Chapter 653

Hearing Shiler's voice, Deathstroke didn't even turn his head; he simply used tweezers to pick up vegetables and fried eggs, then walked straight to his seat. Shiler followed him to the table and sat across from him.

"I've always been curious—how do you masked mercenaries even eat?" Shiler asked, staring at Deathstroke's face, and then he saw Deathstroke lift half his mask open from the seam at his neck, revealing his mouth, before shoving the steak into it.

From the chin he revealed, his appearance was young; it was unknown whether, like the comic's backstory, he was married with children.

"Are you here on a mission? Who's the target this time?" Shiler continued eating his food and said, "We're old acquaintances—surely the target isn't me again?"

"Not you," Deathstroke replied simply. He spoke little, unlike his cousin, but every word and action revealed considerable information to Shiler.

First, Deathstroke was indeed here on a mission. Second, the target was not Shiler. Third, the target was likely somewhere in this hotel.

Because Deathstroke's plate held very little food—at least compared to his height and weight, it was far less than a breakfast portion—this suggested he would act soon, and thus shouldn't eat too much and hinder his movement.

From his attire and gear, he had clearly prepared everything in advance, and showed no concern for the strange glances from nearby tourists—indicating he wasn't here to investigate, that this would be his final visit here, and he had no fear of exposure.

Shiler dismissed this encounter as coincidence—until ten minutes later, when his hotel door was kicked in and the black-and-yellow figure stormed in, drawing the long sword from his back.

Through the shattered door, both froze. Shiler crossed his arms and sighed: "After all this time, haven't you realized you can't kill me? Want me to demonstrate again?"

Shiler exploded into a puff of gray mist, shifting into various shapes midair. Deathstroke planted his sword on the ground and watched. When Shiler returned to human form, Deathstroke asked: "Where is he?"

"I assume you mean Oliver Queen. A shareholder of Queen Industries hired you to kill Oliver, who came back from the dead. That means his butler must have betrayed him…"

"But unfortunately, he's not here anymore. You're too late—he's gone to become a superhero with someone else you can't kill." Shiler shook his head, glanced at the broken door, and sighed.

"Who is he?" Deathstroke asked.

"Maybe you wouldn't know—he's Green Lantern Hal, some guy glowing with green light."

"What can he do?" Deathstroke asked next.

"Plenty—flight, teleportation, super strength, instant healing. And right now, his energy is overflowing—he could fight you until the stars burn out. And if he loses, he calls for backup. The moment he shouts, hundreds of green-glowing Christmas elves will show up at your door and dance."

"Mission over," Deathstroke said calmly. "Your previous employer couldn't possibly afford this price."

"The Lone Sword's Sovereignty"

"Perhaps they won't stay together forever. You could wait until they separate, then strike." Shiler offered advice.

"It's an urgent job. The client demanded I kill him within three days, or the contract is void. The target's price has changed, the deal is canceled—but the deposit is non-refundable. Goodbye."

With that, Deathstroke left. Every movement screamed the professionalism of an elite mercenary—yet the fee he charged was absurdly high. That someone in Queen Industries was willing to pay such a sum meant they were desperate to kill Oliver.

Shiler had no interest in the dirty dealings behind this—but after Deathstroke left, more assassins arrived in waves.

Though they were nowhere near as professional as Deathstroke, their incompetence led them to realize Oliver was gone—and they turned their weapons on Shiler.

Though they all ended up feeding the ocean's ecosystem, Shiler still felt annoyed. These flies had ruined his vacation.

So, on a still-warm morning along the West Coast, Shiler called Bruce: "Do you know Queen Industries?"

Bruce glanced at Elsa, sitting at the dining table, wide-eyed and waiting for him to feed her, and said: "Of course I've heard of them. They're famous on the West Coast, especially in semiconductors—they rival Wayne Enterprises."

"They've been acting strangely lately. Find out what's going on and tell me. I'll give you two extra points on your final exam."

"No, Professor, I'm busy right now. I don't have time for business matters. You could ask Lex—he's idle these days, fighting Clark every day."

"Listen, Bruce, I'm not asking Lex because two points mean nothing to him. Ninety plus two is meaningless. I mean, fifty-eight plus two gets you a passing grade."

"But I won't take the exam…"

"Without these two points, you'll definitely score fifty-eight."

