Floyd Lawton made his final adjustments to the specialized rifle, the wind calculations appearing in his targeting HUD with clinical precision. From his position on the Gotham National Bank rooftop, he had a perfect line of sight through the hotel's eastern windows, directly to where Councilman Grogan stood engaged in conversation.
The rifle beneath his hands was a masterpiece of engineering—custom-built with components that wouldn't exist on the commercial market for another decade. The barrel was military-grade titanium alloy, the scope a prototype developed for JSOC snipers but deemed too expensive for mass production. Lawton had acquired it through channels that even his handler didn't know about. At this distance, with this weapon, he could thread a needle. A human skull behind reinforced glass was practically a training exercise.
"Wind speed stable at seven knots, north-northeast," he murmured to himself, the words a ritual that centered his focus. "Humidity sixty-two percent. Temperature fifty-seven degrees. Barometric pressure rising."
His mechanical eye whirred almost inaudibly as it processed these variables, projecting trajectory data onto his HUD with a level of precision that made human error almost impossible. Deadshot didn't just make difficult shots—he made impossible ones, and he made them look easy.
The first contract would be simple—one clean shot through the glass, timed to coincide with the orchestra's crescendo to mask the sound. Then reposition for phase two: Batman's inevitable arrival. Alberto Falcone's briefing had been explicit about Batman's protective interest in Wayne Foundation events. Where Bruce Wayne appeared, the Bat often followed. It was a pattern Lawton had identified independently during his pre-mission intelligence gathering, and it gave him a rare opportunity to collect on both contracts in a single night.
Through his scope, Lawton tracked movement patterns in the ballroom, each potential target appearing with accompanying data—identification if available, threat assessment, proximity to primary target. Years of conditioning had trained his brain to process this information without conscious thought, the same way ordinary people breathed.
He noted with professional interest when Gordon received a communication that caused him to look concerned, his body language shifting subtly—shoulders tensing, hand moving closer to his concealed weapon, eyes scanning the room with increased vigilance. But crucially, Gordon made the mistake of leaving Grogan's side momentarily to speak with Bruce Wayne across the room.
"Amateur move, Commissioner," Lawton whispered with cold satisfaction. "Never leave your protectee exposed."
Grogan remained oblivious to the danger, laughing with a group of donors near the window—precisely where Lawton's pre-mission intelligence had suggested he would be. The councilman had predictable habits, a weakness in someone with his growing list of enemies.
The orchestra reached its crescendo, strings and brass swelling to cover any potential sound of breaking glass. Lawton's breathing slowed, his heartbeat steady as a metronome as he prepared for the precise moment between beats to squeeze the trigger.
His finger had just started the controlled pressure when he sensed, rather than heard, a presence behind him. Years of combat instinct made him hesitate for a microsecond—just enough time to catch a glimpse of movement in his peripheral vision.
"Deadshot."
The gravelly voice came from directly behind him, impossibly close. But Lawton had survived countless missions by transforming split-second decisions into decisive action. In one fluid motion, he completed the trigger pull on his primary target while simultaneously rolling sideways from his prone position.
The specialized round streaked toward the hotel, its trajectory a perfect arc that accounted for wind resistance, ballistic drop, and the refractive properties of the reinforced glass. Lawton didn't need visual confirmation to know the shot had found its mark—the calculations were flawless, the execution perfect. Councilman Grogan was dead before Lawton's combat roll was complete.
One contract fulfilled. One to go.
His wrist-mounted guns deployed with a mechanical whir as he came up in a firing stance three meters from where he'd been positioned. But even as he tracked the threat with inhuman precision, Lawton knew he'd been outmaneuvered.
Batman stood between him and his abandoned rifle, cape flowing in the night wind, his silhouette more menacing than any photograph or security footage had captured. The white lenses of his cowl gleamed in the darkness, betraying no emotion, while the armor's contours blended with the shadows in ways that confused even Deadshot's enhanced vision.
