The killing rage came over him rarely. For the most part he was cool, collected, deadly. Some dark amusement might creep in, some deep satisfaction.
But he knew red-hot fury could derail a job just as easily as poor planning or hero intervention.
When he heard the news, he didn't take time to mourn, simply dropped his current assignment and returned to the States, one thing on his mind.
He knew none of the other side would see it done. The kid's father hadn't done it the first time around; he wouldn't do it this time.
He also knew none of them would stop him, either.
Once, in private, Canary had slipped to him that, on occasion, and rarely spoken aloud, the heroes approved of some of his actions.
They'd approve of this one. They'd never admit it. They'd never thank him.
But, the bastard had taken down their best and brightest--their hope. It was time someone ended him.
No planning. No cool calculation. He went into it furious.
The clown laughed at his anger, his grief-triggered blood lust. He laughed as he snapped his neck, and that rictus grin remained as the corpse dropped to the warehouse floor.
Slade stared down at that grin and let it force him back to calm.
As he disposed of the body, the grief came to the fore, and he let it. Slumping on the dock, watching the body sink in the oily waters, he let himself mourn Dick's sudden and shocking death.
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