Chapter 459: The Spy

Quickened footsteps echoed down the dim corridor, the polished floor reflecting the agents' hurried strides; the click of firearms being chambered sounded like a stuck tape, while the overhead lights flickered irregularly, and beyond the windows, the howling wind gradually subsided as large snowflakes drifted down like goose feathers.

The storm had passed, but the snow continued to fall; even without the wind's biting blades, the flakes descended thickly, the air remained bitterly cold, and the snow on the streets had not yet melted before being covered anew in a pure white fleece.

The sky remained gloomy, heavy gray clouds pressing over the estate like a boulder weighing on every heart.

Everyone could feel the atmosphere inside the estate growing increasingly oppressive.

If the mayor's murder case had been a light piano prelude, the gunfight that had just erupted in the corridor was the thunderous drum climax; now, low, muffled strings began to play, and all knew the finale was near.

But this did not mean they could all leave safely; the agents' hurried footsteps and the click of pistol chambers echoed into the guest rooms, and all understood that some confrontation was about to begin.

The air grew quiet, yet more sinister—like the drifting snow outside; though the storm had been fierce, calm now carried greater danger.

At this moment, tension was not confined to the mayor's estate in Metropolis; Wayne Manor in Gotham felt the same.

Dick crept silently down the corridor, gently turned the doorknob, opened the door, slipped inside in a flash, and shut it behind him.

Elsa, sitting on the rug playing with blocks, turned her head to look at Dick, then stood and reached out her arms; Dick walked over, picked her up, and as she opened her mouth to cry, he whispered: "Shh, don't make a sound…"

Elsa could now understand some human speech, especially Dick's; she tilted her head, seemingly puzzled by his guilty expression.

Dick walked to the side of the rug, set Elsa down, and began tidying up the scattered blocks; he murmured: "Just now, I saw Alfred polishing his double-barreled shotgun again."

He swallowed hard, glanced left and right, as if worried, then continued: "I remember, before, Alfred only cleaned that gun when Master Wayne came home very late—or returned injured."

"And back then, he only used deer leather to wipe the barrel—but just now, I saw him cleaning the rifling, even testing the trigger…"

"My God, he must be furious!"

Dick took a deep breath, shrugged his shoulders, then relaxed; he scratched his head, helplessly saying: "But Bruce has been acting a bit… lately…"

"First, he stayed out all night for days, then was spotted going in and out of bars and red-light districts, then had a fight with Selina—and now, he's been missing for nearly twenty hours?"

The Green Gourd Immortal

Dick sighed: "If I ever disappeared for twenty hours without a word, my dad would break my legs."

"Wah wah wah!" Elsa cried out.

"You say he's an adult? So what? I think I'm an adult too, but Bruce and Alfred still won't let me stay away from the manor too long."

"The school I attend only allows me home twice a week, but they contacted my counselor and forced me to commute—because they're afraid if I'm away too long, someone might abuse me."

"Wah wah! Wah wah!" Elsa cried again.

"Of course, I know Alfred treats me well—he picks me up and drops me off, cooks my favorite dishes, even sends afternoon tea to my school—but how do I comfort him?"

"Now, I'm too scared to even go into his room—it's filled with a dark atmosphere!" Dick made a large circular gesture with his hands, speaking dramatically: "I have no doubt that anyone who enters that space might be in danger!"

As he spoke, a loud "bang" echoed from the corridor; Dick jumped, and Elsa widened her eyes, glancing around before turning sharply toward the wall beside the room.

Dick followed her gaze—he remembered that was the direction he'd come from, toward Alfred's room.

"Let's go check—maybe the gun discharged!"

He picked up Elsa; she squirmed in his arms and began wailing again; Dick stopped, set her down, and smacked his forehead: "Oh, I forgot—you're fast. Go ahead, run to Alfred's room and see if he's hurt."

But Elsa didn't move; she raised her arms and screamed again; Dick froze: "…I can teleport too? How? I'm just a…"

"Right! I can teleport too! But I can't control it well… No, Alfred might need me—I'll try."

He focused his mind; his body began glowing green, then vanished with a "zeng!" Elsa dashed out the door and raced toward the far end of the corridor at incredible speed.

Just as she turned a corner and reached the door at the corridor's end, a "pam!" sounded—Dick, glowing green all over, fell from the ceiling.

"Ow, my back!" Dick cried out in pain; Elsa burst into laughter, cackling "wah wah wah!"

