The Death knell

Albert and Cindy took about five minutes before they engaged in another confrontation under the heavy rain.

Tonight felt darker than usual, and an unsettling atmosphere filled the streets. Many civilians, recently awakened by the commotion, hid behind their curtains, too afraid to turn on their lights, lest they attract unwanted attention. They could only peer into the night through rain-streaked windows, their fearful eyes tracking the two shadowy figures below.

"I only have bad news," Albert said, his voice barely audible over the pounding rain. "I found ninja footprints on the top floor. Some Shadow Dancers were here before us."

Cindy glanced at the rising water, which had already reached her knees. Chicago's drainage system was struggling against the relentless downpour.

Albert sighed. "The building is too clean—unnaturally so for a low-income residential area. The men in black must have wiped it down before leaving."

Unwilling to give up, he tried to find witnesses. He kicked down doors, interrogated residents at gunpoint, and scared some so badly they soiled themselves. But no one had seen anything.

This meant one thing—the men in black moved swiftly and silently. On the bright side, it also suggested that neither Gordon nor his captors had fired their weapons. That meant Gordon was still alive—for now.

Albert exhaled slowly. The only lead left was the assassin's corpse. He needed to use it to bait the League of Assassins into making a move.

But that was a passive approach. By the time the assassins came to reclaim the body, the men in black might have already eliminated their targets, and Gordon could be dead.

"Let's take the body back to the car."

With no better option, Albert and Cindy returned to the vehicle. As the rainwater formed rivers outside the window, both sat in silence, lost in thought.

"Why do you think the body was dressed like that? There were no gunshot wounds. How was she captured?" Cindy mused, her eyes fixed on the corpse.

She had her own theories but wanted to hear Albert's perspective. They often complemented each other's knowledge, and having more clues never hurt.

Cindy leaned on the steering wheel while Albert reclined in the passenger seat, his hands resting behind his head.

He looked out the window, watching Sam Billings direct Pete. Sam had him alternating between panning the sky and capturing the rising floodwaters.

"There are plenty of gangsters in Chicago who could pull this off," Albert said. "Scarecrow's fear gas is easy to find on the black market—it's practically sold on supermarket shelves. Killer Croc, Clayface, and other mutants work for hire, and the gangs can afford them.

"But our friends in black acted impulsively. Shadow Dancers never reveal secrets. No matter how much you torture them, they won't talk. And trying would only provoke the Shadow Dancer Alliance."

Cindy sighed. "A gang that powerful could've been a potential client. What a shame."

She lamented the missed opportunity. Any gang was just a group of ordinary people before they acquired power, but the League of Assassins? They were something else entirely.

Trained from childhood, they mastered weapons by the age of four, killed by five, and started missions by eight. They gave up their names and identities, living only as tools of the League.

Low-ranking assassins had no sense of honor. Their expertise lay in eliminating targets in the dark, moving in perfect silence.

"This gang might disappear soon," Cindy muttered. "But before that happens, we need to fish out Gordon."

Barbara, monitoring their conversation from her wheelchair, knew their trail had gone cold. Gordon was still alive, but time was running out—he had maybe three hours left.

The three fell into a heavy silence, thinking through their options.

Surveillance across the surrounding streets had been wiped out by various gangs, making it impossible to track Gordon. Albert felt like he was back in the 1980s. How did detectives solve crimes before modern technology?

While they sat quietly, Johnson hummed a tune and climbed into the car, looking pleased with herself. Pete followed closely behind.

She shook off her raincoat and smirked when she saw Barbara's furrowed brows.

"Oh? Why the long face, little lady?" she asked Albert.

"Because we have nothing except a female corpse," Albert replied. "Any leads from the TV station? Any helpful viewers?"

Johnson chuckled. "Even con artists are too scared to lie to you. I haven't gotten a single call."

She waved her phone. The TV station had called her, but only to confirm she was still alive. They also begged her to tell Deathstroke they would cooperate with his demands—as long as he didn't kill anyone.

"If no one's calling, they should at least send someone to help us find clues," Cindy grumbled. "Looks like we need to give them some motivation. Maybe kill a few people at the station first?"

Johnson lit up. "Yes! Start with my news director. She's the worst. Always trying to fire brilliant journalists like me!"

Her casual approach to murder was unsettling. She seemed detached from human life, observing events as a mere spectator.

Albert, smirking, removed his helmet. He knew Johnson must have found something and was waiting to cash in on the reward.

"You want us to kill people? That means you found something. And that's the price we promised for information."

Johnson grinned proudly and pulled out a pair of wet glasses from her pocket. She handed them to Barbara.

"You can't back out now. Because the one giving you a clue… is me."

She pointed at herself.

Barbara's breath caught when she recognized them. "These… these are my dad's!"

Johnson nodded. "Gordon threw them away when he was kidnapped. He left a clue on the lenses. I found them under the water, hidden beneath a corpse and some stones. If I weren't lucky, I wouldn't have noticed them."

Albert took the glasses and examined them under the car's interior light. At first glance, they seemed ordinary—old-fashioned, the kind of thing an elderly man would wear. Maybe that's where Barbara got her terrible fashion sense.

But it wasn't that simple. Holding them at an angle, he noticed faint scratches on the lenses.

"He carved something onto the glass," Cindy noted. "It's a license plate number—probably the one used in his kidnapping."

"As expected of Gordon," Albert muttered. "He managed this while being taken." He handed the glasses back to Barbara. "You know what to do, right?"

Barbara nodded, determined. She opened her laptop and hacked into the Department of Transportation's database to look up the license plate.

A system error message popped up. The server was down.

"Damn it!" she swore, slamming her fist on the armrest of her wheelchair. "The storm must have knocked out their power!"

Albert placed a hand on her shoulder. "It's fine. We have the number. There's another place with all the information we need."

Barbara looked up, hope rekindled. "Where?"

Albert turned to Cindy. She caught on immediately and sighed.

"If we go there, we need to blindfold everyone and remove their SIM cards," she said. "No one can remember the route to that place."

Barbara nodded, steeling herself. "I don't care if I go to jail. I have to save him."

Albert smiled. "Then let's move."

The rain outside continued to pour, drowning the city in darkness, but inside the car, a glimmer of hope had been reignited.