Previously on Dark Knight of the Crescent City
The curtains were drawn tight against the bright New Orleans sun, keeping the master suite of the Uptown mansion in a heavy, artificial twilight. Bruce didn’t stir until the clock climbed toward noon. The physical toll of the port operation, the tension of the glide, the high-impact strikes against Jimmy’s men, and the rush of the escape had left his muscles stiff and his mind reeling with the intelligence he’d gathered.
When he finally descended the grand staircase, he found Alfred in the living room, meticulously polishing a silver tray. The scent of fresh coffee and toasted bread filled the air, a civilized contrast to the smell of salt and gunpowder Bruce had lived with hours earlier.
“Good afternoon, Master Bruce.” Alfred didn’t look up from his work, though his keen eyes tracked Bruce’s slight limp. “I took the liberty of postponing your morning conference calls. I assumed the evening’s festivities ran a bit long. How did the operation go?”
Bruce sank into a velvet armchair and exhaled a long, weary breath. “Well, it was somewhat of a success. I managed to disrupt the shipment, but I learned a lot along the way. Things the city isn’t ready for.”
Alfred set the tray down and stepped closer. “Things like what, sir?”
“It looks like the city is on the verge of another drug war.” Bruce stared at the cold fireplace. “And Jimmy Nicks has gotten back into the game deeply. He’s moving volume I haven’t seen since I started this. He isn’t the only problem, though. There’s a rot inside the police department that goes straight to the core.”
Alfred raised an eyebrow. “I take it your surveillance didn’t just pick up crates and ledgers?”
“No.” Bruce’s voice hardened. “Last night, before I left the port, I got a name from one of Nicks’ men before he passed away. Dave Leonard. He’s a Lieutenant, and he’s the one who cleared the port area for the deal to go down. He turned a high-security zone into a playground for traffickers.”
Bruce leaned forward. “Now that I know about Leonard, I need to come up with a plan to expose him and every other cop tied to his payroll. If a Lieutenant is involved, he isn’t acting alone. He has a shield, and I need to find out who’s holding it.”
Alfred sighed, his gaze flickering to the windows. “Exposing a decorated officer is a different kind of battle, Master Bruce. You can’t just drop him off at the precinct with a bat-symbol on his chest. You’ll need evidence that can survive the light of day.”
“I know. And I’m going to find it.”
The sun was high over the North Shore, reflecting off the glassy surface of the swimming pool at the Bonito estate. Inside the wood-paneled library, the air was cool and smelled of expensive leather and air conditioning. Neal Bonito sat at the head of a long table, his arm wrapped in a clean white bandage where the shrapnel had grazed him. His men stood or sat around him, their faces grim, the polished atmosphere of the mansion clashing with the crew’s bruised and battered state.
“I’ve spent ten years building a reputation that keeps people from looking me in the eye.” Neal’s voice was a low, dangerous simmer. “And in twenty minutes at a pier I was told was safe, Jimmy Nicks made me look like a suburban amateur. My men are in the morgue, and I’m bleeding in my own house.”
Rico, a thick-necked senior man at the table, leaned forward. “How are we moving on this, Boss? You want us to roll on the West Bank tonight? We can take the Suburbans and level that club of his.”
Neal shook his head slowly, a cold light in his eyes. “No. Jimmy is expecting a frontal assault. He’s hunkered down, waiting for the sirens. We aren’t going to give him the satisfaction of a fair fight. Jimmy is going to get hit when he least expects it. I’m not just going to kill him. I’m going to make it burn. I want his entire infrastructure turned to ash before he even realizes I’m in the room.”
He paused, tapping his fingers on the table, his gaze drifting to the window. The silence stretched until Rico spoke again.
“And the other guy, Neal? The one in the suit?”
Neal’s expression shifted, becoming uncharacteristically pensive. “The Batman.” He breathed the name like a curse. “Last night didn’t follow the logic. When he landed, he was in the direction of Jimmy and his men. He engaged them. Tore through Jimmy’s line like they weren’t even there. For a second, I thought he was on our side.”
“Maybe he is?” a younger man at the end of the table ventured.
“Don’t be a fool. He didn’t help us. He just chose a target. Maybe Jimmy’s men were closer, or maybe Jimmy is the bigger prize right now.” Neal’s eyes moved around the table. “Do not take the Batman lightly. If he shows up again, you don’t wait for a conversation. He is neither a friend nor a foe. He’s a neutral party that’s bad for business. If he gets in the way of the retaliation, he gets dealt with just like Jimmy.”
Neal stood, signaling the end of the meeting. “Get the gear ready. When I give the word, I want New Orleans to feel the heat all the way across the lake.”
The humidity of the evening clung to the oak trees lining Bienville Avenue as Michelle Walsh stepped out of Katie’s. The street was relatively quiet, the distant sounds of Mid-City traffic providing a low hum. As she reached into her pocket for her keys, the air seemed to shift. A shadow detached itself from the thick trunk of a centuries-old oak, lengthening until it stood upright.
“Detective.”
The voice was a low, mechanical rasp. Michelle’s instincts kicked in instantly. She spun, her service weapon cleared from its holster and leveled at the dark figure in one fluid motion.
“Don’t move!” Her heart was hammering against her ribs.
Batman remained perfectly still, his cape draped like a shroud. “There’s no need for that, Detective. Put it away. I’m here to help.”
“Help?” Michelle’s eyes darted around the empty street, her grip on the pistol tightening. “You’re the one who’s been tearing up the Quarter. What do you want?”
“There’s a corruption problem in the police department.” Batman ignored the threat of the barrel.
Michelle let out a short, cynical breath and lowered the gun slightly. “You’re a bit late to the party. This is New Orleans. How do you know anything the rest of us don’t?”
“I know because I have credible evidence that links one of NOPD’s own to the ruined drug deal that went down last night.” Batman stepped forward, his boots silent on the pavement.
He reached into his utility belt and pulled out a sleek, black Android phone. He tapped the screen, and the haunting, distorted audio from the port transaction filled the space between them.
“The deal. Who gave you the port?” Batman’s voice echoed on the recording.
“Doesn’t… matter,” a wheezing, dying voice replied. “The city… It’s already bought. The cops… they cleared it. All of them. Leonard… he gave us the window.”
The color drained from Michelle’s face. She raised both hands to her mouth. Dave Leonard. A Lieutenant. A man she had shared coffee with, a man who held the keys to the district’s security.
“I just sent the file to your phone.” Batman stepped back. “Take that info to Internal Affairs. Build the case.”
Michelle’s phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out, only to find an encrypted message from an untraceable source. She looked up. “But wait, how did you get my number?”
“Don’t worry about that. I’m here to help.”
“So that’s it?” Her voice echoed in the quiet street. “You just show up, drop a bomb like this, and leave?”
“Yes.”
From the shadows of a side street, an all-black Dodge Charger SRT Hellcat glided toward them. No one behind the wheel. The car moved with eerie, robotic precision, stopping perfectly at Batman’s position. The engine purred with a restrained, predatory growl.
“Goodnight, Detective.”
He stepped into the car as the door opened automatically. Before Michelle could find her voice, the Hellcat accelerated, its taillights disappearing into the New Orleans night. Michelle stood alone on the sidewalk, the smoking gun of the department’s corruption sitting in the palm of her hand.
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.
