Malphegor
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PIG V2 Ch. 32
🕑 Added 2026-01-08 02:23:06 +0000 UTCThe E350 rolled to a stop at the edge of Diamond Plaza, and Marco jumped out. He tilted his head back and looked up at Wayne Tower. The thing was massive. The base was all heavy stone and Art Deco flourishes. But as it rose, the architecture got more modern. Glass and steel replaced ornate stonework until the whole structure tapered into a needle-thin spire. The building didn't just dominate the skyline. It was the skyline.
"That's tall."
The sheer height of it was oppressive. Like the tower might topple over at any second and crush him, the E350, and everyone else stupid enough to be standing in its shadow. One by one, lights flickered on along the tower's exterior. The reflections twisted and shimmered in the rain-slick surface, turning the whole structure into a waterfall of light.
He craned his neck until his muscles ached, but mist wrapped around the tower's midsection, and the top vanished in and out of the clouds. Somewhere up there, Gotham's elite were about to throw a party. Down here at street level, it was about to turn into a warzone.
"What're you staring at?" Darnell climbed out of the driver's side, following Marco's gaze upward. "Think we could buy this place if we pooled our savings?"
"Sure. If we live to be three hundred and don't eat, sleep, or breathe for most of it." Marco shook his head. "The security deposit alone would bankrupt us."
He couldn't quite pin down how he felt about the tower. Envy? Maybe a little. Disgust? Definitely more of that. It was like a lighthouse, except the road it lit up was never meant for people like them. People who rolled around in the mud and scraped by on thirty grand a year.
"Marco!"
He turned. Gordon was jogging across the plaza, his coat flapping behind him. "Thanks for coming to help. Where's everyone else?"
"Everyone else?"
Marco slapped the side of the E350. "Anna! Otis! Come say hi to Detective Gordon."
"Hey!" Anna leaned out the window, grinning. Otis climbed down from the back, nodding politely. "Hello, Detective Gordon."
"Hi, Otis." Gordon looked around the plaza, then back at Marco with a frown. "I mean the other vehicles. The other officers from the East End who were supposed to reinforce us."
"Oh. Their cars broke down."
"All of them?"
"Yeah. All of them."
Gordon stared at him for a long moment. The muscles in his jaw twitched. Finally, he let out a long sigh. "Alright. Well... thanks for showing up anyway."
"Hey, don't thank me yet. I brought you something." Marco walked to the back of the E350 and yanked open the rear doors. Several large crates were stacked inside. He pulled one out and popped it open, revealing four identical Remington 870 shotguns, their barrels gleaming under the plaza lights. "Eight sets of soft body armor, four shotguns, and one SSG 69 sniper rifle. I test-fired the rifle myself, good accuracy, ammo's all accounted for. You guys have long guns, right? Maybe one per car if you're lucky?"
Gordon opened one of the crates and pulled out a vest, running his fingers over the ballistic panels. "These are Level IIIA. Brand new." He looked up at Marco. "This must've cost you a fortune. Easily ten grand for all of this."
"Don't worry about it." Marco waved him off. "Put it on the tab."
"On the tab?" Gordon blinked. "Then... do you have any with ceramic composite plates?"
"No." Marco shook his head, then started unbuckling his own vest. "But if you really want one, you can have mine. You're the backbone of the GCPD. If I catch a round and go down, at least I'll know I did something useful—"
"No, no, that's not what I meant." Gordon's face flushed red. "This is already more than enough. I'll get someone to move the crates over to our staging area right now."
"You sure? I can just drive the van over there for you."
"I'm sure. Thank you." Gordon clapped him on the shoulder, then turned and waved over a couple of patrol officers to help with the equipment.
Marco watched them haul the crates away, then leaned against the side of the E350. The plaza was filling up. GCPD units were everywhere. Officers in full riot gear stood at checkpoints, checking credentials and eyeballing everyone who passed through. The whole scene had that tense, pre-storm feeling. Like the air before a lightning strike.
Darnell paced back and forth nearby, hands shoved deep in his pockets.
"You gonna keep doing that?" Marco asked. "You're making me dizzy."
"Aren't you nervous? My palms are sweating like crazy."
"Then you're screwed. Keep that up and you'll give yourself a heart attack before anyone even starts shooting."
"Bullshit. I'm in great shape—"
"I'm just saying, stress'll kill you faster than a bullet."
Darnell stopped pacing and shot him a look. "You know what? Screw you. If we survive tonight, I'm introducing you to my sister. She looks just like me, but with better hair. You two would get along great."
Marco grimaced. "Pass. No offense."
"Your loss, man."
"Focus up." Marco straightened, his eyes fixed on the far end of the plaza. "The big shots are arriving."
A deep, rumbling growl of engines rolled in from the distance. Not one car, an entire convoy. Leading the procession were three black Cadillac Fleetwoods, cruising into the plaza. Right behind them came four massive Chevy Suburbans, their windows tinted so dark you couldn't see inside. The convoy ignored the temporary barricades and drove straight to the red carpet at Wayne Tower's main entrance, forming a loose semicircular defensive formation.
