Lonnie Barron grabbed Jude's arm and pulled him out of the interrogation room.
They moved through the station at a near-run, heading straight for the armory. Other officers were already mobilizing—grabbing equipment, shouting updates, the organized chaos of a prison lockdown in progress.
"Bulletproof vest!" Lonnie shoved one at Jude. "Put it on. Now."
Jude caught it, started strapping the heavy Kevlar over his uniform shirt. As he fastened the velcro, he asked the obvious question.
"Why does he have a knife? Where did that thing come from?"
"How could I know?!" Lonnie's voice was sharp with anger. Defensive.
He grabbed a vest for himself, pulled it on with practiced efficiency while cursing under his breath. "Damn it. There's a clown outside blowing up theaters, and this lunatic inside is causing trouble again—"
He snatched a bunch of keys from a hook on the wall. Cell keys. Emergency access. The kind of keyring that gave you authority over locked doors and desperate prisoners.
"Quick! Grab your gun and follow me."
Jude's eyes tracked the keys as Lonnie clipped them to his belt. Heavy. Jangling. Easy access.
An idea formed.
He picked up the rifle from the weapon rack and ran after Lonnie.
"You said he gambled for you," Jude called out, keeping pace. "And you gave him favors in return. But did he ever ask for a knife? Or anything else that could help him escape?"
Lonnie's stride faltered. Just for a second.
"Something that can help him escape from prison?" His voice went cold. Dangerous. "Boy, you better watch your fucking words!"
He kept running, but the anger was radiating off him now.
"He never asked for those things! And there's no way I'd give them to him! Only a broke idiot like Sanchez or Langford would do such a thing!"
Interesting, Jude thought. Defensive. Specific names. Deflecting.
"Why don't you keep your distance from him?" Jude pressed. "If he's so dangerous—"
Lonnie, who'd been running ahead, suddenly stopped.
Spun around.
Grabbed Jude's bulletproof vest with both hands and pulled him close. Close enough that Jude could smell the coffee and cigarettes on his breath. See the bloodshot whites of his eyes.
"If you question me again," Lonnie said, enunciating each word with careful precision, "you're fucking dead. Do you understand that?"
Most people would have backed down.
Jude pushed him instead.
Not hard. Just firm. Steady pressure toward the interrogation room hallway.
His strength was astonishing. Intermediate Physical Fitness Enhancement doing work. Lonnie couldn't stop the movement at all—found himself being guided backward despite trying to hold his ground.
"I'm just curious." Jude's voice stayed level. Reasonable. "You don't look like you spend much money. Even your cigarettes are cheap brands. Yet you're making deals with a lunatic like the Riddler just for gambling money?"
There was another sentence Jude didn't say out loud:
You people have no habit of saving. So where's the money going?
Lonnie didn't answer.
His eyes seemed to dim. Something painful flickering across his expression.
He glanced down at his wrist—quick, almost involuntary.
Jude followed the look.
There. On Lonnie's wrist, partially hidden by his uniform sleeve: a pink children's watch. The kind with cartoon characters. Cheap plastic. Sized for a small child.
The movement was covert. Practiced. Something Lonnie did without thinking when he was worried.
But Jude had been watching for exactly this kind of tell.
"You have a daughter to support?" he asked quietly. "The Gotham City Police Department's salary isn't enough?"
Lonnie's jaw clenched.
He didn't answer. Didn't confirm. Didn't deny.
Just turned and kept running toward the interrogation wing. Pretending he hadn't heard the question.
Jude followed.
They were fast—covered the distance in seconds, their footsteps echoing in the concrete corridors.
Outside the interrogation room, the other guards had already assembled.
Eight men total, counting Jude and Lonnie.
All of them armed to the teeth: helmets with face shields, heavy bulletproof vests, shotguns loaded and ready. The kind of firepower you brought when you expected serious resistance.
They moved into the passage room—the space between the interrogation area and the outside world. A security bottleneck. Designed specifically to prevent prisoner escapes.
The architecture was simple but effective: one iron door leading to the interrogation rooms, one iron door leading to freedom. Both doors never opened simultaneously. A prisoner would have to get through this room—and whatever guards were stationed here—to actually escape.
Lonnie slammed the outer iron door shut behind them.
CLANG.
The sound of the lock engaging was loud. Final. Like a bank vault closing.
Unless the Riddler could somehow knock down all eight fully armed guards with just a dagger, escape from this position was functionally impossible.
So generally speaking, the current situation heavily favored the prison.
But.
The Riddler had chosen to make his move. Which meant he was prepared. Confident.
He'd picked this exact timing for a reason.
In fact, with most of the police force diverted to search for the Joker—chasing explosions, responding to reports, trying to catch a ghost—this was the optimal time for a prison break attempt. Skeleton crew. Minimal resources. Maximum chaos.
Still.
Eight armed guards. Eight shotguns pointed at the door. Eight men who'd been doing this job for years.
The Riddler hadn't completely bribed and controlled all the prison staff. That much was obvious.
Some of the officers glanced back at the outer iron gate. The corridor beyond was quiet. No sounds of approaching backup. No gang members coming to break their boss out of prison.
Then how does he plan to get out?
The question hung in the air, unspoken but present in everyone's minds.
And then—
The interrogation room door opened.
Edward Nygma stepped out wearing a green bowler hat.
Still in his shirt and slacks. Prison-issue clothing. No body armor. No visible weapons.
He wasn't even carrying the knife anymore.
Facing eight black gun muzzles, he didn't seem nervous at all.
