Catwoman: Soulstealer (DC Icons #3)(73)

Loved how it expanded, as if it would fill the entire world, and then narrowed—focusing right as he saw them.

Honing that rush directly on the three men who stalked down an alley, one with a baseball bat slung over a shoulder, one with what seemed to be a chain wrapped around his fist, and the other…What looked to be a long, wicked knife glinted in the dimness. They hadn’t even bothered to ditch their jumpsuits.

Luke banked, checking his speed.

Three against one—not bad odds. But these weren’t ordinary men.

There was a dark, wet stain on the back of the tall, slender one in the center—Bozo. Not his blood, the suit told Luke. But someone else’s. The chain dangling from Bozo’s hand had blood on it, too.

Jesus.

Chuckles’s baseball bat, propped against his broad, meaty shoulder—those were nails sticking out of the tip. Big ones.

Luke lowered himself, closer and closer to the opposite end of the alley. Ambushing from behind would work in his favor.

It went against every bit of training in the ring, felt cowardly even against these men, but…It was Smiles, slender, average height, and the Joker’s Number Two, who held that large knife.

Smiles hadn’t become Number Two because of a pleasantness of personality. No, Luke knew that nickname came from Smiles While Killing. Smiles While Robbing. Smiles While Doing Whatever Evil the Joker Commands.

It was Smiles who Luke had to look out for. And Smiles who made him dim his suit lights to darkness, land near-silently on the alley floor, and free a Batarang from his suit. He’d modified the simple metal design in his lab. This, at a signal from his suit, would inflict as much of an electric shock as a Taser.

One of his friends overseas had been a sniper. Luke had talked with her countless times about how she calculated distance and wind and light and movement. She’d never missed a shot.

The three men reached the edge of the alley, still unaware of his presence behind them.

Luke lined up his shot, then freed two more Batarangs for his second and third, anticipating how the other two might scatter.

His job wasn’t to kill them.

He’d seen enough of that overseas for a lifetime. Still discussed it in group therapy with the others.

The victims of these men deserved justice—real justice, through a court of law. Not vigilantism. And as screwed up and evil as these men were…they had some right to a trial, too.

Luke fired the Batarang at Smiles’s wiry frame.

But the Joker’s Second must have heard the buzz of the electric charge.

Faster than Luke had expected, Smiles grabbed Bozo and whirled, the Joker’s Number Four pressed against his chest.

A human shield.

The Batarang hit Bozo right in the chest, stunning him. The chains jangled as they hit the concrete, Bozo following them. Utterly unconscious.

As Luke had anticipated, Chuckles whirled toward his companion, rather than run for cover. Luke fired his second Batarang, right where he’d calculated.

Chuckles and his baseball bat thudded on the ground.

Smiles sized up the alley, his pale face gaunt and sneering. “Come out, come out,” he whispered, his voice high and reedy. A poor imitation of the Joker’s natural bone-chilling voice. “No one likes a party pooper.” He beckoned with his long knife. It glinted, catching the light of the streetlamp.

One against one: much better odds.

Luke stepped out of the shadows, letting the insignia on his chest flare brightly.

Smiles grinned crookedly, dancing on his feet—an uneven, unbalanced move. Something he’d seen plenty of people do when they thought they knew about boxing. It only served to make his center of balance unwieldy. “Catch me if you can,” Smiles whispered, and sprinted away.

Let him run. Luke was already dialing the GCPD. He had learned early on that he risked losing two unconscious criminals if he didn’t make sure they were secure before going after a third on the run.

It was a matter of a few minutes to get Bozo and Chuckles tied to a lamppost, sirens sounding from a few blocks away.

Good.

With patrol cars swarming down the block, Luke leapt into the skies, scanning the streets below.

It had been five minutes max. But a great deal could happen in five minutes in Gotham City. There were sewer entrances everywhere—the preferred route of many of the city’s worst.

There. Sprinting toward the docks, that knife shining in the dark.

Smart, yes, but untrained. Unaware that the glint was a dead giveaway.

Smiles turned a corner in the labyrinth of dockside warehouses. Heading for the small marina. Luke banked right and landed in the shadows just north of his route.

Only to discover that Smiles had found a way through the warehouses, rather than around them.

As Luke landed, the alerts on his helmet flared, and—

He ducked, falling back as Smiles slashed at him.

Not fast enough. The knife dragged along his side. Sundering metal plates. And flesh.

Luke swore, shutting out the pain, despite the warmth of blood filling his suit.

On an unarmored person, that blow would have gutted them like a fish.

Smiles smirked at the blade, the blood on it. “You know how much this DNA will sell for?”

Luke’s blood leaked from him. Dangerously fast.

He had to end it now.

“Too bad you won’t find out,” Luke said, and moved.