Batman and the associated characters are owned by DC. James Bond and the associated characters were created by Ian Fleming. With grateful thanks for cmar for beta reading this chapter. All reviews welcome!

Golden Bat – Chapter One

Moneypenny glanced up as the door opened and pursed her lips together. She was not going to give him the satisfaction of a smile. The womanising old goat that he was. James Bond gave a smile and handed her a single rose.

"Only a single rose?"

"For just a single smile?"

Despite herself she gave a small smile. Bond pulled out a bunch of roses.

"What do I get for thirty?"

There was a beep sound from the desk intercom and an exasperated voice. "Stop holding up 007, Moneypenny, and send him in."

"Yes, sir, sorry sir," she said and sat down. "You'd better go in James."


James Bond grasped the door handle and walked into the room. There sitting down was the head of British Intelligence Admiral Sir Miles Merservey, known as M.

On a video screen behind M was the huge visage of Felix Leiter, the head of American Secret Service.

Leiter's face cracked into a smile as he saw Bond. "Hey Jim, how's it going?"

"Sit down 007, sit down," said M tetchily. "You two can socialise in Gotham."

M passed a brown file over to James Bond. He looked at the cover. There were three signatures there. One of the Head of the American and Caribbean Section, one of M himself and one of Felix Leiter, although why the Americans would be involved he didn't know unless it was to do with one of their citizens? Above the signatures was the words Licence to Kill. Those three little words had sent more men to their graves than he cared to think. He opened the folder to see who his target was. He raised his eyebrows slightly at the name.

Bond placed the file on the table. "What's he done wrong? Why am I being sent out? If he is an American citizen shouldn't your CIA do something about him?" He looked up at the screen.

"He's too highly placed for us to be able to do anything about him, government won't authorise it. We've had word from Nicholas Bennett he's a…"

Bond interrupted him. "Software billionaire in Gotham. He started off developing computer systems, got pushed out of the market and then set up a software company. They design and implement accountancy systems. He owns property all over the world including Gotham, New York, Paris and London."

"Okay 007 we don't want a biography…"

A picture of another man replaced Leiter's on the screen. "We've been investigating this man for some time. His company has a $10 billion turnover and generates about $400 million dollars profit a year."

"Living the American dream."

"He has several accounting irregularities."

"You need the tax man, not me."

"Also technology and armaments from his factories and depots goes missing on a regular basis."

"Get in a police man."

"A new highly armed, well equipped, criminal group has started up. His firm has developed a lot of their equipment. They have hold of a nuclear weapon we believe from Tajikistan. Nicholas Bennett says this man is responsible, our initial investigations back up this claim."

"What are their demands?"

"We have heard nothing from them as yet," said M. "We want to end this before it begins. You will liase with Bennett and Leiter in Gotham. Your mission is to find that nuclear weapon and terminate Bruce Wayne, immediately."


Later in the day and on the other side of the Atlantic, "Matches" Malone AKA Bruce Wayne was resting his arm on the bar of a very disreputable bar. The place was thick with smoke and the smell of whisky and beer. He was in disguise collecting information about Gotham's low life's. His ragged sleeve mopped up the beer that was pooled on the bar. He finished his drink and raised his hand to try and get the bar man's attention. He was currently serving someone else. Bruce got out a ten-dollar note and started waving it in the vain hope it would make a difference. It didn't. He tried coughing, easy to do considering the atmosphere of the place. Still no response. An attractive woman in a tight dress walked up to the bar and immediately got served.

No justice, he thought as he looked about the bar, but not entirely surprising. He could see his reflection in the mirror. He was dressed in a disreputable old coat and jeans that looked like he had been the loser in a cat fight and the winner had urinated on him. Alfred hated these clothes and Bruce had to physically hide them to stop him cleaning and darning them. To be fair what Alfred really wanted to do was burn them and bury the remains in the vegetable patch.

The coat was an effective disguise so much so that an old vagrant had pushed a five-dollar bill into his hand outside before he had a chance to stop him. Eventually Bruce got another drink and he carried on looking at the people in the bar. He put a foot down on the carpet below and his shoe nearly stuck to the carpet. He was currently lip reading via the bar mirror what two men were talking about near him. One of them was Tony Valetta, he had never seen him before but he knew of him. Most of the stories told in this bar about him were lies of course but there was always one thing that was always the same.