Behind him, through his scope's feed still linked to his HUD, Lawton could see the chaos erupting in the ballroom. Grogan had collapsed, a precision hole through his left temple exactly as planned. The surrounding guests were only beginning to realize what had happened, their expressions changing from confusion to horror in slow motion. Gordon was already moving toward the fallen councilman, his face a mask of fury and grief as he shouted orders to officers stationed throughout the ballroom.
"Impressive," Lawton acknowledged, his wrist guns trained on Batman's chest. "But not quite fast enough to save the councilman."
Batman's posture shifted almost imperceptibly—a slight tension that communicated more rage than any outburst could have. "You'll pay for that."
"Professional hazard," Deadshot replied coolly. "Nothing personal against Grogan. Just a job."
There was something unnervingly controlled about Batman's rage—none of the wild energy or unfocused aggression Lawton had observed in other opponents. Just cold, calculated fury channeled into lethal purpose.
Deadshot's HUD activated automatically, analyzing the Batsuit in real-time. Thermal imaging was partially blocked by what appeared to be specialized insulation, but structural weaknesses were still identifiable. The armor was strongest at the chest and abdomen—unsurprising given these were primary target areas—but the joints showed potential vulnerability. His targeting system registered multiple lock-ons across Batman's exposed jawline and the suit's articulation points.
"Seven million's a lot of money for bringing you in alive," Lawton said conversationally, adjusting his stance for optimal firing angles. His right foot slid back slightly, weight balanced to compensate for potential recoil. "Makes me curious who wants you so badly."
"Alberto Falcone," Batman replied, his voice a menacing growl that seemed to resonate from the shadows themselves. "The same person who paid you to eliminate Councilman Grogan before he could introduce anti-corruption legislation."
Deadshot's expression remained impassive behind his own mask, but his surprise registered in a slight hesitation—barely a microsecond, but enough that he recognized the tell in himself. Batman wasn't just guessing. He had intelligence that should have been secure.
"You've done your homework," Lawton conceded, respect mingling with professional concern. "Shame it didn't help you save Grogan. One contract down, one to go."
Batman hadn't moved, hadn't shifted his weight or tensed for action. The absolute stillness was more unnerving than any threat display. Lawton's tactical assessment cycled through scenarios, calculating probabilities and optimal responses. The specialized ammunition in his wrist-mounted guns was designed to penetrate body armor, but the Batsuit appeared more advanced than standard tactical gear. Distance was currently his ally—the further from Batman, the less those rumored hand-to-hand skills would matter.
"Then I'll focus on the other one."
Deadshot fired—a rapid series of shots from both wrist guns, each targeting the weakest points in Batman's armor with inhuman accuracy. The rounds were armor-piercing, designed to fragment upon impact for maximum internal damage. At this range, with his targeting systems, it should have been a guaranteed kill-shot for an ordinary opponent.
But Batman was far from ordinary.
The vigilante moved with surprising speed for someone his size, the cape billowing outward in a disorienting pattern that confused targeting systems calibrated for conventional human movement. He twisted sideways, the motion so fluid it seemed choreographed, allowing two rounds to pass harmlessly through the space where his vital organs had been microseconds earlier.
Batman's right arm snapped upward, the gauntlet's reinforced plating deflecting another shot that would have struck his exposed jawline. He dropped to one knee as he completed the movement, reducing his profile while reaching for something in his utility belt.
Deadshot adjusted his targeting parameters, compensating for Batman's unexpected speed and movement patterns. Three rounds struck the vigilante despite his evasive maneuvers—one grazing his exposed jawline, drawing a thin line of blood that appeared black in the moonlight, while two impacted his chest armor but failed to penetrate completely.
Before Lawton could capitalize on these hits, Batman's hand emerged from his belt, flinging three objects that cut through the air with deadly precision. Deadshot recognized the distinctive shape of batarangs, but these were unlike the standard models he'd studied in preparation for this confrontation.
