Chapter 17: The Long Blue Line

Outside Kravitz Tower – Warzone

The firefight raged with relentless fury. Muzzle flashes lit the street like lightning. The air was thick with gunpowder, smoke, and screaming. The police parked their cars in an improvised, circular fortress of metal. They fought valiantly, ducking and then firing at Two-Face’s forces when they could, but they were boxed in on all sides. Vines writhed along the pavement, catching bullet casings like ash in their tendrils.

Gordon fired from behind a burned-out squad car riddled with countless bullet holes, every shot measured, his teeth gritted as more of his officers fell. Beside him, Bullock let out a shout, reloading with trembling hands, blood trickling down his temple.

From the shadows, Black Mask’s voice rang out, cruel and triumphant. “This is what happens when you back the losing side, Jimmy! You should’ve retired with the rest of the pissant cowards!”

A blast of gunfire tore through the metal near Gordon’s head. He ducked lower, his ears ringing.

Montoya screamed from across the street—her cover exploded into splinters as a grenade detonated beneath the car. She dove into a narrow alley, alone, breathing hard, eyes wide.

Gordon turned to Bullock. “If we could split up somehow, we could flank ‘em! But we need an opening—something big!”

Bullock looked at him—then down at his nearly empty sidearm. A beat of silence passed. Then his eyes shifted. And something changed. A crooked smile. That look. Gordon knew that look, and he hated it.

“I’ll give you one, Jim,” Bullock muttered.

“Bullock, what are you doing?!”

But it was already too late. Bullock roared—a primal, reckless, beautifully reckless scream—and broke cover, sprinting into open fire, shotgun blazing.

“COME ON, YOU SONS OF BITCHES!”

Black Mask and his men were caught flat-footed. For one surreal second, no one fired. No one moved. They were so stunned to see the fat man acting so stupid in a firefight that they doubted their senses, wondering if it was some kind of trick.

Bullock’s boots pounded across the pavement as his shotgun bucked in his hands. One thug dropped, then another—a third staggered as pellets tore through his chest.

Then, the spell broke. Gunfire opened up. Bullock was hit in the shoulder—then the leg—but he didn’t stop. He kept running, bleeding, snarling through clenched teeth.

Near the entrance to the tower, Black Mask recoiled as Bullock advanced, raising his rifle, but Bullock’s momentum was too great. He reached Black Mask like a battering ram and slammed into him, tackling him to the pavement in a heap of rage and gristle. Black Mask’s rifle clattered out of his hands as the back of his head hit the ground hard. His eyes closed and his body went limp.

Black Mask’s guards moved to assist—but Bullock dropped them, clubbing one with his shotgun, slamming another’s head into the curb.

The GCPD rallied. Officers shouted, pushing forward. They surged ahead, seizing the moment, driving Black Mask’s remaining men into temporary retreat. For one blessed moment, the gunfire ceased as the combatants took a breath.

Gordon stood there, stunned. A smile of disbelief slowly carved itself on his face. “Bullock, you crazy son of a bitch.”

Bullock, panting, bloody, grinned up at him from where he crouched over Black Mask’s writhing body. “Told ya I’d make it up to you one of these...”

Click. BANG!

The smile froze.

Gordon’s heart dropped. Black Mask, not as down as he looked, lay on his side—pistol in hand. The barrel still smoked.

“Say hello to Saint George, you fat prick,” he hissed.

He kicked Bullock off with a grunt and limped back toward the tower’s interior, clutching his side, disappearing into shadow with what few men he had left.

Gordon ran. Gunfire faded behind him. He didn’t feel the bullets anymore. He didn’t hear the shouting. Just Bullock, bleeding out in the gutter. Gordon dropped to his knees beside him.

Gunfire cracked in the distance, echoing through the narrow concrete canyon. Vines shifted along the walls like breathing tendrils. Rain started to fall—soft at first, almost respectful.

Commissioner Gordon dragged Harvey Bullock behind a shattered dumpster, blood streaking the pavement in long, dark smears. His hands were slick with it. His coat soaked through. The battle continued to rage around them, but for the moment, it was just the two men. Two friends with unfinished business.