"Here we go," Marco muttered.
The doors opened almost simultaneously. Twenty, maybe thirty men in dark overcoats stepped out. They spread out immediately, eyes scanning the plaza, hands resting casually on bulges beneath their jackets. They formed a human wall, pushing back the GCPD's security perimeter by a solid three meters. Several officers who'd been chatting near the entrance fell silent, and the atmosphere shifted instantly.
Gordon muttered something under his breath but waved his people back. Starting a pissing contest with Falcone's crew wouldn't help anyone.
A bodyguard stepped forward and opened the rear door of the center Cadillac. The first thing that emerged was a rosewood cane inlaid with amber. Then came the man himself.
Falcone wore an expensive cashmere overcoat, his graying hair slicked back perfectly. He stood there for a long moment, surveying the plaza. His gaze swept over Marco, Gordon, and the assembled police presence without expression, then moved on to the tower.
"Damn," Darnell said quietly. "The Roman still rolls this deep just to go out. Didn't Black Mask steal a bunch of his money?"
"Money's replaceable," Marco said. "What he really lost was respect and loyalty." He nodded toward Zsasz, who stood just behind Falcone. "The bigger the show, the more insecure he is. He's using spectacle to remind everyone who's still in charge."
Falcone's arrival was like opening a floodgate. Over the next thirty minutes, the plaza transformed into a circus. Luxury cars streamed in one after another, disgorging Gotham's elite onto the red carpet. O'Brien arrived in a stretch limo, surrounded by aides. He shook hands with Falcone like they were old friends, chatting warmly.
City councilors followed, then philanthropists, corporate executives, and lastly, members of Wayne Enterprises' board of directors, all dressed in thousand-dollar suits and designer gowns. Their dates wore furs and jewels, shivering slightly in the cold but maintaining perfect smiles for the cameras. Photographers lined both sides of the red carpet, flashbulbs popping like gunfire, trying to capture every moment of Gotham's high society.
The noise in the plaza swelled. GCPD officers ran themselves ragged trying to maintain order, checking invitations, keeping Falcone's aggressive security detail from trampling everyone. The once-clear security lines blurred as people from all sides mixed together in a chaotic mess.
"Look over there," Darnell said, nodding toward a group of men in plain suits. They wore earpieces and moved with the kind of precise efficiency that screamed federal training. "Barnes's people? Or FBI?"
"Who knows." Marco felt a headache building behind his eyes. "Not our problem. Just keep your head down and—"
A low, explosive roar of an engine cut him off. A dark gray Aston Martin sports car came tearing through the chaos, drawing every eye in the plaza. It slid to a smooth stop right at the red carpet. The photographers went insane, abandoning everyone else to swarm the car like sharks sensing blood.
The doors lifted upward like wings. Bruce stepped out, and the crowd erupted. He wore a perfectly tailored charcoal suit, no tie, his shirt collar open just enough to look effortlessly stylish. His hair was perfect. Even his smile was perfect. He waved to the cameras and handled shouted questions about the tech presentation and his latest scandal.
"Wow," Darnell said. "Must be nice."
Marco glanced over at Anna, who was leaning out the E350's window with hearts practically floating out of her eyes.
"Captain," she breathed. "If I had that much money..."
"Last time you said he was handsome. So which is it? You like him, or you like his money?"
"Both, obviously." Anna didn't even blink. "But if I had to pick one? The money."
"Congratulations. You're officially an adult." Marco reached out and shoved her head back inside the van. "Now stop drooling. Neither one's ever gonna be yours."
He watched as Bruce made his way through the crowd, shaking hands, flashing that billion-dollar smile. The guy moved like he owned the world... which, technically, he kind of did. He approached O'Brien and Falcone, who were still standing near the entrance making small talk.
"Mayor O'Brien, Mr. Falcone," Bruce said, extending his hand. "Beautiful night, isn't it? Even Gotham's clouds decided to behave for once."
"Always the optimist," Falcone replied, shaking his hand with a grandfatherly smile.
"Mr. Wayne, thank you for everything you've done for this city," O'Brien added. "Tonight's presentation is going to be a milestone."
Marco watched the three men exchange pleasantries before heading inside, surrounded by assistants and hangers-on. It felt like watching actors rehearse a play. Everyone knew their lines. Everyone played their part. But underneath the surface, something dark was churning. And it was about to boil over.
"Alright," he said, turning back to Darnell. "Check your gear. The VIPs are inside. Show's about to start."
He climbed into the passenger seat of the E350, Darnell sliding behind the wheel. He pulled his sidearm, checked the magazine, racked the slide. Outside, the plaza was packed. Hundreds of people. Cops, security, reporters, politicians, mobsters, federal agents. All of them gathered around Wayne Tower like moths circling a flame. And somewhere out there, Black Mask was watching.
Marco took a deep breath of the cold air.
"Let's see how this plays out."
