Relentless rain soaked the entire city in damp cold and gloom. A silent convoy of three black Cadillacs traveled down the road out of town like a funeral procession. This place had once borne witness to the glory of Falcone's empire; now it served as the final backdrop to his somber exit.
Carmine Falcone sat in the back seat of the middle car, his eyes closed as though dozing. He wore only ordinary dark clothes, and his graying hair was somewhat disheveled. With him were his most loyal chauffeur, the last to remain, in the front passenger seat, and a resolute-looking middle-aged confidant clutching a briefcase on the other side of the back seat. The other two cars carried fewer than ten loyalists willing to follow him into exile.
The Roman's once-mighty empire had dwindled to this handful of men.
When Victor Zsasz fell, Falcone still had money and men. But an aging lion could not fend off a pack of hyenas. Better to leave with some dignity.
"Sir, once we pass through the industrial district ahead, we'll be out of Gotham," the confidant beside him said quietly.
Falcone did not open his eyes. He merely gave an almost imperceptible nod.
Gotham was his blood, his flesh, his curse, and the only place he belonged. Away from Gotham, Carmine Falcone was nothing but an empty shell waiting to rot.
"Screeech!"
A piercing screech of brakes suddenly rang out, tires carving erratic tracks across the wet, muddy ground. Two filthy vans burst out of the gates of an abandoned factory ahead, skidding violently sideways to completely block the already narrow road.
"Sir!" A trace of panic crept into the chauffeur's voice.
Falcone slowly opened his eyes. There was no surprise in his clouded gaze, only a deathly still understanding. Through the