“Yeah, boss—you’re gonna get all your pictures. Maybe we could throw ’em a bone or two.”
Bruce Wayne saw a red flash and felt a brush of an electronic scanner. No ordinary man possessed the reflexes to detect the subtle telemetry probe. To preserve his own illusion, Bruce exerted extraordinary control over his pulse and skin temperature.
“It’s your problem, Tiger. You solve it,” the Connection said while the virtually invisible scanners continued to make their measurements. “I don’t want to hear about the Bess-arabs again.”
“You got it, boss. Me an’ him,” Tiger pointed to Bruce. “We’re a team now. We’ll take care of everything.”
“You do that, Tiger. You do that and I will be very pleased.”
There was a blinding flash of light accompanied by an electrical jolt. Bruce Wayne could not prevent his body from reacting protectively. He lost consciousness for a few seconds, five at the most, and when he came to the only light in the back of the van came from a dim fixture in the ceiling. Tiger was frozen in the grip of a petit mal seizure. Guessing that this was normal procedure and that Tiger had endured it many times before, he allowed his companion to recover in his own time.
Almost a minute passed before Tiger gasped and started breathing. He blinked several times and wiped the saliva from his mouth, but these appeared to be unconscious movements.
The first words out of Tiger’s mouth were: “I sure can pick ’em. I knew that security stuff of yours was good when I saw it. The boss likes you.”