mtl008 Chapter 4593 The Day of Brightest Day (52)
Chapter 4593 The Day of Brightest Day (52)
Chapter 4593 The Day of Brightest Light (52)
Midway City could practically be called the Venice of North America. Coming down from the museum's rooftop, you're immediately above a canal. The sidewalks are incredibly narrow, barely wide enough for two people to walk side-by-side. There are no lanes for vehicles; the roads and bridges are all paved with cobblestones. Many boats navigate the canal—thankfully, not old-fashioned hand-rowed gondolas, but electric motorized commercial passenger ships.
Here, boats are a significant form of public transportation. This is because the central roundabout of Midway City is a lake, and the surrounding area is the most important downtown area, where almost all public transportation transfers take place.
Schiller arrived at the ferry platform just as a boat pulled up. He bought a ticket at the nearby kiosk and hopped on. Deathstroke, who had arrived a little later, rushed onto the boat without a ticket to catch it. Everyone on board screamed.
This wasn't because he was evading a ticket; it was just that his appearance was rather frightening. Although he wasn't wearing heavy armor while moving around the city, he still had a weapon on his back. If he only had melee weapons, people might think he was attending a comic convention, but the problem was he was carrying an AR-15. This wasn't the real Venice; every American knows what one. That was clearly a real gun—he looked exactly like a terrorist.
"Enough! Enough!" Deathstroke shouted. "I'm just here on vacation! What are you all yelling about!"
The crowd quieted down slightly, seemingly to confirm whether he would fire from the boat. The boat driver had clearly called the police, but he didn't dare stop; if he angered this guy, things would get complicated.
A boat isn't like a car. With a car, once the door opens, everyone can run. But with a boat, there's no platform; even if it stops and the door opens, no one can escape. Jumping into the water makes it much easier for the assassin to pick off targets.
Schiller pretended not to know him and blended into the crowd towards the stern. Deathstroke tried to chase after him, only to be met with a death stare. He shook his hand helplessly and said, "I'm not an assassin, I won't shoot you, don't worry..."
Fortunately, the next station wasn't far, and they arrived at their destination in no time. The crowd scattered, and the drivers all fled. Schiller and the Bell were forced ashore. Soon, the police rushed towards them.
Thanks to the city's unique structure, since cars weren't allowed, the police arrived on foot. By the time the police rushed in, the two men were already gone. Deathstroke glanced at his uniform, sighed, and waved to Schiller, saying, "Wait a minute."
"Five minutes max."
"enough."
Deathstroke turned and walked into a street corner. He returned in about two or three minutes, wearing a suit. It looked barely fitting, except for the arm circumference. The original owner of the suit clearly didn't work out his arms; Deathstroke's biceps were practically bursting out of the sleeves. Plus, the style was too old-fashioned and didn't suit Deathstroke's younger appearance, but it was still much better than his previous tight-fitting clothes.
He'd hidden all that equipment somewhere. He had a pistol in his pocket, a dagger tucked into his calf, and that was it. Schiller knew that in that alley, there was probably a naked, unfortunate fellow lying there right now.
“I gave him the money for his clothes,” Deathstroke shrugged. “It’s on the Justice League’s dime.”
The two continued their journey. The terrain of Midway City couldn't be rushed. They boarded the public boat again, traveling along the river to the central lake. They disembarked at the lake and arrived at the entrance of a commercial building. Schiller gave Deathstroke a wink, and Deathstroke slowed his pace, leisurely strolling into the lobby.
Soon, the sound of arguing filled the lobby. Schiller seized the opportunity to slip away to the side, reached the emergency exit at the back, and climbed five floors in one go. Once outside, he realized it was likely an office floor belonging to some company.
Schiller strode forward to the tea area, grabbed a paper cup, put on his glasses, and with the cup in one hand and the other in the pocket of his casual suit's wide-legged trousers, nodded to everyone he met. People returned his friendly smiles. He made it smoothly to the other side of the corridor, stood in front of the glass curtain wall, and looked in one direction.
The city center has many high-rise buildings, but in this direction there is a cluster of low-rise buildings, which is the old town of Midway City. Most of the buildings have been converted into cafes or art galleries.
There stood a red-roofed building, Carter Hall's private art gallery and residence. At that moment, some chaos erupted in that area, and a number of police officers were gathered there.
"Oh my god, what happened?" a woman walked over and said, "What happened in Maple Street? Has another tourist been robbed?"
"I can't say for sure," Schiller said, taking a sip of coffee from his paper cup. "I haven't been there much. What kind of shop is that red-roofed building?"
The woman sized Schiller up and then said, "You must be the new art director next door? I didn't expect you to be so young. That building doesn't look like a shop; it seems to be an art gallery owned by a private collector. Good heavens, I hope no thieves have broken in?"
“I’m afraid so,” Schiller said, shaking his head. “Have you heard about those recent museum thefts?”
