THE DEATH KNELL-Chapter 17: A NIGHT OF SECRETS AND SCHEMES 2

Slade Wilson and Cindy spent about five minutes searching, after which they replayed the scene in their minds while standing in the heavy rain.

Tonight felt darker than usual. The whole street carried an uneasy atmosphere. Many civilians, roused from sleep, hid behind their curtains, too afraid to turn on the lights and attract attention. Instead, they watched the two blurry figures downstairs through rain-streaked windows, their fearful eyes peering through the darkness.

"I only have one bad news," Cindy said. "I found ninja footprints on the rooftop. Other Shadow Dancers were here before us."

She looked down at the rising floodwater, already up to her knees. Gotham's drainage system was overwhelmed, unable to keep up with the relentless downpour.

Slade nodded, though he had found nothing inside the building.

The interior was unnaturally spotless—far too clean for a cheap residential area. The people in black must have meticulously erased any traces before leaving.

Unwilling to give up, he tried again to find a witness. He kicked open several doors, questioning terrified residents at gunpoint. Some were so frightened they lost control of their bladders, but none had seen anything.

That meant the men in black had moved swiftly—so quickly and silently that no one noticed. But on the other hand, it also meant that neither Commissioner Gordon nor his captors had fired any shots. That was a small relief. It suggested Gordon was still alive.

Slade sighed. Right now, the only clue was the assassin's corpse. Using her as bait to lure out the Assassin League?

Too passive. By the time the assassins came for the body, the men in black could already be dead, and Gordon—long gone.

"Let's get back to the car. Bring the body with us."

With no better plan, he and Cindy returned to the vehicle, watching the rain pour down in sheets against the windshield. Both sat in silence, lost in thought.

"Why do you think she was dressed like this?" Cindy asked. "She didn't have any gunshot wounds. How was she captured?"

She had her own theories but wanted to hear Slade's take. Sometimes, their knowledge complemented each other in unexpected ways.

They sat in the cab—Cindy leaning against the steering wheel, Slade slouched in the passenger seat, arms folded behind his head.

He shook his head, watching Vic direct Pete outside, the journalist darting around with her camera. One moment she was filming the sky, the next she was capturing the rippling water below.

"There are plenty of gangs in Gotham that could've done this," Slade mused. "Scarecrow's fear gas is sold on the black market like supermarket goods. Killer Croc, Clayface mutants—they're all up for hire. The right gang could afford their services."

"But our black-clad friends were reckless," he continued. "Shadow Dancers don't talk. No matter how much you torture them, they'll never give up secrets. Which means someone just made a very dangerous enemy—the Shadow Dancer League."

Cindy sighed dramatically. "Such a powerful gang... they could've been my potential clients. What a waste."

She sounded genuinely disappointed, as if she had lost a million-dollar deal.

The Assassin League was no ordinary gang. Many of its members had been trained from childhood. By age four, they mastered various weapons; by five, they learned to kill. By eight, they were already deployed worldwide as silent executioners.

They had no real names, no identities. They were weapons—loyal only to the League. The lowest ranks weren't warriors with honor. They were shadows—faceless, relentless, and merciless.

Perhaps the gang that took Gordon would soon be wiped out. But before that happened, they had to find him.

Barbara knew their trail had gone cold. The only certainty was that Gordon was still alive—for now. But if they didn't move fast, he'd be dead in three hours.

The three fell silent, racking their brains for another lead.

Most street surveillance had been destroyed by various gangs, leaving them blind. Slade felt like he had been thrown back to the '80s. How did cops solve cases back then?

As they sat there, Vic hummed a little tune and returned to the car with Pete, looking smug.

She slid into the seat, shaking off her raincoat. Then she noticed Barbara's expression.

"Oh? What's with the gloomy face?" she asked Slade.

"Because we have nothing but a dead assassin," he replied. "Any calls from the station? Any 'helpful citizens'?"

Vic smirked. "Pfft. No one dares mess with you. Even scammers are afraid. So no, no tips from the public."

She waved her phone. The only call she had received was from the TV station—checking if she was still alive and reminding her to stay on Slade's good side.

"If no one calls, that means no one's willing to help us find clues," Cindy said, unimpressed. "Seems like we need to give them some motivation. Maybe we should go to the TV station and kill a few people to make them cooperate."

Vic perked up. "Oh! Start with the director of our news channel. She hates me. Always trying to fire good journalists like me."

Slade shot her a knowing look. She had found something. And now, she wanted a reward—like a bounty hunter collecting a fee.

"You're awfully eager to start killing," he mused. "Did you find something? Because that's the price for good intel."

Vic grinned triumphantly and pulled something from her pocket. A pair of wet glasses.

She handed them to Barbara.

"You can't say I never helped," she said smugly. "These are Gordon's. When he was taken, he threw them down—but not before leaving a clue."

Barbara's eyes widened as she confirmed they were her father's.

Vic continued, "He scratched something onto the lens with a rock. I found them underwater, hidden beneath the corpse and some stones. If I hadn't been lucky, I'd have missed it."

Slade took the glasses from Barbara. At first glance, they were ordinary—something an old man would wear.

But under the car's dim lighting, he tilted the lens and saw it: a series of shallow, shaky scratches.

"He engraved something." Cindy leaned in. "That's a license plate number. Could belong to the kidnappers."

"As expected from Gordon," Slade said approvingly. "He managed to leave a clue even while being abducted."

He handed the glasses back to Barbara. "Can you trace it?"

Barbara nodded, determination burning in her eyes. "I can do it!"

She immediately booted up her laptop, hacking into the Gotham Department of Transportation database to check vehicle records.

Then—

An error message flashed on the screen.

Her hands clenched. "Damn it! The server's down. The storm must've knocked out power!"

She slammed her fist against her wheelchair's armrest in frustration. All she wanted was to save her father. Why was everything working against her?

Slade placed a hand on her shoulder. "Don't worry. There's another way."

She looked up at him, desperate. "Where?"

"A place with all of Gotham's information," he said. "But getting in... that's on you."

Barbara took a deep breath. "I'll do whatever it takes. I don't care if I go to jail—I need to save him."

Slade smirked. That was the spirit.

He glanced at Cindy, who immediately understood where he was going with this. She didn't object but pointed to the car behind them.

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"Then you'd better cover their eyes and remove their phone cards," she said,we can't let them know the way to the Batcave.