Instead, he took two casual steps forward. Like he was entering a business meeting. Confident. In control.
"Get down, Nygma!" one of the guards shouted. "On the ground! Arms spread!"
"You have three seconds to surrender!" Another voice. Harder. "Otherwise we will shoot! Three—two—"
The Riddler's mouth curled up slightly.
The smile showed confidence. Mockery. Sarcasm.
It was the expression of someone who already knew he'd won. Who was watching his opponents figure out they'd lost.
Then he snorted. Almost amused.
"Uh-huh." His voice was clear. Precise. "Joanna Elizabeth Sanchez."
A name.
Just a name.
Delivered like a weapon.
"What?" One of the guards—Sanchez himself, presumably—went pale.
The Riddler continued. "Lyla Ann Longford."
The second name hit like a physical blow.
Another officer's face showed horror. Recognition. Dawning terror.
"That's—" His voice cracked. "That's my daughter's name—"
But the Riddler ignored him.
His speech accelerated. Names flowing faster. Precise. Relentless.
"Fatima Habib. Lori Jane Krupinski. Tanya Hope Garpont."
"Oh my god—" Someone's voice. Broken. "Lori—"
"Shut up!" Another guard, furious. Terrified. "How dare you mention her name!"
"If you dare touch her—"
But the Riddler kept going. Ignoring the threats. Ignoring the pleas. Ignoring the guns.
There were eight officers here.
He recited more than a dozen names.
Full names. First, middle, last. The kind of detail that meant he knew exactly who these people were.
Daughters. Wives. Mothers. Sisters.
The people these men loved most in the world.
And the Riddler had them all catalogued. Filed away. Ready to deploy as leverage.
As each name left his mouth, Jude watched the guards' faces change.
Shock. Horror. Guilt. Fear.
The weapons started to waver. Fingers loosening on triggers. Aim dropping slightly.
And Lonnie Barron, standing beside Jude, showed an expression of pure guilt and regret.
His face gradually lost all color. Skin going gray. Hands starting to shake.
Understanding what he'd done. How he'd been used.
Until finally—
"Melissa Anne Barron."
A little girl's name.
Spoken with the same casual precision as all the others.
Lonnie's hand trembled violently. Released its grip on the trigger entirely.
The shotgun lowered. Pointed at the floor instead of the Riddler.
It was such a harmless thing, Jude thought, watching the psychological warfare play out.
Just some daily chat in the prison.
The Riddler made money for the guards through his gambling. And in return, they told him stories. Their colleagues' hobbies. Daily lives. Gossip about families. Complaints about spouses. Mentions of children.
What could possibly go wrong?
Except the Riddler—Edward Nygma, genius intellect, master of deduction—had used those casual conversations to deduce everything.
Their addresses. Marital status. Important family members.
The people they loved.
And now he was deploying that information like a nuclear weapon.
When the last name was spoken, the trembling police officers slowly moved aside.
Like Moses parting the Red Sea.
Shuffle. Step. Shuffle.
Creating a clear path from the interrogation room door to the exit.
"Don't believe him," someone tried weakly. "He may not have actually kidnapped them—"
The Riddler's smile widened. "Would you like to make a bet?"
His voice was perfectly reasonable. Conversational.
"That I can't bribe the gangs outside the same way I bought this knife? That I haven't already arranged for very specific people to visit very specific addresses if I don't walk out of here in the next five minutes?"
Silence.
No one dared speak anymore.
The Riddler looked at the scene before him—eight armed men reduced to helpless spectators—and couldn't help but snort again.
Pathetic.
He started walking. Casual stride. Hands in pockets.
Heading for the exit.
Freedom.
Victory.
The perfect escape. The perfect psychological manipulation. The perfect demonstration of intellectual superiority over—
Wait.
As the guards parted to both sides, one figure remained in the center.
At the back of the formation.
The Riddler's eyes focused on him. Took in the details.
Helmet askew. Vest crooked. Gun pointed at the floor instead of forward.
The man wasn't even looking up. Was instead... adjusting his clothes? Fiddling with the velcro straps on his vest like he'd never worn one before?
Only after the crowd parted completely—only after he was fully exposed and visible—did the officer belatedly look up.
Blink.
Fumble with his weapon. Try to raise it.
"What the hell?" His voice was confused. Lost. "What happened? Did the deal fall through?"
He struggled with the shotgun. Nearly dropped it.
"Wait, this is my first time wearing this gear. I'm a little unfamiliar with it."
The Riddler stared.
His facial expression changed in stages:
Calm → Stiff → Forced composure → Gritted teeth → Absolute fury.
"A—rookie?!"
He emphasized each word with barely controlled rage.
"A newcomer who can't even put on his uniform properly?! Who doesn't know how to hold a gun?!"
His voice rose. Cracked slightly.
"My perfect jailbreak plan—"
He gestured wildly at the parted guards, at the psychological warfare, at the brilliant deduction and manipulation he'd just executed flawlessly.
"—was ruined by such an idiot?!"
Jude freed one hand.
Scratched his head. The gesture was slow. Confused. Perfectly timed.
His eyes showed a clear and stupid look. The expression of someone who genuinely had no idea what was happening around him.
"What are you mumbling?" he asked. Innocent. Bewildered. "I don't understand."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Writing takes time, coffee, and a lot of love.If you'd like to support my work, join me at [email protected]/GoldenGaruda
You'll get early access to over 50 chapters, selection on new series, and the satisfaction of knowing your support directly fuels more stories.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~