Previously on Dark Knight of the Crescent City
The Causeway Bridge was a twenty-four-mile stretch of concrete purgatory suspended over the black, choppy waters of Lake Pontchartrain. On a normal night, it’s a tedious commute. Tonight, it was a high-speed corridor for a war.
Batman leaned into the cockpit of the black Dodge Charger SRT Hellcat, the digital HUD on his windshield tracking the GPS signature of the Yukon from the industrial canal. The car was in silent stealth mode, the supercharger’s whine muffled by specialized acoustic dampeners, the exterior lights killed. A shadow moving at 140 miles per hour, closing the gap between the chaos of the city and the perceived safety of the North Shore.
“Alfred.” Batman’s voice was a low rasp. “Scan the Bonito estate frequencies. Jimmy Nicks won’t wait for a formal invitation. If he’s moving, he’s moving loud.”
“Indeed, Master Bruce.” Alfred’s voice crackled through the comms. “I’m picking up multiple frantic transmissions. It appears the West Bank has arrived in Mandeville. It isn’t a hit, sir. It’s a siege.”
While the rest of the region was distracted by the tail-end of the Ares parade, the quiet, pine-scented air of the North Shore was shattered by the sound of a breaching charge.
Neal Bonito was in his study, a glass of vintage scotch in his hand and a ledger of offshore accounts on his desk. He had been feeling victorious. The Uptown hit had been a masterpiece of psychological warfare. He expected Jimmy to be hunkered down, crying over the bodies of his lieutenants.
He didn’t expect a blacked-out Escalade to ram through his wrought-iron gates at sixty miles per hour.
“Boss! We got company!” Joey Fisher stumbled into the study, fumbling with the safety of his sidearm.
Before Neal could respond, the floor-to-ceiling windows of the study exploded inward. The rhythmic thump of semi-automatic shotguns echoed through the house. Jimmy Nicks’ men weren’t wearing costumes. They were wearing tactical vests and expressions of pure, unadulterated hate.
Neal dove behind his heavy mahogany desk just as a spray of gunfire shredded his leather chair. “Get the guys from the guest house! Kill everyone on the lawn!”
The North Shore boys were used to intimidation and clean hits. They weren’t prepared for the sheer, suicidal ferocity of the West Bank. Jimmy Nicks walked through the front door of the mansion himself, a short-barreled assault rifle in his hands. He looked like a man who had already died and was just waiting for his body to catch up.
“Neal!” Jimmy’s voice echoed over the screams and the gunfire. “You wanted to make it burn? Look at me! Look at what you made!”
The hallway became a kill zone. Joey Fisher tried to make a stand at the top of the stairs but was caught in a crossfire of three different shooters. He tumbled over the railing, his sequined Mardi Gras mask landing in the foyer, soaked in red.
Jimmy kicked open the doors to the study. Neal was backed into a corner, his refined, billionaire-adjacent persona stripped away to reveal a terrified man holding a gold-plated pistol he barely knew how to aim.
“Jimmy, wait. We can talk about the percentages—”
“The percentages died on that porch, Neal.” Jimmy’s eyes were wide and vacant. “You hit my family. You don’t get to talk anymore.”
Jimmy didn’t hesitate. He emptied the magazine. It wasn’t surgical. It wasn’t professional. A messy, visceral execution that left the walls of the refined North Shore estate painted with the hubris of the Bonito empire.
Neal Bonito slumped to the floor. His number two and the rest of his inner circle lay dead in the halls. The empire hadn’t just been defeated. It had been decapitated.
Back in the city, the NOPD headquarters felt like a pressurized steam boiler. Detective Michelle Walsh sat at her desk, the thumb drive clutched so tightly in her hand that the plastic edges dug into her palm.
She looked toward the Captain’s office. Dave Leonard was inside, talking to the Chief. They were laughing. The man who had cleared the way for a drug war was being treated like a hero for his parade security efforts.
“I can’t do it here,” she whispered.
She stood, grabbed her coat, and made a beeline for the elevators. She didn’t look at Leonard, but she felt his eyes on her back. As the elevator doors slid shut, she saw him step out of the Captain’s office, his brow furrowed in suspicion.
She reached the parking garage and sprinted for her car. Her phone buzzed. Unknown number.
“Don’t go home. Leonard knows what you found. The Advocate. Go to Knowland.”
She didn’t know if the text was from Batman or some other guardian angel, but she didn’t question it. She slammed the car into reverse, tires screeching against the concrete. As she peeled out of the garage, she saw two unmarked units pulling out to follow her.
“Come on, Michelle.” She wove through the lingering parade traffic. “Just make it to the newsroom.”
The Hellcat roared off the Causeway and into Mandeville, the GPS lead glowing red on the HUD. Batman didn’t need the computer. The pillar of black smoke rising from the Bonito estate was visible for miles.
He arrived just as Jimmy’s crew was piling back into their vehicles, the mansion behind them a roaring furnace. The air was thick with pine needles and burnt rubber.
Batman drifted the Hellcat into a sideways slide, blocking the exit of the estate. He stepped out before the car had fully stopped.
“It’s over, Jimmy.” His voice went out through the suit’s external speakers, thunder in the quiet suburb.
Jimmy stepped out of his SUV, his face splattered with Neal’s blood. He looked at Batman and, for a second, almost smiled. “You’re too late, Shadow-man. The King of the North Shore is dead. I’m the only one left.”
“You’re not a king, Jimmy. You’re a target.”
The night sky erupted with a powerful spotlight. The whirr of helicopter blades cut through the air.
“THIS IS THE NOPD TACTICAL UNIT! DROP YOUR WEAPONS AND GET ON THE GROUND!”
Batman looked up. Not the standard police response. These were Leonard’s units, and they weren’t here to make arrests. They were here to eliminate the witnesses of the night’s carnage, including Jimmy Nicks and the Batman.
“They aren’t here for justice, Jimmy.” Batman’s gauntlets snapped into a combat stance as the first tactical teams began to fast-rope down from the choppers. “They’re here to clean the slate.”
“Then let’s give ’em a show,” Jimmy growled, raising his rifle.
Batman fired a grapple hook into the eaves of the burning mansion and disappeared into the smoke just as the first volley of police gunfire erupted.
The Bonito empire was gone. Neal was dead. As the fire consumed the mansion, Bruce realized the real monster wasn’t a mob boss. It was the badge that had protected them both.
Disclaimer: Dark Knight of the Crescent City is a non-profit work of fan fiction intended for entertainment purposes only. Batman, Bruce Wayne, and all associated characters, locations, and lore are the intellectual property of DC Comics and Warner Bros. Discovery. The author of this story (Strike 7 Network) claims no ownership over these trademarked properties. This story is an original adaptation set within the Batman universe and is not affiliated with, endorsed by, or sponsored by DC Comics.
If you like this gritty take on Batman, check out my original series, The Black Ghost, on the Patreon website for Strike 7 Network.
