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Matthew Keller.
He was worthy of one of Peter’s moments of profanity: Matthew fucking Keller.
In fact, Matthew-fucking-Keller and a spellbook.
The White Collar Office had become an operations center. The boardroom had been taken over by Organized Crime, and Violent Crime, and the Justice League. The Flash and Wonder Woman were at the table, along with a man who Peter couldn’t place but whom they deferred to.
That man was smoking. Indoors.
And, no matter how he moved, the smoke vanished above his head, like he was being stalked by an invisible exhaust fan.
The bullpen was a stricken mess, too many people crowded into the aisles, focused and chaotic and unhelpful. And, in Hughes’ office, the family.
***
They were all there; Keller had grabbed Neal from a Wayne Foundation program opening at the New York WE branch. Grabbed him, unfortunately, as Dick Grayson-Wayne, so one of Neal’s identities was out of the bag.
And the family, three brothers, a new, silent sister Peter had only barely heard of, and Wayne himself, were trapped behind their civilian façade, the center of attention.
They sat in Hughes’ office, elegantly tailored and writhing in impotent fury. Too high up for Brucie to conveniently fall out a window, Peter thought.
They’d come with a handful of hangers-on, a mismatched assortment. Lucius Fox, smooth and venerable, who hadn’t stopped making phone calls since they’d arrived. A woman, an unnamed socialite in a long black dress. And, incomprehensibly, an investigative reporter from Metropolis whose tie was plaid.
“What is Keller after?” Drake-Wayne demanded again as Peter stuck his head in to check on them.
“We’re not sure,” Peter said. “Usually when he does things like this—”
“Usually?” Bruce Wayne interrupted, ice in his voice. It was good that Peter was the only agent in the room, because Wayne’s Brucie disguise was wearing thin—
Yet the investigative reporter didn’t seem to notice.
“Yes,” said Peter, filing that away for now. “We’ve run into Keller before. He’s got a bit of a thing for Neal.”
Todd-Wayne made a quick movement, like he was trying to jump from his seat, and caught himself. You’d think: a suit on someone that big, moving that fast, the seams would strain.
“I mean,” Peter explained, “Keller seems to think they’re in some kind of competition. But for years he’s been the only one playing.”
Wayne hummed. “Why was I not informed?”
Peter didn’t say it.
Wayne looked away.
“The Justice League will help,” the reporter said, improbably confident. “That’s why they’re here, after all. Wonder Woman. And John.”
Wayne grunted.
***
It was four hours since Neal had been taken. This was not the evening that Diana had planned.
Peter was shuttling between the boardroom, where he was grilled about everything Keller’d ever said, and Hughes’ office where the Waynes glared and bickered and fumed. Diana and Jones had been pulling files and carting them into the boardroom for Wonder Woman—Diana still wasn’t quite okay—and the Flash and the chain-smoking trenchcoated lunatic who kept writing weird symbols in the air in lines of fire.
And Neal was not there.
Diana was on her third cup of coffee since eight pm, and regretting it profoundly, when Bruce Wayne burst out of Hughes’ office. “I will not,” he said furiously, “I will not let this be—”
“Bruce,” snapped Todd-Wayne, appearing behind him. “You need to—”
The bullpen stared, rapt.
The socialite emerged as well, in a cloud of long dark curls, her heels clicking. “Bruce,” she said, “they’ll find him.”
A gaggle of agents, and the Flash, appeared out of the boardroom. The wizard’s voice floated out behind them, British and hoarse: “Wha’s all this, then?”
“Constantine,” Wayne snarled, and Diana could feel the rest of the bullpen flinch. This wasn’t Brucie, this was Bruce Wayne, Wayne from the Conroy, Wayne who funded the Justice League and whose eldest son was a vigilante and who—“What is taking so long,” Wayne said, not a question but a command.
The wizard, Constantine apparently, shifted. “He used the Circle of Erasmus of Macedon. It moves, it changes. I’d shake his hand if he weren’t—” Constantine gestured and the agents nearest him flinched, but nothing happened. “S’extraordinary work for a beginner. He’s clearly been planning this for a while.” He coughed.
