"It was just criminals double-crossing each other. Clearly, they were conducting some illegal deal here, and then a conflict broke out. One side won, and the other lost.
"This sort of thing happens every day in this city. The only trouble is that the dead men belonged to Ronnie's Gang. Their leader just put pressure on me through some Senator. Funny, isn't it? A cop like me has to do errands for a gang."
Veteran police officer Jim Gordon looked over the crime scene and shook his head slightly. The only thing that interested him was that, based on the reconstruction of the fight, the victors had been very few in number—most likely a lone operator. The weapon used had not been a firearm, either, but some peculiar cold weapon.
"Could it have been that guy?"
A black figure flashed through Gordon's mind, one that prowled the night like a bat.
Inside a detached house on the outskirts of the city, a battered-looking truck sputtered to a stop in front of the door, exhaust pouring from its tailpipe.
A burly man climbed out of the truck and lifted the tarp at the back. A ring on his hand flashed, spilling out strands of light that flowed like water and tightly covered the equipment and materials beneath the tarp. Then, as the man turned, they floated into the air as if defying the laws of physics, drawn along by the light as he led them into the pitch-black house.
There were no lights inside. Thick curtains blocked out even the faintest trace of outdoor light from the windows. When someone stepped abruptly from a lit place into darkness so complete they could not see their own hand, their vision went through a brief adjustment period akin to blindness.
Yet the