Chapter 967

“About ten or so hours ago, one of my CIA agents relayed a message: the FBI arrested the organizer of the Central American Revolution and is about to transport him back to Washington for interrogation.”

“I originally thought this was a diversion—they were playing coy, so I held back. But then came word that both the escort agents and the target vanished. Now the FBI suspects the CIA pulled the job.”

A weary voice came from the other end of the line: “Their suspicion isn’t baseless. The FBI believes the KGB wouldn’t act so quickly—after all, the CIA has set similar traps for them before. Even if they got wind of this, they’d surely be watching the situation, just like I was.”

“Moreover, given the KGB’s modus operandi, they’d more likely strike in Washington itself—especially during interrogation, to turn the tables and set a trap for the CIA.”

“The FBI thinks the CIA must’ve wanted to snatch him—that’s why they moved so cleanly. Either way, success or failure, the CIA comes out ahead.”

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Alfred narrowed his eyes and said: “You control intelligence from both the CIA and the KGB. The fact that you called me means you found no trace of this mysterious organizer in either side’s intel, correct?”

“Exactly. That’s the problem. I oversee all CIA and KGB intelligence operations along the East Coast. This time, neither the CIA nor the KGB had anything to do with it.”

“So, Alfred, do you think this is a trap? Could it be a self-staged operation by the FBI? Or…?”

“I think you already have the answer,” Alfred replied. “The FBI wouldn’t dare exploit this at a moment like this. They know how deeply those old men fear this matter. If anything goes wrong, everyone will suffer.”

“So they really took him…”

“Shiler,” Alfred said. “Shiler Rodriguez’s butler told me just now that FBI agents stormed the Rodriguez estate—and Shiler himself confessed to them that he is the organizer and leader of the Central American Revolution.”

“What?!”

Kela gasped in disbelief.

“His butler came to me, asking me to rescue him. But now it seems the situation is more complicated than we thought. You’re saying Shiler vanished along with the escort agents?”

Kela fell silent for a moment, then spoke: “Yes. The FBI’s backup team never picked him up. All the escort agents are missing. The FBI is frantic, searching everywhere—but they’ve found nothing.”

“I heard Gotham’s been in chaos—conditions inside the city are extremely complex. All the agents sent in to investigate have gone silent. Alfred, I called to check on your status. You must stay safe…”

“Don’t worry about me,” Alfred said calmly. “I’m accustomed to all the anomalies here. As for Shiler, I’ll investigate. Just wait for my update.”

“Thank you, Alfred,” Kela sighed in relief, then added sharply: “If Shiler truly is one of our comrades and has contributed so greatly to our cause, we must protect his safety at all costs.”

“Rest assured, Kela. He’s also Bruce’s university professor—a true mentor. Wherever he is, I’ll bring him back.”

After hanging up, Alfred looked at Merkel and said: “The good news is, Shiler wasn’t sent back to Washington for interrogation. There’s still room to recover him. But the bad news is—he vanished with the escort agents. All we know for certain is he’s still in Gotham. We’ll have to find him ourselves.”

“I’ll go now,” Merkel said immediately. But Alfred stopped him: “How? Wander the streets of Gotham blindly? You must survive first before you can find your employer.”

Alfred turned away, then gave Merkel a glance. Merkel hesitated, then followed.

Alfred reached the basement entrance and descended. When he arrived at the Bat-Lab’s door, he didn’t enter. Instead, he turned another way, heading to a room on the north side of the basement.

The Wayne Manor has a vast basement—seventy percent of it is used by Batman for experiments. The remaining thirty percent is Alfred’s storage warehouse.

The two sections are completely separate, never interfering. Alfred almost never enters Batman’s lab. Batman never enters Alfred’s warehouse, and has no idea what’s stored there—he’s not interested.

So when Merkel saw the pile of heavy weaponry with dubious origins, his jaw nearly dropped.

He pointed a trembling finger at the pile and stammered: “What… is this?… This can’t be the legendary ‘Last Resort,’ can it???”

“Last Resort?” Alfred stepped into the warehouse and shook his head. “No, this isn’t the Last Resort. This is merely the means to ensure personal safety and mission success. Come on—pick something you like. How about this rifle?”

Merkel swallowed hard. “At butler school, I heard stories that the previous generation’s conflicts were far fiercer. Back then, people were far more formidable. I never imagined it had reached this level.”

“You’re right. The previous generation’s conflicts were indeed far fiercer—but not just in terms of weaponry. It’s also about the understanding of duty.”

“If you see yourself first and foremost as a spy or agent, you’ll never use tools beyond that identity—because you’re always worried about exposure or leaking secrets.”

