Gotham City, on the edge of the East End, inside an abandoned textile factory.
"This ledger is enough to put Loeb and Falcone behind bars in Blackgate Penitentiary for the rest of their lives!"
Harvey Dent's eyes were bloodshot. Like a feverish gambler, he slammed the thick coded ledger they had seized at the Docks onto the Safehouse's iron table.
The iron table gave a dull clang, sending ripples through the half-full glass of cold water sitting on it.
"Calm down, Harvey." James Gordon leaned against a mildew-stained wall, took a hard drag on his cigarette, and exhaled a thick cloud of smoke.
"The ledger is real, but Gotham's judges really are rotten. Hand this over, and by tomorrow morning it'll be a pile of wastepaper, and our bodies will be floating in Gotham Bay."
"Then bypass Gotham's courts! Take the evidence straight to the State Prosecutor's Office! To the Federal Bureau of Investigation!" Harvey shot to his feet, planted both hands on the table, and stared Gordon down.
"James, we finally have ironclad proof of Falcone's human trafficking and money laundering! For the first time in three years! Once we cut out this cancer, Gotham will be cured!"
"Cured?"
An impossibly deep, gravelly voice with a metallic edge suddenly thundered through the windowless Safehouse.
Cold sweat instantly broke out across Gordon's and Harvey's backs.
"Who's there?!" Harvey instinctively drew the revolver from his shoulder holster and spun around.
Bang!
A large hand encased in black Kevlar armor reached out of the shadows and clamped precisely around Harvey's wrist. There was no wasted movement, just a slight twist along the joint's natural leverage point.
Clatter. The revolver fell to the floor.
Batman dropped soundlessly from a blind spot beside the ceiling's ventilation duct, his black cape spreading like the wings