Adam didn't even have to turn around to know what was happening. He just scowled.
Robbery was a fact of life in the slums. Any outsider was seen as a fat sheep ready for shearing, and it was clear these guys had decided he was easy prey.
"I'm not Vietnamese, you idiots. Are you blind?" Adam said without turning, his voice tight with frustration. He was already on edge. Barbara was gone, Gordon was nowhere to be found, and he was lost in this hellhole. He didn't have the patience for this.
His sharp tone clearly angered the man behind him. A hand grabbed his shoulder and spun him around.
"Who do you think you're talking to?" the gangster snarled, shoving his face close to Adam's. A half-dozen other thugs, dressed in loud plaid shirts and armed with bicycle chains and rusty pipes, gathered around them. They looked like a low-level crew, barely a blip on Gotham's criminal radar. "Think you're tough? You got a death wish?"
The leader pressed the barrel of a pistol to Adam's forehead. "Not so tough now, are you? You so much as twitch and I'll blow your head off." He grinned, showing a row of yellow teeth. "Even that big-shot cop, Gordon, got snatched up by our boss. You think you're special? Boys, take his wallet. And his skin while you're at it."
Hearing that, something snapped in Adam. A vein pulsed on his forehead. "You want my skin?" he sneered. "You'll have to be as good as the Joker to take it."
In a single, fluid motion, Adam's leg shot out, his boot connecting hard with the gangster's groin. As the man gasped, Adam ducked his head to the side, anticipating the gunshot that never came.
The gangster had been so focused on Adam's face and hands, he never saw the low kick coming. A white-hot, sickening pain shot through him, and his legs gave out.
But Adam wasn't finished. His hands shot forward, grabbing the man's wrist and twisting it sharply. Using a police disarming technique, he wrenched the gun from the gangster's limp fingers.
He pulled the gang leader in front of him like a shield and pressed the cold barrel of the man's own gun against his temple. "Next time you point a gun at someone," Adam said, his voice dangerously low, "remember to keep your distance. Stupid."
The leader was now a whimpering, boneless mess, nodding frantically in terror.
Seeing their boss taken down so easily, the other thugs didn't hesitate. They turned and scattered like rats, disappearing back into the alleys and leaving their leader behind without a second thought. Thugs in the slums were like hyenas—they preyed on the weak and ran from the strong. It was a skill they were born with.
Adam glared at the backs of the fleeing gangsters before turning his attention back to the man he held.
"You said something just now," Adam growled, his eyes burning with intensity. "You said your crew grabbed Gordon. Now, you're going to take me to him. Or else."
The gangster, shivering, led him through the twisting maze of the slum. It was another world, a place that felt completely detached from the city that surrounded it. The faint, lonely sound of a guitar echoed from somewhere unseen. On a dilapidated basketball court, tattooed men flexed their muscles. In dark corners, addicts lay motionless on the stained ground, their empty wine bottles and used needles scattered around them. They could have been dead for all anyone knew. Women lingered in the shadows, waiting for their next customer. Above, a dense web of wires crisscrossed the sky, carving it into small, trapped pieces.
After what felt like an eternity of walking, the gangster finally stopped. "This is it," he whispered, gesturing to a grimy-looking restaurant. "This is the boss's place. I heard they're holding Gordon here."
The restaurant was filled with burly, rough-looking men, their bare arms exposed as they ate. They all looked like they were part of the same crew.
Adam's arrival immediately drew their attention. One by one, they turned to stare at him, their eyes hostile and suspicious.
In unison, they put down their knives and forks, scraped their chairs back, and stood up. They were huge, their muscles corded from hard labor—likely the dock workers behind the recent strike.
They began to walk towards him, their expressions menacing.
Adam stood his ground. He couldn't retreat now, not when he was this close to finding Gordon. But as the wall of muscle closed in around him, a knot of apprehension tightened in his stomach.