This was an outright threat. But glancing at Elsa still waiting at the table, Bruce sighed: "Fine. I'll send you the data in half an hour."

After hanging up, Bruce picked up Elsa, patted her back, and said: "I have urgent business now. You'll have to feed yourself."

Elsa started to cry, but Alfred picked her up anyway. Bruce slipped away from the table and began investigating Queen Industries.

He didn't know why Shiler suddenly cared about Queen Industries—but remembering Oliver, whom he'd rescued from the island, he suspected it had something to do with the heir.

Not long after, Shiler received the files on Queen Industries. Everything else was normal—except one item stood out glaringly.

After capital controls were lifted in 1989, massive foreign investment—including speculative short-term capital—flooded into Mexico, and Queen Industries' foreign investment was part of that wave.

The documents showed Queen Industries planned to relocate certain semiconductor factories to Mexico. To build them, they made over fifty investments: purchasing land, raw materials, acquiring local industries, and hiring staff.

Bruce's files also contained highly confidential details: Queen Industries wasn't satisfied with visible industries—they were also interested in smaller-investment, higher-yield sectors, such as drug raw material cultivation.

It's well known that Mexico has native crops like marijuana and opium poppies. These crops are deeply woven into Mexican life and serve as livelihoods for many locals.

Meanwhile, large-scale plantations run by capital oligarchs produce astonishing yields—this is why Mexico surpassed Colombia in drug and raw material production within just over a decade.

The climate is ideal, labor costs are low, and with some foreign nations pushing the trend, this industry has become a national pillar. The enormous profits naturally attract many bloodthirsty crocodiles.

Of course, Mexico's drug industry didn't emerge recently, so Queen Industries' cooperation with local groups wasn't new either. Records show that over twenty years ago, Queen Industries already partnered with certain Mexican companies in maritime transport.

The West Coast's favorable geography, timing, and human resources provided the perfect conditions for this profitable path: low investment, fast returns, low risk. These steady revenues laid a solid foundation for Queen Industries' growth.

Among these documents, one name was mentioned: a drug production and trafficking organization Queen Industries had long been connected to—"Guadalajara."

"Guadalajara?"

Hal, standing at the bow of the boat, awkwardly pronounced the word: "I'm sure I didn't mishear—the men on that ship said it exactly like that."

"It's a Spanish word, so it sounds unnatural to us—but at least now we know the organization's name. That's a good start," Oliver said beside him.

A ripple spread across the sea surface. Arthur surfaced, and Hal grabbed his arm, hauling him aboard. Arthur wiped water from his face and said:

"I just asked the nearby fish schools. They said every Tuesday around 4 p. m., two ships identical to the ones we saw before pass through here. If we capture one, we can interrogate them about their home base."

"Their base is definitely on Mexican soil—but which state?"

"It's in Bajiraguato," Oliver said with absolute certainty. "On the way here, I checked the data. Bajiraguato has the most developed maritime transport in all of Mexico, with unparalleled advantages. If this 'Guadalajara' is a powerful drug cartel, they'd make it their main base."

"Then we wait for their ships to come, and extract the exact location of their base," Hal formulated the plan.

The three waited on the boat until Tuesday afternoon. For these three, taking down a drug cartel's cargo ship was effortless: Hal led the assault, Arthur rocked the ship with seawater, and Oliver sniped from their own vessel. Soon, they neutralized nearly all the drug traffickers aboard.

Hal landed on the deck, grabbed a deliberately spared survivor, and asked: "Where's your base? Who's your boss?"

But the crewman was paralyzed with terror. To him, Hal, glowing with green light, was a demon from the Bible. He flailed his arms, screaming a torrent of Spanish—Hal understood none of it.

Activating the Green Lantern ring's translation function, a barrage of curses flooded in—mostly calling Hal a demon. Hal pressed him for minutes, but the man refused to speak. Hal tossed him into the sea.

Oliver boarded the ship and said: "Interrogating these crewmen is useless. We need the captain, first mate, or someone in administration—they're rational enough to negotiate."

As he predicted, though the captain was dead, the first mate survived. He begged frantically, spilling everything he knew.

Among all the information he gave, besides confirming the Guadalajara organization's base was indeed in Bajiraguato, one name kept recurring. Hal and Oliver agreed: this man was the leader of Guadalajara.

His name was—"Miguel Felix Galardo."