Catwoman: Soulstealer (DC Icons #3)(17)

Luke wasn’t stupid enough to ask if the phrasing was Gordon’s or Alfred’s. “Anything to worry about?”

“The commissioner claimed that it was an urgent matter.”

That didn’t sound good. There was a private line between Gordon and the Batcave precisely for these sorts of situations. A line that now forwarded to Alfred’s own inbox while Bruce was away on a mission of such secrecy that he hadn’t even told Luke what he was up to.

Their goodbyes were as quick as their hellos, and Luke had found himself relieved when the phone call was finally over.

It had been a quiet night until now. Too quiet. He’d even headed to bed early for once. He certainly hadn’t filled the night with a date with one of the women his mom was constantly trying to set him up with. No, he didn’t date at all. Not when he was still climbing back toward the person he’d been; not with all the responsibilities Batwing bore. And then there were the inevitable questions, along with the threat he’d pose to anyone associated with him if the truth about his identity ever came out.

Five minutes later, he’d donned the comfortable weight of his suit and slipped through the streets of Gotham City while a thunderstorm unleashed itself overhead.

And now, as he dripped water onto the tiled floor of Gordon’s dim office, the pale, middle-aged GCPD commissioner frowned up at him, his auburn mustache twitching. Not at all surprised to see him emerging from the shadows. “Good of you to join me.”

Luke waited, his face hidden beneath his mask. The low light danced on the bluish silver of his armor, the bat-symbol across his chest glowing faintly.

Alive—the suit he wore hummed and ticked faintly with life, each inch of it made by Luke in that lab, designed and modified and tweaked to his liking. Full of hidden surprises for Gotham City’s worst.

“Where’s the other guy?” Gordon said at last, brown eyes narrowing beneath his thick-rimmed glasses. “Haven’t seen him around for a while.”

Luke approached the desk, his suit clinking softly. Bruce had been the one to suggest the particular metal—his father the one to supply it. “He’s on a covert op.” No need to let Gordon know that he had little idea what it entailed.

“Is he now.”

Luke angled his head, the single sign of his impatience. Yeah, Bruce and Luke worked with Gordon. Had an agreement to make sure the GCPD locked up the criminals they nabbed, and provided backup when needed. But they didn’t answer to the police. Luke himself still chafed when he had to work with the GCPD. What he’d seen just now after slipping through the precinct’s roof access had only reinforced that sentiment. He’d nearly made it through the halls unnoticed when he’d spied the black kid, no older than fifteen, handcuffed to a bench in the corridor outside the holding area. Soaked through, his clothes clinging to his thin frame. The kid’s face was carefully blank, even if the tapping of his foot on the tile floor revealed the nervousness undoubtedly coursing through him. Rightfully coursing through him, considering the words Luke heard a second later as he ducked into a shadowed alcove.

What’d you nab him for? The question had come from an officer passing by.

Unaware of Luke’s presence mere feet away, the cop who had undoubtedly brought the kid in had answered, dabbing at the sweat on his ruddy face. Pot possession.

Caught in the act? the first cop had asked, pausing.

The ruddy-faced cop had smirked. Does it make a difference?

The question, the cop’s words, had Luke’s blood roaring in his ears.

His parents had explained to him from a young age that the world wasn’t always fair, had explained how—regardless of their wealth—there was a very specific way he needed to interact with the cops. They had told him it was for his own protection. That sometimes the police got ideas in their heads that had nothing to do with him but affected him anyway. Him and kids who looked like him.

Like the kid on the bench. As Luke snuck another glance at the boy, he wondered if the kid had been taught the same.

Luke emerged from the hall shadows and walked over to where the boy was seated.

The cops, almost at the end of the hall now, halted. Swore as they spotted him. He and Bruce never revealed their presence inside the precinct. Never.

What would those officers say if they knew the color of the skin beneath his suit? It hadn’t escaped Luke’s notice just how many of the guys behind bars looked like him, but he knew that the real criminals—the ones who truly posed a threat to Gotham City—those guys didn’t look like him at all.

Luke had made sure to calm his raging heartbeat, the anger simmering in his veins, before he said to the kid, You good?

Slowly, the kid’s head lifted. He scanned Luke from head to toe, starting to shake a bit, his jeans dripping onto the floor, but he said nothing.

So Luke asked again, signaling he was a friend, especially with the cops gawking and yet not daring to come closer. You good, bro?

The boy still said nothing. But his eyes went wide—wide as saucers as the question settled in. Luke gave him a slight nod.

He turned to the cops at the end of the hall. Get this boy a blanket. He’s soaked through.

The cops blinked at him, the ruddy-faced one’s skin going white as death. Then he hurried away. Luke waited until he returned, blanket in hand. Until it was around the kid’s shoulders.

Luke had marked the man’s badge—his name and ID number—as he ran past. And as Luke finally left the hall, he dialed up one of the best lawyers in the city, who just so happened to be one of Luke’s old prep school friends. She asked no questions, only promised to be at the precinct in twenty minutes.