Merkel looked puzzled. “But I have to be cautious—if I act carelessly and expose myself, my employer will suffer too…”

Alfred ran his hand along the rifle’s barrel. “Over the years, there have been FBI and CIA agents who slipped into this city, trying to break into this manor and capture their targets.”

“But over the years, only the agents who came for Professor Shiler succeeded. Why do you think that is?”

Merkel froze, then wore a look of shame. “Because of my failure…”

“No, Merkel,” Alfred said. “Because you still don’t see yourself as a butler—especially not as a Gotham butler.”

Alfred looked at the rifle in his hand. “How can a butler in Gotham not have his own arms cache? Even the cheapest new manors in the southern outskirts come with a dedicated weapons storage room for their butlers.”

Alfred sighed. “Think—if those FBI agents had burst into the manor while you were cleaning your weapons, and in your fright, you accidentally fired, fertilizing the garden with a little extra gunpowder—whose fault would it be? Only Gotham’s. The city’s just rotten to the core.”

“You play the part of a cautious, proper Gothamite—but there’s no such thing as a cautious Gothamite. And there’s certainly no Gotham butler who believes in reason.”

“When those FBI agents kicked down the manor’s door, flashed their badges, and announced their identity—you should’ve reached under the sofa, pulled out a gun, and taken down the first one who kicked in.”

“You should’ve told them: in Gotham, there are rules. Whoever visits this manor without a formal invitation or a gift won’t get wine and dinner. They’ll get bullets.”

Alfred turned to Merkel. “You should be grateful you’re not from the previous generation. Otherwise, while you were still arguing with them, you’d already be dead. The ones I dealt with? They shot before you finished speaking.”

*Click.* Alfred lightly pulled the trigger. Merkel flinched instinctively.

Alfred continued: “I think your employer won’t blame you. He’s a very forgiving man. But you’re the butler I recommended. If you can’t fulfill your duties, you’ll bring shame to your school—and to the Pennyworth family.”

Merkel lowered his head and said quietly: “Yes, Mr. Pennyworth. I understand. Tomorrow, I’ll clean out the manor’s basement storage and equip it with the defenses a Gotham butler must have.”

Alfred nodded, tossed Merkel a weapon, and picked up an old double-barreled shotgun. “Let’s go. Find Shiler. Then tell him face-to-face—you’ll be a proper butler.”

The two left the basement. As they stepped toward the Wayne Manor’s main hall, a figure suddenly appeared outside the front gate. She tapped on the gate’s railing, looking anxious.

Alfred handed the gun to Merkel, straightened his coat, and walked forward to open the door.

Seeing the familiar face outside—Zatanna—Alfred paused, then asked cautiously: “Zatanna Zatara? Is that Miss Zatara?”

“It’s me… Oh, Alfred!” Zatanna called out his name. Seeing the elderly butler with his silvered temples, the words she’d rushed to say vanished from her lips.

“…Alfred, are you well?” Zatanna asked, concerned. Alfred studied her tired face. “I’m fine, Miss. But you look exhausted. Come in. We can talk inside.”

Alfred led Zatanna into the Wayne Manor’s main hall. But Zatanna couldn’t sit. She was lost in thought, struggling to explain Bruce’s condition to this old man.

When she’d first come to Wayne Manor with her father, young Bruce had just lost his parents. It was this butler who cared for him. Zatanna knew—they weren’t father and son, but closer than any father and son.

She couldn’t tell this father what had happened to his son. Zatanna took a deep breath, gathering all her courage. But before she could speak, Alfred looked at her and said: “You’re here to tell me bad news, aren’t you?”

Zatanna froze, then blurted out: “Yes. Bruce… he’s not well. I’m trying to save him—but I need help…”

“Where is he?” Alfred asked.

Zatanna grimaced. She couldn’t say the word “Hell.” She felt this old man couldn’t possibly understand the occult.

If she told him Bruce was in Hell, it would sound like saying he was dead. And to speak of going to Hell to rescue his soul? That would sound like madness.

“You think he’s dead?” Alfred said, watching her face. Zatanna froze again, then sighed. “Mr. Pennyworth, please listen to me carefully.”

“I’m not drunk. I’m not delirious. This is all true. You may find it hard to accept—but… Bruce’s soul is in Hell. The Hell that ordinary people believe in.”

As she spoke, Zatanna didn’t dare look at Alfred. When she finally turned back, she saw no shock or disdain on his face.

“How did he get there?” Alfred asked.

“He… he went from the border between the mortal world and Hell—”

“The border of Hell?” Alfred prompted.

“Ah, yes—the border of Hell. He jumped off the cliff there… Wait! [67]!” Zatanna’s eyes widened as she stared at Alfred. “How do you know about the border of Hell?!!”

“Zatanna widened her eyes, looking at Alfred, and asked: “How do you know about the Edge of Hell?!”