Malphegor
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PIG V2 Ch. 11
🕑 Added 2025-12-19 20:37:04 +0000 UTCOutside the car window, Gotham's night had reached that deepest darkness that comes just before dawn. Marco slouched in the passenger seat, one hand pressed to his bruised ribs. Every pothole and sharp turn sent a fresh spike of pain through his side. He pulled out his phone, thumb hovering over Bob's contact for a long moment. The chief would be asleep.
Fuck it.
He hit dial.
The phone rang. And rang. And rang some more. He was about to hang up when the line finally clicked open.
"Haaaa... mmm... ngh..." Bob's voice came through. "This better be good, Marco. Because I was having the best dream about—"
"Headquarters got cleaned out."
Silence.
Then Bob's voice came back, completely awake, all traces of sleep vanished like they'd never existed.
"Say that again."
"Arkham was a diversion. The real target was GCPD headquarters. Specifically, the evidence vault. One of Loeb's people was dirty. The vault's been stripped. Multiple officers down. And the rest of them sat inside the main building with their thumbs up their asses while it happened."
"Loeb is fucked. Where are you now?"
"On my way back to the East End."
"Meet me at the House. I'm leaving now."
"Copy that."
Marco hung up and leaned his head back against the seat rest, closing his eyes. His side throbbed with every heartbeat. The ceramic plate had stopped the bullet, but he was still going to have one hell of a bruise.
"You good?" Gordon asked from the driver's seat.
"Been better." Marco cracked one eye open. "Drop me at my precinct. You've got your own mess to deal with."
Gordon grunted acknowledgment and took the next turn toward the East End.
---
The East End precinct was dark except for a few emergency lights giving off a weak yellow glow across the bullpen. The civilian staff left on overnight duty had all passed out at their desks, heads down, dead to the world. Can't blame them, it was almost four in the morning, and nothing ever happened at four in the morning.
Until tonight.
Marco waved off the few officers still awake, sending them home to get some sleep before the shitstorm hit at sunrise. Then he raided the break room freezer for an ice pack, shoved it under his shirt against his bruised ribs, and dragged a chair into the middle of the bullpen.
And waited.
He didn't have to wait long.
The screech of tires on pavement announced Darnell's arrival before the patrol car even pulled into view. The vehicle came to a sliding stop outside the front entrance, and he vaulted out of the driver's seat, his face split in a grin.
"Captain!" He jogged over, followed by three other East End officers who looked ready to drop but were riding the same high. "We got everything worth taking."
"Keep it down," Marco whispered. "And get it moved to the new building next door."
Darnell waved the others over, and they started unloading equipment from the trunk and back seat.
"Alan and Albert are still at Arkham dealing with the coroner," he said as he hefted a particularly heavy bag. "Figured you'd want this stuff squared away before anyone started asking questions."
Marco nodded.
"Ed's going to go through all of it once the sun comes up. See if he can pull any leads on who those shooters were."
"And after that?" One of the other officers asked, a guy named Torres who'd been with the East End for about three years.
"After that, we split the take," Marco said. "Fair shares. But only after forensics is done with it, and only the stuff we can't log as evidence without raising flags."
Darnell grinned.
They were about halfway through unloading when another car pulled up, this one a civilian car, dark blue, with tinted windows. Bob stepped out wearing jeans and a sweatshirt.
"Office," he said, jerking his head toward the stairs.
Marco followed Bob up to the second floor. The chief's office door closed behind them, sealing them off from the rest of the precinct.
Bob didn't turn on the overhead lights. Just flicked on the desk lamp. He walked around the desk but didn't sit, instead fishing a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and lighting one. The smoke curled up through the lamplight.
"Looks like you boys made out pretty well tonight." He took a drag, eyes fixed on Marco. Then he noticed the way Marco was holding his side. "You hurt?"
"Took a round. It's fine."
"The hell it is." Bob moved toward the phone. "I'm calling an ambulance—"
"It hit the ceramic plate," Marco interrupted, holding up a hand. "Just a bruise. I'll hit the hospital later. Right now, you need to hear the rest."
Bob paused, cigarette halfway to his lips. Then he nodded and sat on the edge of the desk.
Marco laid it out, all of it. The cowardice at headquarters. The bodies in the evidence vault. The spray-painted "THANK YOU" on the wall. Falcone's vault getting hit at the same time.
When he finished, silence filled the office.
Bob sat there for a long moment, cigarette burning down between his fingers.
"This is an opportunity for the East End."
Marco raised an eyebrow. "How do you figure?"
"Loeb's done. Even if he wasn't involved, and I'm not saying he was or wasn't, his career just ended. The press is going to crucify him. The mayor's going to demand his head. And GCPD is going to need someone to step in and clean up the mess." Bob took a long drag, smoke streaming from his nostrils. "Someone who looks capable. Someone the rank-and-file can trust."
"You want the commissioner's job."
"I want the East End to stop being the department's dumping ground. And yeah, if that means me sitting in the big chair at headquarters, so be it."
Marco thought about it. GCPD was in chaos. Morale was in the toilet. They'd need someone who could project confidence and competence, someone who hadn't just presided over the biggest embarrassment in the department's recent history.
But there was a problem.
