Chapter 10: Gotham Police Department

"It seems someone has the same idea as us," Michael said.

He pedaled the unicycle furiously while holding his dual pistols, releasing the safeties.

Cindy was doing the same. In situations where they couldn't guarantee engagement distance, two pistols were more reliable than the shotgun on her back.

"At least we can rule out Harley as a suspect. She and Poison Ivy were drunk as skunks; it's impossible for them to have gotten here before us."

"No point in figuring out who's behind this. Let's just go in and take out these business-stealers."

In Gotham, there were plenty of people who liked to play with the Bat; no telling who was acting now.

After the previous battle with the Circus, Michael had fully accepted that he was Deathstroke, and Deathstroke was him. If this body was a house, then Slade was just the previous tenant. Now the house belonged to Michael, and he was going to write a new legend with his own name.

He would use his own mind to drive it, and he continued to use his former name because he knew he could never go back. Using his old name was a habit and perhaps a bit of nostalgia for his homeland.

Cindy didn't know what kind of mental journey Michael had gone through, but she keenly sensed during the ride that the man beside her had undergone some changes. Originally someone seemingly detached from this world had now fully integrated into it.

She was curious but said nothing, simply putting her dual pistols away again. She felt she probably wouldn't need to take action.

The two quickly reached the small park. From there, Deathstroke's extraordinary eyesight allowed him to see the situation at the police station entrance clearly.

It was a very old building, probably existing since the founding of Gotham. Although it had undergone numerous repairs and expansions over the years, it still reflected the original intent of its designer.

It was built like a fortress, with sturdy thick walls on all sides. Every window was as small as possible, and there was ample space and protective barriers on the roof. Additionally, there were a bunch of independent water supply equipment and air conditioners. Of course, most importantly, the Bat-Signal was also on its top platform.

A large "GCPD" sign hung on the front of the police station. It looked somewhat old but was still relatively intact.

At this moment, the parking lot in front of the police station was occupied by a bunch of black vans, haphazardly parked there. In the heavy rain, they looked like black rocks on the seashore.

There were sporadic corpses of police officers at the entrance, their blood being washed down the steps by the rain.

Beside the broken main door stood several black-clad individuals holding submachine guns, vigilantly patrolling back and forth. From time to time, they glanced inside the police station, as if waiting for someone.

"Black suits, black fedoras, white silk scarves, and Chicago-typewriters. Their boss seems to be a fan of 'The Godfather.'"

The two hid behind some shrubs in the park. The heavy rain concealed their figures. The disparity in physical abilities allowed him to see the opposite side clearly, while they couldn't see anything.

Cindy didn't quite understand what Michael meant. Gotham's gangs had dressed like this for decades; you couldn't tell who they were just by their attire.

She glanced at the distance to the police station entrance and looked up at the sky.

"The weather and timing are in our favor. We can either launch a frontal assault or infiltrate under the cover of darkness."

"They probably plan to use Gordon to lure the Bat. We'll launch a frontal attack to distract them, preventing them from fully attacking the interior of the police station. Otherwise, if they get hold of Gordon, we'll be in trouble."

After responding to her, Michael made a decisive move. He raised his dual pistols and dashed out from cover, shooting while running.

His brain provided him with extremely precise spatial awareness. Calculating trajectories wasn't exclusive to Deadshot; Deathstroke could do it too, even completely replacing aiming with calculations.

A distance of a bit over a hundred meters was somewhat beyond the effective range of a handgun, but after accepting his new identity, Michael no longer doubted his talents. With body and mind united, he truly unleashed the terror of this body.

In the pitch-black night, under pouring rain, with stormy winds whipping rainwater against everything on the ground, it had no effect on him. Or rather, all external influences had already been calculated into his actions.

Wind speed, angle, refraction, Earth's gravity, energy loss—all these calculations instantly appeared in his mind and translated into action.

He didn't miss a shot; all the black-suited individuals on the higher positions of the steps were taken down.

He sprinted at full speed, crushing the puddles underfoot, colliding with the rain falling from the sky.

By the time the black-suited individuals realized where the attack was coming from in the darkness, Michael had already crossed the road and courtyard wall, reaching the police station's parking lot. Here, blocked by black vans, he grabbed the edge of a van's compartment and, with a powerful pull of his arm, hoisted himself up.

