Previously on Dark Knight of the Crescent City
The rhythmic, earth-shaking thump of a distant brass band’s bass drum was the heartbeat of Uptown New Orleans. A sound that usually meant joy, beads, and the shared intoxication of a city in its prime. As Detective Michelle Walsh stepped out of her Crown Vic and onto the cracked asphalt of the residential side street, that drumbeat felt like a funeral march.
The blue and red strobes of the first responding units bounced off the white-painted columns of the Victorian-style house. The flashing lights caught the tinsel and stray beads hanging from the nearby oak trees, remnants of parades past, making the whole scene look like a grotesque celebration.
Michelle ducked under the yellow tape, her boots instantly finding the slick, dark patches on the sidewalk. She didn’t look at the bodies yet. She looked at the porch. Plastic cups, a half-eaten plate of king cake, the scattered brass of 9mm shells. The Ares parade was still rolling only five blocks away. She could hear the high-pitched whistle of a band director and the roar of the crowd whenever the wind shifted.
“Talk to me,” Michelle said to the uniformed officer guarding the perimeter. His face was a shade of grey that matched the sidewalk.
“It’s bad, Walsh. Four males, four females. Looks like they were just sitting here when the world ended. Neighbors heard what they thought were heavy firecrackers, but with the parade music, nobody called it in for ten minutes.”
Michelle let her gaze drift to the porch. She recognized Butch, one of Nicks’ top enforcers, a man who had dodged three indictments in as many years. He was slumped against a wicker chair, his chest a ruin of entry wounds. Next to him was a young woman in a sequined top, her hand still reaching for his.
“This wasn’t a drive-by,” Michelle muttered, kneeling to examine the grouping of the shell casings. “They were on foot. They stood right here and walked the fire across the porch. Surgical. Cold.”
She stood, her jaw tight. She knew exactly what this was. Neal Bonito’s promised fire. She felt the weight of the thumb drive in her pocket, the evidence against Leonard, and a wave of cold fury moved through her. If the department wasn’t so busy playing gatekeeper for the mobs, maybe Butch and these girls would be in a jail cell instead of a morgue.
As the coroners began the grim work of bagging the victims, a black SUV pulled up to the edge of the tape. The door swung open, and the atmosphere of the crime scene shifted from tragedy to pure tension.
Jimmy Nicks didn’t wait for the officers to stop him. He walked through the tape as if it didn’t exist. He was dressed in an expensive silk suit that looked jarring against the backdrop of death. Usually, Jimmy moved with a swagger, a man who owned every room he entered. Tonight, he moved like a man walking through a nightmare.
“Mr. Nicks, you can’t be here,” an officer started, but Jimmy just looked through him. The officer stepped back, intimidated by the raw, quiet violence radiating off the man.
Jimmy stopped at the bottom of the porch steps. He looked at Butch. He looked at Shawn. Then he looked at the girls. His eyes weren’t moist with tears. They were burning with a terrifying, white-hot clarity. He looked down at his shoes, polished Italian leather, and realized he was standing in a shallow pool of blood that had trickled down from the wooden slats above.
“Detective Walsh.” His voice was a low, raspy whisper that barely carried over the distant parade.
Michelle walked over, arms crossed. “You shouldn’t have come here, Jimmy. It’s a live scene.”
“The old rules are dead, aren’t they, Michelle?” He didn’t look at her. “There used to be a line. You hit the men. You hit the business. You don’t hit the porch when the families are sitting out. You don’t use the masks of the Krewe to do the devil’s work.”
“Bonito isn’t playing by the rules anymore, Jimmy. Because you didn’t.” Michelle’s voice lacked its usual bite.
Jimmy finally looked at her. His face was a mask of cold resolve. “I paid for protection. I paid for the peace. And look at what I got. My boys are dead in the dirt while the NOPD is blocks away catching plastic beads.”
He turned away, looking back toward the St. Charles route. The sky was lit up with the glow of the parade floats, a false sun hovering over a dying city. Jimmy realized in that moment that Dave Leonard couldn’t save him. The Mayor couldn’t save him. He had been playing checkers, thinking he could buy his way into safety, while Neal Bonito was playing total annihilation.