Wayne whirled on Peter, who was over by Alfred-the-Coffee-Maker. “What does Keller want,” he said. “Is it money?”
“Not usually,” Peter said. “Not exclusively, at least. He wants to win.”
“We were anticipating a ransom demand by now, Mr. Wayne, sir,” said Connolly from Violent Crimes. “We might still—you should make sure your board of directors is—”
And there was Lucius Fox in Hughes’ doorway, and sure, why not do this all on stage—
“That’s taken care of,” Fox drawled.
“Okay,” said Connolly. “Right, good. Well. Can you just—” He stumbled, trying to find a way to say please shut up and sit down to an unwontedly furious Bruce Wayne without having to use the words.
Dimly, Diana wondered if the agents might be more effective if they knew they were looking for Nightwing, not just the League’s liaison and Wayne’s son.
She wondered, too, if Keller knew about Nightwing, and, if so, whether Neal was helped or hindered by it. If Keller knew, at least, Neal wouldn’t have to hide it. But, if Keller knew, his trap would be that much harder to escape.
Wayne took a long, visible breath, and let it out. “I do not like magic,” he said, firm, but sliding back a little towards sulky, towards the Brucie people knew.
“Naw,” said Constantine, “but tha’s alright, because it don’t like you.”
Todd-Wayne went tense; Wayne’s socialite shook her curls. Wayne himself said nothing.
“It’s all the Circle,” the wizard continued, unbothered. “It’s hard to pin down from this end. If Z were here, we could catch it between us, but as it is, I’m chasing the end of a ball of string that’s hopping between realities like it’s on fire, which, considering that it’s been hijacked by a demonic taxi-driver—”
“What?” said Connolly.
“—it pretty well is. Now,” the wizard continued, “unless you’ve got something to share with the class tha’s more ‘elpful than I hate magic, I’ll be off here.” He blew out a cloud of smoke that sailed over towards Wayne. Wayne glared.
“You might not mind lung cancer, Constantine, but you will not impose your second-hand smoke on my children.”
Todd-Wayne cleared his throat, but in embarrassment, and Constantine shook his head.
“Fine,” he said with a wave, and the cloud vanished. “S’magic anyway.” He turned and went back to the boardroom.
“So,” came another voice from Hughes’ office, the Metropolis reporter Wayne had tagging along, “how’d that work out then.”
Wayne scowled.
“Mr. Wayne,” said Peter. “Coffee?”
***
About a half-hour after that, Diana’s phone rang. She didn’t recognize the number.
“Agent Berrigan?” the caller asked.
“Speaking.”
“Manny Rodrigues from Gotham, how you doing.”
“Agent, this is not a good time—”
“No,” he said. “We’re in your lobby. Thought I’d give you a heads-up that we’re on the way, about your boy, you know?”
“You have information about Neal?” Diana asked, and heads turned near her.
“Don’t get your hopes up,” Rodrigues said, and then, “Oh, sorry, elevator.” The call cut off.
Diana shrugged at her audience and pointed vaguely at the door.
Rodrigues pushed it open less than a minute later, followed in by a tall pale man Diana recognized as Gotham’s SAC. Rodrigues waved at her and came over— “Evenin’,” he said. “Mike’s in the city in case somethin’ happens there. But—oh man, sir, it’s everybody.” He pointed with his chin at Hughes’ office.
SAC Grimson nodded. “I’ll go say our hellos,” he said, not greeting Diana or anyone else. As he went up the stairs, at least, his eyes caught on Jones and he nodded. Jones nodded back.
***
Through the glass wall of Hughes’ office, Diana saw Grimson speaking, quiet and calm.
At one point, he put his hand on Bruce Wayne’s shoulder.
***
One-forty-five in the morning.