His HUD flashed a warning as it detected unusual electronic signatures from the approaching projectiles. Lawton threw himself sideways, avoiding two of the batarangs, but the third clipped his shoulder guard. Instead of cutting damage, it released a localized electromagnetic pulse that temporarily scrambled the targeting display on that side.
"EMP countermeasures," Deadshot noted with professional appreciation. "You came prepared."
"You're not the first assassin I've hunted," Batman replied, already closing the distance between them with alarming speed.
Lawton activated secondary targeting systems, rerouting through redundant processors as he continued firing. The night air filled with the sharp crack of his specialized weapons, each shot precise despite the partial system disruption. Most vigilantes would have been ventilated by now, their bodies cooling on the rooftop while he collected his fee. But Batman moved like a shadow given form, each motion economical yet unpredictable, using the terrain of the rooftop to maximum advantage.
As Batman drew closer, Deadshot recognized the immediate threat of close-quarters combat. The vigilante's reputation in hand-to-hand fighting was legendary, with rumors of training from the world's deadliest martial arts masters. Lawton needed to maintain distance.
He triggered the explosive charges he'd placed earlier as part of his escape contingency. The western edge of the rooftop erupted in a controlled detonation, creating a barrier of debris and smoke between them. Simultaneously, Lawton launched himself backward, using his suit's enhanced mobility to clear the gap to an adjacent air handling unit, gaining elevation and a better firing position.
"Impressive preparation," Batman's voice carried through the smoke, somehow both everywhere and nowhere. "But predictable for someone with your military background."
The smoke was already being dispersed by the wind, revealing the space where Batman had been standing moments ago. Empty.
Deadshot's HUD scanned frantically, thermal imaging struggling to locate the vigilante through the interference of the still-smoldering explosion. A proximity warning flashed a split-second before Batman emerged from the shadows to Lawton's right—impossibly, he had circled behind the assassin's elevated position.
Lawton pivoted, bringing his weapons to bear, but Batman was already inside his guard. The vigilante's gauntleted fist connected with Deadshot's mechanical eye housing, the impact precise enough to disrupt its calibration without completely destroying the expensive technology. His other hand struck Lawton's right wrist with surgical precision, temporarily numbing the nerve clusters that controlled fine motor function.
The assassin countered with a knee strike aimed at Batman's solar plexus, the blow powerful enough to crack ribs if it connected fully. Batman absorbed the impact with his forearm, redirecting the force while simultaneously sweeping Lawton's supporting leg.
For most opponents, this would have ended the fight. But Deadshot was no ordinary combatant. As he felt himself losing balance, he activated the recoil compensators in his wrist guns, using the controlled burst of gunfire to propel himself backwards and regain stability. The bullets themselves were aimed at Batman's lower legs, forcing the vigilante to dodge rather than press his advantage.
"I've studied your file," Batman said, resetting his stance as his systems recalibrated. "Former military, special operations background. Advanced weapons training."
Batman didn't waste time with further words. He moved with explosive speed, drawing and throwing three specialized batarangs in a single fluid motion. Deadshot's enhanced reflexes allowed him to track the projectiles, his wrist guns picking off two in mid-air. The third sliced across his shoulder guard, drawing a thin line of blood beneath.
Lawton was already firing a controlled burst at Batman's advancing form.
Batman responded with practiced efficiency, his cape snapping outward in a disorienting pattern while he rolled beneath the gunfire. The few rounds that connected impacted his armor with distinct thuds, failing to penetrate completely but clearly causing painful impact trauma. Batman didn't slow, didn't even flinch, his movement carrying him behind an air conditioning unit for momentary cover.
"That shot," Batman's voice came from behind the unit, a dangerous edge to his tone. "Left temple. You planned it that way."
"He was left-handed," Deadshot confirmed, already circling to maintain line of sight. "Creates a predictable movement pattern when he speaks. Makes for a cleaner shot."
