Chapter 86: Recruiting Arthur
On the rooftop of an office building in Los Angeles, two figures sprinted like madmen—wild, desperate, and bald. Watching through a high-powered telescope from the rooftop across the street, Ron couldn't help but marvel.
To get a better view of the two assassins' movements, Ron had picked a prime observation point. From this angle, not only could he track their every move, but he could also faintly see through the curtains of the neighboring office building, where a cult leader—built like two Hank-sized men stacked together—was harassing his new secretary.
"These two punks actually have decent moves," Ron commented. "Tell me, how did that old cripple Harry manage to father such an agile kid? You think... maybe he's not the real father?"
"Boss, according to the file, Harry got his leg injury from stepping on a landmine in combat—" Hank began, but Ron waved him off.
"Do you even know what kind of mine it was?"
"Uh... no, not exactly."
"It was a Betty jump mine. And his son wasn't even born until after he came home," Ron narrowed his eyes. "Now do you see why the kid didn't inherit anything after Old Harry died?"
"I get it now, Boss... but why are you telling me all this?" Hank asked, genuinely puzzled.
"Think about it—what's the most valuable thing Harry left behind? The foreclosed house? His drained bank account?" Ron gave a knowing smirk.
"No. It's his skills—those elite assassination techniques. With those, he could make money anywhere. And here's the kicker: Arthur was raised in an orphanage located exactly where Harry had been stationed during his service. You really think that's a coincidence?"
"Okay, let's say Arthur is Harry's illegitimate son—how does that help us?"
"I'm thinking of using it as leverage to recruit him," Ron said calmly. "It's about time we brought someone with serious assault capability and special ops expertise into our black ops unit."
While Ron and Hank talked, the two assassins vanished from sight—only to reappear moments later like ghosts, standing inside the cult leader's office. The man had just injected himself with drugs and was riding the high of his life.
At that moment, he truly believed he was hearing the voice of God.
But what stood beside him was no angel. It was the grim reaper.
Hank's jaw dropped. "But... but he's a killer!"
Ron clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Recruiting assassins isn't all that unusual. Intelligence agencies do it all the time. You need to get used to this."
He leaned in, voice low. "Hell, even drug dealers can get recruited—so long as they have value. You don't really believe that fried chicken guy built a nationwide distribution network on his own, do you?"
"Wait... he didn't?"
"Of course not. If there's no CIA involvement behind him, I'll eat my own badge," Ron scoffed. "The CIA using drugs to fund operations abroad? That's practically a traditional art form. Everyone in the intelligence world knows it."
"Otherwise, you think I couldn't tell his accounting reports are bogus? Come on—a nationwide drug empire making that little profit? You buying that? If that guy were really that useless, he might as well go flip burgers."
Hank was still trying to close his mouth. As a former deputy director of the DEA, his clearance was far below what the IRS or shadow intelligence units dealt with. This level of dirty truth was a major shock to his system.
Ron even had to nudge his jaw shut for him.
But now that Hank had a taste of how deep the rabbit hole went, the idea of recruiting a hitman didn't seem quite so crazy anymore.
"So what's the play, Boss?"
"I—" Ron had just opened his mouth when a sudden tat-tat-tat of gunfire rang out from the other rooftop. Arthur and his partner had finally been spotted by the cult leader's bodyguards. Bullets tore through the air.
Ron dropped to one knee and unzipped the large duffel bag at his feet, pulling out two sniper rifles. He handed one to Hank and kept the other for himself.
"Try not to reveal your position. I'll find a chance to make contact with them. You stay here and provide sniper cover."
With that, he mounted his rifle and peered through the scope.
By now, the gunfight had spilled from the building interior onto the rooftop. Arthur burst through the door, rolled across the floor, and dove toward the ledge. He used the window ledge of the lower level to drop and hide behind a raised structure on the rooftop, staying out of sight.
Two armed bodyguards had already stormed up behind him.
But Arthur didn't shoot.
"Hah! Poor bastard—he's out of ammo," Ron chuckled, watching through the scope as Arthur realized his desperate situation.
"Boss," Hank frowned, "I'm getting mixed signals here. Are you trying to recruit him, or hoping he gets killed?"
"Remember what I told you earlier?" Ron replied without looking away from the rifle scope. "If he can't even handle this, he's not worth recruiting. Do you know how hard(costly) it is to wrangle a federal pardon from the FBI?"
On the rooftop, the two meathead bodyguards fanned out, clueless, giving Arthur the perfect setup for a takedown.
Still crouched behind the rooftop ledge, Arthur didn't move a muscle—waiting, coiled like a snake. The moment one of the guards stepped too close, he struck. With a sudden lunge, he grabbed the guard's ankle and yanked hard, hurling the man straight off the roof.
The body hit the pavement over a hundred meters below with a wet crack, reduced to a pile of pulp.
"Brutal. I love it," Ron murmured, licking his lips with approval. He was already fond of this soon-to-be teammate. Hank, on the other hand, thought of the ground beef sandwich he had for breakfast and suddenly felt queasy.
Ron clapped him on the shoulder. "Hey, check this out. Those two clever bastards just rigged a zipline to escape off the roof. Smart thinking. You should try losing a few pounds—if it were you up there, I doubt that cable could handle the load."
"If it were me, I wouldn't need to escape," Hank shot back. "I'd have taken them out before they ever cornered me."
Meanwhile, things weren't going so smoothly for the second assassin. As they slid halfway down the makeshift zipline, one of the guards finally noticed them and smashed a window open, spraying bullets in their direction.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Shots ripped through the air, barely missing them by inches.
"Hank, give them a hand," Ron ordered calmly.
Hank had already lined up the shot. As soon as Ron gave the green light, his finger twitched on the trigger.
CRACK.
One bullet. One kill. Direct hit—right between the eyes.
A perfect red dot bloomed on the guard's forehead. He toppled from the window like a lifeless sack of potatoes.
Ron watched through the scope and smiled as Arthur glanced up, eyes wide with surprise.
"Perfect," Ron said. "Now... let's go say hello to our new friend."