Peter was in the boardroom again, trying to find some cause for this in the Keller files. The Flash sat opposite him, poring over Neal’s more recent League-connected cases, trying to spot a connection somewhere. Peter was relieved to learn that, although the Flash could and did read at superspeed, he didn’t seem any faster than normal at thinking. In fact, he seemed to be a little short on logic, sometimes; early on in the evening, Wonder Woman had slapped his hand, stopping him from drumming his fingers on the table.
“It’s not reinforced,” she’d said, and he gave a sheepish grin.
But, so far, neither of them had figured out what Keller was after. Peter had given Moz a call; Moz had no idea either. Peter had tried to get him to come in, just in case, but the Bureau in the middle of a manhunt was just the other side of too-much-suit for Mozzie. He was being watched, instead, by Kid Flash. El was at June’s, drinking tea with Starfire.
Everyone was flagging. The normal procedures for kidnappings didn’t apply so well when the kidnappee had been pulled through a hole in the air. Wonder Woman sat with a soldier’s patience, waiting for a task to present itself, and Connolly and Ruiz and all the rest—well. If they found Keller, they had a lot more to charge him with, now. But they were no nearer to finding him, and they all knew it.
And then there was Constantine. For all the vitriol (and smoke) that he and Wayne had flung at each other, Peter figured they were as much alike as any other members of the League he’d met so far. Unbending, irascible, and utterly committed to their work.
Constantine was sitting lotus-style in a corner of the room (south by southwest, he’d muttered) and had thoroughly submerged himself in some kind of trance. He hadn’t bothered to explain the demonic taxi-driver comment in the slightest.
Little sparks were flying off the wizard’s eyebrows. They fizzled before they landed on anything flammable, but still.
“Burke,” someone said in the doorway, and everyone jerked up.
Peter stood, automatically, hand outstretched. “SAC Grimson,” he said, and they shook. “From Gotham,” he added for the uninitiated.
“You came for this, sir?” Ruiz asked.
Grimson’s pale eyes blinked at him. “Waynes,” he said. Peter wasn’t sure if it was meant as explanation or an introduction, as several Waynes followed him in. Plus the—
“Oh, no, no, no,” Peter said. “No, I’m sorry, Mr. Kent, but you can’t be in here. Information that is confidential and critical to the progress of various criminal and regulatory proceedings, not to mention League investigations, is not accessible without—I’m sorry, but—”
“I want him here,” said Bruce Wayne, and Peter looked at him—at Batman—blinking. Batman—but no, this was Brucie, without doubt.
Peter began to say, “I don’t—”
Brucie spoke over him, eyes wide and guileless. “Clarkie is writing a book! This experience may be a crucible on my journey.”
Kent, behind him, choked on his own breath. Damian Wayne looked spectacularly disgusted.
“Regardless,” Connolly managed, apparently numb. “Biographer or not, it’s still not going to be possible, so—”
Wonder Woman cleared her throat, and Kent, who’d recovered, said, “Alright. I’ll wait in Agent Hughes’. I’m sorry for the inconvenience.” He scratched his ear as he went out.
What the fuck was that, Peter wondered, using up more of his profanity allotment.
Grimson, who looked like Peter felt, said, “Anyway. Tim here had a thought. Thought he should share.”
Connolly looked a little desperate. “Tim?” he said, looking from one Wayne to another.
Tim spoke, drawing Connolly’s attention. “Keller. Constantine is tracking him, yes?”
A flurry of sparks shot up from Constantine’s head like a halo. Agent Connolly twitched.
“Ah, yes,” the Flash translated for the wizard. “That’s the idea.”
“From the gala back to his base?”
“Exactly.”
“Why not track him forward?”
Connolly looked to Peter, who didn’t get it either and who shrugged.
“Magic isn’t easy,” Drake-Wayne said, and he really shouldn’t admit to knowing such things— “I mean, I assume it isn’t easy. It needs training and time and… and—”
“Ingredients,” said Brucie, absently.
“Track those,” Drake-Wayne concluded.
