Yang Ming's left hand shot out with precision, seized the back collar of Falcone's cashmere cardigan, and pulled hard. Falcone lost his balance, staggered backward, and fell behind the high-backed leather chair, clear of the first wave of attacks.
A tenth of a second after he completed that evasive maneuver.
Three faint whistles pierced the thick white smoke as sharp objects sliced through the air.
Yang Ming's neck muscles contracted, and his core strength erupted. His body bent sharply backward to evade them.
Three black metal darts skimmed past the tip of his nose, their razor-sharp edges severing a lock of hair over his forehead.
Dull thuds rang out as metal struck wood. The darts embedded themselves in the mahogany bookshelf behind him, their fins vibrating rapidly with the remaining momentum.
Batarangs.
Yang Ming steadied himself. In the smoke, a tall, powerfully built black silhouette emerged.
He stood six feet tall, wearing a cowl with two pointed ears. His pitch-black cape snapped in the cold wind pouring through the broken window.
Bruce Wayne.
The wealthy young man who had lain naked on the operating table in Yang Ming's Underground Clinic just days earlier, nearly dying from massive blood loss caused by a ruptured spleen, had now completely upgraded his equipment.
Bruce's gaze pierced the smoke and locked onto Yang Ming. His eyes, concealed behind bulletproof lenses, betrayed no emotion, but his hands never paused.
Bruce's target tonight was Falcone.
His investigations and comparisons over the past few days had established that Joe Chill, the man who had murdered his parents in Crime Alley all those years ago, had been nothing more than a bottom-rung street thug.
A low-level thug could never have gathered precise intelligence on the Waynes' route out of the theater, their timing, and the gaps in their security. Someone among Gotham's most powerful forces must have supplied that information.
Falcone, the city's underworld emperor, undoubtedly knew the truth about what had happened. Bruce had infiltrated the estate to abduct him and use fear to pry the answers out of him.
But he had not expected to encounter that uncanny Asian doctor here.
Bruce stepped forward, flattened his left hand into a blade, and chopped straight at Yang Ming's neck. It was a one-hit finishing move, using the hard heel of his palm to disrupt nerve signals. If it landed, it could cause instant shock.
Yang Ming raised his right arm to block.
Flesh and bone collided with armor. Yang Ming felt tremendous resistance travel into his ulna. The material of Bruce's suit had changed.
It was no longer that cheap Kevlar. This was fire-resistant Nomex interwoven with miniature titanium alloy scales, exceptionally hard and capable of absorbing a tremendous amount of kinetic energy.
"Only a few days, and your gear's already gotten a lot more advanced." Yang Ming's voice sounded somewhat muffled in the smoke.
Bruce remained silent. His right knee drove upward toward Yang Ming's abdomen.
Yang Ming crossed his hands and pressed downward, catching Bruce's knee in his palms and cutting off the attack. Using the upward force of Bruce's knee, he launched himself into the air and swept his right leg toward Bruce's head.
Bruce raised his left forearm and took the blow head-on.
A dull impact sounded, and Bruce retreated half a step. In the space that half-step opened between them, Yang Ming had already drawn a scalpel from his Storage Ring with his right hand.
The dark-gray blade traced a lethal arc through the smoke, heading straight for Bruce's throat.
Bruce reacted instantly, whipping his cape around. An electric current hardened its memory-metal framework, turning it into a lightweight shield in front of him.
The titanium alloy blade sliced through the cape's flame-retardant outer coating with a teeth-grating screech, scattering sparks.
The two fought at close quarters in the cramped study.
Fists and feet flew as they traded blows, neither giving ground.
Falcone hid behind the desk, gripping a revolver he had fished out of a drawer. He could not make out the fight through the smoke. All he could hear were the relentless sounds of hand-to-hand combat and solid wooden furniture shattering.
The old godfather had no idea who the stranger dressed like an enormous bat was. As far as the Mafia was concerned, he could only be a rival gangster or an elite assassin hired by an enemy overseas.
"Mr. Yang! Keep him alive!" Falcone shouted. He needed to interrogate him and find out who had hired him.
Yang Ming did not spare the attention to answer.
Bruce's fighting skills had grown more refined since his visit to the clinic a few days earlier. His advanced equipment compensated for his lack of street-fighting experience.
Relying on his suit's defenses, he adopted a brutally aggressive approach, trading blows without concern for injury.
Yang Ming thrust his scalpel toward a gap in the armor over Bruce's ribs. Bruce neither ducked nor dodged, relying on the titanium alloy scales to withstand the thrust while driving a heavy right-handed punch at Yang Ming's chest.
Yang Ming withdrew the blade, flipped the scalpel around, and met Bruce's knuckles with the counterweight at the base of its handle.