Valetta was a stone cold killer; he was hired as a hit man for some of the gangs in Metropolis. It was said he never he lost his temper and he never took more than one bullet to a hit since he never missed. His cold blue eyes scanned the bar as he was talking; Bruce kept his own eyes down and tried to look as unobtrusive as possible. He was planning something that was for sure. Bruce concentrated on lip reading. They were meeting someone in the alleyway soon. Valetta looked at his watch, he was looking nervous. The other man with him was Christian Mitchell, a huge ape of a man with two days worth of stubble and clothes that had been the wrong side of a laundry basket for too long. He was just a gofer for Tony Abretti, one of the big mafia dons of Gotham.

Valetta and Mitchell finished their drinks and walked out of the bar. Bruce put his glass to one side and followed them. They walked straight past the toilets and through a fire door to the alley way outside. Bruce followed them quietly and then immediately knew he had made a mistake, and not just a small mistake. In fact if a mistake were a mountain it would be the Mount Everest of mistakes with possibly Mount Helena on top for effect. The sort of mistake they would write on your tombstone, although to be fair most people who made this sort of mistake didn't have a tombstone because they were normally spread over about 50 of Tony Abretti's fast food joints.

Bruce looked around the alley and could see about 15 of Tony Abretti's henchmen. Tony Valetta was on the ground breathing his last, his face a rictus of pain, his blood pooling and steaming on the ground. Rivulets of blood collected by Bruce's brown scuffed shoes. Tony Abretti himself was just lowering the silenced gun that had brought about Valetta's untimely demise.

They all turned around to look at Bruce as he walked through the door. Bruce put his hands up as about ten guns faced him. Unseen by all of them he pressed a small button in his cuff…


"Ring, ring."

Robin was currently hanging upside down above a hostage situation in an old warehouse near the docks. He turned off the communicator. Bruce would have to deal with the problem himself. These thugs were just about to execute an old man hostage unless the police outside left the area. The criminals had been caught in the middle of a break in at this warehouse by the night watchman, the one they were just about to shoot. The problem was the criminals wanted to leave and the police wanted them to leave. You would have thought both their aims dovetailed beautifully and a good psychologist, or even a good chat show host, could probably get both groups talking to each other to realise that both their jobs depended on the other and they would probably really like each other if they met each other socially, maybe at a game of pool or poker or even cribbage (which despite its name is not the sort of vegetable your mother tries to force on you but is in fact a card game). However the police were rather insistent on the criminals going to jail and the criminals were rather insistent that they didn't want to go to jail. This was where they had a small divergence of opinion.

"We got the place surrounded," said Gordon through the megaphone. "Throw your weapons out first and walk into the light."

"No chance," shouted Addison, through the broken window. A red light showed the window as a police sniper got into position. Robin carefully crawled the struts towards where the criminals were. He was not in the right position to take them out yet.

"We got a nice warm cell waiting for you boys."

"We've already got a nice warm flat waiting in down town Gotham. It's got carpets, chairs and we have a key."

"The cell has got waiter service. Toilet right by the bed, you don't even have to walk to the bathroom. Luxury! And we have a lot of your old friends there to talk to as well. We don't give you a key I'm afraid"

Addison and the other two thugs had a quick chat. Addison walked back to the window. "You got cable? We don't want to miss CSI – Miami?"

"Not yet," shouted Gordon, "but it is on our list. Possibly next year."

"How long would we get?"

"That's up to the judge."

"Well our flat has half a cold pizza on the table and two cans of cold lager in the fridge." There was an urgent comment from the man behind him. "Sorry one can of lager. Can you beat that?" There was another whispered comment from the man behind Addison. "Can you have a bubble bath in jail you know with one of those bath bombs. The ones that fizz and leave you smelling of lemon?"

"No."

