Batman 3 - Batman Forever by Peter David

sanguinely checking his watch. He frowned. Could it be that Batman would let him down, and not be . . .
    From the elevators nearby there was the amazingly ordinary sound of a chime, indicating that one of the cars had reached the floor.
    Two-Face nodded approvingly. “Punctual. Even for his own funeral.”
    He whirled toward the elevators, his gang members leaping forward with machine guns under their arms. One of them tossed a gun to Two-Face, who caught it easily and aimed at the elevator doors. The entire maneuver, from the signal that alerted them to the clattering of machine guns, took no more than three seconds. Two-Face chided himself, even as he and his men opened fire. He would have far preferred it if they had trimmed it to two seconds.
    Armor-piercing bullets punched through the heavy metal doors. They fired until the clips were empty, and then Two-Face put up a hand, indicating that they should move forward to see the results of their assault. They walked cautiously toward the elevators, slamming new clips into the weapons as they went.
    The doors slid open.
    The shaft was empty.
    Two-Face gaped in confusion. He barely had time to wonder how in God’s name Batman had managed to override the controls, forcing the doors open despite the absence of the elevators themselves . . .
    Because the next thing he knew, he was under attack.
    Batman swung down from the middle shaft, feetfirst, plowing into the thugs and sending them scattering.
    He landed cleanly, his hands on his Utility Belt. He pulled two weapons, gripping one in either hand. In the right was a small projectile launcher. He squeezed the trigger and a pellet shot through the air, smacking onto the floor squarely in front of two of the thugs. When it landed it was with a soft, almost disgusting noise, like toothpaste ejected from the tube by having someone smash his fist on it. The crooks were on their feet, but—as it happened—so now were the contents of the pellet. It was a thick superadhesive. It soaked through their shoes, and into the skin of their feet. Before they even realized that their forward motion had been impeded, they’d been brought to a dead halt. They wavered and then pitched back, their arms pinwheeling but unable to stop them.
    In Batman’s left hand, meantime, was a bola. He hurled it with a casual sidearm toss that released its whirling cable. It snaked out and wrapped itself around the upper torso of a third thug, who went down struggling and struck his head so forcefully that he knocked himself cold.
    A fourth thug was charging. Batman slugged him once in the stomach, doubling him over, and then twice more in the head. Immediately the thug lapsed into unconsciousness even as a fifth charged. Gripping him firmly by the shoulders, Batman spun him around so that his flying legs crashed into the onrushing thug, sending him sprawling.
    A defiant howl of rage alerted Batman as another thug charged down the hall. He had two lethal spike-covered gloves, and he was barreling toward Batman, waving them viciously. The spikes might not have had tremendous impact on Batman’s armor, but on the other hand, one good shot to his chin might take off the lower half of his face.
    Batman stood his ground, fists poised, feinting, angling for position. The gloved felon came at him, lunging toward him and bolstering his own confidence with his bansheelike screams. He thrust his deadly appendages at Batman, who ducked under the charge. Overbalanced as he was, the thug wasn’t able to halt his forward motion. He tripped over Batman’s crouched form . . .
    And fell down the elevator shaft.
    Batman nodded to himself in satisfaction as he heard a thud from a distance below. The car that he’d ridden up the shaft (before leaving it to gain the high ground) wasn’t all that far, so there was every chance that the thug had only sustained minor injuries.
    Unless, of course, he had fallen headfirst, or on his own gloves.
    Batman glanced down the shaft and