A shadow detached itself from behind the unit, Batman moving with surprising agility for someone his size. Deadshot fired immediately, his enhanced targeting adjusting for the vigilante's speed. Three rounds struck Batman—one grazing his exposed jawline, drawing a thin line of blood that appeared black in the moonlight, while two impacted his chest armor but failed to penetrate completely.
Despite the hits, Batman closed the distance with alarming speed. Deadshot recognized the immediate threat of close-quarters combat. The vigilante's reputation in hand-to-hand fighting was legendary, with rumors of training from the world's deadliest martial arts masters.
"Grogan had a family," Batman growled, close enough now that Deadshot could see the white lenses of his cowl narrowing. "A daughter who'll grow up without her father."
"So did my targets in Qurac and Kasnia," Deadshot replied coldly. "War makes orphans every day. At least I make it quick."
Batman's attack came with breathtaking speed and precision—a strike aimed directly at Deadshot's mechanical eye housing. Had it connected fully, it would have disabled his most crucial targeting system. Lawton managed to deflect the blow partially, but still felt the impact reverberate through his skull, momentarily disrupting his visual feed.
Deadshot countered with a swiping kick toward Batman's knee joint, attempting to exploit one of the vulnerable points his HUD had identified. Batman blocked with his armored forearm, redirecting the force while simultaneously launching a precision strike at Lawton's shoulder—directly at the nerve bundle that controlled his right arm's fine motor control.
Lawton twisted away, the blow glancing rather than connecting fully. He fired again at point-blank range, the shots aimed at Batman's lower abdomen where the armor segments connected.
Batman's response was a demonstration of why he had survived seven years facing Gotham's worst. He twisted in a way that seemed to defy anatomy, the bullets passing through the space where his vital organs had been milliseconds earlier. Simultaneously, he delivered a strike to Deadshot's wrist that sent white-hot pain through the assassin's arm.
"I know about your daughter," Batman said, the words carrying more impact than any physical blow. "Zoe. In Star City. How do you think she'd feel knowing what her father does for a living?"
The mention of his daughter triggered something primal in Lawton. His next attack carried an intensity that transcended professional detachment—a flurry of strikes and shots that would have overwhelmed an ordinary opponent.
But Batman was far from ordinary. He weathered the assault like a cliff face against a storm, absorbing what he couldn't dodge, countering when openings appeared. There was a calculated precision to his defense that suggested he was studying Deadshot's patterns, learning his tendencies with each exchange.
From the ballroom across the street, sirens had begun to wail as police responded to Grogan's assassination. The chaos provided a grim soundtrack to their battle—a reminder of what was at stake as Batman fought to prevent further bloodshed.
"She knows nothing," Deadshot spat, firing another burst that Batman narrowly evaded. "And she never will. The money goes into a blind trust. She gets a good life. A clean life."
"Built on blood money," Batman countered, his cape billowing outward in a disorienting pattern as he closed again. "On orphans like the one you just created."
For nearly a minute, they exchanged blows across the rooftop—Deadshot's enhanced targeting systems allowing him to strike with uncanny precision, Batman's superior training and armor absorbing or redirecting the impacts. It was a technical fight between two masters of their craft, each probing for weaknesses in the other's defenses.
"You're good," Deadshot acknowledged as they separated briefly, circling each other like wolves. Blood trickled from a split in his lip where Batman had landed a particularly vicious strike. "Better than the rumors suggest."
"You haven't seen anything yet." Batman's hand moved to his utility belt, retrieving something Deadshot couldn't immediately identify.
The motion triggered Lawton's combat instincts. He fired again, the shots aimed to interrupt whatever Batman was planning, but the vigilante was already moving, rolling beneath the gunfire with a grace that belied his size.
