"Look at this!"
Barnes slammed a sheet of paper onto Gordon's desk.
"Time, location, ship registry, headcount, even the type of cargo. All laid out clear as day!" His voice was hoarse, like he'd been shouting. Or maybe just talking too much. "One of Falcone's biggest drug smuggling routes. This is it. This is our opening shot. I want you to lead it personally. Mobilize everyone you can. We seize the goods and the people, wipe it clean in one move."
Gordon picked up the paper, reading it. Then he read it again.
"This is your handwriting, sir?"
"Yes. An anonymous call came in about two hours ago. I wrote it down." Barnes leaned forward, hands flat on the desk. "The caller claimed to be an undercover officer. Planted beside Falcone years ago."
Gordon set the paper down slowly.
"Sir, with all due respect, the credibility of this intel is extremely low. I'm not aware of any undercover operation targeting Falcone. Not from Major Crimes, or Narcotics. And even if there were an undercover officer, it'd be nearly impossible to obtain intelligence this detailed without getting burned."
"I know you're cautious. But this person has been embedded beside Falcone for over ten years. He lost faith when Loeb was commissioner, figured the department was too corrupt to bother reporting to. But when he heard we were preparing to take down the Romans, his faith was reignited."
Gordon didn't say what he was thinking: That's convenient.
An undercover agent who'd abandoned his mission for years, suddenly inspired by the new commissioner's speeches to turn over a major smuggling operation? The credit and prestige from a bust like that would be enormous. So enormous that Barnes couldn't, or wouldn't, consider any other possibility.
"Commissioner, this intel is too perfect. So perfect it feels unreal. Could it be a trap? Or someone using us to—"
"Detective Gordon." Barnes cut him off. "Caution is necessary, but this is not the time to hesitate. This is our best chance to turn public opinion and boost morale. The evidence is solid, the target is clear. We have no reason to back down. I want results. Do you understand? Clean, decisive results."
Gordon stared at him for a long moment. As a police officer, faced with intelligence this specific, he had no grounds to refuse. And even if the intel turned out to be bad, the worst-case scenario was a wasted operation. He didn't believe Falcone had either the reason or the balls to set a trap to ambush the GCPD.
He was just a detective. His job was to carry out orders and fight crime. But that old cop instinct, the one that had kept him alive through years on Gotham's streets, was screaming at him.
Who delivered the intelligence? And why?
"Yes, sir," he said finally.
---
"All units, radio check. Sound off."
Gordon pressed the transmit button on his shoulder mic.
"Alpha Team, 10-8 and in position."
"Bravo Team, 10-8. Got clear sightlines."
"Sniper One, we have full coverage on the pier."
"Sniper Two, roger that. No movement yet."
He crouched behind a stack of shipping containers. He pulled his jacket tighter, but the cold had already worked its way into his bones. His eyes locked onto Pier Seven, about fifty meters ahead. Then he glanced at the officers positioned around him. Bullock was crouched behind a container about three meters to his left, his service weapon drawn. The younger officers were trying not to look nervous and failing badly.
This was the heaviest hitter squad Major Crimes and Narcotics could put together. Practically the entire operational force headquarters had available. Barnes had bet everything on this raid.
Which brought Gordon back to the same question that had been eating at him for hours.
Why?
Bullock's voice crackled over the radio, pulling him back from his thoughts.
"Jim, you still with us? You've been staring at that pier for five minutes without blinking. It's starting to creep me out."
Gordon keyed his mic. "I'm here. Just thinking."
"Yeah, well, stop thinking and start watching. There's movement."
Gordon's attention snapped forward. Bullock was right. Out on the water, maybe two hundred meters out, he could see the faint outline of boats.
"All units, we have eyes on target," he transmitted. "Three vessels inbound. Maintain concealment. No one moves until I give the signal."
The boats came closer.
His heart rate kicked up, adrenaline starting to flood his system. His grip tightened on his service weapon.
"Narcotics, you getting this?" he whispered.
"Copy that. I count three boats, looks like fishing trawlers. No markings." The voice belonged to Ramirez, one of the few clean cops left in Narcotics after Flass' crew got flushed out. "They're coming in dark. Definitely not legit."
The boats reached the pier. Lines were thrown, caught, secured. Dark figures jumped onto the dock, moving fast. This wasn't their first run.
Gordon watched through the gap between containers, and counted heads. Eight. Maybe nine. Hard to tell in the shadows. One of the boats opened its cargo hold. More figures started hauling out packages. Square-shaped, wrapped tight in plastic and duct tape.
"Sniper One, confirm cargo."
"Confirmed. Multiple packages consistent with narcotics smuggling. Estimated weight... twenty to thirty kilos per package. I count at least twelve packages."
If that was all heroin, they were looking at street value in the millions.
"Bravo Team, ready to move on your signal."
Gordon took a deep breath. No turning back now. He grabbed the bullhorn with his left hand, keeping his weapon in his right. Then he stood up.
"GOTHAM CITY POLICE DEPARTMENT! NOBODY MOVE!"
His voice exploded across the docks like a grenade going off. Almost instantly, searchlights blazed to life from three different positions, flooding the pier with light bright enough to turn night into day. Officers rose from behind cover all around the dock, weapons trained on the smugglers, forming a perfect killbox.
For one frozen moment, nobody moved. Then all hell broke loose.
"FUCK! COPS!"
"RUN!"
"GET THE GUNS!"
The smugglers scattered like roaches. Some dove for the boats. Others scrambled for the packages they'd dropped. And three... no, four, went for weapons.
"DROP YOUR WEAPONS!" Gordon shouted. "HANDS ON YOUR—"
CRACK. CRACK. CRACK.
