Catwoman gathered herself for the pounce. He’d never reach his fancy weapon; never know what hit him.
She froze instead.
A flicker of movement on another roof had drawn her attention. It was not repeated. There wasn’t much for her memory to chew on, just the knowledge that something large and dark had been there and was now gone. That, however, was enough.
He was working the area and he was reason enough to scratch her plans, to head instead for shelter and stay there.
He was Batman.
Catwoman didn’t fear the Dark Knight the way most criminals did. She wore a costume herself and was not impressed by his mask, his cape, or mystique. She’d eluded him before—even bested him—but he was a man obsessed with narrow definitions of right and wrong and it didn’t pay to cross his bows—even when she needed money and had found the perfect people from whom to take it.
The lookout and the rest of the gang were safe—at least from her. But Batman’s presence cast a strong, lingering spell across the jagged roofs. It prodded the lookout, who leaned forward, studying the roof where nothing untoward could be seen. His hand groped along the wall, seeking the rifle. He turned around. He looked up—
Damn!
He went for the handgun partially concealed in his pocket.
The cards had been dealt; the hand had to be played.
Catwoman launched herself downward. Her hands locked around his neck. Her knees struck his chest. For a split second they were motionless, with him flat against the wall and her weight balanced against his collarbones. Then there was a snap, scarcely audible in the relentless music. Self-defense. Catwoman sprang away, landing on the balls of her feet. The lookout sank slowly to the floor, his head slumped to the side.