When Jim arrived at Pier 13, he'd jump out of the patrol car just in time to see Louise's small, spare pistol (the one she had strapped to her thigh underneath her Zelda Fitzgerald get-up) get knocked out of her hand by Woolford. At the sight of Gordon, the headstrong shitbag grabbed the redhead by the curls and placed his semi-automatic at her carotid artery whilst lifting his chin in cocky defiance.

"Ahh," he intoned, the sarcasm evident in just the one syllable. "James Gordon. Boy wonder of the GCPD. Was wondering when you'd get around to, erm...'rescue' your girl." A laugh. "Because she's not. Getting rescued, that is." Louise's phone laid on the ground several paces away, the battery tossed out of it.