The air at the Port of New Orleans was thick with the scent of diesel and salt. The only light came from the flickering yellow lamps of the shipping yard and the rhythmic blinking of the hazard lights on Neal Bonito’s Yukon Denali.
Jimmy Nicks stood in the center of the clearing, his hands tucked into the pockets of his overcoat. Neal Bonito, looking every bit the refined North Shore aristocrat in a tailored suit, stood ten feet away. Between them, Joe held a heavy duffel bag containing ten kilograms of cocaine.
“The money, Neal,” Jimmy said, his voice flat. “Let’s keep this moving. We’re on a clock.”
Bonito gestured to one of his men, who stepped forward with a metal briefcase. “Three hundred thousand, Jimmy. All in non-sequential bills. My guy already verified your window with the NOPD. The port is a ghost town.”
Joe stepped forward to unzip the duffel bag, revealing the plastic-wrapped bricks. “It’s all here. Pure as—”
High above them, perched on the rusted edge of a gantry crane, Batman watched through tactical lenses. He whispered a single command into his cowl. “Execute.”
A silent, high-altitude UAV dropped like a stone from the clouds. It didn’t aim for the men. It struck a stack of empty shipping containers twenty yards to the left. The explosion was deafening. The impact shredded the corrugated steel, sending a spray of orange sparks and jagged shrapnel whistling through the air.
The blast knocked Joe to the ground. Neal Bonito stumbled back, clutching an arm grazed by a piece of flying metal.
“Ambush!” Bonito screamed, his face contorting with sudden, violent paranoia. “It’s a setup! They’re trying to rip us!”
“Neal, wait!” Jimmy yelled, but it was too late.
Bonito’s men drew their submachine guns and opened fire. Jimmy’s crew dove behind the wheels of their vehicles, returning fire with handguns and rifles. The shipping yard erupted into chaos. Tracers cut through the dark, and the sound of shattering glass and screams filled the air as men on both sides slumped to the pavement.
A dark shape detached itself from the moonless sky.
Batman crashed into the center of the firefight, his cape unfurling like the wings of a predatory bird. He landed directly in front of Jimmy’s remaining men.
“It’s him!” Joe shrieked, his voice cracking with terror. “It’s the Bat!”
Batman moved with the fluid, brutal efficiency of a professional. He ducked under a wild swing from one of Jimmy’s shooters, grabbed the man’s arm, and used his own momentum to flip him over his shoulder, slamming him into the side of a crate with a sickening thud.
When two more henchmen rushed him, Batman pivoted on one heel, delivering a devastating spinning back-kick that sent one man flying backward into a stack of pallets. He caught the second man’s punch, snapped the wrist with a sharp twist, and followed up with a series of lightning-fast strikes to the throat and solar plexus. Deflecting, striking, disabling with the cold speed of a machine.
Seeing the tide turn, Neal Bonito didn’t stick around. “Fall back! Get to the car!” His remaining men scrambled into the Denali, tires screeching as they sped away into the labyrinth of shipping containers.
Jimmy and Joe managed to scramble toward a secondary vehicle in the confusion, leaving behind their fallen comrades and the duffel bag of drugs.
Batman stood over the wreckage of the deal. The ground was littered with brass shells and the smell of gunpowder. He noticed one of Jimmy’s shooters, a man named Miller, slumped against a tire, gasping for air as blood pooled beneath him.
Batman reached down, his gloved hand gripping the man’s collar and hoisting him up.
“Talk,” Batman growled. “The deal. Who gave you the port?”
Miller coughed, a thin trail of blood running down his chin. “Doesn’t… matter,” he wheezed, his eyes glazed. “The city… It’s already bought. The cops… they cleared it. All of them. Leonard… he gave us the window.”
“Who else is on the payroll?” Batman shook him.
“Everyone…” Miller whispered, his head lolling back. “The whole… damn precinct…”
The man went limp. Batman released him, letting the corpse slide back against the rubber tire. He stood, his eyes narrowing as the distant wail of NOPD sirens began to echo through the shipping yard. Leonard was sending the cleanup crew.
Batman pulled a grappling gun from his belt and fired. The high-tension line hissed through the air, anchoring to the top of the gantry crane. In a blur of black, he was yanked upward, gliding back to the rooftop just as the first blue and red lights appeared at the port entrance.
The deal was dead. The war had just started.
The blue and red strobes of a dozen NOPD cruisers turned the Port of New Orleans into a rhythmic nightmare of light. Uniformed officers were already unspooling yellow crime scene tape, their boots crunching over brass shell casings.
Detective Michelle Walsh stepped out of her unmarked vehicle, her eyes immediately scanning the perimeter. Lieutenant Dave Leonard was nowhere to be seen. He had cleared the sector for the night, yet he was conspicuously absent now that the bodies were being bagged.
She ducked under the tape and walked toward the center of the carnage.
“Talk to me,” Michelle said to a patrolman marking evidence.
“It’s a massacre, Detective. Five dead. Three look like they belong to Neal Bonito’s crew, North Shore guys. The other two are local muscle, likely Jimmy Nicks’ people.”
