Malphegor
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PIG V2 Ch. 27
🕑 Added 2026-01-02 22:43:09 +0000 UTCGordon leaned against his patrol car, nursing coffee that had gone lukewarm hours ago. His eyes were bloodshot, his tie was loosened, and his shirt looked like he'd slept in it, which he had, for the past three nights running. The engine roar from the far end of the avenue made him look up just as headlights cut through the darkness. The East End's armored response vehicle came barreling down the street, kicking up dust before screeching to a stop about twenty meters behind him.
Hell of a ride, he thought, spitting to the side.
He walked over as Marco jumped down from the driver's seat, tactical vest already strapped on, rifle slung across his back.
"Little late for a joyride, isn't it?"
"That dismemberment case you asked me to help with," Marco said, jerking his thumb toward the vehicle. Edward was climbing out of the passenger side, looking far too alert for this time of night. "Ed here threw around a bunch of medical terms and narrowed down the suspect pool. I didn't understand half of it. I just need to know who to arrest."
"Hey, Jim," Edward said, walking over with a slight smile.
"Hey, Ed." Gordon shook his hand, his grip weak from exhaustion. "Honestly, Loeb never should've let you go. You're wasted at Gotham Central."
Edward's smile widened slightly but he said nothing. Marco took a closer look at Gordon's haggard face and frowned.
"You look like shit. How long since you slept?"
"Seventy-two hours, give or take." Gordon rubbed his eyes. "Black Mask could go off at any time. This morning I got an anonymous tip saying he's planning something big. The caller wouldn't identify himself, but he sounded credible. He said the GCPD should be on high alert."
"So naturally, you've been running yourself into the ground."
"I reported it up the chain." Gordon let out a bitter laugh. "You know Loeb's still technically commissioner, but he's got no power left. Everything's being decided by Barnes. And he ordered all officers to cancel leave, stay at their posts, no exceptions."
"That's fucking insane," Marco said, shaking his head. "Barnes sounds even worse than Loeb."
"Not exactly." Gordon managed a tired smile. "He's holding the line himself, only sleeping three or four hours a night. If anyone's going to drop dead from exhaustion, it'll probably be him before me.... Wait, the East End doesn't have to follow those orders?"
"Who knows? I haven't heard anything about it. And even if we did, we'd probably pretend we didn't." Marco patted Gordon sympathetically on the shoulder. "Take care of yourself. We're all in the same boat anyway, the suspect's holed up in Black Mask territory."
"That's too dangerous. I'm coming with you." Gordon immediately tried to straighten up, forcing energy into his voice. "Let me wake up Bullock—"
"No." Marco grabbed his arm. "With the way you look right now, if something goes wrong, I'm not giving you mouth-to-mouth. You'd probably die from exhaustion before we even got there."
He waved at Gordon and headed back to the armored vehicle with Edward. Darnell, sitting in the passenger seat, glanced in the rearview mirror as they climbed in.
"He's a good cop," Darnell said quietly.
"Yeah." Marco started the engine, and the massive run-flat tires began to turn. "But don't forget what Bob said, good cops don't last long in Gotham."
The armored vehicle pulled away, its taillights disappearing into the darkness.
"Let's hope we're all bastards tonight," Marco muttered.
---
Twenty minutes later, the E350 rolled to a stop about a hundred meters from the abandoned meat-processing plant. Marco cut the lights and the engine, letting darkness swallow the vehicle. A crooked smokestack jutted into the night sky. The smell hit them even from this distance. He grabbed an AR-15 from the gun rack and checked the magazine. Thirty rounds, plus two spares on his vest. He glanced at Darnell, who was reaching for the Remington shotgun.
"Put that down. Take your Glock and come with me." He looked at Edward. "You and Otis stay with the vehicle. If Black Mask's crew shows up. I'm sure you'll find a way to deal with them."
"No problem," Edward said confidently, already settling into the driver's seat. Otis extended his arm, and Bastien jumped from his pocket into his palm.
"Captain, let Bastien go in with you," Otis said. "He'll warn you if there's danger."
"Good idea."
Marco opened the door, and the smell intensified immediately.