Deadshot's HUD flashed a warning—detecting an electromagnetic pulse building in Batman's hand, far more powerful than the localized disruption from the earlier batarangs. Understanding dawned an instant too late as Batman activated the EMP device, sending a targeted pulse that instantly disrupted Deadshot's targeting systems and wrist-mounted weapons.
The sensation was disorienting, like suddenly going blind after relying on perfect vision. The mechanical eye's display flickered and died, the targeting assists vanished, and the wrist-mounted guns clicked uselessly as their electronic firing mechanisms failed.
"You think technology is what makes me deadly?" Lawton snarled, drawing the combat knife strapped to his thigh—a matte black KA-BAR with a specialized edge that could slice through kevlar. "I was killing high-value targets before your fancy suit was even a concept."
Batman seemed to have anticipated this contingency. The vigilante's cape snapped outward as he spun, the reinforced edge catching Lawton's knife arm before the blade could find its target. The fabric, deceptively flowing moments before, suddenly became rigid enough to function as an impact weapon.
The momentary disorientation was all Batman needed. He closed the distance with explosive speed, delivering a precise combination of strikes that bypassed Deadshot's defenses and targeted pressure points with surgical accuracy.
The first blow struck the nerve cluster at the base of Lawton's neck, sending a shock of pain down his spine that momentarily disrupted voluntary muscle control. The second hit the vagus nerve along his carotid artery, causing an immediate drop in blood pressure that made his vision swim. The third—a devastatingly precise strike to the solar plexus—drove the air from his lungs and caused his diaphragm to spasm.
These weren't random attacks but a carefully orchestrated sequence designed to systematically dismantle Deadshot's ability to fight. Each strike built upon the previous one, exploiting the momentary weaknesses created by the body's involuntary responses to trauma.
The assassin collapsed to one knee, his specialized technology temporarily useless, his body betraying him as Batman's strikes disrupted the connection between brain and muscle. But even in this compromised state, Deadshot was dangerous. He had weathered worse and still completed contracts.
"Grogan was just the beginning," Lawton managed through gritted teeth, a defiant smile visible beneath his mask. "Alberto Falcone's cleaning house before his father's trial. Every witness, every prosecutor. The contracts are already in motion."
Batman secured Lawton's hands with specialized restraints that would resist even enhanced strength. Only when Deadshot was completely immobilized did the vigilante speak.
"Who else is involved?" Batman demanded, looming over him. "I know about Deathstroke at the circus. Who else did Falcone hire?"
Despite his situation, Lawton laughed—a sound of genuine amusement tinged with professional respect. For years, he'd heard stories about the Bat, dismissed most as exaggeration. Now he understood. The rumors hadn't captured the half of it.
"You think it's just the two of us? Alberto Falcone put out contracts to seven of the world's deadliest assassins. Seven million for whoever brings you in alive. And separate contracts for each of us to eliminate obstacles to the Falcone organization."
Batman's expression remained hidden behind the cowl, but his posture tensed noticeably. "Names. Now."
Deadshot studied the vigilante, calculating his options. Professional courtesy demanded discretion, but self-preservation suggested cooperation. Besides, Batman clearly already knew more than he should.
"Deathstroke. Lady Shiva. Bane. Copperhead. Taskmaster. Kraven." He listed them with professional respect, watching Batman's subtle reactions. "And me, of course. Though I seem to be temporarily out of the competition."
Batman crouched slightly, examining the specialized restraints to ensure they were secure. Deadshot tested them subtly—top grade, titanium-core with electronic locks that couldn't be picked conventionally. Still, he'd escaped worse.
"What I don't understand," Deadshot continued, watching Batman retrieve something from his belt, "is why Falcone would risk bringing this much heat to Gotham. Seven assassins with contracts spread across the whole week leading up to the trial."
Batman activated a small device, its blue light pulsing softly in the darkness. "GCPD will be here in three minutes. This jamming device will keep your tech offline until they arrive."