His speed far exceeded what these people could imagine. Michael could almost see their incredulous expressions, but he had no intention of savoring the despair he brought to others.

Standing on top of the van, he raised both hands, facing their returning fire. Bullets sparked off his armor, but he still maintained a terrifying accuracy of one shot per target. Just a few seconds later, the scene fell silent.

"Well, well," Cindy also jumped onto the van roof from behind, looking at the bodies scattered not far away, and exclaimed, "You sure ran fast; I hadn't even answered yet."

"Nothing much. They looked like they really wanted to fight, so I gave them an opponent," Michael shrugged, agreeing with Cindy's words.

"You gave them a massacre, not an opponent," Cindy jumped down from the van and headed toward the police station entrance. "No one's reimbursing us for this mission; we'll have to pay out of pocket. Can't you use your blade?"

"Do we need to calculate it so precisely?" Michael also jumped down, picked up a submachine gun from the ground, and took out the drum magazine to inspect it. "Look, their bullets are also .45 ACP rounds. One for forty-five; we made a profit this time."

The two chatted casually, as if they hadn't just killed more than ten people but were instead grabbing bargains during a supermarket sale.

Continuing toward the police station, they suddenly found someone at the entrance who wasn't dead. Although Michael had aimed for the heart with every shot, perhaps this one had her heart on the right side.

Michael had heard before that one in a thousand people have their hearts on the right side, and this time he had actually encountered one.

"Who sent you?"

Michael kicked away her gun, crouched beside her, and asked in a low voice. The crimson monocle on his mask looked like a ghostly flame in the midnight.

Although this gang member wasn't killed on the spot, the shot had pierced her left lung. She was convulsing in pain.

But when she heard Michael's question, she actually laughed, spitting blood and saying fiercely:

"The boss won't let you off, Deathstroke."

Under the mask, Michael raised an eyebrow. It seemed her mind was already muddled. Everyone present was dead; who would know he had been here? This was clearly a perfect assassination.

"Looks like you have faith. Then your boss should have told you one thing," Michael swiftly drew the katana from his back, reversed it, and plunged it into the woman's right chest, pinning her firmly to the ground. "Never! Mess! With Deathstroke!"

After speaking, he pulled out the blade. Blood from her heart gushed out like a fountain, splattering all over him through the chainmail gaps.

The warm blood dispelled some of the cold brought by the rain, but only for a fleeting moment before it vanished. He felt an impulse to bathe in more blood for warmth, but he quickly shook his head. Reason told him that was wrong.

Cindy walked over with a sly grin. She misunderstood the reason Michael shook his head and said:

"See? I told you, using a blade is better."

This time, they were not on the same page. Michael was thinking about his own bloodthirsty problem, while Cindy was talking about the larger wounds and more reliable lethality of cold weapons.

"Fine, then you handle things inside. After you're done, I'll evaluate your problem-solving methods," Michael said irritably, extending his blade and letting the rain wash off the blood before sheathing it.

Cindy raised her hands in a gesture of surrender. "Forget it; I'm not interested in small fry. Just leave their boss to me."

It seemed that what that person said before dying had greatly displeased Cindy. No one had ever dared to threaten the world's deadliest assassin like that.

Without saying more, Michael entered the police station first. At this point, there was no need to know the layout; just follow the gunfire.

The police station's lobby was a mess, mostly corpses of officers, with only a few black-clad individuals, indicating this was a surprise attack.

Unexpectedly, the gunfire was not coming from the third floor where the commissioner's office was but from the basement.

"What's in the basement?" Michael asked Cindy.

"If I remember correctly, it should be the morgue, the power room, and the communications room," Cindy looked up at the stairs leading upstairs. There were no bodies of black-clad individuals there, indicating they hadn't intended to go upstairs; their target was clearly the basement.

"Strange."

Although Michael said it was strange, his pace didn't slow down at all. He stepped over corpses and debris, heading toward the source of the noise.

The lobby contained not only dead police officers and black-clad individuals but also some corpses that were obviously other criminals or homeless people.

Regardless of their identities in life, in death they were piled together like sacks.

Rainwater poured in through the broken main door, mixed with blood, flowing everywhere, turning the once beautiful wooden floor into a filthy mess. From above, it looked like a grotesque scroll of demons.

Neither of them likely had much artistic sensibility, but they easily found the entrance to the basement. At the top of the stairs leading down, they could smell the strong scent of gunpowder, like standing next to a volcano's mouth.

