Under the blinding light of four massive floodlights that the mercenary squad had set up in advance, two box trucks rolled into the abandoned parking lot.
Livewire and Tattoo Man shut the doors behind them and walked over with grim, stony faces.
Like Deadshot, Cheshire Cat, and Captain Javelin, they were mercenaries hired by Chen Tao.
Of course, as far as they were concerned, it wasn't Chen Tao who had hired them, but the criminal known as the Ventriloquist — not the world-famous Batman.
Livewire was a burly Mexican man skilled with a lasso.He was the one who had previously tied up Killer Croc like a dumpling in his trap. Now, seeing Croc bound and lying on the ground, the corner of his mouth curved slightly.
Tattoo Man, true to his name, looked like a watercolor painting splattered with bird droppings. Rather than an assassin, he looked more like a sailor scraping by on the docks. As soon as he arrived, he let out a cruel laugh.
"Ha! So our target's an idiot!"
Bang!
A puff of white smoke burst from the top of Killer Croc's head.
The group scrambled to drag him behind the two trucks. Tattoo Man couldn't resist tossing out two more taunts — and nearly got his arm bitten off for it, setting off another round of chaos.
Humiliation.
Rage.
Killer Croc was furious beyond reason.
The fire inside him burned hotter than the gamma rays of an exploding Orion supernova.
No ocean on Europa could wash away this insult to his pride.
Even if the universe itself reversed its flow, the sun and moon turned backward, and time unraveled, not a shred of this fury would fade!
He couldn't hold it back anymore — he roared:
A sound like Prometheus crying out in torment after stealing fire!
Unforgivable!
A roar like Jesus cursing from the cross!
"Unforg—"
Clang!
Without saying a word, the Ventriloquist yanked open the truck's rear door — and a literal ton of cash crashed down on Killer Croc's face.
No tricks, no strings attached — just pure, solid U.S. dollars.
The movement was so rough that the mountain of green bills collapsed, spilling from the truck onto the ground like a toppled box of tissues.
Killer Croc's roar cut off abruptly, like a duck strangled mid-quack.
"These are advance payments," the Ventriloquist said coolly. "All yours — if you agree to the job."
"N–Not… forgiv—"
Clang!
He opened the second truck. Another ton of cash poured out, raining down cold and hard onto Killer Croc's face.
Croc's scaly blue-green face turned red with fury.
Stop insulting me with this money!
He wanted to shout, to declare with righteous fury that he, Killer Croc, was a cold-blooded monster — cruel, yes, but not cheap!
Money — so what?
You think just because you're throwing cash at me, I'll kneel and lick your boots?
Smack.
A banknote slapped right across his eyes, blotting out his vision.
"Unforg—… un… un…"
"Un—for—GIVEN!!!!"
Killer Croc swayed. Dizzy from both the physical and psychological impact of being bombarded by money, his brain short-circuited. He held up a wad of bills solemnly and said:
"Father!"
Deadshot: "...?"
Then Croc suddenly remembered — he was Black. And most Black guys didn't have fathers.
"Ahem. I mean…"
"I've drifted half my life with no wise master to guide me. If you would have me, I am willing—"
"Holy crap, there's at least tens of millions of dollars here!" Captain Javelin yelled, diving into the pile. "I'm gonna die from joy!"
"Get out!" Croc bellowed, furious. "That's my money!"
"Maybe, but right now, I'm the one enjoying her curves in my arms!"
"MY MONEY!!!" Croc, bound like a rice dumpling, somehow flexed his abs, launched himself up, and rolled into the pile with him.
"Mine! All mine!"
"…"
Deadshot was speechless.
Under the floodlights, the bills shimmered, dizzying his eyes.
Unlike Javelin, he wasn't new to money — he'd seen plenty. Which meant his estimate was far more accurate.
"Tens of millions?" he muttered. "My ass — that's at least two hundred million."
Damn it. He hadn't known the trucks Livewire and Tattoo Man drove were packed with cash. Probably, neither had they.
For a fleeting moment, the thought crossed his mind: Shoot them all, grab the $200 million, and run.
But reason quickly took back control. He realized that whoever could pull out $200 million to buy Killer Croc could just as easily spend another $200 million to buy his head.
He had a daughter. Money's nice — but you can't spend it when you're dead.
And besides, two tons of cash? Even if he somehow stole it, there was no way he could smuggle that much out of Gotham.
He forced himself to look away — and met the bloodshot eyes of Livewire and Tattoo Man. Reflexively, he drew his gun.
"Whoa, whoa, calm down, boys," Deadshot said, trying to sound casual while his finger brushed the trigger.
He didn't trust those two idiots to stay rational.
"Ventriloquist," he called out, "where are you?"
This time, he didn't say boss.
What, the Ventriloquist himself the employer? Yeah, right.
A bald, middle-aged white guy pulling $200 million out of nowhere? Sure. If that were true, why would he need Gotham's criminal scum at all?
For no clear reason, Deadshot's mind flashed to the Ventriloquist's Batman puppet — and a chill ran down his spine.
Just picturing that bat-shaped shadow made his ribs ache.
Last time he'd been in Gotham, he fought Batman on a train — and walked away with three broken ribs.
Don't think about him. Don't think about him…
Deadshot shook his head.
First, rule out Batman — he'd never do something like this.
So who had that much money and enough pull to use a guy like the Ventriloquist?
The Penguin? Two-Face? The Riddler? Couldn't be the Roman — he'd fled to Hong Kong. Maybe… Bruce Wayne?
No, no motive. Forget him.
"Ventriloquist! Hey, Ventriloquist, you bastard — let the real boss talk to me!"
"What are you talking about?"
"Don't play dumb with me."
Tattoo Man and Livewire's eyes flickered strangely.
Deadshot tensed, stepping back slowly.
Even Captain Javelin, stupid as he was, sensed something was off.
He crawled out of the money pile to stand beside Deadshot. Only Killer Croc stayed lying there, giggling like a cat high on catnip.
Deadshot had no intention of starting a shoot-out. Not because he couldn't kill everyone except Croc — he easily could — but because he hated the feeling that someone else was pulling the strings.
Whoever was behind this knew exactly how cautious he was — counting on his sense of responsibility, his daughter, his restraint. They'd set this up perfectly: if he held the line, good. If he didn't, they'd use him to get rid of the unstable elements.
Then it hit him — they'd even calculated that he wouldn't start a fight. Which meant a massacre caused by him "snapping" was never even part of the plan.
Who the hell knows me that well?
As for Killer Croc — if he took the money and ran, that $200 million would instantly turn into a bounty on his head, and the rest of them would kill each other fighting for it.
But if he stayed, that same money would bind him in place — forcing him to side with Deadshot.
The two of them together could easily slaughter the other three.
Then, once order was restored, the Ventriloquist could come back out, make promises, threats, and incentives. The rest would fall in line.
A perfect balance — but risky as hell.
Then he noticed Cheshire Cat quietly moving to flank the others, forming a crossfire position with him, both guns aimed at Livewire and Tattoo Man.
"Oh," he thought bitterly. "So there's a backup plan."
Had she been bribed beforehand too?
Damn it. Why didn't they just bribe me?
Deadshot ground his molars in frustration, not once reflecting on his own habit of overcharging clients.
The tension in the air faded. Deadshot lowered his gun and glared at the Ventriloquist.
"So," he said flatly, "the real boss doesn't want to show his face?"
The Ventriloquist nodded silently — and pulled out five earpieces from behind his back.
Damn it, Deadshot thought. Even this was planned out.
So now, the "contract phase" begins.