Deadshot's eyes narrowed as Batman turned toward the roof's edge. The pattern fit—the vigilante had neutralized one threat and was clearly preparing to pursue another. This was his opportunity.
"You're making a mistake," he called out. "We're not the real threat. Ask yourself why Falcone would spread out assassination contracts over several days. What's happening that requires removing both Batman and witnesses like Grayson in such a calculated sequence?"
Batman paused, turning slightly. "What do you know about Grayson?"
"Only that his contract specifically mentioned he needed to die before testifying," Deadshot replied, feeling for the hidden lockpick embedded in his gauntlet's lining. "Different from most hits—the instructions were explicit about making it look like an accident."
His mechanical eye flickered, systems attempting to reboot despite the EMP's effects. He kept Batman's attention on his face, away from the subtle movements of his hands.
"And the boy was specifically to be left alive. Unusual parameters."
Batman's fists clenched. The reaction was barely perceptible, but Lawton had spent years studying body language through a sniper scope. Something about the child being orphaned had struck a nerve.
"When is Deathstroke planning to hit the Graysons?"
"Tonight. He's the opening act in Falcone's week of cleanup," Deadshot explained. "The other contracts are timed strategically throughout the week. Lady Shiva has Dent scheduled for tomorrow night. Bane takes the judge two days later. Each of us assigned specific targets on specific days to maximize chaos and stretch your resources thin."
Batman took a step toward the edge, clearly calculating routes and timing. Deadshot could almost see the mental countdown happening behind those white lenses. The Bat was now fully aware of the broader scheme—not just tonight's attacks, but an entire week of strategically timed assassinations designed to dismantle the Falcone case piece by piece.
The moment Batman glanced toward the distant circus lights, Deadshot made his move. With practiced precision, he slid the thin metal pick into the restraint's hidden keyhole. The sensation was awkward with his hands bound behind him, but muscle memory guided the motion. One twist, two clicks, and the first restraint would loosen enough for—
A whistling sound cut through the night air. Something struck the lockpick with perfect precision, knocking it from Deadshot's fingers. A green-fletched arrow embedded itself into the rooftop inches from his hand, vibrating slightly from the impact.
"Long time no see, Floyd."
The voice came from above them—confident, almost casual. Batman's head snapped up toward the water tower overlooking their position. A figure stood silhouetted against Gotham's light-polluted sky, bow drawn with another arrow already nocked.
Green Arrow.
"Queen," Deadshot acknowledged with grudging respect. "Still playing Robin Hood, I see."
The archer dropped from his perch, landing with practiced grace on the rooftop. His hood cast shadows across his face, but the determined set of his jaw was visible in the moonlight.
"When seven high-profile assassins enter the same city within a week, people notice," Green Arrow said, keeping his bow trained on Deadshot. "Even people from other cities."
Batman's eyes narrowed, the only indication of his surprise at the archer's appearance. "Shouldn't you be at the gala?"
"Bruce Wayne sends his apologies. Urgent business called him away." Green Arrow's lip quirked slightly at their shared deception. "I figured you might need backup when I spotted Lawton's equipment being moved into position."
Deadshot looked between them, reassessing the situation. "A coordinated response? That's new for you two."
"Times change," Batman replied tersely. His attention was already shifting back toward the circus grounds, the urgency evident in his posture.
"Go," Green Arrow said, understanding instantly. "I've got this. Digg's bringing the van for secure transport."
Batman nodded once, turning back to Deadshot. "The Graysons aren't your only target tonight. Who else is scheduled for immediate elimination?"
"Grogan was my target," Deadshot admitted, seeing no advantage in withholding information now. "I was just the opening act. Kraven is scheduled to make his move tomorrow night. Then Taskmaster, Copperhead, Bane, Lady Shiva, with Deathstroke as the grand finale. A carefully orchestrated dismantling of the entire Falcone case, one piece at a time."
