Dre drew a slow breath through his nose and released it just as carefully, forcing himself to maintain a steady rhythm. He had learned long ago that anger could be useful, but frustration was something else entirely. Frustration made people careless. It made them rush into situations they should have walked away from, and lately he had been feeling far too much of it.
The information packet sitting open in front of him wasn't helping.
Nolan was supposed to be returning to Star City any day now, and Brickwell was still alive.
That fact gnawed at Dre more than he wanted to admit. After the assault on the old mayoral building, Brickwell had vanished almost completely. Dre had followed Nolan's instructions and stopped throwing bodies at the problem, instead turning his attention toward finding the man while he was still recovering from the three bullets that had torn into his back.
Finding Brickwell's doctor, however, had proven nearly impossible.
The man had disappeared into Gotham's underground medical network, using shell clinics, abandoned offices, and doctors who knew better than to ask questions. Every lead Dre found seemed to evaporate before he could reach it. Every informant swore they had heard something, only for the information to lead nowhere.
Brickwell had gone to ground, and Dre couldn't help feeling as though he were losing a fight against a man who wasn't even willing to stand up and throw a punch.
A small, persistent feeling of failure had begun taking root in the back of Dre's mind.
He hated it.
Worse, he couldn't let anyone see it.
His people looked to him because he was supposed to have answers. They needed to believe that Dre knew what he was doing even when he didn't. So he buried the frustration beneath orders, reports, and long hours spent searching for a weakness in Brickwell's operation.
He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his hands over his face.
For a fleeting moment, he wondered if Nolan ever felt this way.
The thought almost made him laugh.
Nolan was different.
His boss was, for lack of a better word, kind of insane.
Dre had watched Nolan walk into situations that would have made most men reconsider their entire lives and somehow come out the other side looking amused. Whatever failure meant to Nolan, Dre suspected it didn't mean the same thing it meant to everyone else.
Still, that didn't make the feeling disappear.
Dre closed the packet and stood.
He needed air.
He needed to move.
More importantly, he needed to stop thinking.
****
The warehouse sat several blocks away from the main thoroughfare, an ugly industrial building surrounded by empty lots and rusting fences. Dre ducked through the side entrance with a cigarette hanging loosely from his lips, the orange tip briefly illuminating his face whenever he took a drag.
It was unusual to see him alone.
Usually there were Underpass soldiers nearby, posted at doors and watching rooftops, but tonight Dre had deliberately left them behind. He had business to handle, and he didn't need an entourage breathing down his neck while he worked.
He crossed the warehouse floor, boots echoing against the concrete as he moved between stacks of wooden crates and old industrial equipment.
He didn't notice the figures outside.
They had been waiting.
One appeared behind the fence.
Then another, more and more soldiers creeped from the shadows.
Dark silhouettes separated themselves from the surrounding shadows, moving with deliberate patience. They carried rifles and handguns, and several wore body armor beneath dark jackets. At the center of them walked a massive man whose size made the others look almost ordinary.
Brickwell had finally decided to stop hiding.
He had spent days recovering, nursing his wounds and rebuilding his strength while his people searched for an opportunity to strike back. The old mayoral building had been a humiliation, but more importantly, it had taught him something.
Dre expected Brickwell to attack him. So Brickwell would attack somewhere Dre thought was safe.
The group reached the warehouse without making a sound.
Brickwell raised one hand.
Everyone stopped.
He looked toward the building, "He's in there?"
One of his men nodded.
Brickwell's expression hardened, "Then let's make sure he doesn't walk out."
The first team moved toward the entrance.
The side door exploded inward.
Brickwell's men poured through immediately, weapons raised, shouting over one another as they stormed into the warehouse.
"Dre!"
The first burst of gunfire tore through the interior.
Bullets ripped through crates, punched into machinery, and shattered overhead lights. Glass rained onto the concrete as the warehouse plunged into a chaotic mixture of darkness and muzzle flashes.
"Find him!"
Men spread through the building, kicking open doors and tearing through offices. One group rushed toward the rear while another swept the upper level. Brickwell entered behind them, his weapon held tightly in both hands.
The warehouse had been prepared for a fight.
That was immediately obvious.
There were barricades, reinforced doors, and stacks of heavy equipment positioned in ways that created natural choke points. Brickwell's men pushed through them anyway, tearing apart anything that stood between them and their target.
But Dre was nowhere.
"Clear!"
"Nothing here!"
"He's not on the lower floor!"
Brickwell's expression darkened.
"Keep looking." His men continued deeper into the warehouse.
Then one of them stopped. He looked upward, something moved along the railing above them.
"What the—"
The first Underpass soldier stepped out of the darkness.
Then another.
Then another.
Within seconds, the upper railings were lined with them.
Brickwell's men froze. Dre's voice suddenly echoed through the warehouse from somewhere above.
"You boys sure took your damn time."
The lights came on. Every Underpass soldier along the upper level raised his weapon.
Brickwell's eyes widened.
"Get down!"
The warehouse erupted.
Gunfire hammered through the building as the Underpass opened fire from above. Brickwell's men scattered, scrambling for cover behind crates and machinery as bullets chewed through the concrete around them.
Several tried to return fire, but the elevated position left them exposed. They fired blindly toward the railings while the Underpass soldiers shifted between cover, firing controlled bursts and forcing them deeper into the warehouse.
Brickwell threw himself behind a steel support column as rounds sparked against the metal beside his head.
