The Death knell

This time, the journey was longer. Due to flooding in the underground tunnel, Cindy had to take a detour along the Northern Ring Road. By the time she arrived at the location she had previously checked, it was already past 1 AM.

Under the dark night sky, water was everywhere, blurring the boundary between land and sky. However, Sheriff Gordon's brown car was still visible, parked by the roadside not far away, its taillights glowing dimly.

Albert and Cindy were about to step out of the car to look for clues. As for the two reporters, even if Johnson wanted to leave now, she wouldn't. She was still waiting for more exciting information—and, of course, the 'fight promotional video' that Albert had promised her.

Peter, being Johnson's follower, was unlikely to wander alone through the territory of three gangs at midnight.

"Can I go down and make a documentary about solving the case or something?" Johnson asked eagerly, hurriedly fixing her clothes while looking at Albert with expectation.

Albert didn't mind. The video footage might even be useful.

"Fine," he agreed, "but don't film the two of us together, don't film Barbara, and don't broadcast live. If you try anything sneaky, I'll make your life a living hell."

Cindy had no objections. Both she and Albert thought alike, after all. For the first time in a long while, she felt a sense of security, almost like being with her old friend, Holly.

Barbara wanted to come along, but with her injury, moving was difficult. She had no choice but to stay in the car.

A chilling sensation crept back into Albert's body, freezing his emotions once again. He strode toward Gordon's car, opened the door, and examined the interior.

The air inside smelled of tobacco and coffee, but there was no scent of blood. A mobile phone lay on the dashboard, displaying multiple missed calls from Barbara—confirmation that it was Gordon's.

The car key was still inserted, and the engine was in neutral, suggesting he had only intended to step out for a moment. But something had gone wrong.

The fuel tank was half full, the battery fully charged, and there were no signs of struggle on the hood or trunk, ruling out vehicle failure.

So what had compelled him to leave his car and fall into the hands of the men in black?

"Albert, there's a body in the water here," Cindy called out.

She had climbed onto a telephone pole to check the surveillance camera but had found something unusual—a small device, resembling a music player, connected to the roadside camera. She collected the gadget, planning to study it later.

Then, as she walked toward Albert, she noticed a pale, indistinct figure submerged in the sewage near the front of Gordon's car. Her instincts immediately told her—it was a corpse.

Albert realized at once that the body was the reason Gordon had left his vehicle. As a police officer, discovering a dead body was the one thing that would guarantee he stopped to investigate.

The men in black clearly wanted to capture Gordon alive rather than kill him. That was good news.

Cindy used her foot to lift the corpse out of the murky water. The body was bloated from being submerged, its skin loose and discolored due to rain accelerating decomposition.

Both she and Albert quickly identified the cause of death—massive blood loss from multiple wounds. They immediately began an on-site autopsy.

As assassins, understanding human anatomy was second nature to them. If necessary, they could act as forensic specialists. Cindy examined the internal organs while Albert focused on the limbs and head.

"Viewers, what we're witnessing now is the scene of Commissioner Gordon's disappearance," Johnson narrated to the camera. "Behind me is…"

She was careful not to film both Deathstrokes together. She knew better than to cross that line—doing so would turn Albert against her in an instant.

Albert and Cindy ignored her and continued their work, their four hands moving with the same practiced technique.

Thirty seconds later, both confirmed they hadn't missed anything. In the pouring rain, only so many clues could be recovered.

"Who's going first?" Albert asked with a smirk. "I don't want to play the game of speaking in sync anymore."

"I'll go," Cindy replied, standing up and surveying the surroundings. The rain poured down relentlessly, revealing nothing but darkness. "Besides the stab wounds, the victim's internal organs show signs of congestion—she was struck before death."

"She had a well-developed cardiovascular and pulmonary system, meaning she was either a laborer or an athlete. Her stomach was empty—she hadn't eaten in two or three days. My guess? She was held prisoner and executed in some secret location."

Albert nodded, rose to his feet, and added his observations.

"My findings match yours. She didn't walk here on her own. The soles of her feet are completely intact—if she had walked barefoot, they wouldn't be. That proves she was dumped."

"Her knuckles are thick, with noticeable scratches and calluses on the first three fingers of both hands. Her limb muscles are well-balanced and strong, suggesting she was either a fighter or a swimmer. The defensive wounds on her forearms indicate she struggled before death. The marks on her wrists and ankles suggest she was bound."

"She was tortured, then executed."

The two stood in silence, lost in thought, as the rain continued to pour around them.

"There are no obvious signs of torture," Cindy noted, glancing at Emima, who was dramatically performing in front of the camera as if nothing had happened.

"It might have been water torture," Albert mused. "There's a method called Tiejiaguan—covering a person's face with cloth or paper and pouring water over it. It creates the sensation of suffocation, but the autopsy wouldn't show traditional drowning signs."

"Where'd you learn that?" Cindy asked, frowning.

"Oh, torture methods like this were used in many ancient civilizations," Albert replied casually. In truth, he'd learned about it from a TV show back when he was a security guard, but that wasn't worth mentioning.

Cindy sighed and shook her head. "If your guess is right, things just got a lot more complicated."

Albert understood immediately—because very few people could attain the victim's level of physical conditioning.

"Those guys are here too," he said grimly.

"Shadow Dancer Alliance."

They spoke in unison again, but this time, neither laughed. They simply stared at the corpse in silence.

An assassin from the Shadow Dancer Alliance had been killed here. Regardless of who was responsible, the Alliance would seek revenge. That was their code.

If the same people who kidnapped Gordon had also killed this assassin, the Alliance wouldn't bother distinguishing friend from foe. They would annihilate everyone involved. That meant Gordon's life was in grave danger.

"How long does it take to get from South Darbat to Gotham?" Albert asked suddenly. He needed to gauge their response time.

Cindy looked at him curiously. "You don't know? How long do you usually take to get there?"

South Darbat, the headquarters of the Shadow Dancer Alliance, wasn't truly in the south. It was hidden in an icy, unreachable place, protected by forces beyond modern technology—like Paradise Island, Atlantis, or the House of Mystery.

But if one were to estimate its general location, based on intel from various sources, it was likely in Iceland or Greenland.

"About seven hours," Albert calculated. A plane ride from Gotham would take approximately that long.

"That's slow!" Cindy scoffed. "From our side, it takes just four hours. By then, Gotham will be crawling with Shadow Dancer assassins."

Faster than a plane? Did they have some secret travel method?

"This isn't the time to compare travel speeds!" Albert snapped. "We're on a deadline here!"

"Fine," Cindy relented. "Those men in black must be hiding in the buildings nearby. Let's check for any traces they left behind."

"Agreed. I'll check that side," Albert said, striding off into the storm.

Cindy shrugged. She had only wanted to flaunt her advantage, but Albert didn't seem impressed. With a sigh, she kicked open a door on the opposite side of the street and began interrogating people, looking for someone to vent her frustration on.

Meanwhile, Johnson and Peter approached the corpse to take photos. Suddenly, Johnson felt something beneath her foot. Looking down, she noticed a peculiar wound on the victim's waist.

A discovery.

She smiled.