THE DEATH KNELL-Chapter 16: A NIGHT OF SECRETS AND SCHEME

The journey was long and winding, stretching across the city's veins like a hunter stalking prey in the dark. Because of the flooding in the underground tunnels, Cindy had to take a detour along the Northern Ring Road, maneuvering through slick, rain-slicked streets as she made her way to the location previously scouted. The clock had already slipped past 1:00 AM.

The city's underbelly was drowning in shadows, and the rain blurred the line between sky and earth. Water pooled along the streets, reflecting the dull glow of streetlights, the cityscape fractured into a thousand liquid mirrors. Yet, through the downpour, Cindy spotted Sheriff Gordon's old brown sedan parked on the roadside, its taillights still glowing dimly—a beacon in the darkness.

Slade Wilson sat in the passenger seat, his gaze sharp as a blade. Cindy slowed the vehicle to a stop. They were here to track down clues, but they weren't alone. Two reporters were still in tow, though whether they were assets or liabilities remained to be seen.

Vic, the relentless journalist, refused to leave, despite multiple not-so-subtle warnings. She was after something bigger—something explosive. And Slade Wilson, knowing the game well, had offered her a deal: she could film a mercenary advertisement in exchange for some restraint.

Pete, her cameraman and ever-loyal sidekick, was far less of a concern. The kid lacked the backbone to brave Gotham's underworld solo at this hour.

"I can go down, right?" Vic was already fixing her collar, eyes bright with hunger for a scoop. "Maybe shoot a quick news clip—help crack the case wide open?"

Slade Wilson barely spared her a glance, weighing the pros and cons. A video record might come in handy if they needed to retrace their steps. He exhaled slowly.

"Fine. But no shots of both Deathstrokes at once. No footage of Barbara. No live broadcasts. And if you try anything..." His voice was razor-sharp, edged with a promise of consequences. "You'll wish you were dead."

Cindy, arms crossed, merely shrugged. The reporter posed no real threat. Let her play her little games—if anything, some free publicity might even bring in more business. Mercenary work thrived on reputation, after all.

But first, they had to make sure Gotham was still standing before worrying about profits.

Barbara, confined to the car, looked restless. She had wanted to come, but her mobility was still an issue. Instead, she busied herself monitoring the surrounding surveillance feeds, her fingers ghosting over the controls in silence.

The chill in the air seeped into Slade Wilson's bones. He welcomed it. Cold detached him from distractions—emotions, regrets, weaknesses. He strode toward Gordon's car, opening the door with practiced ease.

Inside, the stale scent of tobacco and coffee clung to the air. No blood—that was a small relief. His eyes flicked to the dashboard. A phone sat there, screen glowing with multiple missed calls. Barbara's name.

No Batman. No Brith. If Gordon had their numbers, he kept them locked in his mind—never saved, never written down. Slade Wilson smirked. The old detective was careful, but his caution had limits.

Even if he had deleted his logs, Slade Wilson knew Batgirl had already tried to trace the call history. No luck, huh? Batman must have anticipated this and covered his tracks.

The key was still in the ignition. The engine idled in neutral. The fuel gauge showed half a tank, the battery at full charge—no mechanical failure. Gordon had only meant to step away for a moment.

And then something had gone very wrong.

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A splash.

Slade Wilson's head snapped up as Cindy landed lightly from atop a telephone pole, disturbing a puddle with the impact. She held something in her hand—a small device, waterlogged but intact.

"Surveillance feed was tapped," she reported, shaking out the soaked electronics. "Someone rigged this to the street camera. I'll take it apart later—see what they were watching."

She took a step toward Slade Wilson, then stopped short.

Her breath hitched.

A pale, shifting blur beneath the murky water ahead.

She recognized it instantly.

"...Body in the water," she murmured, voice grim.

The corpse had settled in the shallow flood, barely visible against the dark pavement. The rain had bloated the skin, distorting the features, but the shape was unmistakable. Cindy didn't hesitate. Using her foot, she nudged the body onto the sidewalk, and the sickening squelch of waterlogged flesh against pavement filled the air.

The woman had been dead for hours. Maybe longer. The rain had hastened decomposition, her once-taut skin now loose and discolored.

The cause of death? Obvious.

Deep wounds, consistent with heavy blood loss.

No signs of restraint—until you looked closer.

Slade Wilson crouched beside the corpse. As a killer, understanding anatomy was second nature. In a way, he was just as much a forensic expert as a doctor—only his expertise was gained through far more practical experience.

"Dear viewers..."

Vic's voice carried through the rain, slick with professionalism. Even now, she was filming. "We're standing at the scene of Commissioner Gordon's disappearance. Behind me is—"

Slade Wilson ignored her. Cindy ignored her. They worked in tandem, each examining different aspects of the body.

Thirty seconds later, their assessments were complete.

Slade Wilson stood first. "Who wants to go first?" he mused. "Or should we play a game of 'say it at the same time'?"

Cindy wiped her hands on her coat. "I'll go."

She gestured toward the body. "Cause of death: blood loss from trauma. But before that? Internal bruising. Severe, blunt-force injuries. She was beaten."

Slade Wilson nodded. His gaze darkened. "She was also starved for days before execution." He exhaled. "A prisoner."

His words hung in the air like a curse.

The corpse had been brought here. No footprints, no drag marks—meaning she was dumped.

"She was a fighter," Slade Wilson continued, eyes tracing the woman's calloused fingers. "Knives, maybe darts. Balanced muscle distribution. Either an athlete or a martial artist." His gaze shifted. "Signs of a struggle. Defensive wounds. And these—" He gestured to the telltale ligature marks on her wrists and ankles. "Someone tied her down."

Tortured her.

Then killed her.

The two fell into a silence that stretched against the storm, the rain the only thing speaking.

Cindy broke it first. "No obvious torture wounds."

Slade Wilson was already a step ahead. "Waterboarding." His lips curled. "It wouldn't leave marks."

Her brows furrowed. "Where'd you learn that?"

He shrugged. "History books. And other places."

She crossed her arms. "The torturer was Eastern-trained. Or Eastern-born."

They both reached the same conclusion at the same time.

"Shadow Dancer League."

A dead assassin.

That meant one thing—revenge.

And if Gordon was with the people responsible?

The League wouldn't stop to differentiate between friend and foe.

Cindy sighed. "This just got complicated."

Slade Wilson smirked. "Welcome to Gotham."

They turned their backs to the corpse, scanning the skyline. Two buildings nearby, both likely used by the ambushers.

"Let's check for signs of movement," Cindy suggested.

Slade Wilson cracked his neck. "I'll take the left."

She grinned. "Right's mine."

They moved.

Behind them, Vic and Pete approached the corpse. The reporter lifted her camera—then stopped.

She had stepped on something.

Looking down, her eyes widened.

Then, slowly, she smirked.

Like a fox scenting prey.

And whatever she had found?

It was going to change everything.