After descending the stairs, there was a damaged card-swipe door, followed by a deep corridor. Michael and Cindy peeked in from outside, noting the positions and distances of both sides.

In the corridor, illuminated starkly by fluorescent lights, black-clad individuals and police officers were exchanging fire. Both sides hid in various offices along the corridor, popping in and out like a whack-a-mole game, but people were getting shot and falling from time to time.

Due to equipment issues, the police were clearly at a disadvantage.

"At the end of the corridor is the communications room. The police are holding it desperately. Maybe Gordon is inside calling for help," Cindy tightened her helmet, flexed her wrist, and suggested.

Michael disagreed. He didn't think Gordon was the type to have his subordinates hold the line while he hid inside making calls. But Cindy knew Earth -11 better, so it was hard to say.

"I don't think it's Gordon, but it must be someone important. Let's deal with these people first; we'll know once we open the door."

"Kill all the black suits, leave the police alive?" Cindy touched the small box at her waist, took out a cigar, and twirled it in her hand. "Bet a cigar that Gordon is inside."

"Sure, I'll handle the police." Michael smiled under his mask, also taking out his own cigar. They placed their bets together on the doorframe; the winner would take both later. "Bet. I wager he's not inside."

After a brief whispered exchange, Cindy charged out first. Although both were Deathstroke, as she had said, she preferred melee combat.

The katana in her hand swung tightly, and by the time the black-clad individuals reacted, she was like a wolf among sheep, stirring up a bloody storm in the various rooms.

To be fair, among these black-clad individuals, there were some exceptional ones. One woman even used her gun to block Cindy's blade when she swung at her and tried to call others to surround Cindy.

But she was just a one-hit opponent. Such small leaders were a dime a dozen in Gotham's various gangs, and Deathstroke, known as the world's greatest mercenary, was naturally on a different level.

Cindy's slash was met with a clang of parry, but before the sound even faded, she drew the shotgun from her back and fired.

The metallic sound and gunshot almost overlapped. The small leader flew back with an incredulous expression, a big hole in her chest, and you could even see the wall behind her crumbling under the shotgun blast.

Cindy's slaughter continued. She was like a diligent little bee, constantly dancing amidst the blood splatter. But that black and yellow armor only instilled immense fear in the black-clad individuals.

Michael's targets were the police officers. He used an electrified staff. The police didn't have insulated gloves and boots like Batman, and their combat skills were far inferior.

So he was like a stoker on an old steamship; the staff was the shovel. Pushing forward, a flash of electricity, and a police officer would fall. Then he would pull back the staff and shovel the officer into a room to avoid stray bullets.

In this way, the two worked with clear division of labor and overwhelming strength. In just over two minutes, about forty black-clad individuals and more than a dozen police officers were all dealt with.

They almost finished simultaneously. Cindy was a bit smug.

"Looks like I'm still stronger. You see, I took down more than twice as many as you did."

Michael didn't reply, just shrugged. His side of the job was more troublesome; he had to be careful not to use too much force. These police officers were ordinary people; he couldn't stab them to death with the staff. The duration of the electric shock couldn't be too long, and he had to use gentle force when tossing them into rooms.

Some might say, without a spearhead, how could you stab someone to death? But at his level of strength, who says you can't kill without a spearhead?

At the same time, he had to suppress the bloodthirsty desire that surged with adrenaline, like a tug-of-war between reason and instinct in his mind.

Seeing his seemingly conceding demeanor, Cindy became even more pleased. If she had a tail, it would be pointing straight up now. She wandered around and finally came to the door of the communications room.

"Alright, time to unwrap the gift. Let's see what's inside this big package."

As she spoke, she began pulling plastic explosives out of the pouch on her thigh, humming an unknown tune, looking quite expectant.

The door of the communications room was extremely sturdy, thick steel akin to the front armor of a tank.

"Use less; don't scare the people inside to death."

Michael reminded her. Judging by the situation, those hiding inside were probably not combat personnel. C4 exploding in a narrow corridor like this would create a huge noise and directional shockwave.

Not that they would literally be scared to death—that was just an exaggeration—but ruptured eardrums or causing someone to faint was possible.

Cindy didn't reply, just made an 'OK' gesture, took a small piece, stuck it on the door lock, and inserted a timed detonator.