The opposing force drove both men apart.
Yang Ming shook his tingling right hand. The suit's kinetic absorption system was exceptionally well designed, distributing most of the impact throughout its armor.
Bruce was hurting too. Yang Ming's uncanny way of delivering force had penetrated the armor's cushioning layers and badly jarred his internal organs.
More importantly, Yang Ming's interference had brought Bruce's tactical plan to a complete standstill.
Bruce stared hard at Yang Ming. Who exactly was this doctor? When I had Alfred investigate him, all he found was that he had suddenly appeared in Gotham a year ago. Nothing else.
Why was he in Falcone's study, protecting this Mafia boss?
With Yang Ming here, I can't accomplish the objective. I have to withdraw.
Bruce made his decision. His left hand slipped into his utility belt and retrieved a silver cylinder.
Yang Ming caught that minute muscle movement, and his master-level combat instincts screamed a warning.
He shut his eyes, lowered his head, and crossed his hands over his face.
The flashbang detonated.
Magnesium powder burned violently, unleashing a burst of blinding light through the study alongside an earsplitting sonic blast. This was a military-grade stun grenade, enough to instantly blind an unprepared person and rob them of their hearing for more than ten seconds.
Even with his eyes closed, Yang Ming was left with a stark white afterimage across his retinas, while a high-pitched ringing battered his eardrums.
The glare faded, and his vision gradually returned.
The window stood wide open. Cold wind dispersed the lingering smoke, and the black figure was gone from the study.
Only a few muddy footprints on the Persian rug proved that the fierce battle had not been a hallucination.
"That goddamn bastard!" Falcone rose from behind the desk, revolver in hand, his face livid.
He surveyed the wreckage. Antique vases lay shattered across the floor, Renaissance oil paintings had been slashed, and feathers from the sofa cushions drifted everywhere.
"Vincent! Where is everyone? Where the hell is security?" Falcone roared toward the doorway.
There was no answer.
The hallway was deathly silent.
Falcone tightened his grip on the gun until his knuckles turned white, then glanced at Yang Ming.
Yang Ming put away his scalpel, walked to the oak door, and pressed down on the handle.
The door opened.
The sight in the hallway made Falcone draw a sharp breath.
More than a dozen fully armed bodyguards in black lay sprawled across the wool carpet. Even the normally vigilant butler, a Vietnam War veteran, had collapsed beside the banister at the top of the stairs.
There was no blood, and there had been no gunfire.
It was as though all of them had been plunged into deep unconsciousness at once.
Yang Ming approached the nearest bodyguard, dropped to one knee, and placed his index and middle fingers against the man's carotid artery.
His pulse was steady, and his breathing was normal.
Yang Ming lifted the bodyguard's eyelid and shone his pocket medical flashlight into the pupil. The pupillary light reflex was intact.
"Pressure on the carotid artery caused him to pass out. In plain language, someone knocked him unconscious. His life isn't in danger, and he should wake up on his own in about twenty minutes." Yang Ming stood and delivered his professional diagnosis.
Falcone looked at his men strewn across the floor, his expression dark as thunder.
The estate security system he had taken such pride in had been as flimsy as paper before that monster.
Had Yang Ming not been here today, that monster could easily have breached his defenses and dragged him out of the house-or simply snapped his neck.
"Who was that man in the bat suit?" Falcone turned to Yang Ming, unable to conceal the lingering fear in his voice.
"This was only my second time seeing him." Yang Ming brushed the dust off his trench coat. "But don't worry. He'll probably lie low for a few days."
Falcone put away his revolver and took several deep breaths, forcing down his fury.
He walked up to Yang Ming and offered his right hand.
"Mr. Yang. The Falcone Family owes you an enormous favor for what you did today." The godfather's tone was solemn. Under the Mafia's code, a debt of gratitude carried more weight than money.
Yang Ming clasped the hand. It was withered, but strong.
"Consider it a complimentary security service." Yang Ming withdrew his hand. "Our deal still stands."
"Of course. I'll have Cobblepot arrange the handover of the goods and funds as soon as possible. The medical equipment on your list will reach your clinic by tomorrow evening." Falcone nodded.
The bodyguards on the carpet began to let out unconscious groans, one after another, as the vagal inhibition wore off.
The butler was the first to regain consciousness. Rubbing the back of his neck, he braced himself against the wall and shakily rose. When he saw Falcone standing nearby, his face went deathly pale.
"Sir... I..." The butler's voice trembled.
"Shut up, you useless liability." Falcone gave him an icy look. With Yang Ming present, he restrained himself from erupting.
"Get the car ready. Take Mr. Yang home."
"Yes, sir." The butler bowed his head, not daring to say another word.