"Fuck! Does nobody collect garbage on the West Side?"
He and Darnell moved in a low crouch toward the factory's side entrance, weapons up, scanning for movement. The street was dead quiet except for distant sirens and the occasional sound of breaking glass. Black Mask's territory felt like a war zone on its best days. Tonight it felt like a graveyard.
He paused at the side door, then glanced at Darnell.
"How many spare mags you carrying?"
"Two."
"Should be enough. Remember, safety first. We're not heroes. We're just cops doing a job."
Darnell nodded.
---
Across town, in a private hospital room in Gotham General's secure wing, Cobblepot lay half-reclined in an adjustable bed. He wore expensive silk pajamas, and his face was pale. A bandage covered his temple, one arm was in a cast, and he looked every inch the injured man struggling to recover.
The room was warm, almost stifling, with the heater cranked up to drive away the spring chill. Three men stood around his bed, each one representing a different piece of Falcone's empire.
"Gentlemen, thank you for coming. Your presence here means more than you know."
He reached for a bottle of expensive Scotch on the bedside table with his good hand, and poured three glasses. His own glass remained empty, doctor's orders, he'd claimed.
"The doctor told me to rest, but how can I rest at a time like this? Don Falcone has suffered such misfortune. My heart is broken for him."
"Spare us the bullshit," said a bull of a man with a shaved head and gang tattoos covering his cheeks. "You're a waddling penguin, not the Roman's lapdog. I'd sooner believe you could become mayor of Gotham than believe you'd stay loyal to him."
"Mr. Torino, please." A well-dressed man in an expensive suit shot him a warning look. "When speaking of Don Falcone, show some respect."
"Sobieski, don't lecture me about respect," Torino shot back. "If you were truly loyal, you wouldn't be here answering this guy's invitation." He gestured at the third man, Paul, who stood by the door in jeans and a leather jacket. "We're all here for the same reason, looking for a better way out before Falcone drags us down with him."
Paul and Sobieski exchanged a glance, then slowly nodded. All three turned their attention to Cobblepot.
"So," Torino said bluntly. "Talk. What do you want?"
Cobblepot struggled to sit up a little straighter, wincing as if the movement caused him pain. His smile was gentle, almost apologetic.
"In these turbulent times, even Don Falcone has made misjudgments. He lacks the energy to look after all of us properly. As family, we must take care of ourselves, so that we may serve him better in the future."
He turned to Paul. "You lost quite a bit of merchandise last week. Your most valuable route was blocked by Black Mask's crew. Did the Don have time to help you deal with that?"
Paul's jaw tightened. "You already know the answer."
"And you, Mr. Sobieski." Cobblepot's voice remained soft. "There have been two incidents at Don Falcone's vault. Recent losses have been substantial, something none of us want to see. But having your finance department alter the books to conceal certain facts from everyone? I can't say I agree with that approach. After all, that responsibility may one day fall on your shoulders."
Sobieski's expression didn't change, but his fingers tightened around his glass.
"Enough dancing," Torino cut in. "I just want more money. So tell me, what makes you think you can call us all here?"
Cobblepot's smile faded.
"Because we're still using old methods to deal with an enemy who doesn't play by the rules. Don Falcone is our godfather, and I hold him in the highest respect. But he belongs to an era that valued tradition, order, and patience. Black Mask represents chaos and destruction. And against destruction, what we need is flexibility, decisiveness, and the willingness to use any means necessary."
He paused, letting the silence ferment in the overheated room.
"We need someone who understands traditional values but also knows how to confront the threats of a new era. I know you're all loyal to the family. But loyalty shouldn't mean sitting still and waiting to die. Perhaps we could share resources? Form a small alliance? At least when it comes to Black Mask, we can ensure that our territories and businesses won't be the next ones burned to the ground."
For a long moment, nobody spoke. The three men looked at each other. Nobody wanted to be the first to commit.
Finally, Cobblepot raised his glass of water, and looked at each of them in turn. His smile was warm.
"How about we have a drink and discuss this slowly? To Gotham's stability?"
The other three hesitated. Then, one by one, they raised their glasses.
"To Gotham's stability."
