drops silently onto a rain-slicked roof in the Diamond District, his escrima sticks humming with electricity. Oracle, talk to me he says into his cowl link, watching a Black Mask smuggling convoy peel out from the docks.

They're heavily armed, and they've got heavy artillery Barbara Gordon replies from the comms. Her voice is tight, her fingers flying across keyboards at the Belfry. Red Hood is en route to cut off the alleyway, but you have less than two minutes before they reach the bridge.

On it. he mutters. He leaps into the neon-lit gloom, launching himself into a devastating, acrobatic drop into the midst of the thugs below. From across the avenue, a grappling line anchors itself to a chimney.

Red Hood descends, dropping into a fighting stance with his signature dual pistols drawn. Two minutes? I was thinking twenty seconds. Jason growls, taking out the lead vehicle's tires with two perfectly placed, non-lethal rubber slugs. Just as the remaining muscle turns toward the duo, a barrage of smoke pellets bursts at their feet.