Robin carried on quietly crawling through the struts of the warehouse towards the men. These talks went on for some time and at the moment they had "irretrievably broken down", a rather quaint phrase bringing to mind old washing machines and cars but in this case meaning both sides couldn't talk to each other without raised voices, swearing and insisting it was all the other persons fault. So much so that the criminals had decided that executing hostages was the way to force the police outside to leave. They hadn't given much thought to what they would do afterwards since he was their only hostage. As they raised their guns towards theold night watchmanRobin dropped the twenty feet to the ground and started handing out some serious hospital time.


Alfred looked contentedly at the oven, it was his evening off and he planned to enjoy it. The clock above the oven showed the timer counting down. Thirty-seven minutes. He reached over to his book "Jeeves Takes Charge" by P G Wodehouse and got ready to chuckle.

"Surfin' USA" ring tone rang out. He muttered to himself and picked up the mobile. Oh, this was the emergency number. He clicked the green button and could hear.

"What should we do with the bastich?"

"Knock him out and give him to Ali Nassau. By this time tomorrow he would have fed Gotham's east side."

There was thumping sound and the distinct sound of a body falling down. A chill ran down Alfred's spine. This was serious. Why hadn't Robin picked up the call? He tried to ring him but voice mail cut in straight away. He either couldn't answer or wouldn't answer. He didn't like either of those options. Nightwing was out of town and he didn't have Batgirl's phone number.

He looked at the oven, in thirty-six minutes the bread would burn. He could turn the oven off but the yeast was already making the bread rise, if he did that he would ruin it.

He pressed a hidden button on the phone. The small screen on the front showed a map of Gotham and a blue dot showed Bruce Wayne. He would have to get him back himself. He ran out of the kitchen to the hallway to the clock and changed the hands to the time when Bruce's parents had been murdered. The door creaked open and Alfred ran down the stairs towards the Bat cave. The car was parked in town somewhere. That just left the motorbike. He picked up a black helmet from the side and put on a black leather jacket and got on the motorbike.

There was a deep throaty roar as the engine caught. He had spent time as a courier in the army and was well used to motorbikes. The bike roared up the ramp towards the exit, a button press later and the exit door opened and he shot out onto the road. Alfred plugged the mobile into a socket on the bike and a small screen lit up in his helmet showing him a map of Gotham and the location of Bruce. Bruce's signal was starting to move showing that they were moving him. A countdown was showing in the bottom right hand corner with how long he had until the bread would burn.


Bruce woke up to a throbbing headache that was not being helped by being thrown around in the back of a van. He knew better than to move too much since he didn't know who else was in the back with him. He tried to open his eyes but his left eye was gummed shut by his blood. His hands were tied up behind his back and his mouth was full of sawdust. Why saw dust? Must be a meat van. He couldn't hear anyone else so he looked cautiously around him. Above him he could see several beef carcasses hanging by hooks from the roof. On one hook was hanging Tony Valetta. His face thankfully covered by a black hood.

Bruce felt in his cuff for a razor wire he always kept there. In seconds he was cutting through the rope that was binding him. The van was a refrigerated one and a thin layer of ice was covering everything. The van came to a halt, the sides of beef clattering against each other. There was a sound of the van door opening.


Alfred looked down at the screen. The blue dot had stopped outside a place in the East side of Gotham. He raced up a side street jumped a red light and narrowly missed decorating the front of a saab. He needed to be the other side of the block now! He crashed through a charity shop sending shop dummies and clothes racks flying. Alfred promised himself they would have a large anonymous cheque sent to them soon. The bike collided with the door at the back sending it soaring off its hinges. He had a quick glance at the terrified faces of the shop workers as he smashed a small table sending magazines and mugs of tea through the air. The back door was open and he went zooming out the back and jumped the five steps to the ground and he was in a dark alleyway leading to the road where Bruce's signal had just stopped.

A gang of hoodlums were just about to mug a businessman when Alfred scattered them and sent them scuttling to safety in various doorways. Several bags of rubbish exploded as he drove over them and old crisp packets and milk cartons rained down gently into the alleyway.

In front of him was a "Finger lickin' Southern fried Chicken" outlet and he could see the van with Bruce in it there. He saw two men open the van door and pour bullets into a body lying in the back of the van. He could see the body twitch and jump as the bullets struck home.