Money Talks

Under the illumination of four enormous floodlights prepared in advance by the mercenary squad, two box trucks drove into the abandoned parking lot.

Slipknot and Tattooed Man closed the doors and walked over with grim expressions and icy faces.

Like Deathshot, Cheshire Cat, and Captain Boomerang, they were all mercenaries hired by Chen Tao.

Of course, in their eyes, their employer was Criminal Ventriloquist, not the world-famous Batman.

Slipknot was a muscular Mexican who specialized in using lassos. The trap that had previously bound Killer Croc up like a dumpling had been his handiwork. Now, when he saw Killer Croc tied up on the ground, the corner of his mouth lifted slightly.

Tattooed Man, meanwhile, looked just like his nickname suggested—a Chinese ink painting smeared with bird droppings. Compared with a killer, he looked more like a sailor making a living by the sea. The moment he arrived, he began taunting without mercy. "Ha-ha! Our target is an idiot!"

With a bang, a plume of white smoke burst from the top of Killer Croc's head.

Everyone scrambled to drag Killer Croc behind the two box trucks. Tattooed Man made a couple more snide remarks along the way, then nearly had his arm bitten off by Killer Croc. Another chaotic struggle followed.

Humiliation.

Fury.

Killer Croc's rage had reached its absolute peak.

The anger surging within him was fiercer than the gamma rays produced by the explosion of Orion Supernova. The insult that trampled his dignity could not be washed away even with all the liquid water on Europa.

Even if they exhausted the mysteries of the universe, reversed the distance between space and time, turned the sun and moon upside down, and churned the seas and land, they still could not diminish this fury by even the slightest amount!

He could not help roaring at the top of his lungs:

"Unforgivable!"

The sound rivaled Prometheus's mournful cry after stealing fire!

"Unforgivable!"

The sound was like Jesus roaring from the cross!

"Unforgi—"

With a clang, Ventriloquist opened the rear door of the box truck without wasting a word, and a ton of banknotes slammed straight into Killer Croc's face.

There wasn't a single trick to it. It was all damn U.S. dollars.

The movement was so rough that the green mountain of money collapsed, spilling from the truck bed onto the ground like a box of toilet paper knocked over.

Killer Croc's voice cut off like a hoarse drake strangled by the neck.

"All this money is an advance on your wages. Just nod, and it's all yours."

"No... unforgi—"

With another clang, Ventriloquist opened the other box truck, and another ton of banknotes poured out. The cold rain of money slapped wildly against Killer Croc's face.

Killer Croc was so furious that his green face flushed red.

Stop using this money to humiliate me!

He wanted to rebuke the other man righteously. He, Killer Croc, was a cold-blooded beast, a cruel freak, and anything but someone so easily swayed!

So what if you have money? D-does that mean that just because you give me money, I'll bow and scrape before you and worship you?

Smack.

A banknote plastered itself over his eye, blocking his vision.

"Unforgi... forg—"

"Forg—"

"Forg—giveness!!!!!!"

Killer Croc swayed unsteadily. The dizziness of being bombarded, both mentally and physically, by a colossal amount of money had caused the language center in his brain to short-circuit completely. He picked up a banknote and said with great solemnity:

"Daddy!"

Deathshot: "?"

Then Killer Croc suddenly remembered that he was Black, and Black people generally did not have fathers.

"Ahem, what I mean is—"

"I've drifted through most of my life, bitter only that I never met a wise and enlightened employer. If you don't mind, I would be willing to—"

"My God, there have to be at least tens of millions of dollars here!" Captain Boomerang jumped straight into the pile of money. "I'm dying!"

"Get lost!" Killer Croc roared furiously. "That's my money!"

"Although she belongs to you, I'm the one holding her in my arms and wantonly—"

Killer Croc was driven to the brink. Bound up like a dumpling, he somehow used the strength of his waist and abdomen to spring upright, then rolled into the pile of money as well.

"Mine! Mine!"

"..."

Deathshot felt that he had practically lost the ability to speak.

Under the lights, the more he looked at the money, the more it dazzled his eyes.

Unlike Captain Boomerang, he was not someone who had never seen money before. Therefore, his estimate of the amount would not be as wildly inaccurate as Boomerang's.

Tens of millions?

This was at least two hundred million!

