In the brightly lit subway car, the air carried a faint smell of tobacco. The courier pushing a bicycle might have wanted to argue, but then he saw Deathstroke's eyes.
The Mercenary, sitting by the window with one leg crossed over the other, merely lowered his head to look at his black-and-yellow armor, then pursed his lips as he looked at the courier. The meaning was obvious.
He was sitting right here in his signature suit, without even wearing his mask. No matter which identity the courier had been looking for, he should have spotted him on the platform.
Yet he had still come aboard asking where Mr. Wilson was. Were there any other men in this car? Was he blind?
The rider's opening line had clearly been rehearsed. After seeing the corpses, he had pretended to be terrified and screamed. After that scream, he had probably planned to toss down the local-delivery package and run, right? As long as the item reached Deathstroke, the messenger's mission would be complete.
That was DEO's problem—they underestimated heroes everywhere. Who were they trying to fool with such a petty trick? So Su Ming exposed him on the spot.
At the same time, Harley waved the barrel of her gun at the man, telling the courier to come over and speak instead of standing by the carriage door.
Standing in such an open spot meant there was certainly a sniper rifle trained on his back from afar, ready to reliably silence him before the mission failed or he leaked the organization's secrets. That was the style of intelligence agencies.
"You're wearing a bug, aren't you? Then the people at command should be able to hear me too. Listen up, everyone. I know your DEO no less well than Mister Bones does, so drop