Night in Gotham always arrived on time, wrapping the city in its familiar shroud.
Adam sat in the cab of a weathered truck, cigarette in hand, the smoke drifting lazily toward the cracked windshield. It was almost time to make contact with No. 1—his South American link—but he wasn't in a rush. Instead, he had his people spread out, quietly scanning the coastline for anything out of place.
From the back, Captain Boomerang's voice broke the silence, as irritatingly casual as always.
"Wasn't the meet set for 12:34? What's this all about, hanging back like scared little rabbits? If we keep stalling, the drop's gonna get messy."
Before Adam could answer, Deadshot's boot connected squarely with Boomerang's side, sending him skidding on the grit.
"You don't get to question him," Deadshot said coldly. "Every move Adam makes is calculated. I've seen him work. South America. Black Mask. He spots angles the rest of us wouldn't see with a telescope."
Boomerang wiped a bit of blood from the corner of his mouth and muttered sourly, "Yeah, sure. Everyone screws up eventually. I'll be here the day this guy wonder makes his first mistake."
Deadshot didn't answer out loud. He just looked at Boomerang for a long second, thinking, 'If Adam ever screws up, odds are it'll be because of you.'
Up front, Adam ignored them entirely. He was listening to the radio, the low drone blending with the distant wash of the tide. Out on the horizon, three red signal lights blinked in the darkness.
"…a jewelry store in Gotham's Sixth Block was hit tonight. The criminals were armed and blocked the entire street. Police remain on-site…" the announcer's voice rose theatrically. "And now—Batman has arrived…"
Adam clicked the radio off. "Alright," he said, tapping the truck door. "Signal them in."
Not far away, Mr. Sleep flipped the switch on the signal lamp he'd rigged. Three sharp red pulses cut through the darkness. Within minutes, a small ship out at sea responded—its own triple lights flashing before it began a slow approach through the shallow bay.
The Arkham coastline here was a forgotten corner of the city: jagged rock, reeking shallows, and rust-stained tidewater. Large vessels avoided it. Even the locals rarely came to fish—the pollution and stink kept them away. Perfect for Adam's purposes
The closer the ship came, the stronger the stench—an overpowering, rotten odor that clung to the air. Under the ship's deck lights, it became clear why: it was a garbage scow, its mound of refuse crawling with flies. The sight would turn most stomachs.
From the deck, a man leaned over the rail and called, "In the name of God, as long as the shackles of colonization remain, I'll keep fighting."
Adam stepped forward, cigarette dangling from his lips. "And if my death ends the factional feuds and secures the alliance, I'll go to my grave with my eyes shut."
The exchanged lines were deliberate—pulls from the words of South America's liberator, Bolívar. It was the code they'd agreed on in their first deal. Anyone without it was either turned away… or met with gunfire.
At Adam's response, the sailor grinned, hopped down to shore, and embraced him. "Good to see you again. A night like this is perfect to move cargo."
Captain Boomerang flinched at the smell radiating off the man, his nose wrinkling in disgust. Even Deadshot's jaw tightened. But Adam hugged him back without flinching.
"Welcome to Gotham," Adam said. "I'd invite you for a drink, but I'm pretty sure the best stuff in the city is sitting right there on your deck."
The sailor laughed and waved him aboard. "Haven't worked in a long time. With you, maybe I won't be going hungry."
Adam's reply was smooth and assured. "I've got the water police's patrol rosters. The route I gave you is clean. We keep it that way, business stays steady."
What he didn't add was that he'd waited until Batman was tied up across the city. The Dark Knight couldn't leap from a jewelry store heist to a dockside sting in time.
The sailor barked orders. His crew began digging into the mountain of trash, hauling out grime-caked barrels marked under the layers of filth. The smell was foul enough to gag a corpse.
When Boomerang saw one pried free, his face went pale. "Please tell me the rum isn't scraped out from under that garbage."
Deadshot's smile was thin. "That's the beauty. Gotham's water cops wouldn't be caught dead sorting through a pile like that. Except you—yesterday, you were dumb enough to swipe bottles from our stock without knowing they came straight off a garbage boat."
The Aussie froze, then bolted for a corner of the dock to throw up, Mr. Sleep trailing after him like a bored nurse to pat his back.
Deadshot shook his head and rejoined Adam at the rail. "Smart cover," he said quietly. "No cop's digging through this. Solid route."
Adam's eyes stayed on the barrels being offloaded, the stink swirling in the night air. "And it stays that way," he murmured, "so long as we keep the schedule… and keep them out of sight."