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It took Michael and Cindy about five minutes to complete their search before they reconvened in the relentless rain. The dark night seemed even blacker, the tension in the air so thick it was nearly tangible. The few residents brave enough to peer from behind their curtains watched in fearful silence, too terrified to even switch on their lights. Through the rain-streaked windows, they could only make out the blurry figures of the two Deathstrokes below.
"I've got bad news," Cindy began, scanning the flooded streets, where water had risen to knee height. Gotham's drainage system was clearly overwhelmed by the downpour. "I found ninja footprints on the rooftop. Looks like the League of Shadows was here before us."
Michael gave a grim nod. His own investigation had yielded nothing.
The buildings they had searched had been eerily clean, almost as though someone had meticulously wiped away all traces of their presence. In a neighborhood this grimy, that kind of cleanliness was impossible unless someone had intentionally erased every clue. The black-clad intruders had worked quickly and with precision.
Michael had even tried intimidating a few of the terrified residents, kicking in doors and threatening with blades, but the only results were frightened stammers and fearful glances. No one had seen or heard anything.
Whoever these black-clad operatives were, they were as silent as they were efficient. On the bright side, neither Gordon nor his captors had fired any shots, suggesting the commissioner hadn't been injured—yet.
Michael sighed. The only clue they had was the assassin's body. He briefly considered using it as bait to draw out the League of Shadows, but that felt like a long shot. By the time the League came to reclaim the corpse, Gordon might already be dead.
"We'll head back to the van. Bring the body," he instructed.
As they walked through the flooded streets, the heavy silence between them spoke volumes. Neither voiced their growing concern for Gordon's safety.
"Why do you think she was dressed like that?" Cindy mused as they reached the van. "There were no gunshot wounds. How'd they capture her?" Her tone was more reflective than questioning; she was fishing for Michael's thoughts.
Inside the van, Cindy leaned against the steering wheel, while Michael sat back, hands behind his head, staring through the rain-soaked windshield. He watched as Vicki and her cameraman, Pete, filmed the storm from various angles, the steady hum of the rain the only sound between them.
"Plenty of people in Gotham could pull off something like that," Michael finally said, watching the journalists work. "Scarecrow's fear toxin is easy to come by on the black market. It's practically a household item at this point. Then there are the metahumans—Killer Croc, Clayface—they could have been hired for this job. But those black-clad operatives made a mistake. Torturing a League of Shadows assassin? That's asking for death. They won't get anything from them, and now they've put a target on their own backs."
Cindy groaned in agreement. "And with that much money and resources, they could've been clients. What a waste."
She was right. The League of Shadows were not the kind of enemy to take lightly. Their assassins were raised from childhood, trained to be lethal, emotionless killers. By the time they were eight, they were sent on missions worldwide, leaving destruction in their wake. If the group responsible for Gordon's kidnapping had crossed the League, they were as good as dead.
Barbara, sitting silently in the back, stared out the window in frustration. Her father was alive—she had to believe that. But the longer they took, the slimmer his chances became. She could feel the clock ticking.
The surveillance in the area had long since been destroyed or vandalized by Gotham's criminals. They were essentially blind, with no leads to follow. For Michael, it felt like stepping back in time, to an era when solving crimes relied more on legwork than technology.
Vicki and Pete eventually returned to the van, both looking oddly upbeat, as if they were filming a light news segment rather than standing in the middle of a crime scene. Vicki hummed to herself as she shook the rain from her coat.
Noticing Barbara's anxious expression, Vicki grinned. "What's with the gloomy face, kid?" she asked, turning her attention to Michael. "Find anything?"
"Nothing except a corpse," Michael replied dryly. "Any calls from your station? Maybe someone took the bait and called with information?"
Vicki chuckled, pulling out her phone and twirling it in her hand. "Nope. Even with that hefty bounty you put up, no one's stupid enough to get involved. Not even the scammers."
Michael sighed, frustration clear in his voice. "So no leads, and no help from your viewers? Maybe we should pay the station a visit, knock some heads around until they start caring."
Cindy perked up at the suggestion. "Now we're talking. I'd start with their news director. She's been angling to get rid of me for years—could be a two-birds-one-stone situation."
Vicki's eyes lit up in amusement. She seemed disturbingly comfortable with the idea of using Michael and Cindy as hitmen. To her, it wasn't personal—just part of the job.
Michael saw through her agenda. Removing his helmet, he gave her a knowing look. "You're hiding something. Spit it out."
Vicki's grin widened. She reached into her coat and pulled out a pair of glasses, handing them to Barbara. The lenses were wet, covered in raindrops.
"You can't say I don't deliver," she said, gesturing toward the glasses. "I found these near the body. Gordon must've dropped them during the struggle."
Barbara's eyes widened as she took the glasses. They were unmistakably her father's.
"He left us a clue," Vicki continued, pointing to the lenses. "Look closely. There's a message scratched into the glass."
Michael took the glasses from Barbara and held them up to the van's dim light. At first, they appeared normal, but when he tilted them just right, faint etchings on the lens became visible.
"He used a piece of gravel to scratch a message," Cindy observed, leaning closer to examine it. "It's a license plate number. That's the car they used to take him."
Michael smirked. "Gordon always leaves a trail, even in the worst situations."
He handed the glasses back to Barbara. "It's your move. Find the car."
Barbara immediately got to work, typing furiously on her laptop. Her fingers flew across the keyboard as she attempted to hack into Gotham's traffic department, tracing the license plate.
Moments later, her screen flashed red. An error message.
"Damn it!" Barbara cursed, slamming her fists on her wheelchair's armrests. "The server's offline. Probably knocked out by the storm."
Michael placed a calming hand on her shoulder. "Don't panic. If the traffic cams are down, we have another option."
"Where?" Barbara asked, her voice laced with desperation.
"A highly classified database," Michael said with a wry smile. "It won't be easy, but it'll have everything we need."
Barbara's eyes lit up with determination. "I'll do it. I don't care what it takes. We're getting my dad back."
Cindy glanced at Michael, already knowing what he had in mind. She didn't object but turned her attention to Vicki and Pete.
"They'll need to be blindfolded. No way we're letting them remember the route," Cindy warned, her gaze sharp as she looked at the two reporters.
Barbara nodded in agreement. She was ready to do whatever was necessary, no matter the cost.
Vicki, sensing the shift in the air, raised an eyebrow. "Blindfolds, huh? This just keeps getting more interesting."
But Michael wasn't interested in banter. He turned to Cindy, ready to move forward. Time was running out, and Gordon's life hung in the balance.