"It looks like someone has the same idea as us."
Eugene pedals furiously on the pedals of the unicycle, puts both guns in his hands, and turns on the safety.
Cindy does the same, with no guarantee of engagement distance, two pistols are more reliable than a shotgun in the back:
"At least we can rule Harlee out as a suspect, she and Poison Ivy woman are both drinking like drunk cats and there's no way they'll get here before us."
"There's not much point in trying to figure out who did it, just go in there and kill all these business snatchers."
The crowd of people who like to play with bats in Gotham is gone, and it's hard to know who's doing it now.
After his previous battle with the circus, Eugene has fully accepted that he is Deathknell, and that Deathknell is himself. If this body is a house, Slade is only the former occupant. Now that the house belongs to Eugene, he will write a new legend under his own name.
He will use his own thoughts to drive it, and use the old name, because he knows he can never go back, using the old name, it is a habit, and it is also a bit of a dream to China.
Cindy did not know what kind of mental process Eugene had gone through, but she keenly felt during the ride that the men around her had changed, and the people who had seemed to be separated from the world were now completely integrated.
She was curious, but said nothing. Instead, she put the guns back, feeling that she should stop using them.
Soon they reached the little park, where Deathstroke's superior sight was in full view of the police gate.
It is a very old structure, probably from the founding of Gotham, and although it has undergone numerous repairs and additions, it still embodies the original idea of its designers.
It was built to look like a fortress, with solid walls, every window as small as possible, a large roof space and guardrail, a bunch of independent water supplies, air conditioning, and, most importantly, a batlight on the top deck.
On the front of the station hangs a large GCPD sign, a bit worn out, but still intact.
At this time, the parking lot in front of the police station is occupied by a bunch of black vans, which look like black rocks on the coast in the heavy rain.
There were scattered bodies of police officers at the gate, their blood running down the steps.
Next to the broken gate, several men in black with assault rifles stood watchful walking back and forth, occasionally looking inside the police station, as if waiting for someone.
"Black suits, black felt hats, long white scarves and Chicago typewriters. Their boss seems to be a Godfather-lover."
They hid behind some shrubs in the park, their figures obscured by the rain and their uneven fitness, so that he could see across from him, where nothing was visible.
Cindy doesn't quite understand what Eugene is talking about. Gotham's gangsters have been dressed like this for decades. You can't tell who they are by their clothes.
She glanced at the distance of the police station gate, then at the sky.
'The weather and time are on our side. We can attack in the dark and sneak in.'
"They're probably also planning to use Gordon to lure the bats, and we're going to force the attack and distract them from the full force of the attack inside the station. Otherwise, if they have Gordon in their hands, we're in trouble."
Eugene answered her and made a quick decision, raising both guns, sprinted out of cover and fired on the run.
His brain gives him a very precise sense of space. Calculating ballistics is not unique to Deadshot. Deathstroke can do the same thing, and even replace aiming with calculation entirely.
At a distance of more than 100 meters, a little beyond the effective range of a pistol, but after accepting his new identity, Eugene no longer doubts his talent, and with his body and mind united, he truly exerts the terror of this body.
In the darkness of the night, the rain is pouring and the wind whips the water against anything on the ground, but this does not affect him, or all external influences have been calculated by him.
Wind speed, Angle, refraction, gravity, energy loss... The results of each calculation immediately spring to mind and are translated into evidence for action.
He did not miss a shot, and the higher black suits on the front door steps all fell to the ground.
He sprinted so hard that patches of water broke on the ground and collided with the rain falling from the sky.
By the time the black suits discover in the darkness where the attack is coming from, Eugene has rushed across the road and the yard wall to the police parking lot, which is blocked by black vans. He grabs the edge of one of the cars and pulls himself up with his arms.
He was moving faster than they had ever imagined, and Eugene could almost see their incredulity, but he was not about to appreciate the despair he had brought on them.
Standing on the roof of the car, he raised his hands, facing the fire of the other side, allowing the bullets to draw sparks on the armor, still maintaining a terrible hit rate of one shot, but a few seconds later, the scene was quiet.
