Deadshot's comment made Adam smirk around the cigarette at the corner of his mouth.
"Nothing in this world is absolute," he said lightly. "Being careful is never wrong. Now—what's with Boomerang? Why's he suddenly puking his guts out?"
Deadshot shrugged. "Who knows? First time the hothouse kid's seen this kind of scene, maybe. The worst thing I ever saw was with you, back in that South American village. Those old witches, chewing poppy pods and spitting the pulp into a bowl… the smell alone—ugh. Any kid from the States saw it, they'd swear off drugs for life."
The image popped into Adam's head, making him shiver despite himself. He drew in smoke, exhaled slowly, and let his gaze drift back to the dark water. Deadshot had mentioned the water patrol never checking garbage scows… interesting. If the day came when he wanted to move things on a grander scale, maybe buying up Alcatraz and turning it into Gotham's official dump would be the perfect cover. Officially it would be for trash storage, incineration, and shipping. In reality? A smuggling hub whose throughput would dwarf Penguin's Iceberg Club.
But that idea stayed locked in Adam's head. Deadshot had his own connections at the GCPD, and Alcatraz was his home turf—a decaying man-made island full of society's leftovers. Turning it into a front would mean uprooting the last shelter these people had. Too many moving parts for now.
Onshore, sailors worked in a steady rhythm hauling rum barrels off the reeking garbage boat. Boomerang and Mr. Sleep grumbled loudly between loads, panting under the weight while Deadshot kept a sharp eye out as they shuffled everything into the truck. Adam's only concern was whether Penguin's people would notice—thankfully, the night stayed calm. No tails, no trouble.
"If only every shipment went this smooth," Adam muttered. He handed over a prepared cash box to the sailors—a solid payout, with extra bills tucked in as a tip. "Spend it in Gotham. Have some fun."
He was about to head back when one of the crew stepped forward, speaking low.
"Before we left, our master told me to give you this. Said it's for your eyes only."
Adam raised an eyebrow. The man's careful handling of the envelope told him enough—it was important. He thanked him, slipped it into his coat, and left without fuss. He trusted No. 1 for now; their partnership was still in its honeymoon phase, and South America had forged a certain understanding.
Back in the bar's basement, his crew was busy siphoning rum from the barrels into bottles for the night's business. Old bootleg equipment had been pushed aside to make room for the haul.
"Boss," Mr. Sleep reported proudly, "we rinsed the barrels out down at the canal, then looped around the suburbs before coming back. No one was on our tail. Clean job."
Boomerang, face hidden behind a comically large mask, was pouring rum with one hand and gesturing with the other, trying—and failing—to look charming when Adam walked in. The mask ruined the effect, leaving only a single crow's-footed eye blinking too much.
"Boss, with this much stock we're set for years," he said cheerfully. "Look at these jars—heavier than anything back home. Maybe we cut back on trips to the dock, eh?"
Adam stared at him, unimpressed. The flattery was paper-thin, and the tail end of his sentence gave away his laziness.
"Looks like a lot, but if business keeps up, this is maybe a month's supply," Adam said. "Americans drink like it's a sport. Faucets don't run this steady."
Boomerang's smile fell, but his mind worked quickly. "Well… back home, we'd stretch stock by mixing it—ice water, soda, whatever's handy. You want, we can make more volume out of the same barrel. No need to serve it pure every time."
Adam didn't commit one way or the other. He disliked overcomplicating things, but doubling capacity without doubling trips was worth keeping in mind. He praised Boomerang just enough to keep him grinning, then stepped out with the envelope.
Upstairs, in the quiet of the bar, Adam unfolded No. 1's letter—and his expression hardened instantly.
There were no pleasantries. Just a secret. A true, dangerous secret about Roman Sionis—Black Mask.
Adam already knew most of Gotham's underworld gossip, but this… this was different. It was the kind of thing that could get people killed just for knowing it.
Black Mask, paranoid and vengeful to the end, had created what he called an "Assassination Fund": two million dollars set aside, managed by a shadow network, with one purpose—once he was dead, the money would be activated to hire top assassins to kill off everyone he'd ever considered an enemy.
A last spiteful gift from beyond the grave.
If Sionis had to take the train to Hell, his enemies were coming along for the ride.
Adam might have brushed it off—except No. 1 had seen the actual list. Written in order, from the newest to oldest grudges. Bruce Wayne's name was there, low down. Penguin—recently a thorn in Sionis' side—was near the top.
And above Penguin… was Adam.