CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: THE CALCULATOR’S TEST

Taylor knew it was a risk.

Her ribs still ached when she moved too fast, and the bruises from her last encounter had barely started to fade. But a weapons shipment of this scale? She couldn’t ignore it. The Narrows had already become a war zone with Penguin and Black Mask tearing each other apart. If another cache of high-tech arms made it into their hands, more people would die.

So here she was.

The warehouse sat at the edge of Gotham’s industrial district, a hollowed-out husk of a building long abandoned by whatever company had last owned it. The information she’d picked up—whispers from back alley dealers, scraps of chatter pieced together—pointed to this place as the drop site.

But something was off.

Too quiet.

No sign of a shipment. No trucks. No workers. Just empty crates stacked high and the stale stench of dust and rusted metal.

Another setup.

She realized it a second too late.

The warehouse lights snapped on, flooding the space in harsh, sterile white. The doors slammed shut behind her with a metallic clang. And then they came.

Not gangsters. Not street-level thugs.

Mercenaries.

Well-equipped, well-trained. Professional.

Taylor barely had time to dodge before the first shot rang out. A bolt of red energy seared past her head, striking the metal wall behind her and leaving a molten crater where it hit. Not standard firearms—energy weapons.

Her fists clenched. Someone had baited her. Someone who knew she’d take the risk.

She dove behind a crate as more shots followed, her mind racing. This wasn’t random. This was planned.

A voice crackled to life over unseen speakers.

“I was beginning to think you wouldn’t show.”

Taylor’s blood ran cold. The voice was distorted, but she recognized it immediately. The same one that had called her before.

The Calculator.

Watching from a safe distance while others did his dirty work.

“Good,” he said, almost amused, as if he noticed her recognition. “Let’s begin.”

The mercenaries closed in.

Taylor moved.

She ducked low, slipping between crates as the air burned with weapons fire. A quick headcount—six of them, all moving with military precision. No wasted motion, no hesitation. They weren’t just here to kill her.

They were here to test her.

Fine.

She could work with that.

She feinted right, drawing fire, then lunged left, grabbing a loose length of rebar from the floor. A running start, a leap, and she brought it down hard on the nearest mercenary’s wrist. He grunted as his weapon clattered to the ground, and before he could recover, she smashed the rebar across his helmet.

Five left.

Another one rushed her, swinging the stock of his rifle like a club. Taylor twisted away, using the momentum to drive a sharp kick into his chest. He tumbled back. She snatched the fallen rifle, turned it on him, and squeezed the trigger. A red bolt of energy struck him center mass, sending him sprawling.

The gun was admittedly nice, but heavy and unwieldy. She couldn’t rely on it for long.

Four.

The pain in her ribs flared, her body protesting every movement. She ignored it—she had to—but she was burning through energy fast.

The Calculator hummed in amusement. “Fighting through pain. Admirable.”

Taylor ignored him too. Another merc charged, gun raised—too slow. She pivoted, fired. The bolt hit his leg, dropping him with a scream.

Three.

The remaining mercs adjusted. They spread out, cutting off any escape. Smart. They wanted to force her into the open.

Think.

She spotted a rusted overhead catwalk, just barely within reach. If she could get up there—

A burst of gunfire tore through the crates near her head, forcing her into a desperate roll. No time. She pushed herself up and ran.

The pain nearly made her stumble, but she gritted her teeth and forced herself forward. A quick leap onto a crate, then another, and she was close enough to grab the edge of the catwalk. Her arms screamed in protest, but she pulled herself up just as another blast seared the space where she’d been standing.

The mercs tracked her movements, repositioning. But Taylor had the high ground now, so it was easy to weave between beams, staying ahead of them.

One of them made the mistake of following. He climbed up, focus locked on her—until she swung down, catching him with a brutal kick to his helmet. He hit the crates below hard, groaning.

“Interesting,” the Calculator mused. “Not just strength, but strategy. You think fast.”

Two mercenaries left.

She just needed—

A sharp crack echoed through the warehouse. A sniper shot.

Taylor barely twisted just in time, the bullet slicing past her arm. The sniper reloaded, adjusting his aim.

But she was faster.

Grabbing a loose metal pipe from the catwalk, she hurled it like a spear. It hit the sniper’s rifle, knocking the shot off-course just long enough for her to drop down behind him. She hooked an arm around his throat and wrenched him back. He struggled, but she held firm until he went limp.

One left. But he was already backing away, weapon lowered.

Taylor took a slow step forward, breathing hard. “Drop it.”

A hesitation.

Another step.

Then, to her surprise, he did.

She took him out anyway. A sharp knee to the gut, then a strike to his head. He crumpled to the ground.

Silence.

Then, slow applause.

The Calculator’s voice returned, as detached as ever. “Very well done.”

Taylor looked up, scanning for cameras, speakers—anything that would give away his location. “What do you really want?” she demanded.

The laughter that followed sent a chill down her spine.

Her fists clenched. “If you wanted me dead, you could’ve done it before I even realized the trap.”

“True,” he admitted. “This was never about killing you. It was about learning. Seeing what you’re capable of.”

Taylor exhaled sharply. “And?”

Another chuckle. “You passed.”

The lights cut out, plunging the warehouse into darkness.

By the time they flickered back on, the mercenaries were gone.

Taylor swore under her breath, rubbing at her side. She already knew he was dangerous, but now he had something she didn’t—information.

He’d watched her fight. Studied how she moved. How she thought.

That was a problem.

But she’d find him.

And when she did, she’d make sure he regretted ever putting her to the test.