Bruce turned his gaze in other directions, using the beams of the passing flashlights to better examine his surroundings. He didn't find anything of apparent usefulness. Bruce knew remaining perfectly still would let him hold his breath longer but leave him stranded in his current location.  Swimming away might get him out of range of the criminals, but the movement would also deplete his available air faster.

He was considering a swim to the other side of the pier when the beams from the flashlights suddenly departed as the goons ended their search. Bruce came up slowly, repeating his earlier technique of ascending just enough to raise his pen snorkel out of the water. A gulp of harbor water emptied the shaft of the pen and let him breathe again. The polluted water left a slightly metallic taste in his mouth, sinking to his stomach and making him want to gag, but he focused on his breathing and stayed motionless.

                                                                                               ***

Eight tense minutes had passed since Bruce had taken refuge in the harbor. When a series of muffled thumps signaled doors closing, Bruce focused his attention on the headlights; they swept past his hiding place as the two vehicles drove away. In no rush to leave concealment and possibly blunder into any criminals still lingering in the area, Bruce continued to wait.

His ability to breathe wasn't a concern anymore since he'd been able to use his improvised snorkel again, but other problems were starting to arise. The cold water was making his hands numb and prevented him from keeping a firm grip on the rope he held. His muscles were also being affected by the low temperature, and his arms trembled slightly; Bruce didn't know if it was from muscle fatigue or the early stages of hypothermia. No matter what the cause, Bruce knew his time in the water had to end quickly, but if he surfaced while any of the criminals were still in the vicinity, his life might be the thing that ended.

An approaching flashlight beam caught his attention, and Bruce managed to take a deep breath before submerging once more. His faltering grip made the descent more difficult than it had been the first time, but he managed to reach the anchor. Looking up, he saw the flashlight switch on and off in a series of pulses. Bruce watched the pattern, and when he recognized it as Morse code, he was able to decipher the message being sent down to him. Removing the grappling hook from the anchor, Bruce swam to the surface for the final time, taking several deep breaths of air when his head and shoulders emerged from the water. Alfred waited on the pier, flashlight in hand.

"We have the place to ourselves again, Sir," Alfred called out to him, careful not to use his name if someone else was listening.

Bruce was exhausted and had trouble swimming over to where Alfred stood. He tried to throw the rope of the grappling hook, but his numb muscles made it a feeble attempt. Alfred knelt down and grabbed Bruce by the shoulder, pulling him up and onto the pier. Bruce stayed on his back for a moment, breathing hard and shivering uncontrollably.

Alfred hurried back to the van, driving it to where Bruce was freezing to death. Taking a blanket from the back, Alfred wrapped Bruce in a cocoon of multiple layers and assisted him up into the van. Shutting the rear doors, Alfred moved with urgency to the driver's seat, climbing in and turning the heater to maximum as soon as he'd closed the door. Putting the van in gear, Alfred sped away from the docks and returned to Wayne Manor.

                                                                                          ***

Bruce had faded in and out of consciousness during the drive home, but when he finally did wake up, he found himself in a bathtub of hot water. He was still attired in the black outfit he'd been wearing for his mission to the docks; the only things missing were his shoes, gloves, and ski mask. Feeling had started to return to his skin, and he could better control the movement of his fingers.

Alfred entered the bathroom with a pair of thick towels and a long robe of the same royal blue as the towels.

"Feeling better, Master Bruce?" Alfred questioned while laying the towels and robe across a chrome towel rack.

"Much," Bruce groaned as he sat up a little straighter, causing the water in the tub to slosh. "What happened?"

"The cameras and microphones picked up the entire meeting," Alfred explained. He disappeared out the door only to return a moment later with a four-wheeled cart. A silver serving tray resided underneath a pair of china cups and matching saucers. Sitting beside the cups was a silver teapot, currently producing a ribbon of steam from its spout.

"What did you hear?" Bruce asked.

"Nothing much," Alfred admitted. "I was rather busy prepping my rifle."

"Rifle?" Bruce repeated.

"I was trained to be proficient with a sniper rifle," Alfred admitted. "I didn't intend to kill them, merely occupy their attention if you needed to make an escape."

