The Dark Knight

6. The Aftermath

Dan climbed into his truck and fired up the engine, the low growl breaking the midnight silence. He tapped the steering wheel impatiently, headlights slicing through the dark stretch of asphalt ahead. The road felt emptier than usual, the kind of night where every flickering streetlight and every shadow whispered suspicion. But tonight, suspicion didn’t matter. Tonight was business.

The receiving point was thirty minutes out, and Dan wanted to be early. Punctuality kept men alive in this line of work — and profits intact.

His phone rang, vibrating against the console. He grabbed it without taking his eyes off the road.

“Yes?”

“We’re buying some of your shipment in the morning,” a rough voice said. “What time can we get it?”

Dan let a smile creep across his face. He enjoyed these calls — the sound of demand, the proof that his goods were still king in the streets.

“You know the drill,” he replied smoothly. “Before six a.m. Don’t be late. This cargo’s hot cake. I can’t keep it waiting.”

“Fine. Payment comes once we make the exchange.”

“Sure thing. I’ll be waiting.”

He ended the call, satisfaction rolling through him. For the first time in years, he could almost breathe easy. The past had been bitter: money drained from his accounts by some invisible hand, no trail, no suspect, no justice. Someone — maybe that damned “Robin” — had been bleeding him dry. But tonight’s shipment was his resurrection. Big. Clean. Untouchable. The kind of night where a man could claw his way back to the top.

The phone buzzed again. Ken’s name lit up the screen. Dan answered with a broad grin.

“Ken, my man! All is going down tonight. We’ll be rich again.”

“Good luck,” Ken replied, a note of irony in his tone. “But I can’t say I envy your goods. All them hard drugs are wrecking the community. No wonder that Robin guy’s after you.”

Dan’s knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. His mood shifted in an instant. “What? Ken, I’m ending this call.”

“Wait, hold on,” Ken wheezed through a laugh.

“What is it?” Dan snapped, sharp as broken glass.

Ken’s laughter spilled louder before he managed to speak. “Relax, man. I’m teasing. I just called to wish you luck. Let’s meet at the casino later. Bosco’s got good news.”

Dan’s irritation gave way to curiosity. “Oh really? What news?”

Ken lowered his voice with a conspiratorial edge. “It’s going down soon. Bosco and Kelani are striking JX.” He snorted. His casino numbers had suffered under Robin Hood’s shadow, and he was eager for payback.

Dan barked out a laugh, a surge of energy pulsing through him. “Death to that street urchin and his damned alter ego!”

“Hear, hear!” Ken shouted. “Later, man.”

“Yeah, later.” Dan cut the line, his mind buzzing. The truck rumbled as he pulled into the warehouse lot, gravel crunching beneath the tires. Men were already gathering, shadows shifting under the glare of floodlights. Dan stepped out, boots steady, voice sharp as he rallied his crew. The night’s work had only just begun.

Across the city, a different kind of preparation stirred.

“Diesel,” Jerry’s voice came through the intercom, clipped and demanding, “have you wired me the information yet?”

“No, Boss. Marx is still dragging his feet.”

“Marx?” Jerry barked.

“Y-yes, Boss,” Marx stammered. “I’m working on it. The warehouse location is proving… tricky.”

Jerry exhaled through his nose. Always excuses. “We need results.”

“Boss,” Diesel said quietly, as though wary of pushing too hard, “we need Julian. He could get the details in no time.”

Jerry’s jaw tightened. “Forget Julian. He’s off this beat. We bring him in only if absolutely necessary. Dig harder, Marx.” His words carried steel, the finality of command.

Before anyone could argue, he ended the call and leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. His muscles ached from hours of tension. This hit — this vigilante strike — was supposed to be the last. He had promised himself that. Just one more. But their funds were running low, the crew restless, and he needed this to succeed.

He turned his head. On his desk sat a framed photo: Lucy, smiling gently as she held their two boys close. Jerry picked it up, thumb brushing over her face. The weight in his chest loosened. Life had finally begun to soften, to show him a kinder hand. He had something worth holding onto now. Something he could not lose.

