The frigid air made Mac Gargan—the Scorpion—shiver. He blinked awake to find himself bound tight, lying on the ground, the back of his head resting on something cold and hard.
The nearest light was an orange lamp dozens of meters away. In its glow the surface below it looked banded—like a zebra's stripes…
No—those weren't stripes. They were rails. His head was on a subway track.
Swish!
Ice shot through his limbs. He thrashed, trying to sit up, but black threads snaked from the darkness and cinched him down.
"Hey! Let me go!" he shouted. "Anybody?"
His voice echoed through the empty station—words clear at first, then smearing into a vague murmur, and finally into inhuman whispers as the echoes died.
Bzzzz—
The echoes faded, but a droning began— not through the air, but through the rail under his skull, straight into his brain.
A low, continuous rumble, like the earth growling.
The track began to tremble, the vibration running into his tightly bound body—an everywhere, nowhere tingling that stood every hair on end.
"Hey!"
He yelled again, now with a note of despair.
He knew that sound: a train was coming, fast, from his direction.
Whoosh!
The train wasn't there yet, but the compressed air ahead of it was—gusting over him, laden with rust, oil, and the damp loam smell of the tunnel.
He writhed harder, straining with everything he had to snap the black webbing. It didn't give. It bit deeper. Pain flashed his vision black.
A pinprick of light bloomed at the end of the track. It swelled—headlights bearing down at brutal speed, close enough to crush his skull in the next heartbeat.
The rails shook harder. His teeth chattered.
He drew breath to shout again—when a black shape with two sharp ears took form in the glare. His nerves, taut as wire, nearly snapped.
"I want everything about Kingpin.
"You can choose to talk—or not."
The low voice cut through the thunder. Then the demonic silhouette faded, as if abandoning him on the rail.
The light speared his eyes; tears ran unchecked.
Ffff!
The train's nose rammed the air; the blast rocked him. Seconds left.
His legs went weak. Heat soaked his slacks.
"I'll talk! Ask me anything—just get me off!"
"Please! I'll tell you everything!"
Whoom—
The train ripped past, wind hammering the rails— and the sharp-eared figure yanked him upright, his nose nearly scraping the car side as it roared by.
A second later and the carriage would have flayed his face off.
He had no doubt—if he'd stayed stubborn, that vampire-demon would've let him die under the wheels.
"Now you can talk."
As the train howled away and a cool draft washed over him, Batman's voice returned.
Mac didn't dare stall. He poured it out: Kingpin trained daily with fighters from around the world, ten-on-one, finishing in twenty seconds; Mac's own role in the organization; Kingpin's plan to seize Oscorp…
He kept going, terrified that the "vampire" would toss him back on the track if he faltered.
Batman's face didn't shift. He logged it all, reading truth or lie from microexpressions, breath cadence, and body language.
Ten minutes later, parched, Mac had nothing left. He begged:
"Lord Dracula, I'm not hiding anything—please let me go. I drink a lot—my blood's all alcohol…"
He suddenly remembered Walker—the man who'd been with him in the pickup. If Batman had Mac, he probably had Walker too.
"Drink Walker's blood! He's Kingpin's driver and bodyguard—his blood's better than mine!"
Thud!
Batman punched him in the gut and dropped him cold.
He trussed Mac to the side, hauled unconscious Walker up, and used the same method—laying him across the rail.
"Kingpin's making this much noise in Hell's Kitchen—totally at odds with lying low for a clean 'legit' transition. But if Walker is his driver and bodyguard…"
"Then Kingpin has reason to move tonight."
The next train hadn't arrived. The rail was still hot when Walker hit it and woke with a scream.
Like Mac, he shouted for help, then struggled—only to feel the webbing cinch deeper.
"Unlike untrained Mac, the skin below Walker's hairline is thicker, rough, and glossy—callused. Elbows and knees are heavily built…"
"Everything says Muay Thai."
"His injuries were delivered by fists and sticks."
"That matches what Mac said—that Daredevil grabbed Walker last night."
As Batman parsed Mac's account—
clang, clang!
The next train barreled toward them. Walker screamed; the Muay Thai calm broke.
Batman used fear again, broke the man's will, and hauled him clear at the last instant.
Now he had what he needed to tailor a strike on Kingpin—commercial, criminal, psychological, physical. A full-spectrum assault.
He would smother the underworld emperor in his cradle.
~~~
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