By the time Adam arrived at the East Wharf, two hours had already passed since Gordon's abduction. The strike was over; the area that had been packed with thousands of shouting dockworkers was now crawling with police—yet not a single one of them had dared set foot past the edge of the slums.
He looked at their tense faces and sighed.
Brock, walking beside him, gave the quick version: "When you got here earlier, there were thousands packed in tight. Then they just… melted away. All that's left inside is Gordon—and they've made it clear they want someone to 'negotiate.'"
Adam shook his head. "So the only reason these uniforms came back was because the other side offered to talk? Playing busy for the optics but too scared to actually go in? Gordon's supposed to have enough clout to lead this department, and he can't even move his own men. If this is Gotham's so‑called elite, I wouldn't trust them to cross the street."
The thought twisted into something sharper—if he couldn't field people who followed orders without question, he'd be just as vulnerable. In Gotham, that was a weakness no one could afford.
Brock gave a little shrug. "Even if they're useless, a crowd makes you look bigger. You really sure you want to take that walk in alone, just because the lunatics inside asked for it?"
Adam cut him a glance. "What, you expecting me to send in a half‑crippled drunk to hurl insults in my place? Especially the same guy who not long ago was yelling there aren't any good cops in Gotham? I think not."
Brock grinned unrepentantly. "Didn't know you were here. Honestly? As far as Loeb's concerned, pinning a posthumous medal to Gordon's chest would be less trouble than getting him out. So I played drunk, came in here loud, figured if nothing else I'd get one good round cursing these bastards to their faces."
Adam couldn't help shaking his head. "Loeb might actually be right about one thing—you would be a good fit for Arkham. And I'm short on manpower. If this goes our way, maybe I'll make sure Gordon doesn't block your transfer."
That wiped the smirk off Brock's face; he looked suddenly like a man staring down a prison sentence. Adam liked the expression—it meant the message had landed.
At the cruiser, Adam checked his kit one last time. Four pistols. Bulletproof vest. Multiple spare mags. All hidden under his trench coat, bulky but passable at a glance. The load made movement heavy, but Tonghu's training had built his endurance. Brock thought it was pointless—if the slums turned on him, a machine gun wouldn't be enough—but Adam wouldn't walk into Gotham's back alleys without firepower. Going in unarmed would feel like stepping naked onto a public street.
Once satisfied, Adam called to confirm backup positions with Deadshot and Bronze Tiger, his trump cards if things went sideways. That's when a commotion caught his eye—a slim, red‑haired girl in glasses, arguing heatedly with a uniform.
"…You've got numbers, gear, training—and you're just standing here? What a pathetic waste!" she snapped.
The cop's face darkened. "Where'd you crawl from, kid? You don't know a damn thing about what's happening here. Go away before I haul you down to the precinct!"
That lit her fuse. "The precinct? You mean the place full of you useless hacks who've let Gotham rot? I have no idea why my father even bothers working with the likes of you!"
Then, with zero warning, she drove her boot into his groin. The man crumpled, both hands to his midsection, face contorted in agony.
Adam's eyebrows shot up. Clean form. Solid technique. No question who she was.
"Barbara! Gordon!" he barked. "Your dad's a friend of mine—stay behind the line where it's safe!"
She glanced over at him, eyes narrowing when she saw the badge on his coat. In one fluid motion, she slipped the cops' half‑hearted attempts to block her and bolted for the slum's edge.
"My father doesn't have friends in Gotham," she shouted back. "If you're not going to save him, I'll do it myself!"
Then she was gone, swallowed by the maze of shacks and alleyways.
Adam exhaled sharply. Barbara Gordon—daughter of Commissioner James Gordon. She'd left home as a teen, and in the years ahead would take inspiration from Batman to become Batgirl.
A gifted fighter—black belt in karate, expert in jiu‑jitsu. Razor‑sharp mind. Hacker skills that even Gotham's underworld feared. Later, she'd fight alongside Batman and Robin, fall in and out of love with Nightwing, and after tragedy left her paralyzed, reinvent herself as Oracle, the tactical brain of Gotham's vigilantes.
Eventually, after recovery and training with Bronze Tiger's own mentor, she'd become part of the Birds of Prey—a key player in Gotham's war on crime.
But she wasn't supposed to be here, now. Not in Adam's mental timeline.
And that gnawed at him. If events were already shifting out of sync… how much of what he thought he could predict was already slipping through his hands?