"TSK TSK..." Cindy jumped on the top of the car from behind and looked at the dead bodies lying on the ground not far away. "You ran fast enough," she exclaimed. "I didn't answer it just now."
"Nothing. They just looked like they wanted to fight, so I gave them a match." Eugene shrugged and agreed with Cindy.
"You gave them a massacre. Against what?" Cindy jumped off the train and walked to the police station. "We're not going to get paid for this. We're going to have to pay for this. Can't you use a knife?"
"It's not necessary to calculate so clearly, is it?" Eugene also jumped down, picked up a submachine gun from the ground, removed the drum, and looked at it. "You see, they also have.45 handgun rounds, forty-five for each one, so this is a profit."
The two chatted away as if they had just killed a dozen people and were hunting for bargains at a supermarket sale.
Continue to walk to the police station, suddenly found at the gate there is a not dead, although Eugene each shot is right in the heart, but this may be the right side of the heart.
Eugene had heard that one in a thousand people had a heart on the right side, and this time he had come across it.
"Who sent you?"
Eugene kicks away her gun and crouches down beside her, asking in a deep voice, the scarlet one-eye of his mask like a midnight ghost fire.
Although the mobster is not killed instantly, the shot also punctures her left lung, leaving her convulsing in pain.
But when she heard Eugene's question, she laughed and vomited blood as she said,
"Boss... Won't leave you alone, Deathstroke."
Eugene raised his eyebrows under the mask. This guy's mind seemed to be confused. Now that everyone was dead, who knew he was here? This is clearly the perfect assassination.
"It seems that you are still a believer, then your boss must have told you a word..." Eugene quickly pulls out his katana from behind, thrusts his backhand into the woman's right chest, and pins her firmly to the ground: "No! Mess with! Death Knell!"
Then he pulled out his knife, and the blood from his heart gushed like a fountain from the wound, spilling all over him through the holes in his chain mail.
The warm blood drove away some of the cold from the rain, but only for a moment, and then it was gone. He felt an urge to bathe and warm himself with more blood, but soon he shook his head, and reason told him that was wrong.
Cindy came over with a smirk. She misinterpreted Eugene's shaking of his head and said,
"See, I told you it's better to use a knife."
This time they were thinking differently. Eugene was thinking about his own bloodlust, while Cindy was talking about the greater impact and more reliable lethality of cold weapons.
"Ok, why don't you handle it when you're inside, and when you're done, I'll evaluate how you handled it?"
Eugene held out his knife angrily and watched as the rain washed away the blood and sheathed it back.
Cindy threw up her hands in a gesture of surrender. "Well, I'm not interested in minions. Just leave their boss to me."
It seemed that what the guy on the floor had said just before he died had upset Cindy. No one had ever threatened the world's deadliest killer like that.
Without further explanation, Eugene was the first to enter the police station, where he no longer had to know his way, just follow the gunfire.
The lobby of the police station is a mess. Most of them are dead police officers, and there are only a few people in black, which indicates that this should be a raid.
Unexpectedly, however, the gunshots were heard not on the third floor, where the chief's office was located, but in the basement.
"What's underground? Eugene asked Cindy.
"The autopsy room, the switchboard room, and the communications room, if I remember correctly." Cindy looked up at the steps leading upstairs. There was no body in black, indicating that they had no intention of going upstairs. Instead, their goal was clearly underground.
"Strange..."
Eugene's mouth is strange, but his feet are not slow. He still steps over the dead bodies and pieces of furniture to the place where the noise was made.
The dead in the hall were not only policemen and men in black. There were also bodies that were clearly other criminals or homeless people.
Whatever they were when they were alive, they're all piled up like sacks when they're dead.
The rain poured in through the broken doors, spilling blood everywhere and making the otherwise beautiful wooden floors so filthy that, when viewed from above, they looked like hideous ghost-painted scrolls.
Neither of them had much of an artistic bone in their body, but they easily found the entrance to the basement, and on the stairs down, the smell of smoke was so strong that it was as if they were standing on the side of a volcano.
