"No."
Gordon's voice suddenly became astonishingly calm.
That calm sent a chill down Harvey's spine on the other end of the line.
"James? What are you planning?"
"Harvey, you were right earlier." Gordon stood, walked to the entryway, picked up his still-dripping khaki trench coat, and put it back on.
"In Gotham, lines are only drawn so people can trample them."
He went to the storage cabinet in the living room and pulled open the bottom drawer.
Inside lay a large-bore Remington shotgun and two boxes of shells.
Gordon grabbed a handful of shells and loaded them into the magazine one by one, his face expressionless.
Clack.
The sound of him chambering a round rang sharply through the deathly silent living room.
"The law can't save my wife and daughter. Neither can the rules."
Gordon slipped the shotgun into the trench coat's roomy inner pocket.
"James! Don't do anything stupid! You're a cop! Going after them now is suicide!" Harvey shouted over the phone.
"No. Right now, I'm just a father and a husband."
Gordon hung up without hesitation.
Ring, ring-
The shrill ringtone tore through the living room's dead silence like a rusty saw.
Gordon stopped. The hand that had just slipped the Remington shotgun into his coat pocket froze in midair.
The caller ID showed an unknown number.
Gordon drew a deep breath. Cold air filled his lungs, but it did nothing to slow his pounding heart. He answered without speaking, pressing the phone hard against his ear.
"James Gordon. The great hero from Chicago."
A man's rough, nicotine-soaked voice came from the other end. In the background, rain drummed dully against a sheet-metal roof.
"You're the bastard who smashed my car and kidnapped my wife and kid." Gordon's voice was unnaturally calm, as still as stagnant water.