"Get out here, you filthy bitch! Get the fuck out here with that little bastard!"
Rain poured down, pounding the roof of the wrecked silver-gray Volvo. Four burly men in balaclavas held compact submachine guns, their dark muzzles pressed firmly against the cracked windows.
The lead robber kicked the door hard, making the entire car rock violently.
"I'm counting down from ten! Open the door, or I'll turn this piece of shit and both of you into Swiss cheese!" Impatient brutality rasped through his voice. "Ten! Nine! Eight..."
Inside the car, the deflated airbag hung limply.
Barbara Kean felt warm blood trickling down her forehead into her left eye, staining her vision red. Her five-year-old daughter's heart-wrenching sobs filled her ears.
"Mommy... I'm scared... waaah..." Little Barbara huddled in her car seat, clutching her worn rag doll, trembling like a leaf in the autumn wind.
"Don't be afraid, sweetheart. Close your eyes."
Fighting the intense dizziness from her concussion, Barbara reached a trembling hand toward the glove compartment on the passenger side. There was a .38 Revolver inside.
"Seven! Six! Five!" The countdown outside rang like a death knell.
Barbara's fingers touched the cold grip. But she stopped.
She glanced at the four suppressed submachine guns outside. If she dared draw her gun, even if she killed one of them, the others would tear her and her daughter apart in an instant. In Gotham, these lunatics who killed for money would absolutely do it.
"I surrender! Don't shoot!"
Barbara shoved the glove compartment shut and, using every last ounce of strength she had, screamed through the window.
The countdown stopped abruptly.
"Smart choice." The robber sneered.
Barbara turned and pressed her blood-covered face against her daughter's forehead, her voice so weak it was barely audible. "Sweetheart, whatever happens, don't say