Undercurrents in the Underworld

In a secret room beneath the Iceberg Lounge.

Penguin leaned back in a cushioned chair, his right sleeve hanging empty and thick bandages wrapped around his forehead.

Beneath the bandages was the word "slave," burned into his skin.

The screens before him lit up, each showing a figure hidden in shadow.

The person on the left wore a black skull mask. Only the line of his jaw was visible.

Half the face of the man on the right was badly burned, exposing pink muscle.

"Cobblepot, if you're using the emergency channel in the middle of the night, this had better be worth ten million dollars." Black Mask leaned toward the camera, tapping his fingers on the table.

Two-Face rolled a coin across his knuckles without speaking.

Penguin poured himself half a glass of whiskey.

He raised it to his lips, but his hand shook so badly that whiskey spilled onto his tie.

"Batman got his ass kicked," Penguin said, enunciating every word.

The channel went silent for a full ten seconds.

Two-Face's coin stopped on the back of his hand.

"What did you say?" Black Mask sat up straight, disbelief thick in his voice.

"My informant saw that red-eyed demon break both his arms. Batman crawled into the sewers like a stray dog to save his life." Penguin laughed, the sound harsh and raspy.

Exultation and despair, two utterly opposite emotions, collided inside him.

Batman had been crippled. Penguin had dreamed of seeing that day.

But the monster who had crippled Batman was shitting on Penguin's neck.

"The alien who took your Iceberg Lounge and your East End territory?" Black Mask asked.

"He's no alien. He's a complete lunatic." Penguin gritted his teeth.

The memory of Chu Men cutting Frank in half through six floors of concrete left his throat dry.

And those three elite female assassins had been stripped of their weapons and brought into line with ease. Every ace he held was worth less than scrap paper against Chu Men.

"If Batman couldn't handle him, what good will we do?" Two-Face tossed his coin and caught it, then glanced at the face. "We'd just be walking to our deaths."

"Batman's an idiot who refuses to kill. Of course he couldn't win." Penguin slapped the table.

He leaned toward the camera, his eyes gleaming viciously.

"But we have money. We have resources. There's no one in this world who can't be killed," Penguin said.

"What's your plan?" Black Mask asked.

"Hire someone."

"Who would take a job like that?"

"Offer enough money, and someone will take the gamble." Penguin held up three fingers.

"I want a hundred million dollars from each of you. Three hundred million total. We send the contract to Deathstroke."

"Three hundred million?" Black Mask's voice shot up. "Have you lost your mind?"

"I've almost lost my territory and my life. Either we pay, or we all wait to die." Penguin smacked the empty glass off the table.

It shattered against the wall, scattering glass across the floor.

Two-Face stared at the coin in his hand and turned it over to the scarred side.

"I'm in." With that, Two-Face ended the video call.

Black Mask snorted. "Put the money in an escrow account. I'll contact Slade."

The screens went dark, leaving only Penguin's ragged breathing in the room.

Half an hour later, a message came through the encrypted network.

Penguin opened the chat window. It was a reply from Deathstroke.

"I've received the three-hundred-million-dollar deposit and reviewed the target's file. He's just a mutant with enhanced strength."

Penguin hurried to type a reply. "He can withstand volleys from hundreds of submachine guns. He can fly and shoot lasers. Batman's high-tech gear was completely useless against him."

There was a pause on the other end, then a brief response appeared.

"If weapons can't pierce him, break him down from within. One milligram of nerve toxin can stop the heart of something a cannon can't kill."

Penguin stared at the words, a muscle twitching beside his eye.

Deathstroke's confidence gave him a glimmer of hope.

The man was the world's First Mercenary. With superhuman healing and an enhanced brain, he had never failed a job.

This might be Penguin's last chance.

"When do you plan to strike?" Penguin asked.

"Just don't do anything unnecessary. Leave the rest to me."

The chat window closed for good.

Penguin slumped back in the cushioned chair and stared at the glaring incandescent light overhead.

He knew Chu Men was sleeping in the penthouse suite at that very moment, holding one of Penguin's subordinates in his arms.

The newly hired guards patrolled in constant fear, terrified of disturbing that king.

With the Maroni Family leaderless, the other factions had carved up everything it owned.

That old bastard Falcone had holed up in the south, playing deaf and dumb. He didn't dare make a peep.

The entire Gotham underworld had been forced to bow beneath this sudden onslaught of violence.

Everyone thought the mob bosses were finished. Even the low-level thugs were laughing at Penguin behind his back.

They were saying Penguin had become the alien's watchdog.

He would bury every last person who mocked him in concrete and sink them into the bay.

Penguin touched the bandages on his forehead, pressing a fingertip against the scar through the cloth.

"Either Deathstroke kills you, or you kill us all," he whispered to the empty room.

He lit a cigar and took a couple of drags. The nicotine calmed his frayed nerves a little.

Whatever happened, he needed an escape route.

Tomorrow, he had to set up a way to move his assets. If Deathstroke failed, Penguin would need the means to flee Gotham.

He couldn't stake his entire life on this one play.

If Deathstroke could get the toxin into that demon's veins, it would all be over.

Penguin would cut the word "slave" from his own forehead and stick it on Chu Men's corpse.

That bastard thought himself invincible. He knew nothing about the true art of killing.

Penguin blew a smoke ring, his eyes turning venomous.

Not far from the East End docks, the sea breeze carried a heavy, briny smell.

An expensive three-deck luxury yacht sat on the water, its upper deck ablaze with light.

The low notes of a jazz bass drifted across the sea.

"No one from the Falcone family came tonight?" a mob boss in a sharp suit complained quietly to his companion, champagne in hand.

"They don't dare come, and they don't dare cause trouble. Can't you see who runs the East End now?" His companion lowered his voice and glanced toward the center of the deck.

"But these terms are outrageous. Point-one percent of the profits? How is that different from robbery?"

"Shh! Do you have a death wish?" His companion's face changed. He pointed straight ahead. "Have you forgotten how Frank died? He was cut in half!"

A massive black sofa stood at the center of the deck.

Chu Men lounged against its back, his legs casually crossed.

Lark knelt beside him in a black-and-white maid outfit, holding a chilled bottle of red wine in both hands.

Condensation beaded on the bottle and slid down the glass onto the back of her hand. She didn't even dare wipe it away.

Jay and Raven stood on either side of him, as still as lifeless statues.

None of the socialites or mob bosses dared speak loudly. They even took care to soften the click of their heels on the deck.

"My king, these grapes were just flown in from France." A blonde woman approached, her voice sweet.

She peeled a green grape and held it to Chu Men's lips.

Chu Men ignored her. His gaze passed over the railing to the black sea rising and falling beyond.

Two kilometers away, atop a crane at an abandoned East End dock.

Rain struck the steel framework at an angle, making a fine rustling sound.

Slade lay flat on a rusted metal plate, his eye pressed to a night-vision scope.