"You're thinking too fast," Marco said. "Yeah, Loeb's cooked. But you getting the top spot? That's a long shot. There are captains at headquarters with more years in. You'd need something to set you apart."
"Like what?"
Marco leaned back in his chair, ignoring the protest from his ribs. "Tomorrow morning, well, this morning, but not too early, you're going to make a very public gesture. Take fourteen thousand seven hundred dollars and visit the families of the two officers who got killed at headquarters. Brian and Nelson."
Bob's expression shifted. "Keep going."
"Ten thousand comes from you personally. You make it clear that even though they weren't East End officers, you consider it your duty as a precinct captain to support fallen cops and their families. Tell the press that the relief fund we set up is going to continue supporting them long-term."
"And the rest?"
"The other forty-seven hundred, make sure it's small bills, worn, looked used, that's donations from East End officers. You rallied them to support their GCPD brothers. Right now, headquarters is in chaos. Nobody there is thinking clearly. You get out ahead of this, show the kind of leadership they're not seeing from Loeb, and suddenly you're not just another precinct captain. You're the guy who stepped up when it mattered."
Bob was quiet for a moment, turning it over in his head. Then he nodded.
"That's good. That's really good." He crushed out his cigarette. "But we've got another problem. Falcone got hit at the same time as headquarters. He's going to be looking for blood. And if he thinks GCPD can't protect his interests..."
"Then he stops paying his protection money, and half the department goes broke. Yeah. I know. We need to look like we're doing something. Even if we're not."
Marco stood up, one hand still pressed to his ribs. "First things first. Get some sleep. Make your big gesture with the families once the morning news cycle starts. After that..." He grimaced. "After that, we figure out how to catch a ghost."
Bob studied him for a moment. "You should really go to the hospital."
---
The hospital visit happened around six AM, after Marco had spent an hour trying to convince himself he didn't need to go. The bruise had darkened from red to a deep purple-black. The ER doc, who looked about twelve years old and exhausted, ordered a CT scan to make sure nothing was broken.
There were no fractures, but the soft tissue damage was extensive, he was going to feel like shit for at least a week.
The doctor prescribed pain pills, ice, and rest. Marco took the pills, pocketed the rest of the prescription, and went home to sleep.
When he woke up around noon, the bruise had gotten even worse. The purple had spread, reaching down toward his hip and up toward his armpit. Getting out of bed felt like an Olympic event.
"It could be worse," he muttered in the bathroom.
He got dressed slowly, then drove back to the precinct.
---
The new forensics lab occupied most of the basement level. The walls still showed their age: faded green paint, rectangular shadows where old cabinets had been bolted to the walls, scuff marks from decades of use. The floor was ancient vinyl tile, corners still grimy despite a fresh cleaning. The air smelled like cheap paint.
Not exactly CSI: Gotham, but it would do.
Edward was standing at a large workbench, making notes in a spiral-bound notebook. He looked up when Marco walked in.
"I heard you got shot."
"I got bruised," Marco corrected, lowering himself into a chair. "Big difference."
"Is there?" Edward set down his pen. "You should be resting."
"I'll rest when I'm dead. What do we have?"
Edward picked up his notebook, flipping to a page covered in neat handwriting. "The attackers at Arkham were mercenaries. Not top-tier, judging by their equipment. One Vz. 58 folding-stock rifle, a few Vz. 25 submachine guns, two or three AKMs. And the night vision gear you wanted, one third-gen PVS-7D. Plus two second-gen PVS-5s and a PVS-4."
Marco did the math in his head. That was a lot of hardware to leave lying around.
"We can't keep all of it. Too much heat. But we can be selective." He thought for a moment. "Submit two of the PVS-5s as evidence. Keep the third-gen. Keep the Vz. 58. Turn in the rest."
Edward nodded, making notes. "I'll process everything properly."
"Good." Marco shifted in his chair, trying to find a better position. "You heard about what happened at headquarters?"
"Yes. I'm sorry I couldn't warn you. If I'd known—"
"You didn't know. Nobody did." Marco waved it off. "The question now is: how do we flush this guy out?"
Edward set down his notebook and leaned against the workbench, arms crossed.
"There are options. None of them good. The problem is he's operating from the shadows. So how do you catch someone like that?"
"You tell me. You're the smart one."
"Option one: negotiation. The GCPD offers him a deal, partial amnesty in exchange for standing down. Once he surfaces, you grab him. But that would be political suicide. The mayor would never allow it."
"What else?"
"Option two: martial law. Implement strict rationing. Monitor consumption patterns across the city. Anyone using resources without proper documentation gets flagged. But the cost would be astronomical. And it would take months."
Marco nodded. Both options sucked.
"There's a third option," Edward said quietly. "The one nobody wants to talk about."
"Which is?"
"House-to-house sweeps. Block by block. Building by building. You flood the streets with cops and search every location until you find him. But these are heavily armed extremists we're talking about. The moment they realize you're closing in..."
"How many of our guys do you think would die?"
Silence stretched between them.
Marco thought about his officers. Good cops, most of them. Some dirty, sure, but good at their jobs. He thought about sending them into buildings where armed fanatics might be waiting. He thought about the funerals, the widows, and the kids without fathers.
"We'll figure something out," he said finally.
"I hope so." Edward picked up his notebook again.