"I appreciate you holding off as long as you did," Bruce said. He leaned back and closed his eyes.

"I understood your wish for secrecy," Alfred said. "Any amount of fighting would've put them on high alert and made future operations much more problematic, to say nothing of them altering any plans they may have already made. Perhaps, you might wish to consider bringing a rebreather along on any missions near water."

"Good idea," Bruce agreed. "We don't want anyone stumbling across the cameras and mics, so when we can, we'll need to go back and collect them."

"Tomorrow is a holiday, so the port will be closed," Alfred reminded. "For once, we seem to have time."

Bruce smiled slightly at Alfred's comment. He breathed deeply and returned to sleep. The last conscious thought in Bruce's mind was the hope that any other missions he went on wouldn't be so difficult or life threatening.

                                                                                           ***

Bruce emerged from the bathroom wearing the robe Alfred had brought him. He took a sip of the steaming tea from the cup he held, setting it back on its saucer afterwards. Walking down the hallway to the dining room, Bruce joined Alfred to go over the evidence they'd captured during the meeting at the docks.

"Master Bruce," Alfred said with urgency as he stood up from the keyboard of the center terminal of their three computers. "You really need to hear this."

Sitting down again, Alfred typed in a few commands to replay the recorded conversation their microphones had picked up. On the monitor, the video from one of their cameras played in sync with the audio.

"What's the problem, Boss?" Cunningham asked. "Why the late meeting?"

"You know as well as I do what's wrong," snarled a man in a long coat. His dark hat obscured most of his face because of the high angle of the camera. "I set up the perfect armed robbery to severely hurt the other crime families, and the people you brought in screwed everything up!"

"The heist went as planned," Cunningham defended.

"Harris got caught," the man reminded. "Instead of doing his time for being stupid enough to get collared, what does he do? He breaks jail and kidnaps a girl! Do you realize how much bribe money it takes to keep something like this quiet, even in Gotham? Every mistake he makes draws more attention to us. If the other families find out what we're doing, they'll send hit squads after us!"

"I'll make sure you're not tied to anything," Cunningham promised.

"What about the incident at the hotel?" the man questioned harshly.

"Harris shot the manager," Cunningham explained. "But, don't worry about it, Mr. Fairbanks. I stalled the investigation with a court order by Judge Leeson, and I got the gun out of there, dropping it down a storm drain. There's nothing to tie anyone to the murder."

"Get rid of Leeson," Fairbanks commanded.

"Why?" Cunningham questioned. "He's been doing good work for us."

"You can't trust people who take money from all sides," Fairbanks explained in a low growl. "Leeson can be bought by anyone, and if questioned about any of this, he may rat on us to protect himself. Your involvement of Leeson has only given the cops something else to investigate. If they start checking his financials too closely, they'll find out he's been taking bribes, ours along with the rest. We can't afford loose ends. Get rid of him."

"Okay, Boss," Cunningham agreed, swallowing hard.

"Where's Harris?" Fairbanks demanded.

"A cop named Gordon has him in protective custody somewhere," Cunningham answered.

"Find him!" Fairbanks snapped. "I don't care what it takes. Harris has bungled this job from the start, and we can't afford to risk him talking to the cops. When you find him, silence him. If Gordon gets in the way, kill him too."

Alfred shut off the recordings.

"Dig through the police files and find Gordon's phone number," Bruce said. Any fatigue from his earlier endeavors instantly vanished as adrenaline coursed through his system. "I'll get changed. Warn Gordon if you can, but at the very least, see of you can find his location."

Bruce didn't wait for an answer, rushing out the door and sprinting to his room to get dressed.

                                                                                             ***

"Have you reached Gordon?" Bruce asked when he returned to the dining room dressed in a simple T-shirt and jeans.

"Not yet," Alfred denied. "He doesn't seem to be answering his phone."

Bruce didn't like the answer as it made him wonder if Gordon was still alive. Cunningham, and any other criminals working with him, already had a head start since they didn't have to recover from being half frozen in the icy waters of the harbor.

"Do a search for Cunningham," Bruce decided. "If he's tracking Gordon, he'll lead us to him."