Chapter 80 – Jason, Is That You?
The file from the FBI arrived quickly.
While Ron listened to the two men bickering in the background, he flipped through the documents without much interest—until his gaze landed on a particular photo. He froze, staring at it for a long time.
Buried memories stirred awake, mingled with a strange sense of nostalgia.
Jason! Is that you?!
"Boss, what's wrong with that photo?" Hank asked curiously.
It was an image taken during the investigation into the victim Harry's social connections. In the picture, Harry was sitting across from a bald young man—though "young" was only in comparison to the elderly Harry.
Ron rubbed his temples, forcing himself to focus.
"Of course there's something wrong. Look at this man." He tapped the photo. "I suspect he's the real killer. He murdered Harry, then staged the scene to look like a robbery."
"Him?" Hank looked genuinely surprised. He picked up the file and scrutinized it again but still couldn't find any incriminating detail.
"But the records say they were just casual friends. He doesn't even rank in the top ten of our suspect list—there are plenty of people with far stronger motives." Hank frowned. "Why single him out, sir?"
He laid out a few other photos on the desk. Ron ignored them, stubbornly pointing at the bald man seated opposite Harry.
"I don't have a logical reason. I just know it." Ron looked Hank dead in the eye. "Listen to me—no matter where you see someone with this face, you need to be extremely careful."
"Except for that comedian who does stand-up," Ron added gravely, "every other person who looks like this is bad news. You hear me? The kind of people you cannot handle alone. So if you ever run into one—run as far and as fast as you can."
Hank was left dumbstruck by Ron's sudden seriousness, so out of place from his usual irreverence. But out of respect for his superior, he nodded blankly.
No wonder Ron was being so cautious. After all, this was a world where American TV series and movies mixed together—and Jason had starred in far too many action films, always playing deadly characters.
Aside from Deckard Shaw from Fast & Furious, there was Jonas Taylor, whom Ron had once encountered during an operation in Southeast Asia, and now Arthur from The Mechanic.
God only knew how many other "Jasons" were still out there waiting to show up.
Whenever Ron thought about this, he felt a headache coming on.
What's next—if I collect seven Jasons, do I get to summon Shenron and wish for a bottle of miracle hair tonic?
"So…what do we do now?" Hank asked hesitantly. "Are you going to take over this case? But wouldn't that basically mean doing the FBI's job for free?"
To be fair, ever since Hank had claimed his first bounty from the IRS, he'd lost any shred of loyalty to the DEA or FBI.
God as his witness—he'd spent almost ten years in the DEA and never earned that much bonus money. And along with the rising income, his wife's spending habits had evolved into whole new levels. The last few days, he could barely walk straight into work.
Ron shook his head, a faint, inscrutable smile tugging at his lips.
"Of course we're not doing this for free. Another company will be paying our fees."
"You don't actually think a guy like Arthur is some lone wolf, do you?"
"You mean he works for a contract killing organization?" Hank finally snapped back to reality, but his thoughts were still stuck in old patterns. "But even if that's true, aren't we basically working against them? How can they be the ones paying us?"
Ron looked at him like he'd grown an extra head.
"We're not their employees—why on earth would they pay us?"
"Then…isn't this still free labor?" Hank muttered under his breath. Ever since he'd had a taste of that sweet bounty money, anything else felt like charity.
Even Andy couldn't stand it anymore and finally spoke up.
"Hank, did you forget what our job actually is?" Andy rolled his eyes. "You think just because it's a contract killing firm, they don't have to pay taxes?"
Hank slapped his head—what little hair he had left wasn't much better than Jason's.
"Right! Boss, when do we head out? If we land another bounty on this one, I can finally trade in my car. Mary's been nagging me about it for ages."
"Head out? Head out to where?" Ron rolled his eyes, glancing at his two money-obsessed subordinates.
"Tell me, dear Hank—do you even know where their company is? You think we can just 'head out'? Sure, how about this: if you can find the location of their headquarters right now, I'll personally take you over there to collect their taxes. Deal?"
Although Hank was much older than Ron, he still ended up looking like a scolded schoolboy, pursing his lips in embarrassment. But he stubbornly asked, "Then what exactly can we do about them?"
Ron didn't have a perfect answer either. Organizations like this—assassin companies—usually operated under the guise of private security firms. They'd establish a base in the city, offer "security services" to clients, and in reality, take assassination contracts behind the scenes.
All their payments were routed through legitimate security invoices. On paper, you'd never see any difference between them and a proper security business. You could even hire them for normal protective services and get quite a professional experience.
Of course, how you'd feel knowing your bodyguards were also contract killers—that was your problem, not theirs.
But the good news was, as Ron sifted deeper through his memory, an excellent idea came to him.
"Don't rush this, Hank. I need you to start surveillance on this man—only through public-area cameras, understood?
This guy is probably their top operative. I'm sure he's highly skilled in counter-surveillance. Odds are you'll lose him eventually, and if we spook him, it'll be a real headache to track him down again."
Hank nodded emphatically.
If Ron's memory was correct, according to the timeline, this assassin would act again very soon—killing another old, glass-boned hitman along with Harry's son. Then, once he returned to report the mission, his own organization would discard him.
That was the moment Ron had been waiting for.
Because everyone knew—murder was a high-profit business. Done right, it paid just as well as drug trafficking. Ron could already see another fat bonus waving at him from the future.
"The only thing we really need to consider," Ron said thoughtfully, "is whether, once we uncover their base of operations, we'll be facing armed resistance against tax enforcement. That could be an issue."
"Shouldn't we notify the FBI, then?" Hank suggested. "We're talking about an entire company—every single one of them a professional killer. I think we're going to need backup."
"The FBI? No, no, no." Ron thought it over and decisively shot the idea down.
Sure, the two agencies were enjoying a honeymoon phase of cooperation, but with a prize this big, the Bureau would definitely want a piece of the pie.
Unfortunately, Ron was in the habit of eating alone—and besides, he didn't have much faith in the FBI's combat effectiveness.
If even someone like O'Connor could be hailed as a star agent by Jack in the L.A. division, that pretty much told you everything about their standards.
"I think," Ron said, a glint in his eye, "we're going to need some heavier equipment."
"Heavier equipment?" Hank looked at the half-cleaned LG-5 sniper grenade launcher on his desk and felt his scalp tighten in confusion.
"Boss…seriously? We already have a sniper grenade cannon. With our current firepower, the two of us could suppress an entire army platoon. What exactly do you mean by 'heavier'?
You're not planning to get us a tank, are you?"
Ron stroked his smooth chin, eyes lighting up.
"A tank? You know…that actually sounds like a pretty good idea."