Wonder Woman nodded from her seat and stood. The Flash said, “Huh.” Peter and Connolly looked at each other.
Grimson said, “Make sense?”
Connolly twitched.
Sparks rose and hung suspended in mid-air above the seated wizard. “So,” he said, surfacing blearily from semi-consciousness, “you need me or not?”
***
Constantine had, at Grimson’s urging, fallen back into his trance, stewing in his sparky corner. But the Flash and the agents had redirected their attentions to magic markets, eBay, the more intense internet forums. Kid Flash, directed via text, quizzed Mozzie about his recent forays into the mundane side of magic learning.
“I don’t study,” Constantine murmured dreamily, eyes closed. “And all my suppliers know me. I don’t know where people who don’t know people start, anymore.”
Shockingly (at least for Connolly and Ruiz, if not for Peter), Bruce Wayne was more help. He wasn’t fully Brucie; he was coherent enough; but he had just enough stunned-puppy affect that questioning where he obtained his knowledge of the illegal magic market felt… mean.
It was incredible, Peter thought; you couldn’t remember Wayne’s angry outburst from earlier, not in the face of Brucie’s empty, transparent sincerity and befuddlement. If anyone hung on to it, remembered the way he’d snarled—this Brucie was as good as proof that they were exaggerating to themselves. You had the feeling you could look in one ear and see daylight from the other side. With this performance, his show of temper became a tantrum, his growl a whine.
Just as long as nothing went wrong—just as long as they found Neal, soon. Connolly and Ruiz would remember Brucie, not Bruce Wayne.
And never Batman.
And, with Brucie’s info, one of Connolly’s people unearthed a promising lead on Keller’s ingredients, an esoterica shop in Poland.
So. For two in the morning, Eastern time, they were getting somewhere.
***
At two-forty-five, they were closing in—and then Wayne’s cellphone rang.
***
The boardroom straightened, Ruiz signaling out into the bullpen for the techs, Connolly trying to stop Wayne from—
Oh, no, he answered the phone.
“Brucie’s phone?” he said into it, oblivious to the agents’ frantic waves. It was, Peter marveled, a question, not a greeting, like Brucie wasn’t positive the phone was his.
Peter and Grimson made eye contact and, if Peter had wondered how much Grimson knew… Well.
“No,” Brucie said, “you can’t reach Dickie here, he’s been kidnapped!” And then: “What do you mean you already know?”
Connolly seemed uncomfortably close to a stroke.
“I’ll pay you—wait, what? Why?” Brucie looked up at the assembled agents. “Why wouldn’t he want money?” he asked them, not shielding the microphone.
Ruiz hissed, in pain: “Mr. Wayne.”
“Mr. Wayne,” Connolly tried, “is that Keller?”
“He says his name is—wait, what did you say your name was?”
Drake-Wayne’s fists were clenched. Damian’s shoulders were tight.
“He says his name is Deathstroke!” said Brucie Wayne in triumph.
***
Drake-Wayne, ever so softly, put his head down on the table.
***
A noise, only just audible through the soundproofed wall. Kent was laughing hysterically in Hughes’ office; Peter wondered why.
***
Despite all of Keller’s dimension-hopping nonsense, it turned out his base was just a warehouse on a not-yet-gentrified block near Hudson Yards. Jones agreed to stay behind and run interference for the Waynes, keep Brucie out of trouble and Kent’s nose out of gossip; Peter, Diana, Connolly, Ruiz, Wonder Woman, and a host of several dozen tac units headed out.
(The Flash declared himself no longer needed, and vanished.)
Three-twenty-three AM.
They scoped out the building before moving in, and that they did as cautiously as possible. They found one exterior guard bleeding profusely from his leg. He was only too grateful to greet the agents and get a proper tourniquet.
They entered the warehouse and found half a dozen goons inside, in various states of pain—but, to Peter’s surprise, they all seemed to be breathing. Wonder Woman took lead in triage and processing, and Peter and the team kept looking.