Dick got up, bent over, picked up Elsa, and ruffled her head hard: "Don't laugh—I controlled teleportation by myself for the first time, and that's already good, okay?"

"Next time I'll try to land closer to the ground."

At that moment, a "click" sounded—the door opened, bright light spilling from the crack, illuminating the space between Elsa and Dick.

Alfred's face appeared in the doorway; for an instant, it was grim—but when he saw Dick and Elsa, it instantly softened into kindness.

Dick rubbed his waist and stepped forward, looking up at Alfred: "Elsa and I heard the gunshot—we came to see what happened. Are you alright?"

Alfred smiled warmly: "I'm fine. Just an accidental discharge."

He crouched down, patted Dick's head, glanced at Elsa, then turned to Dick and said:

"I may need to step out for a while—so I'm preparing equipment…"

Dick blinked: "Where are you going?"

"He's insane! He's going to fly to Metropolis in this weather!" came another voice from inside the room.

Dick widened his eyes and leaned in; he shouted: "Hal? What are you doing here?!"

"Ask this so-called good butler, Pennywise!" Hal's voice came again, sounding deeply aggrieved.

Seeing Dick peering in curiously and Elsa's wide-eyed curiosity, Alfred's smile stiffened for only an instant—then he opened the door and let the two children in.

Hal sat slumped against the wall, a shotgun beside him; seeing Dick enter, he struggled to his feet and sighed, weary and defeated:

"Alfred, I'll say it again—I'm only a test pilot, not a certified combat pilot. I've been in logistics for over three months and haven't trained at all recently."

He pointed out the window: "The blizzard's stopped, but the snow hasn't—flying in this weather is suicide!"

Alfred turned toward him, picked up the shotgun, and as he saw Alfred chamber a round, Hal shrank back against the wall, trembling:

"Threatening me won't work—I won't do something I know is a death sentence…"

He swallowed hard: "If I still had Green Lantern energy, I might teleport over to see what's happened—but…"

His gaze fell on Dick; Dick understood—Alfred meant to go to Metropolis to find Bruce; he raised his hand: "I just learned to control teleportation—maybe I can…"

"No, Master Dick. You cannot." Alfred said without turning; Dick opened his mouth to argue, but Elsa tugged his sleeve; he hesitated, then stayed silent.

Hal sighed, looking directly into Alfred's eyes:

"Dick told me you raised Bruce—you're like a father to him. I understand your worry."

"My family opposed my becoming a pilot—they thought it too dangerous. My father resisted the most—but after I argued with him and insisted on test flights, I saw him secretly crying."

"That's why I switched from test pilot to ground logistics. I promised him: if I ever had to fly a fighter into danger, I'd carefully weigh every environmental factor and ensure my safety, so he wouldn't be heartbroken."

"The reverse is true too—if Bruce knew you planned to fly to Metropolis in this dangerous weather, he'd be heartbroken too—because it's truly dangerous."

Hal crossed his arms, staring into Alfred's eyes:

"I trained at the Air Force base for a year and a half—I know aircraft performance and how weather affects flight…"

"I've seen the helicopter parked here at the manor—even though it's modified…"

"Who said anything about a helicopter?"

Alfred's cold retort left Hal puzzled.

At that moment, his peripheral vision caught sight of the manor's window; this room offered a view of the courtyard—and Hal turned to see something that stunned him.

The ground in the manor's central courtyard slowly opened, and a black Batjet rose from below.

The jet was entirely black, its surface coated in matte black paint; only faint recessed patterns marked its wings. Its overall structure resembled a fighter jet, but it was larger than most fighters Hal had seen at the Air Force base.

Hal swallowed hard, his eyes glazed; after a long pause, he said hesitantly:

"Don't tell me you want me to fly this thing to Metropolis."

"Who said you'd fly it?"

Hal's eyes widened as he stared at Alfred.

Ten minutes later, watching Alfred seated in the pilot's chair, Hal put on his helmet and hesitated:

"I don't mean to doubt you, but flying and driving are completely different—and there's no runway here…"

He hadn't finished when a deep engine roar erupted; with a "whoom," the jet lifted straight into the air.

As the jet hovered midair, Hal clutched his arm—his elbow had been bruised during the rapid takeoff; he hastily fastened his helmet and shouted at Alfred:

"Slow down! Slow down! You can't fly in this weather—"

His words were cut short as the engine's roar intensified, then—"whoosh!"—the black Batjet shot forward like a black bird diving into a blizzard.