Down the stairs, in front of a destroyed magnetic card door, behind is a deep long corridor, Eugene and Cindy probe outside the door, remember the location and distance between the two sides.
In the sun-lit corridor, men in black and police were shooting at each other. Both sides hid in various offices along the corridor, going in and out like whack-a-moles, but every now and then someone would fall down with a bullet.
The police were now at a distinct disadvantage because of their equipment.
'At the end of the corridor is the communications room. The police are holding firm there. Maybe Gordon is inside calling for help.'
Cindy tightened her helmet and flexed her wrists, offering a guess.
Eugene disagrees. He doesn't think Gordon is the kind of guy who would let his men stand outside and talk on the phone inside his house. But Earth minus 11 is something Cindy knows better, so I don't know:
"I don't think it's Gordon, but I think it's important. Just get these guys out of the way and open the door."
"So kill all the black suits and leave the cops alive?" Cindy touched the small box at her waist, pulled out a cigar and waved it in her hand. "One cigar. It's Gordon."
"Yeah, I'll handle the cops." Eugene smiles and takes out his cigar as well. They place the bet on the door frame and the winner takes it: "Yes, I bet it's not him in there."
After a low exchange of words, Cindy rushes out first. Despite the death knell, as she says, she prefers a cold weapon fight.
The sword was so thick in her hand that by the time the man in Black knew it, she was spreading blood from room to room like a Wolf among sheep.
Not to mention, some of the men in Black were really unusual. One of the women, when Cindy slashed at her with a knife, actually resisted the attack with her own gun and tried to call on the people around her to attack Cindy.
There are thousands of such ringleaders in various Gotham gangs, and Deathstroke is known as the world's greatest mercenary, so of course they are not in their league.
Cindy made a clanking sound as she cut, but it seemed that before the clank was over, she pulled out the shotgun behind her back and fired.
The sound of metal almost coincided with the shot, and the little kingpin flew out with an incredible look on her face, a gaping hole in her chest, and even the wall behind her could be seen flying rubble under the pellet.
Cindy's killing continued, she was like a busy bee, flying in the blood flowers, but the black and yellow armor, only to make the people in black fear.
Eugene's target is the police officers, who are not equipped with the gloves and shoes of Batman, and whose fighting skills are far from perfect.
So he's like a boilermaker on an old ship. The stick is the shovel. When you send it forward, a cop goes down with a flash of electricity. And when the stick is withdrawn, he shovels the policeman into the house to avoid being killed by a stray bullet.
In this way, the two men have a clear division of labor, strong strength, about two minutes, about 40 men in black, and more than a dozen police officers are all taken care of.
They all finished the task almost simultaneously, and Cindy was a little proud:
"Looks like I'm the stronger. You see, I have more than twice the number on your side."
Eugene didn't say anything. He just shrugged. It was too much work on his side. He always had to save some strength. These policemen were ordinary people. They didn't have to be stabbed to death with sticks.
Some people might say, how can you stab a man without a long gun? But at his level of power, who says you can't stab someone without a gun?
At the same time, he has to suppress the blood lust that comes from the adrenaline, like a tug of war between reason and instinct in his head.
Cindy was even more pleased with the way he seemed to concede. If she had a tail, it would be up in the air. She walked around until she reached the door of the communication room:
"Well, it's time to open presents. Let me see what's inside the gift bag."
With that, she began to pull plastic explosive out of the bag on her lap, humming an unknown tune as if in anticipation.
The door to the communications room was very strong, thick steel like the front armor of a tank.
"Use it sparingly, don't scare the people inside to death."
Eugene cautions that, given the situation, the people hiding inside should not be combatants at all, and that C4 explosives detonating in the confined environment of a corridor will create a loud noise and a directional shock wave.
It's a stretch to say you're scared to death, but you could rupture eardrums or knock someone out.
Instead of answering, Cindy signaled OK, took a small piece, stuck it to the door lock, and plugged in a timer detonator.