As the Batmobile glided into the Batcave through the underground tunnel, Bruce Wayne felt as though tonight's exhaustion had piled up all the way to his throat.
The tires rolled over the grating in the metal floor. He shut off the engine and stared for a few seconds at the rock wall beyond the windshield, illuminated by blue-white light.
There had been more than one bank robber tonight. The newly emerged Straight Flush Gang: A, K, Q, J, and 10. Five people, five sets of custom equipment, five different fighting styles.
Flying devices capable of short-range flight, a bulletproof metal body that could easily tear apart bank safes, a single eyepiece that fired lasers, an electric scepter...
He had taken several hard hits when he stormed the vault. Without the police's heavy firepower backing him up, how tonight would have ended... was anyone's guess.
Bruce closed his eyes, and the scene immediately rose in his mind-he had been forced to dodge around the lobby while Ace of Spades pursued him smugly, carrying a massive steel door. Then a series of dull, pounding reports had sounded outside.
The metal body Ace took such pride in had held out against the 12.7 mm rounds for a few stubborn seconds. After taking dozens of hits, he had collapsed with sparks flashing all over him.
And Bruce hadn't even known that the East End Police Department had secretly welded an M2HB onto a patrol van.
Perhaps that wasn't the problem. The problem was that, when deploying such lethal force, the sheriff had shown no hesitation, offered no communication, and requested no authorization. No one had tried to stop him. He had simply done it.
As though it were all perfectly natural. He treated Gotham as a battlefield, even a killing ground, and enjoyed every