Michelle knelt by a cluster of shell casings, then stood and looked toward the stack of shipping containers. Her gaze fixed on the scorched, mangled remains of the empty connex. The metal was peeled back like a tin can, blackened by an explosion that didn’t fit the ballistic profile of the handguns and rifles scattered on the ground.
“That wasn’t a grenade,” she muttered, walking toward the wreckage. “And it wasn’t a pipe bomb. Too precise.”
She looked up at the towering gantry cranes, then back at the layout of the bodies. A deal that had turned into a civil war, but the catalyst, the blown-out container, was an outside variable.
At the edge of the police perimeter, a forest of microphones and camera lenses sprouted toward the sky. NOPD Police Chief Kevin Hall stood behind a makeshift podium, his expression a mask of stern, weary authority. Robert Knowland stood at the front of the press pack, his recorder held high.
Hall cleared his throat, camera flashes reflecting off the silver stars on his shoulders.
“At approximately 2:15 AM, NOPD responded to reports of heavy gunfire at Pier 14,” Hall began, his voice booming over the hum of the city. “Upon arrival, officers discovered a large-scale narcotics transaction had been violently interrupted. We have recovered ten kilograms of suspected cocaine and confirmed five fatalities. We are currently seeking the whereabouts of several individuals believed to have fled the scene.”
“Chief Hall!” a reporter from a local station shouted. “There are reports of an explosion! Was this a terrorist act?”
“We are investigating the cause of the blast,” Hall replied. “Preliminary findings suggest a pressurized container may have ignited during the firefight.”
Robert Knowland stepped forward, eyes sharp. “Chief, witnesses in the area, as well as anonymous tips from within the port, claim that a silhouette was seen gliding from the rooftops before the shooting started. Given the nature of the warehouse incident earlier this week, does the NOPD suspect the involvement of the so-called Batman?”
A few other reporters murmured in agreement, leaning in.
Hall let out a short, dry chuckle, his lips curling into a sarcastic smirk. He adjusted his tie and looked directly into the camera with a look of mock pity.
“The Batman, Robert? Really? I realize that ghost stories help sell newspapers and drive your little internet subscriptions, but let’s stay in the real world. We have a gang war brewing between the North Shore and the city, and you’re asking me about a man in a cape? Maybe next you’ll ask if the Boogeyman stole the getaway car. This was a tactical failure between two groups of criminals. End of story.”
Hall stepped away from the podium, ignoring the flurry of follow-up questions. Robert Knowland watched him go, jaw set. He looked back toward the dark cranes of the port, then down at his notes. The Chief was a good liar, but not good enough to hide the fact that the NOPD was terrified of the truth.
The predawn stillness of the West Bank was a sharp contrast to the adrenaline-fueled nightmare at the docks. Jimmy Nicks sat in his study, the expansive windows of his mansion overlooking a manicured lawn that felt like a fortress. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking. The image of the dark shape gliding out of the smoke was burned into his retinas.
He snatched his burner phone off the mahogany desk and punched in a memorized number. It rang three times before a weary, guarded voice picked up.
“Hello,” Dave Leonard said, his voice hushed.
“Dude, I thought we were clear!” Jimmy exploded, pacing the length of the rug. “I thought you had the perimeter locked! Answer me!”
“Keep your voice down.” Leonard hissed on the other end. “You were clear. I’m telling you, neither me nor anyone else in the NOPD had anything to do with what happened last night. I stayed true to the window. I promise.”
“Oh, really? Then explain the body count, Dave! I lost two of my best men last night,” Jimmy snapped, his voice trembling with fury and fear. “And explain why a rocket attack landed right toward our position. Who else in this city has that type of firepower besides me? You told me the sky was clear!”
“A rocket?” Leonard sounded genuinely stunned. “Jimmy, the report said it was a container fire, maybe an industrial accident—”
“It wasn’t a gas leak, you idiot! It was a targeted strike!” Jimmy shouted. “And here is another thing. The bat guy? He’s real. I saw him. I stood ten feet away from the legend, Dave. He showed up right after the missile hit. My men were no match for him. They’re professionals, and he tore through them like they were toddlers.”
There was a long, heavy silence on the line. Jimmy could hear Leonard’s ragged breathing. The reality of the situation was beginning to sink in for both of them.
“Listen to me,” Leonard said, his voice regaining a sliver of authority. “I’ll handle it. I’ll look into the ballistics, I’ll scrub the reports. Don’t worry.”
“You better handle it,” Jimmy growled. “We lost a hell of a lot of money last night. Ten keys of pure product sitting in an evidence locker because you couldn’t keep the playground safe. And it gets worse. Neal thinks the whole thing was a setup. He thinks I brought the heat to rip him off. He’s back on the North Shore right now, and I’m pretty sure he’s going to retaliate. This isn’t just a botched deal anymore, Dave. This is a war.”
“I’ll get to work,” Leonard whispered. “Just stay out of sight.”
“Alright. Goodbye,” Jimmy said, ending the call.
He set the phone down and stared out into the dark trees of the West Bank. The sun was starting to grey the horizon, but for the first time in his career, Jimmy Nicks felt like the light wouldn’t bring any safety.
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.