Batman's jaw tightened, the implications clear. Not just isolated assassinations, but a systematic campaign to eliminate everyone connected to Carmine Falcone's prosecution over the course of the week. His mind raced through contingencies, protective measures, countermoves.
"Who are they targeting?"
Deadshot shook his head. "That I don't know. Falcone compartmentalized everything completely. Each of us received our own specific contracts with no information about the others' targets—just the schedule to avoid overlap. The only exception was Deathstroke's target at the circus tonight. For some reason, they wanted all of us to know about that one specifically."
Batman's eyes narrowed behind the cowl. "Why would they make Grayson's contract common knowledge?"
"Think about it," Deadshot replied, something like understanding in his voice. "A family falls to their deaths, leaving behind an orphaned child... sounds familiar, doesn't it? They wanted us all to know because it's a message. For you."
"Smart," Green Arrow commented grimly. "I'll coordinate with GCPD to secure potential targets. Set up protection details starting tonight."
Batman nodded, already moving toward the edge of the roof. "Seven minutes until the Graysons' performance. Not enough time."
"Then stop wasting it talking to us," Deadshot said with unexpected pragmatism. "Wilson won't wait."
Batman paused, studying Lawton for a moment. "Why tell me this? Why help now?"
"Professional courtesy," Deadshot replied with a shrug. "And I don't like being played. This whole setup stinks of something bigger than just witness elimination. Falcone's sacrificing valuable assets for something else."
"He's right," Green Arrow agreed. "A week-long assassination campaign using top-tier killers in a specific sequence is excessive even for the Falcones. Something else is happening."
Batman's grapnel was already in his hand. "Keep him secure. And check your arrows for trackers. Lawton's handler always insists on contingencies."
Green Arrow smirked. "Already found two. Removed them before I arrived."
With a nod of acknowledgment, Batman fired his grapnel toward a distant building, launching himself into the night sky with explosive force. His cape billowed behind him as he soared between Gotham's skyscrapers. Even as he disappeared from view, the Batmobile's engine roared to life several blocks away, responding to remote commands.
Deadshot watched him go, genuine curiosity in his expression. "He moves like that even with three broken ribs. Impressive."
"Broken ribs?" Green Arrow asked, bow still trained on the assassin.
"Two direct hits to his left side. Armor absorbed most of it, but not all. Breathing pattern changed, subtle favoring of his right side during our fight." Deadshot offered this analysis with professional detachment. "He's good at hiding it."
Green Arrow approached cautiously, retrieving the arrow he'd used to disarm Deadshot. "You seem awfully chatty for someone who just failed a contract."
"Professional hazard," Lawton replied with a shrug. "Besides, Grogan's contract is completed. One out of two isn't bad odds against the Bat."
Arrow's expression hardened. "Councilman Grogan is dead?"
"Clean shot. Left temple. He never felt a thing." Deadshot's voice carried neither pride nor remorse, just clinical assessment. "Batman arrived three seconds too late."
Green Arrow's fingers tightened on his bow, the only outward sign of his anger. "You know, I could accidentally miss with my next shot. Arrow through the eye instead of the restraints."
"But you won't," Deadshot replied with absolute certainty. "Because you're one of the good guys. It's your greatest weakness."
"And your greatest miscalculation," a new voice added as John Diggle emerged from the rooftop access door, tranquilizer gun raised. "Thinking that having principles makes us predictable."
Diggle fired before Deadshot could respond, the specialized dart piercing the assassin's armor at a joint seam. The fast-acting compound took effect almost immediately, Lawton's eyes widening in surprise before glazing over as unconsciousness claimed him.
"Nanite tranquilizers," Green Arrow explained to the now-unconscious assassin. "Courtesy of Palmer Tech. They'll keep your enhancements offline for about six hours."
"Just in time for GCPD to process him and transfer him to a specialized holding cell," Diggle added, checking Deadshot's pulse. "ARGUS is sending a team to take him into custody once he's booked."