"This was a trap!"
A man beside him shouted something, but the gunfire swallowed his words. Brickwell gritted his teeth.
He had expected Dre to be here.
He had expected to catch him off guard.
Instead, he'd walked directly into an ambush.
Above them, Dre finally stepped into view.
The cigarette still hung from the corner of his mouth.
He looked down at the chaos below with a cold expression, all traces of the frustration that had plagued him earlier buried beneath something much more familiar.
Confidence.
"Welcome to my warehouse, thanks for trusting your people mayor Brickwell" Dre said mockingly
He removed the cigarette from his mouth and dropped it onto the railing.
Then he nodded toward the men below.
"Don't let any of them leave."
Brickwell shoved the nearest man aside and forced his way through the chaos toward the rear exit. The warehouse had become a storm of gunfire, shouting, and breaking glass, and every instinct he possessed told him that staying inside meant allowing Dre to dictate the fight. Four of his men followed close behind, firing over his shoulders whenever they saw movement on the upper railings.
"Keep on me!" Brickwell barked.
He reached the rear doors and kicked one open.
The night air hit him.
So did the bullets.
Underpass soldiers were waiting in the alley.
They had taken positions behind abandoned vehicles, concrete barriers, and the corners of neighboring buildings, their weapons already trained on the doorway. The instant Brickwell stepped outside, muzzle flashes erupted across the darkness.
"Fuck!"
Brickwell crossed his arms over his chest, lowering his head as the first wave of bullets struck.
The rounds slammed into him with enough force to stagger him, but they didn't stop him.
One struck his shoulder and tore through his jacket. Another punched into his side. Several more hammered into his forearms as he kept them locked over his head and torso, protecting his eyes and throat while he continued forward.
His men stared at him for half a second.
"Move!" Brickwell roared.
Then he charged.
The distance between them disappeared frighteningly fast.
Brickwell slammed into the first Underpass soldier like a wrecking ball. The man's feet left the ground before Brickwell drove him backward into the hood of a parked car, denting the metal beneath him. Another soldier swung his rifle toward Brickwell's head, but Brickwell caught the weapon with one hand and ripped it away with such force that the man stumbled forward.
Brickwell grabbed him by the vest and hurled him across the alley.
He crashed into the side of a building.
A third man opened fire at point-blank range. Brickwell raised his forearm and kept coming.
The bullets struck him.
He didn't stop.
He drove his shoulder into the man's chest and sent him sprawling across the pavement. Before the soldier could recover, Brickwell stomped down a sickening crunch sounded followed by a squelch.
"Get out of my fucking way!"
More Underpass soldiers rushed him. Brickwell met them head-on.
He grabbed one by the throat and slammed him against a brick wall hard enough to shake dust from the mortar. Another tried to strike him from behind, but Brickwell turned and caught the knife against his forearm before driving his forehead into the man's face.
Bone cracked.
The man dropped.
Brickwell barely seemed to notice.
He was bleeding now, but the wounds were shallow. Blood streaked his clothing and ran down his arms, yet the sheer punishment he was absorbing only seemed to make him angrier.
His remaining men rallied behind him.
"Boss!"
"Keep moving!" Brickwell shouted.
They followed him through the bodies and scattered shell casings, firing toward the Underpass positions as Brickwell pushed deeper into the alley.
For one brief moment, it looked like he might actually break through.
Then headlights appeared.
Brickwell turned. A black sedan came screaming around the corner.
"Dre—"
The vehicle struck him before he could finish. The impact lifted Brickwell completely off his feet.
His body slammed across the hood, rolled over the roof, and crashed onto the pavement several yards away. The sedan fishtailed violently before coming to a stop.
The driver's door flew open.
Dre stepped out. His expression was utterly devoid of humor. Brickwell groaned and rolled onto his side.
Dre raised his handgun.
Brickwell saw him.
He pushed himself onto one knee.
Dre fired.
The first bullet struck Brickwell in the chest.
Then another.
Then another.
Dre kept pulling the trigger.
The gunshots echoed through the alley as Brickwell's body jerked with each impact. Blood spread across his shirt, but the rounds still weren't penetrating deeply enough to put him down.
Dre advanced while he fired, emptying the magazine into the man he'd been hunting for days.
"Mother fucker, just die!"
The slide locked back. Dre stood over him, breathing heavily.
Brickwell remained on one knee his left arm still shielding his face.
Blood ran from the corner of his mouth.
"That tickled mother fucker." Brickwell spat
Dre snarled, "Fuck it." He pulled out a large handgun one modified by Nolan and clenched his teeth
Bracing himself Dre pulled the trigger. The recoil slammed through Dre's arms and into his shoulder. Something popped violently inside him, and his right shoulder wrenched out of its socket. Pain exploded down his side as the force drove him backward, his knees nearly buckling beneath him.
But he kept the gun pointed forward.
The round struck Brickwell squarely.
The impact tore through the left side of his body with horrific force. Flesh and bone disappeared beneath the blast, his left arm and a portion of his face obliterated in an instant. The smell of scorched flesh filled the air as smoke curled from the wound.
Brickwell staggered.
For a moment, impossibly, he remained upright.
His ruined body swayed where it stood. One eye stared blankly ahead while blood poured down what remained of his face. His fingers twitched once at his side.
Then whatever had been keeping him standing finally gave out.
Brickwell collapsed heavily onto the pavement.