Peter, with Ruiz as his back-up, found him first. Neal was neatly tied to a chair in a back office, wrapped in a surplus of nylon ropes. Still in gala attire, jaw set, remarkably peeved. “Hi,” he said.
Matthew Keller stared up from the floor next to him, hog-tied and gagged.
“Neal!” Peter rushed over to his C—to Neal, dropped to his knees to work on the ropes. “What—”
“Ah… Agent Burke?” said Ruiz, in a tone Peter was intimately familiar with for himself, in light of recent events, but had never expected to hear from Ruiz— “Could you come take a look at this?”
Peter looked down at the knots on Neal’s bindings. “Can it wait?”
“Burke—” Ruiz said again. “No. Caffrey. Is Deathstroke—he’s gone, right?”
Neal sighed. “What does it say, Agent?”
“Burke,” Ruiz said for the third time. Peter looked over and saw what Ruiz was seeing: a note pinned to the back of Keller’s shirt. Peter pushed himself up off his knees, unpinned the note, squinted, and—
No one stalks
my apprentice
but me
-DS
Ruiz’ eyes were huge.
Peter, strangled, said: “Justice League.”
“Peter,” Neal asked, still attached to the chair. “Peter, what does it say.”
Ruiz said: “Justice League?”
“Justice League.”
“Peter, tell me.”
“You, um,” Peter tried. “How long. Um. Deathstroke came to your rescue. Is that. Um. Normal?”
Neal shrugged. “Been a long time since I was kidnapped as Dick Grayson,” he said.
“Deathstroke,” said Ruiz.
Neal shrugged again. “We’ve met? I mean, guys, he left me tied to a chair. We’re not that close.”
“Did someone pay him to come and find you?” Ruiz asked, in desperate hope.
Neal had an eyebrow raised, like he had no idea why either of them were concerned. “Maybe Timmy? But, ah, when Slade’s in town he sometimes—” He stopped.
Connolly removed Keller’s gag. Keller swallowed twice and got out, “Caffrey, what the fuck.”
Neal looked from person to person, and gave up. “He didn’t kill anybody, right? He’s been trying harder on that.”
***
Brucie greeted Neal with a clinging hug and squeals. Bruce greeted Dick, as he pulled away, with the briefest nod.
Constantine emerged from the boardroom, exultant. His eyebrows had been singed down to nothing. “Found it,” he exclaimed viciously. “Traced the Circle all the way. He went to a warehouse on West 29th.”
“Hey, John,” Neal said.
“Hi, Dickie,” the wizard said, still radiating fierce satisfaction.
Diana looked back and forth between them. “Um,” she said. “Neal’s… um. He’s here now. We found him.”
“Yeah,” said the wizard. “Naw’ the point, is it. Poin’ is, I would’ve got ‘im.”
“Uh,” said Peter.
“Would have,” Constantine said, suddenly entirely serious, something dark in his eyes. “I’ve got you, kid.”
Neal nodded, equally somber, and said, “I know.”
There was a pause, and then the moment broke.
“Ri’ then. Gotta see a man about a hellhound,” said Constantine as he backed into a shadow and—did not come out again.
“Acquired taste,” said Bruce Wayne.
Jones, behind him, coughed pointedly. Bruce Wayne smiled.
Four in the morning.
Bruce’s smile shifted into saccharine and: “Selina,” Brucie warbled, “Selina, Clarkie, Timmy, Damian! Jason, Jason, where’s Jason? Agent Gregson, have you seen—”
Jason, three feet away, sighed in exasperation. “Right here, old man.” Grimson, next to him, closed his eyes, mouthing Gregson to himself.
“We’re all together!” Brucie said. “All together again.”
“Mr. Wayne,” Ruiz began, “if you could—Caffrey, I’ve got questions—”
“Thanks,” Neal said. “Agent Ruiz, let’s talk some other time.”
“I really think they’re worth getting answered now—”
“Oh, what about?” Brucie intruded.
“Deathstroke,” Neal told him.
“Oh!” Brucie blinked. “Who’s that?”