Damn it! He had no idea that the box trucks Slipknot and Tattooed Man had brought were packed entirely with cash! Tattooed Man and Slipknot probably had no idea either.

For one fleeting moment, he practically wanted to shoot everyone present, then damn well flee with two hundred million dollars!

Fortunately, reason ultimately retained control of his mind. He clearly realized that if someone could produce two hundred million to buy Killer Croc, they could also produce two hundred million to buy his head.

He had a daughter. He could run, but he could not escape the consequences at home. Money was wonderful, but he feared he might have a life to take it and no life to spend it.

More importantly, there were over two tons of money here. Even if he stole it, he had no way of getting it out of Gotham.

He forced himself to turn his head, only to meet the two pairs of reddened eyes belonging to Slipknot and Tattooed Man. Startled, he drew his gun.

"Whoa, whoa! Calm down, brothers."

While secretly guarding against these two unprofessional idiots doing something irrational, Deathshot said:

"Ventriloquist, where are you?"

This time, he did not call him their employer.

What? Ventriloquist is the employer? Do you take me for a fool?

If a balding, middle-aged white man could casually produce two hundred million dollars, would he need to work for Gotham's gangs?

For no reason at all, Deathshot recalled the Batman doll in Ventriloquist's hand and shuddered.

The moment he associated it with that bat-shaped figure, his ribs began to ache faintly.

The last time he had come to Gotham, he had fought Batman on a train. Afterward, he had ended up with three broken ribs...

Don't think about him. Don't think about him...

Deathshot shook his head.

First, let's rule out Batman. He would never do something like this.

Then... someone with money who can command gang members like Ventriloquist...

Was it Penguin? Or Two-Face? Riddler? Could it be Roman? He fled to Hong Kong already—perhaps we should broaden the list of suspects...

Like Bruce Wayne?

Forget it. He has no motive. Rule him out too.

"Ventriloquist, Ventriloquist? Damn it—get the real employer to talk to me."

"What are you talking about?"

"Don't play dumb with me."

Tattooed Man and Slipknot both looked wrong.

Deathshot stared hard at them and slowly backed away.

Even Captain Boomerang, as stupid as he was, realized that something was off.

He crawled out of the pile of money and stood beside Deathshot. Only Killer Croc remained sprawled on the ground, grinning foolishly like a cat high on catnip.

Deathshot had no intention of starting a shootout here. It was not that he lacked the confidence to kill everyone present except Killer Croc. Rather, the vague feeling of being manipulated made him extremely uncomfortable.

The person behind the scenes seemed certain that he had a family and career and would not dare act recklessly. They intended to use him to suppress this unruly band of mercenaries... and if suppression failed, using his hands to eliminate the unstable elements in the team would also be an acceptable outcome.

Wait. Deathshot suddenly realized that the other party had even anticipated that he didn't want a shootout. In other words, the scenario of "Deathshot fails to suppress them, kills everyone, and causes the mastermind's forces to suffer losses" would never happen in the first place. This feeling was too strange. Why did the other party understand him so well?

As for Killer Croc, if he wanted to take the money and run, those two hundred million dollars would instantly become a bounty on his head. Everyone present would then start killing and dividing the money.

But if he was willing to accept the job, then to protect the wages he had just received, he would have no choice but to stand with Deathshot. The two of them working together would be more than enough to slaughter the other three people present.

Then, if the mastermind had Ventriloquist come out to make promises and apply both threats and incentives, those two men would probably regain their senses and quickly rein in their greed. This balancing act was played rather well, but had he never considered what would happen if it went too far?

At that moment, he noticed Cheshire Cat silently moving to their flank, forming a pincer with him against Slipknot and Tattooed Man.

Oh! There was another contingency.

Had Cheshire Cat already been bribed in advance?

Damn it, why didn't they bribe me?

Deathshot ground his back teeth to powder, without reflecting in the slightest on his own habit of constantly raising his price.

The tense atmosphere vanished without a trace. Deathshot lowered his gun and spoke irritably toward Ventriloquist.

"So, real boss, don't you want to show us your true face?"

Then he saw Ventriloquist nod and pull five earpieces from behind his back.

Damn it, the guy behind the scenes even anticipated this. How infuriating.

Aha, now I'm officially under contract!