Family Isn't Just Blood

(Bat Boys in Quarantine) Part 8 - This Delivery Ain't Pizza

                   It doesn't take me long to get across town. Kori, Roy, and I live in a pretty bad area, but there's always worse places to be in Gotham. It's already dark out by the time I leave but it wouldn't matter if the sun was still out. Nobody's going to be concerned about some asshole on a motorcycle with a couple suspicious looking bags slung over his shoulder. What can I say? This is Gotham.

It doesn't take me long to get where I need to be. I've been here enough times to remember the quickest route, despite not actually visiting this place in months.

I roll into the alley and stop my bike once I'm submerged in the shadow cast from the building to my left. I pull out my burner phone and punch a number into the phone's keypad. The ringer goes through the com I have built into my helmet. Damn I love technology.

"911 what's your emergency?"

"Jesus Frank, I told you not to answer the phone like that." I can almost hear the blood draining from his face.

"S-Sorry boss. Won't happen again. What can I do for you?"

"You could start by opening up the damn doors and letting me in. I've got a delivery." He hangs up. I sling my bag over my shoulder and move to stand in front of the door. I hear the clicks and clanks of the bolts on the door being unlocked. The eye level slat in the door slides open and I'm met with a pair of bloodshot grey eyes.

"Passcode?"

"I'm your fucking boss I don't need the passcode."

"But.. but you said everyone who comes in has to say.. the passcode."

"Yeah, everyone but me dipshit. Open the fucking door before I put a bullet between your eyes." I hear a hushed whisper from the guy who opened the door, then there's some scuffling. I'm about to shoot the door off its hinges, when it finally opens. I step inside and the door swings shut behind me. It's a large room filled with large men carrying large guns. The second they see me they look like scared little children holding water pistols. Four men stand around a circular table that's scattered with cards, slimy looking sandwiches, and poker chips.

"What can we do for you boss?" One of the men asks. I think his name is Carl... Carlile.. Carson..? Maybe it's John, I dont fucking know. There's just so many of these scumbags that work for me, I really can't keep track of who I need alive and who I'm going to kill.

"I got a delivery." I say, the voice box in my mask distorts my voice enough that I almost didn't recognize it. I haven't worn this thing since before I went to Arabia. I kinda missed it. I sling my duffle bags off my shoulder and drop them on the floor.

"Open it." I order. The men look at each other nervously before one kneels down to unzip the bag. I can see beads of sweat dampening his forehead and I can't help but gag a little inside my helmet. I'm so glad this mask has an air filter, I'm sure it smells like pure piss and raw BO in here. The men grin down as the overhead lights reflect off my guns.

As the guns are unveiled the men start to grin, their teeth looking even more yellow than usual in the dimly lit room.

"Alright listen up shitheads." I bark, snapping the men out of their fetish-like trances. "These guns belong to me. Don't you forget that. The only reason they're here is for storage. If any one of you sleazeballs so much as breathes on these I will know about it. I have no fucking room for second chances. If any one of you fucks this up I will shove your fucking fingers into a pencil sharpener and twist until there's nothing left but bone. Got it fuckers?" They nod in unison, faces looking whiter than the powder they sell.

"Zip it back up and don't fucking tell anyone that they're here." With that I turn back around and head out the door. It feels like there's acid gnawing away at my insides. Leaving some of the most high power weapons I could get my hands on, in the care of some of the most untrustworthy people I know, is not my greatest idea, I know. It's not like I can come up with a better idea now, plus I'm under a time restraint. Time restraint... shit. I'm getting picked up at 11:30 and it's.. fuck fuck fucking fuck. It's almost eleven. I rev my bike and shoot out of the alleyway. Bruce is gonna be pissed if I'm late. 

(A/N: Can't believe this book got 3K reads! Thanks everyone for reading 🤘)