“Of course! I heard there were three cases in a week, and two thieves haven’t been caught yet.” The woman shook her head and said, “Owning too many cultural relics has its drawbacks, right?”
"I'm quite interested in that private art gallery. If it's been robbed, it probably won't be open anytime soon."
“You artists are bound to be interested in that place. But if you really want to get in, there is a way.”
"Oh?"
"Do you see that yellow house?" the woman pointed and said, "That's a coffee shop, but the owner is a scalper. He has connections to get tickets to many art galleries that tourists can't get."
Schiller raised an eyebrow, looked at the woman, and said, "Perhaps we could go for coffee tonight."
Schiller understood, smiled at her, and said, "I wouldn't ask a lady like you to risk going to a place where thieves have just passed by. Maybe next time. I'll be going now, goodbye."
Schiller had just reached the emergency exit when he saw Deathstroke coming down from upstairs. Deathstroke, arms crossed, looked at him and said, "Why weren't you on the roof?"
"How did you get to the rooftop?" the two asked almost simultaneously.
"Of course I climbed up; you need an elevator card to use the elevator here. But it's only about twenty floors, so I just climbed up the stairs. And you weren't here."
Schiller rolled his eyes, not even wanting to acknowledge him, and went straight downstairs. Deathstroke followed behind him, saying, "The rooftop of this building is a pretty good sniping spot, overlooking most of the city, and the view is crystal clear. Don't you really want to go up and check it out?"
“This mission isn’t about killing anyone.” Schiller emerged from the back door of the building, calibrated his bearings, and headed towards a street. “I’ve received intelligence that an assassin from Egypt is meticulously planning an assassination attempt against Dr. Hall and his wife. Judging from the situation in Maple District, he seems to have already made his move, but failed. We need to go check it out.”
"An assassin from Egypt? You?"
"No."
"That's what you got here."
Schiller remained silent this time. Deathstroke, with a look that said, "I knew it!", said, "So that's why you didn't come with me to bring the murals back; you went to find an assassin. But I have a question."
"What's the problem?"
What do you think is wrong with me?
Schiller glanced back at him, his expression saying something like, "If you dare spout another tongue twister, I'll shoot you dead." Deathstroke said with a hint of exasperation, "Come on, I'm the world's number one assassin. Is there anyone I can't kill? Why do you need to find another assassin?"
Before Schiller could speak, Deathstroke had already figured it out. He exclaimed, "Oh, I get it. The target is Dr. Hall, but you don't actually want to kill him. If you had asked me, he would be dead. You need to find someone less capable so you don't have to put in too much effort when you get the security assignment. Right?"
Schiller gave him a look that said, "Figure it out yourself." Deathstroke, however, was certain he had guessed correctly. The two of them walked quickly toward Maple Street and soon arrived at the dense cluster of low-rise buildings. By then, the police had dispersed, and Schiller brushed past them without attracting any attention.
They both looked like they were from out of town. But Midway City, being a tourist destination, had no shortage of visitors. While Deathstroke might attract some attention due to his tall stature, Schiller, dressed like that, would be completely unnoticed in a crowd.
Schiller paused at the intersection, then walked toward the yellow house. He first stood by the roadside and glanced inside, sized up the owner, then turned to Deathstroke and said, “Go ask what happened, and if you can get tickets to that red-roofed art gallery.”
"Why should I go?"
"That boss might know Dr. Hall, so I can't show my face."
"Good heavens, I'm not a secret agent... Okay, I'll go ask."
Deathstroke went over and sat down. He ordered a drink and started chatting with the owner. Schiller stood by the door and could vaguely hear a few words. Although Deathstroke claimed he wasn't a secret agent, he did the job efficiently. Speaking with a New Orleans accent—a typical Southern accent, rarely heard in a northern city like Michigan—he chatted with the owner about local customs and traditions, casually mentioned seeing the police, and then asked about the house.
A short while later, Deathstroke came out and said, "Someone broke into Hall's private art gallery. However, the Halls weren't home at the time; the automatic alarm system was triggered. But after the police checked, they found nothing, and it was ultimately ruled a false alarm."
"As for tickets, he said the art gallery isn't open to the public unless you're a friend of the Halls. They occasionally host friends or dinner parties there. It seems there's a dinner party tonight."
"Not cancelled?"
"How do we cancel?" Deathstroke said. "If it were tomorrow or the day after, that would be fine. If it were tonight, all the ingredients have already been ordered, and the banquet hall might even be set up. But right now..."
Deathstroke glanced at his watch. "It's 2 PM now. Those from out of town should already be at the airport, and the locals should have changed and are ready to depart. It's impossible to cancel now."
"Very good. Now we have a new mission objective."
"what?"
"Let me go buy you some new clothes first."
Ten minutes later, the two appeared outside a clothing store on a nearby commercial street. Deathstroke glanced at the store's luxurious interior and said, "Are you sure we want to buy here? A designer suit store on a tourist street?"
"What's there to be afraid of? The Justice League will cover the costs anyway."
"That makes sense, let's go."