Midway City could practically be called the North American Venice. When you come down from the museum roof, there's a river right below. The sidewalk is extremely narrow, barely wide enough for two people to walk side by side. There's no lane for motor vehicles; both streets and bridges are paved with stone slabs. Quite a few boats move along the canal; thank God they're not old-fashioned rowboats, but commercial passenger boats with electric motors.
Here, boats are a pretty important form of public transportation. Because Midway City's central roundabout is a lake, and the area around it is the most important downtown district, almost every public transit route has to transfer there.
When Shiller arrived at the public boat dock, a boat had just pulled in. He bought a ticket at the kiosk next to it and stepped onto the boat in one stride. Deathstroke came down a bit later; to catch the boat, he skipped the ticket and just rushed on board. Everyone on the boat screamed.
It wasn't because he had skipped the fare, but because he looked downright terrifying. Even though he didn't wear heavy armor inside the city, his weapons were still strapped to his back. If it were only cold weapons, people might think he was heading to a comic con, but the problem was there was also an AR-15 slung over his shoulder. This wasn't the real Venice, and no American would fail to recognize that. One look and you knew it was a real gun—he was the spitting image of a terrorist.
"Alright! Alright!" Deathstroke shouted. "I'm just here sightseeing! What are you all screaming for?!"
The crowd quieted down a little, as if trying to determine whether he was going to open fire on the boat. The driver had obviously called the police, but he didn't dare stop either; if he pissed this guy off, then they'd really be in trouble.
A boat isn't like a car. When a car stops and the doors open, everyone can run. On a boat, if there's no dock, even if you stop and open the doors, people still can't get away. Jumping into the water would just make it easier for the killer to pick them off.
Shiller pretended not to know him and blended into the crowd, heading toward the stern. Deathstroke wanted to go after him, but was met with his Death Stare. Helpless, he flicked his hand and said, "I'm not a hitman, I'm not gonna shoot you. Relax, alright…"
Luckily the next stop wasn't far. They arrived soon enough, and the crowd scattered in a panic; even the driver ran. Shiller and Deathstroke were forced ashore. Before long, the police came rushing toward the dock.
Thanks to the city's unique layout, since cars couldn't get in, the police had to come on foot too. By the time they charged up to the place, the two of them were long gone. Deathstroke glanced down at his uniform, sighed, and waved at Shiller, saying, "Give me a minute."
"Five minutes tops."
"Plenty."
Deathstroke turned into a corner of the street, and in maybe two or three minutes, he came back wearing a suit. It barely counted as a decent fit, except the sleeves were off—the previous owner clearly didn't work his arms; Deathstroke's biceps were about to blow the fabric out. On top of that, the style was way too stiff and old-fashioned, not really suited to his now-younger appearance, but it was still miles better than that skintight getup of his.
Who knew where he'd stashed that whole pile of gear. He had a pistol tucked in his jacket and a dagger strapped to his calf, and everything else was gone. Shiller knew that in that alley they'd just passed, there was probably some unlucky guy lying there stripped naked.
"I left him money for clothes," Deathstroke shrugged. "Put it on the Justice League's tab."
The two of them moved on. With Midway City's terrain, there was no rushing anything. They caught another public boat and followed the river all the way to the Central Lake. After coming ashore at the Central Lake, they walked to the entrance of a commercial Building. Shiller shot Deathstroke a look, and Deathstroke slowed his pace, strolling lazily into the lobby.
Very soon, the sound of an argument drifted out from the lobby. Shiller took the chance to slip in from the side, reaching the emergency stairwell at the back and running straight up to the fifth floor. When he came out, he found this was an office level of some company.
Shiller walked quickly forward to the break area, grabbed a paper cup, put on his glasses, and, cup in one hand and the other tucked into the pocket of his casual wide-legged suit pants, nodded to everyone he passed. People returned his greeting with friendly smiles. He smoothly made it to the opposite side of the corridor, stood before the glass curtain wall, and looked toward a particular direction.
There were quite a few high-rises downtown, but in that direction there was a stretch of low buildings: the Old Town of Midway City, where most of the structures had been converted into cafés or galleries.
There was a red-roofed house there—that was Carter Hall's private gallery and residence. At the moment, some kind of chaos had erupted in that area, and quite a few police were surrounding it.
"Oh my God, what's going on?" A woman walked over and said, "Something happened in the Maple District? Don't tell me some tourist got mugged again?"
"Hard to say." Shiller lifted his cup and pretended to take a sip of coffee. "I don't really go over there much. What is that red-roofed house, a shop?"
The woman gave Shiller a once-over, then said, "You're the new art director from next door, right? Didn't expect you to be so young. That house isn't a store; I think it's some private collector's gallery. Oh Lord, don't tell me a thief broke in?"
"I'm afraid so." Shiller shook his head. "You've heard about those recent museum thefts, right?"
"Of course! I heard there were three in just one week, and they still haven't caught two of the thieves." The woman shook her head. "Having that many artifacts is a downside too, isn't it?"