He packed up his files, deciding the men could finish the details. They’d come for him at midnight, and by then he’d be ready. He’d have to slip out of the house carefully — Lucy mustn’t notice. That thought made him chuckle in spite of himself.

“See you later, guys,” he called as he passed through the office. His men nodded back, respectful.

On the way home, he swung by the toy store, his steps lightening. It had become his small ritual: gifts for the boys. Joy, surprise, laughter. He was building for them the childhood he had never been allowed.

Jerry’s own youth was etched in scars. Fireworks in back alleys, smoke biting his eyes. Paper guns folded from scraps, later replaced with pistols thrust into his hands before his voice had even deepened. He’d been thirteen when the first real gun was pressed into his palms. The old plumber who had taken him in — the man who’d given him his surname, Dombaco — had tried to save him, had offered him a trade and a name. But the streets had claimed him first.

Pickpocketing. Bare-knuckle fights behind liquor stores. Bets and debts. Drinking. Smoking. Girls. By sixteen he was muscle-for-hire, carrying bricks of powder across city blocks, breaking bones for dealers who paid well. His fists won him fame, his ruthlessness earned him work. Soon, the name JX was whispered with both fear and respect.

And yet, even then, one corner of his life remained untouched. The girl across the street — the bookstore girl, Lucy — who smiled at him as if he wasn’t a monster. She was the only soft thing in his world, and he’d clung to that without admitting it. Now she was his wife. His anchor. His salvation.

Jerry filled his trolley with reckless abandon. Cars, puzzles, board games, construction kits. Lucy often teased him for spoiling the boys with play instead of art supplies. But they had struck a quiet balance: he bought toys, she bought paints and sketchpads. Tonight, he even grabbed two educational video kits, thinking of the boys’ looming kindergarten. Learning disguised as fun.

At the counter, the clerk slid a new model toy gun across the desk — sleek, metallic, with sound effects that clicked and popped with realism. Jerry froze, eyes narrowing. Then he pushed it back with finality. “No.”

The clerk blinked.

“No guns,” Jerry repeated, his voice carrying a finality that silenced further salesmanship. His kids would not touch them. Not yet. Not ever, if he could help it. His friends joked that Antonio and Ben should already be training in self-defense, that JX’s sons couldn’t grow up soft. But Lucy had refused outright, and Jerry had agreed: maybe when they turned seven or eight, in martial arts classes that taught discipline and control. But for now, they were only children. And they deserved to stay that way.

By the time Jerry reached home, the trunk was full, his heart lighter than when he’d left. He pushed open the door.

“Hey, babe!” he called out.

Silence. Then faint laughter and the soft murmur of voices led him to the nursery. He stopped at the doorway, leaning against the frame.

Lucy was crouched on the floor, guiding little Ben’s hands as he smeared paint into bright, abstract patterns. Beside them, Antonio clutched a sketchpad, drawing his version of a house under a crooked sun, stick figures lined up outside it.

Jerry’s chest swelled with warmth. He lingered there, silent, drinking it in.

“Daddyyyy!” the boys shrieked when they finally spotted him.

“My boyyyys!” Jerry swooped in, sweeping them up into his arms despite their paint-stained hands. They clung to him, laughing, and he laughed with them, the tension of the night dissolving. He set them down and handed over their gifts. They dove in with glee, tearing through packages, while Lucy rolled her eyes.

Jerry grinned, handing her the educational video kits. “See? I got something useful this time.”

“Now these,” she said with mock sternness, “I’d take a dozen of.” She tucked them away into a locked cabinet before curious hands could find them.

“Before my boys get too curious, right?” he teased.

“Exactly. And can we please not do girls next time?” she sighed playfully.

They curled together on the couch, watching Antonio and Ben squeal over their new toys. Lucy leaned into him, the warmth of her body anchoring him. Jerry closed his eyes, breathing her in, the laughter of his children washing over him. For a fleeting moment, it felt like this life — this peace — was all there was.

A family. A home. A future.

But in the corners of his mind, a darker voice whispered. Outside this house, shadows were thickening. Enemies were plotting. And the storm gathering on the horizon would not spare what he loved most.