The sun blazed overhead, burning through gaps in the palm trees like molten gold. The humid air of the South American border felt heavy enough to chew, carrying the distant shrieks of tropical birds and the rustling of creatures hidden in the jungle.

Adam slouched on a weathered bench outside a customs shack, a crumpled Marlboro dangling between his fingers. Beside him, Floyd Lawton smoked silently, looking like a man who'd kill for a proper cigar. A dusty ceiling fan turned overhead, more for decoration than function.

"People say when you come to South America, you've got to smoke the good stuff—Castro's kind of cigars," Adam muttered, glaring at his cigarette. "But here I am, sucking on this sad little Marlboro. Feels like I'm being punished by the universe."

Deadshot snorted but kept his eyes scanning the area. Finally, when he was sure no one was eavesdropping, he said, "You deserve it. We could've just flown in like normal people. But no—you had to take the scenic land route. Six hours on a mountain road, and now we're stuck here in this godforsaken checkpoint. No supplies. No drinks. Not even a vending machine. Great call, genius."

Adam shrugged, grinning as if he hadn't heard the complaint. "I told you I've got a mission. A man's gotta do a proper field check. Besides, Jason's living the life right now—probably sipping ice-cold Coke in a hotel room, feet up, watching bad TV."

What Adam didn't say aloud was that Jason was nowhere near the border. He had been left behind, safe in Nicaragua, while Black Mask's men took over his name and slot on the delegation. Adam's plan was simple: let the kid enjoy his vacation while Black Mask's people—who knew the local terrain—slipped into San Pedro Sula under Jason's identity. The entire operation had been as seamless as it was shady.

"Mr. Adam," a deep voice called.

Adam turned to see a stocky, brown man with sharp eyes approaching. This was Black Mask's contact. He didn't give a name; everyone simply called him Number One—either because Roman Sionis lacked imagination or because this man was genuinely at the top of his game.

"The car's cleared customs," Number One said. "In five minutes, it'll be our turn for visa checks."

Adam exhaled, relieved but cautious. "No surprises during the inspection?" he asked casually. Their car wasn't exactly clean—packed with U.S. dollars and weapons courtesy of Black Mask's business. Adam trusted no one but a gun in his own hand.

"None," Number One replied smoothly. "Five hundred dollars at the gate—no questions asked. And when you go for your visa, just slip a hundred-dollar bill in your passport. Makes the whole process faster."

Adam nodded.

'Money opens doors everywhere,' he thought.

Deadshot, however, wasn't impressed. "We're invited observers, not criminals. Why the hell should we bribe our way in?"

Number One didn't miss a beat. "San Pedro Sula has been under U.S. embargo for decades. The locals are broke and hate outsiders, especially Americans. On top of that, General Lionel just abolished their currency. Military stamps don't buy anything, but your greenbacks? They're gold. Customs officers see Americans as walking wallets. So pay them now and avoid the headache."

Deadshot grumbled but didn't argue further. He'd been on enough shady jobs to know when to keep his pride in check.

Once their papers were processed—with only mild confusion about "Jason," whose file said "child" while the imposter clearly wasn't—Adam and his group stepped out of customs. That's when they heard the shouting.

Following the noise, they found a woman in the middle of the hall—young, striking, dressed in chic clothes that stood out like a sore thumb amid the sweat-stained travelers. She was arguing with customs officers, her voice sharp but not shrill, every word brimming with conviction.

"What the hell are you doing? I'm a reporter! My camera records the truth—why should I let you check my footage? That's a violation of personal rights!"

Adam watched with mild amusement. She was fierce but not vulgar, her tone more cutting than crude.

The customs officer smirked. "Now's not the time for your rights talk. If you don't cooperate, we'll assume you're smuggling state secrets. Non-compliance means we search you. Thoroughly."

The burly men behind him grinned like hyenas, eager to "help" with the search.

But the woman didn't flinch. She looked them dead in the eye and said with icy calm, "Oh? Do you even know who I am? In my city, I've faced terrorists and super-criminals who make you look like schoolyard bullies. Think before you touch me."

The officers laughed, their arrogance filling the hall. "Who do you think you are? This isn't your fancy city. You're in our territory now. Maybe we'll 'teach you some respect' today."

Deadshot leaned against a wall, clearly entertained.

"Who's the firecracker?" he asked Adam. "She's got more guts than sense. You know her?"

Adam squinted, studying her face. "Not from Gotham. She's got class, though—reminds me of someone from Metropolis. Hell… could it be?"

A smirk formed on his lips.

"Lois Lane. Superman's favorite reporter. Did she actually decide to cross into San Pedro Sula by land too? Figures."