Muzzle flashes erupted from the pier. Bullets whined through the air, slamming into the containers around Gordon.
"OPEN FIRE! OPEN FIRE!"
The night lit up.
BANG. BANG-BANG-BANG.
BOOM.
Bullock's shotgun roared, buckshot shredding the corner of a crate one of the smugglers was hiding behind. The man screamed and went down, clutching his shoulder.
RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT.
Someone on the boats had a goddamn machine gun. Bullets stitched across the face of the container Gordon was behind, tearing holes through the steel.
"SUPPRESS THAT GUN!" he shouted, returning fire. His pistol bucked in his hand, three shots, and one of the smugglers on the boat jerked and fell.
"Bravo Team, flank left! Cut off their escape route!"
"Copy! Moving!"
More gunfire. The smell of gunpowder filled the air. Gordon's ears were ringing so loud he could barely hear his own thoughts.
A smuggler broke from cover, sprinting for the edge of the pier.
CRACK.
The sniper's rifle barked once. The runner's leg exploded in a spray of red and he went down screaming, tumbling off the edge of the pier and hitting the water.
"One in the water! Repeat, suspect down in the water!"
Another smuggler popped up from behind a stack of packages, firing wildly with a pistol. His shots went high and wide. Gordon lined up his sights and squeezed the trigger twice.
BANG. BANG.
The smuggler staggered backward and collapsed.
"RELOADING!" someone shouted.
"COVERING!"
A smuggler in a heavy coat tried to make a run for one of the boats. Bullock stepped out from cover and fired his shotgun at point-blank range.
BOOM.
The man's chest opened up like a zipper and he went down.
"WHEELHOUSE! WHEELHOUSE!"
One of the smugglers had holed up in the fishing boat's wheelhouse, firing through the windows. His shots were more accurate. One round punched through the corner of Gordon's cover and showered him with metal fragments.
"Sniper One, can you take that shot?"
"Negative. Angle's bad. Wooden walls are blocking the kill zone."
"Bravo Team, lay down suppressing fire. I'm moving in."
Gordon didn't wait for acknowledgment. He broke from cover, moving low and fast, zigzagging between containers while bullets snapped through the air around him. He made it to a new position about ten meters closer to the boats.
The smuggler in the wheelhouse saw him coming and swung his rifle around.
Gordon was faster. He aimed through the broken window and fired four shots in rapid succession. The glass shattered completely. The smuggler jerked backward, hit at least twice, and went silent.
"Wheelhouse is clear!"
The gunfire was starting to thin out now. Most of the smugglers were down, dead, wounded, or smart enough to surrender. One last holdout tried to make a break for it, stumbling toward the far end of the pier with his hands raised.
"DON'T SHOOT! DON'T SHOOT! I GIVE UP!"
"ON THE GROUND! NOW!"
The man dropped to his knees, hands behind his head. Two officers moved in, weapons trained on him, and kicked his legs out from under him. Cuffs went on.
Then, finally, silence.
Gordon stayed behind cover for another ten seconds, his heart hammering against his ribs. His hands were shaking from adrenaline.
"All units, sound off."
"Alpha Team, secure."
"Bravo Team, secure. Area clear."
"Sniper One, no more targets."
Gordon slowly stood up. He scanned the pier.
"Get the wounded stabilized!" he called out. "And someone call a bus. We've got officers hit."
"How many?" Bullock appeared at his elbow, reloading his shotgun.
"Three, I think. Nothing critical. Anderson took one in the vest. Jenkins caught some shrapnel. Rodriguez might have a broken arm."
"Could've been worse."
"Yeah." Gordon looked at the carnage on the pier. "Could've been a lot worse."
Officers were already moving in, securing the scene, gathering up the packages of drugs. Someone cut one open with a knife. White powder spilled out, sealed in vacuum bags.
Ramirez walked over, holding up one of the bags.
"This is the good stuff. High-purity heroin. We're talking millions in street value." He grinned. "We caught a big fish tonight."
Gordon nodded. By any measure, this was a massive bust. So why did he still feel like something was wrong?
He walked over to one of the wounded smugglers. The man's eyes were wide. He crouched down, shining his flashlight in the guy's face.
"Name. Who do you work for?"
The smuggler spat a mouthful of blood and phlegm. "Fuck... you..."
"Not talking?" Gordon stood up, gesturing to one of the nearby officers. "Get him patched up and take him in. He'll talk eventually."
"Yes, sir."
The initial IDs came back fast. Four of the wounded smugglers and two of the dead ones were in the system, known associates of the Falcone family. Low-level guys, mostly muscle and dock workers, but connected enough that it tied directly back to the Romans.
The chain of evidence was solid. Suspects and contraband seized on the spot. Everything pointing straight at Falcone.
Gordon walked to the edge of the pier, staring out at the black water. His phone buzzed. He pulled it out, already knowing who it would be.
He answered.
"Outstanding work!" Barnes' voice was so loud he had to hold the phone away from his ear. "Five armed drug traffickers killed, four captured, and over fifty kilograms of high-purity heroin seized. This will make Falcone choke on it. This is the beginning of our counterattack."
Gordon listened as Barnes went on. And on. Talking about how they'd leverage this bust. How they'd use it to go after more of Falcone's operations. How they'd dismantle his empire piece by piece.
He opened his mouth to say something about the anonymous intel. But he didn't. Because what was the point?
The bust was real. The drugs were real. The suspects were real. And maybe that's all that mattered.
"Yes, Commissioner," he said quietly. "We completed the mission."
He hung up and stood there for a long moment.