No Man's Land

"You want to find a hitman... you, a cop?"

Wolf took a deep breath, straightened his back, and slowly leaned against the backrest.

He forced a smile, his gaze lashing across Stuart's face like a whip.

You little bastard, you really know how to make trouble for me. Why did you bring another cop here? This is blatant entrapment!!!

"As you can see, I'm just a bar owner. How would I know anything about that?"

"Running an illegal boxing gym, organizing gambling... what else? Oh, right. Does your bar have a liquor license? And where does your booze come from..."

"Enough!"

Wolf slammed the table and stood up, then dropped back into his seat almost immediately.

He hadn't forgotten that William had James Gordon behind him. Putting his impotent rage on display would only make him a laughingstock.

"What exactly do you want?"

"I told you. Just a way to contact a hitman. As for everything I just mentioned, I only wanted you to know you've already committed plenty of crimes. I don't need to use something like this to trick you into talking."

Wolf raised his eyebrows and rubbed his chin.

"I don't have a way to contact one directly, but I can give you an address. Before you go there, remember to take off that jacket with the police department logo."

They left the Black Truffle Bar at 5:42 a.m., with sixty-nine hours and sixteen minutes remaining until the shooting.

Their second stop was a bowling club in the Financial District.

William entered carrying a suitcase packed with cash. He scanned the empty venue but found no sign of their target.

That was normal. Nobody came to bowl before seven, even on a weekend.

Stuart fed coins into the vending machine in the corner and tossed William a can of iced coffee.

William took the opportunity to sort through his thoughts again, recalling details he had overlooked before the reset.

He had been attacked on his way back to the police station, at approximately 4:12 p.m. The gunman's ability to pinpoint the train he was riding meant he must have been following William for a long time.

But why choose to attack on the return trip?

Because it was raining at noon. The downpour would have obscured his view.

He thought it over, and that was the only reasonably plausible explanation.

In the comics, Deadshot possessed almost impossibly good marksmanship. He knew exactly how different types of bullets would ricochet off different objects and often used ricochet shots to kill.

That was probably how William had been killed while hiding behind the stone pillar in his final moments.

William guessed that Deadshot couldn't see through objects. Otherwise, he would have taken a bullet to the head long before that, given the snail's pace at which he had crawled through the carriage.

"He must have pinpointed my position some other way."

The second overlooked detail was Stuart's appearance.

A mysterious caller had told him that William was in danger.

That could mean the mastermind had wanted to kill them both, or it could mean a third party had intervened.

But if there really was a third party in this game, who could it be?

William popped open the can and took a long gulp of iced Americano.

Espresso really does taste better.

Grimacing, he forced down the whole can.

At 7:15, their target appeared at the entrance to the bowling alley.

Light-colored straight-leg trousers, a pink shirt tucked into his waistband, a coffee-brown newsboy cap on his head, and a flamboyantly dressed woman on his arm. No wonder Wolf had said the man would be easy to recognize the moment he showed up.

Nicknamed "Scarface," he was a well-known middleman in Gotham City.

Stuart gave him a meaningful look from a distance, and William approached with the suitcase.

"Whose friend are you?"

"A friend of a friend."

Using the password Wolf had provided, William successfully made contact.

"Tell me your budget."

Scarface settled into a reclining chair, sent his companion to buy water, and took a bowling ball from his bag to polish carefully.

"A million. I need someone who can shoot straight."

William opened the suitcase, displaying his private stash.

The deposit was one-fifth of the total price. For now, a million was the highest figure he could name, but even that was an enormous sum in 1991.

He could only hope that price would be enough to secure someone of Deadshot's caliber.

Scarface named six or seven hitmen in succession, briefly outlining their professional skills and rates. Unfortunately, none was the man William wanted.

"I need a hitman who can kill in complicated terrain, even ricochet bullets around corners to take out a target."

Scarface gave William a strange look upon hearing his request.

He maintained high professional standards and treated his clients courteously.

But he really couldn't help wanting to ask whether William had watched too many science-fiction movies.

Someone who fantasized about killing with ricocheting bullets was no different from those Star Wars fans who believed they could hack at each other with lightsabers.

"I mean no offense, but that's impossible."

"I can raise the price."

"I think I've made myself clear enough. There's no such person! Please leave. Now!"

William returned to his seat with the suitcase, and Stuart patted his shoulder reassuringly.

"It's all right. Tonight, I'll tie him to the steel frame of a tower crane. He'll tell us everything."

That was a good approach. William nodded.

But it would inevitably cost them time, with no guarantee they would get the answer they wanted.

Scarface didn't look as though he was putting them off. The man might genuinely know nothing.

Were Wolf's connections still too limited? Did you need a higher social standing to reach mercenaries like Deadshot?

Reluctantly, the two got up to leave.

But as they passed the front desk, the phone suddenly rang.

William paid it no attention until the young white man behind the desk called out to him.

"Sir... there's a call for you."

"For me?"

"I'm not sure either, but the caller told me to hand it to the person who had just walked past the desk... I think that means you."

William looked at the receiver being offered to him and hesitantly reached out.

"Hello..."

"Go to No Man's Land. You'll find Floyd."

A shrill, electronically synthesized voice came from the other end. The caller didn't even ask who he was, simply delivering that single, information-laden sentence.

"May I ask who..."

Beep-beep-

Without giving William a chance to probe, the caller hung up, leaving only a string of ominous busy tones.

It reminded William of the mysterious call Stuart had received before the reset.

Could they be the same person?

If so, what was this person after?

Whatever the answer, William intended to follow this sole lead.

At 9:18 a.m., fewer than sixty-seven hours remained until the shooting.

William and Stuart arrived on No Man's Land.

If the East End's chaos could be blamed on industrial decline and mass unemployment, the chaos of No Man's Land stemmed from the violence woven into its very blood.

Colonists from the United Kingdom had once built a prison called Blackgate on the cliffs along the island's eastern side. For more than two centuries, the prison, weathered by sea winds, had housed criminals of every kind.

Most were unable to reintegrate into society after their release and eventually found their way back to the island. Once the first makeshift shack went up, more and more former prisoners chose to make their homes there.

The illegal buildings and former inmates posed a serious threat to the prison's security. Residents used that as leverage to force Gotham's government to provide electricity, running water, and basic infrastructure.

No Man's Land gradually developed its own financial dealings. Almost all of Gotham's drug manufacturing operations were concentrated there. Its black markets teemed with terrifying transactions, while pickpocket rings and cults of every stripe had effectively become the island's rulers.

Unlike the gangs under Maroni or Falcone, the island's gangs were more savage and cruel. They went bare-chested, their chests and arms covered in fierce, menacing tattoos.

From the moment the two stepped onto the harbor's swaying wooden planks, these men began gathering, their hostile eyes scanning them up and down.

Grimy children rushed through the wet mud toward them, filthy hands scraping against their clothes and brazenly reaching into their pockets.

"Hey! That's not happening!!!"

William could put up with having his wallet lifted, but they were actually trying to steal his service pistol. That was intolerable.

Reacting swiftly, Stuart seized the young thief by the back of the neck and hoisted him into the air with one hand.

He helped William recover his pistol, but also provoked the anger of the burly men surrounding them.