching on the gravel road and emitting acrid, blue smoke.
The entire chassis shuddered as the engine revved to its limit. The next second, the bumper crashed through the iron gate, only to get jammed halfway on a cargo rack. The vehicle tilted, its rear wheels spinning in the air and producing a deafening roar.
Falcone's firepower immediately shifted toward the entrance, bullets pouring down like a torrential rain.
The cargo racks at the loading dock shattered and flew apart in the hail of bullets, splinters of wood and iron shards exploding into a cloud of gray-white dust under the searchlights. Maroni's vanguard was forced back by this barrage the moment they stepped inside, while the False Face Society riders were lifting wooden crates onto the back seats of their motorcycles.
Batman dropped down from the top of the container, moving along the cold iron wall, every step falling precisely into the gaps between the gunshots. As he passed the corner where the False Face Society had parked their motorcycles, he reached out and pressed the back of the neck of a rider who was tying up a crate. The man went limp and collapsed before he could even make a sound.
He gently placed the wooden crate that slipped from the man's hands onto the ground. Another rider nearby looked up and saw him. Just as his mouth opened, Batman was already close. A short, sharp elbow strike landed precisely on the side of the man's jaw, and Batman caught the slumping body, laying it flat beside the wooden crates.
Over by the warehouse district, Maroni organized another charge. The spent casings in front of the loading dock already covered the concrete floor in a brass-colored carpet, making a faint metallic scraping sound when stepped on. Every step was slippery.
The bald brute ejected the empty magazine from his gun grip, pulled a fresh magazine from his tactical vest, slapped it in, racked the bolt, and raised his gun to fire continuous bursts at the second-floor window. It wasn't to hit anyone, but to suppress the opponent's firing intervals.
Batman had already scaled the outer wall on the other side of the warehouse. His fingers dug into the cement grooves between the brick gaps, and the soles of his boots pressed against the protruding pipe brackets on the wall, rising soundlessly against the wall under the cover of gunfire. He checked the ventilation windows one by one with smooth, continuous movements, finally flipping through a ventilation window and landing in the power distribution room.
The False Face Society riders twisted their throttles, preparing to leave.
The first person to rush around the corner of the alley had his front wheel just roll over the spent casings when his headlight illuminated a dark shadow directly ahead.
A grapnel gun cable shot across at an angle, tangling the front wheel. The motorcycle and its rider flipped once in the air before slamming onto the ground, the wheel hub throwing sparks before finally hitting the base of a container and stalling out.
The remaining riders braked hard, abandoning their bikes to scatter, only to be pinned by their collars or pant legs one by one by Batarangs flying out from the corner, crashing to the ground.
On the second floor of the warehouse. The automatic rifle at the final firing position suddenly jammed, and the shooter bent over to grab a backup weapon. As he stood up, a hand wearing a Kevlar glove reached out from behind the door of the power distribution room, grabbing his wrist and twisting it outward. The gun dropped to the floor.
Batman's figure appeared at the second-floor window.
His cape whipped loudly in the pier wind, and beneath those white eye lenses, not a single trace of pain could be seen. He looked down at the scene below, slowly sweeping his gaze across every single face present.