Green Arrow nodded, then tapped his comm. "Felicity, patch me through to Gordon. We need to set up protection details for every potential target connected to the Falcone case. Problem is, we don't know who's next on the hit list after the Graysons."
As Diggle secured the unconscious assassin, Green Arrow moved to the roof's edge, looking toward the distant circus lights. The Batmobile was visible now, weaving through traffic with impossible speed, red taillights blurring as it raced against time.
"Think he'll make it?" Diggle asked, joining him at the ledge.
"If anyone can, it's him," Arrow replied, though concern threaded through his voice. "But Deathstroke doesn't leave room for error."
In the distance, Batman pushed the Batmobile to its limits, the vehicle responding to his commands with aggressive precision. The circus grounds were visible now, colorful lights creating a carnival atmosphere that belied the deadly threat lurking within.
"Alfred," Batman growled into his comm as he navigated around a delivery truck. "Deadshot's been neutralized, but we have a bigger problem. Seven assassins total with contracts spread throughout the week, all targeting witnesses against the Falcones."
"Good heavens," Alfred's voice replied, the usual British restraint momentarily overwhelmed by concern. "Do we have identifications on all of them?"
"Most. I'm heading to the circus now. Deathstroke is targeting Grayson tonight. Kraven is next, followed by Taskmaster, Copperhead, Bane, and Lady Shiva. Green Arrow is securing Deadshot and coordinating with Gordon about protection details for potential targets."
"Mister Queen is in Gotham?" Alfred's surprise was evident. "That's unexpected assistance."
"Apparently assassins aren't the only ones who communicate," Batman replied dryly. "Alert Lucius. We need full background on all seven targets and any connection to Alberto Falcone beyond the obvious. And protective measures ready for all remaining witnesses by morning."
"I've already alerted Commissioner Gordon about the circus situation, sir. He's dispatching units to the grounds, but they're at least fifteen minutes out due to traffic congestion from the evening's event."
Batman swerved around a taxi, the Batmobile's tires squealing in protest. "Not enough time. The Graysons perform in less than ten minutes."
"The Batsuit's sensors indicate you've sustained injuries, sir. Are you—"
"I'm fine," Batman cut him off, his focus entirely on the rapidly approaching circus. "What do we know about Grayson's testimony?"
Alfred paused, clearly wanting to press the injury issue but recognizing the futility. "According to the fragments I've recovered from encrypted GCPD files, Grayson is prepared to testify that Tony Zucco, acting on behalf of the Falcone organization, facilitated the transportation of classified military equipment and experimental serums to unauthorized SHIELD facilities. The connection appears to implicate Alexander Pierce in continuing the super-soldier program without official sanction."
"And Alberto Falcone's involvement?"
"Less clear, sir. Though financial records suggest he may have been funneling European pharmaceutical research through front companies to support the program during his time abroad."
The Batmobile swerved around slower traffic, its wheels locking briefly before releasing in a controlled drift that carried it through an intersection just as the light changed. The circus grounds were now visible, the main tent illuminated against the night sky.
"Time to Grayson's performance?"
"Three minutes and twenty seconds, sir. The main tent is on the northeast section of the grounds."
Batman's jaw tightened beneath the cowl as pain lanced through his ribs with each breath. Deadshot's assessment had been correct—at least two were fractured. But physical discomfort was irrelevant. A child's life hung in the balance.
"I need more speed."
"Sir, I feel compelled to point out that the vehicle is already operating at 93% of maximum safe velocity for urban conditions—"
"Override safety protocols. Authorization Wayne-Alpha-Seven."
The Batmobile's engine note changed instantly, deepening as previously restricted power reserves became available. The speedometer climbed rapidly as the vehicle shot forward weaving through traffic with increasingly aggressive maneuvers.
Inside the tent, the Flying Graysons would be preparing for their signature act, unaware that one of the world's deadliest assassins had rigged their equipment to fail at the most devastating moment.