“Tell your Lieutenant,” Jimmy said, stepping back toward his SUV, “that the bill is due. And tell that guy in the cape, tell him he’s the only one in this city who isn’t a liar.”
As Jimmy sped off toward the West Bank, Michelle watched the red taillights disappear. She knew what was coming. Jimmy wasn’t going to call the police. He was going to call every gun he had left. The peace of the Mardi Gras season was over. The war was officially out of the shadows.
Five miles away, deep within the silent, humming belly of the Wayne Enterprise warehouse, Bruce Wayne sat in the glow of a dozen monitors. He hadn’t changed out of his civilian clothes, but his mind was already wearing the cowl.
He had intercepted the 911 dispatch at 9:42 PM. By 9:45, he had accessed the NOPD’s traffic camera grid.
“Computer. Isolate the yellow van. Filter for all transit movements within a six-block radius of the Uptown shooting between 9:30 and 9:40.”
The screens flickered, scrolling through hundreds of feeds. New Orleans during Mardi Gras was a chaotic web of detours and dead ends, but the yellow van had been smart. It hadn’t taken the main arteries. It had stayed on the side streets, weaving through the Uptown neighborhoods like a needle through cloth.
“There.”
The screen showed a grainy, high-angle shot of a yellow Ford Econoline turning off a residential street and onto a service road toward the Pontchartrain Expressway.
“Enhance plate.”
The image shifted, the pixels knitting together through an AI-sharpening algorithm. The plate was a North Shore tag, St. Tammany Parish. The computer ran the numbers. A red box flashed: STOLEN. REGISTERED TO A LAUNDRY SERVICE IN COVINGTON.
“Typical,” Bruce muttered. “Bonito doesn’t leave his own name on the tools.”
He watched the van’s progress. It didn’t head for the North Shore immediately. Instead, it took a convoluted route toward the industrial canal. Bruce pulled up a secondary feed from a private security camera he had installed on a warehouse roof near the water.
The yellow van slowed near an abandoned pier. Four men jumped out, still wearing remnants of their sequined costumes. They moved with a discipline Bruce recognized. These weren’t just street thugs. They were former military or high-end private security. Neal Bonito had spent serious money on this hit.
The footage showed the men dousing the interior of the van with an accelerant. A moment later, a small flash ignited the vehicle. The yellow van became an orange pyre against the dark waters of the canal. The men disappeared into a waiting black Yukon, the same type of vehicle Bruce had seen at the port.
“They’re heading back across the lake.” Bruce tapped a key to track the Yukon’s GPS signature through the toll plaza cameras on the Causeway Bridge.
Alfred’s voice crackled over the intercom. “It would seem Mr. Bonito is finished with his opening statement, Master Bruce. The city is currently in a state of shock. The NOPD is paralyzed.”
“They’re not paralyzed, Alfred. They’re compromised.” His eyes stayed fixed on the footage of the burning van. “Leonard let this happen by focusing the entire department on the parade route, leaving the neighborhoods vulnerable. He gave Bonito the opening he needed.”
Bruce stood and walked toward the glass case that held the Batsuit. The matte-black armor looked predatory in the dim light.
“Jimmy Nicks is going to retaliate tonight. He has no choice. He’ll hit something Bonito loves. Probably the North Shore distribution center or one of the riverfront properties.”
“And what will you do, sir?” Alfred asked.
“I’m going to be the variable they didn’t account for.” His hand rested on the cowl. “Michelle has the evidence on Leonard, but she can’t use it if the city is burning down around her. I need to end the war before Bonito and Nicks turn the French Quarter into a graveyard.”
He pulled the cowl over his head, the white lenses snapping to life. The HUD immediately began overlaying the Yukon’s projected path and the locations of Jimmy Nicks’ known safehouses.
“Alfred, prep the Hellcat. Silent-running mode. I want to be on the North Shore before the Yukon clears the toll plaza.”
“The Hellcat is ready, Batman. Though I must remind you, the Causeway is twenty-four miles of open road with nowhere to hide if things go sideways.”
“Then I’ll just have to drive faster.”
He stepped into the black Charger, the engine turning over with a muffled, high-performance growl. The warehouse door hissed open, revealing the damp, moonlit streets of New Orleans.
The night belonged to the Bat.
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.