"I've actually been quite interested in that private gallery. If it really got hit, it probably won't be open anytime soon."
"Well, you art people would naturally be interested in a place like that. But if you really want to get in, it's not impossible."
"Oh?"
"Do you see that yellow house?" The woman pointed, then said, "That's a café, but the owner is basically a scalper. Lots of galleries tourists can't get appointments for—he has ways of getting tickets."
Shiller raised an eyebrow and looked at the woman. She said, "Maybe we could grab a coffee there tonight."
Shiller got the hint, gave her a small smile, and said, "I wouldn't ask a lady like you to risk going somewhere a thief just passed through. Next time. I've got to run—see you."
Shiller had just walked back to the emergency exit when he saw Deathstroke coming down from upstairs. Deathstroke crossed his arms and looked at him. "Why weren't you on the roof?"
"How did you get to the roof?" The two of them asked almost in unison.
"Climbed up, of course. The elevators here need a keycard. It's only a bit over twenty floors anyway, so I just took the stairs all the way up. And you weren't there."
Shiller rolled his eyes and didn't even want to respond. He headed straight downstairs. Deathstroke followed behind him, saying, "The roof of this Building is actually a pretty good sniper perch. You can overlook most of the city, and the sight lines are clean. You really don't want to go take a look?"
"This mission isn't about killing people." Shiller walked out through the back door of the Building, checked his bearings, and headed toward a street. "I got word that a killer from Egypt is carefully planning an assassination against Dr. Hall and his wife. Judging from what happened in the Maple District, he's already made a move, but it failed. We need to go take a look."
"A killer from Egypt? You?"
"No."
"Then you're the one who brought him here."
This time Shiller said nothing. Deathstroke wore an expression that clearly said, "Knew I guessed right, didn't I?" and said, "So that's why you didn't come with me to haul the mural back—you went to find a hitman instead. But I've got a question."
"What question?"
"What problem do you think I have?"
Shiller glanced back at him, expression basically saying, "Say one more tongue-twister and I'll put a bullet in your head." Deathstroke said helplessly, "Come on, I'm the world's number one assassin. Who is there I can't kill, that you'd still need to go find another killer?"
Before Shiller could answer, Deathstroke figured it out on his own. He suddenly understood and said, "Oh, I get it. The target is Dr. Hall, but you don't actually want him dead. If you hired me, he'd be guaranteed a corpse. So you had to find someone a bit more amateur, so that when you pick up the security detail later, you won't have to work that hard. Right?"
Shiller only gave him a look that said, "You've got the idea." Deathstroke, however, was sure he'd guessed it. The two of them hurried toward the Maple District and soon entered that cluster of dense, low-rise buildings. By then the police had already dispersed. Shiller and Deathstroke brushed past them without drawing any attention.
The two of them both looked like they were from out of town. But Midway City was a tourist city, and the last thing it lacked was out-of-town visitors. Deathstroke's tall, imposing build still drew some glances; Shiller's getup, thrown into a crowd, was practically invisible.
Shiller paused at the intersection, then walked toward the yellow house. He first stood at the roadside and glanced inside, sizing up the owner. Then he turned to Deathstroke and said, "Go ask what happened, and whether you can get tickets to that red-roofed art gallery."
"Why me?"
"There's a chance the owner knows Dr. Hall. I can't show my face."
"For god's sake, I'm not an Agent… Fine, I'll ask."
Deathstroke went over and sat down. He ordered a drink and started chatting with the owner. Shiller stood by the door, catching bits and pieces. Even though Deathstroke claimed he wasn't an Agent, he was pretty smooth at this. Speaking with a New Orleans drawl—classic Southern accent, rare in a northern city like Michigan—he chatted about the local customs, casually mentioned seeing the police, then steered the topic toward that house.
Not long after, Deathstroke came out and said, "Someone broke into Hall's private art gallery. But the Halls weren't home at the time—it was the automatic alarm System that went off. The police went in and checked it over, but found nothing, and it was ruled a false alarm in the end."
"As for tickets, he said the gallery isn't open to the public unless you're friends with the Halls. They sometimes host friends there, or hold dinner parties. Apparently there's one tonight."
"They didn't cancel it?"
"How would they cancel it?" Deathstroke said. "If it were tomorrow or the day after, sure, maybe. But the party's tonight—ingredients are already ordered, the banquet hall is probably already set up. At this hour…"
Deathstroke glanced at his watch. "It's two in the afternoon. Anyone flying in from out of town should already be at the airport, and locals should have changed into their outfits and be getting ready to leave. There's no way to cancel now."
"Good. Now we've got a new mission objective."
"What?"
"First, let's go buy you something to wear."
Ten minutes later, the two of them were standing outside a clothing store on a nearby commercial street. Deathstroke took one look at the luxurious interior décor and said, "You sure we're buying it here? A name-brand suit shop on a tourist strip?"
"What's there to be afraid of? The Justice League's footing the bill."
"Fair point. Let's go."