Chapter 92: "But I Was Here First!"
"Boss, I don't get it—why the hell am I stuck in the same car as a hitman?!" Hank grumbled from the backseat, clutching his LG5 sniper grenade launcher like it was a safety blanket, as the car rumbled toward the suburbs.
Up front, in the driver and passenger seats, sat Ron and Arthur.
Ron understood Hank's hostility toward Arthur all too well. Ever since Ron ordered Hank to provide sniper cover for Arthur's escape last time, Hank had been grumbling non-stop. Not because he was ordered to fire on the cult's bodyguards—that part didn't bother him. Hank, ever the righteous soldier, had no moral qualms about killing bloodstained thugs.
No, Hank just thought assassins were scum too. In a perfect world, both sides would wipe each other out.
But fate had other plans. Now he had to work with one.
"He's a top-tier infiltrator," Ron said, glancing at Hank through the rearview mirror. "He's also our new teammate. Of course, if you think you can pull off a silent assassination as flawlessly as he did last time with the cult leader, I don't mind shooting him right now and letting you take over."
"I could've, once…" Hank muttered, lowering his eyes to the beer belly now struggling against the seatbelt. He found himself wistfully recalling his Navy SEAL days—back when he was the top sniper in the team.
Back then, he drove the coolest cars, drank the strongest liquor, and—well, no, he never had Ron's womanizing streak. But those were good days. Now he was out of the service and going soft.
"You still could, Hank," Ron teased. "But you've got to face reality. As the old saying goes, 'Time is a butcher's knife.' You know what that means."
"Turn left here," Arthur cut in, checking his weapon. "That house with the green swing set in the yard—that's Finch's place."
Finch was Arthur's exclusive contact with the assassin organization—a so-called "hitman broker." Even Arthur, the company's top killer, didn't know the location of their HQ. Everything was handled through Finch.
Finch held all the secrets. And he was bound to protect them.
Ron pulled the car to a stop outside the house.
"Hank, stay here and keep watch. Arthur and I are going in."
Ron didn't trust Hank not to hesitate if things got messy with women or kids involved. Best to leave him behind. Hank, clearly displeased, gave a silent nod—but his glare toward Arthur darkened.
He hadn't even officially joined the Special Ops team, and Ron was already treating Arthur like a new favorite. In the past, Ron brought Hank along for every violent op. Now? It was Arthur.
Damn it! I was here first!
Ding-dong!
Ron nodded, and Arthur rang the doorbell. A rather plain-looking blonde woman opened the door. Before she could say a word, Arthur drew his pistol and shoved her inside at gunpoint.
"Wow," Ron said, following close behind and shutting the door. "Such a gentleman, aren't you?"
"Good morning, Finch," he added cheerfully.
Finch, who had just emerged from the living room with a gun drawn, froze when he saw what was happening—his wife and daughter huddled on the floor, crying, with Arthur's gun aimed at their heads.
"What the hell do you want?!" Finch shouted, waving his pistol between Ron and Arthur. "Let them go!"
BANG!
Ron casually shot the weapon from Finch's hand.
"Sorry. I hate it when people point guns at my head. Didn't anyone ever teach you manners?"
He stepped forward and kicked Finch to the floor. Then, without hesitation, he ground his heel into the wounded hand over and over.
"I assume you recognize Arthur here—no need for introductions. He's one of my men now. Which means I shouldn't need to explain why we're here."
Ron crouched beside him, eyes cold.
"I'm only going to ask this once. Where's Dean?"
Ron's gentle smile stood in chilling contrast to his current actions, making the atmosphere all the more terrifying. Anyone else in Finch's position would've broken down and told them everything by now. But not Finch—he just kept screaming in pain, stubbornly shouting, "I don't know!"
Arthur was just about to take action, but Ron gave him a slight shake of the head to stop.
"Well, it seems Mr. Finch still doesn't quite grasp the seriousness of his situation~" Ron remarked casually. He picked up Finch's dropped pistol and strolled over to the family still held at gunpoint.
With deliberate calm, Ron grabbed Finch's daughter by the arm and dragged her toward the industrial meat grinder sitting by the kitchen counter. He flipped the power switch.
The machine roared to life with a deep, menacing hum. Finch's face went pale.
"Let her go! What are you doing?!" he screamed.
Ron didn't answer. Instead, he brought the girl's hand close to the grinder's opening, a villainous grin spreading across his face.
"I'm thinking we start with her fingers," he said. "And then slowly feed in the rest of her arm—piece by piece. How fast we go depends entirely on how quickly you start talking."
He leaned in closer. "If you're quick enough, she might even get to keep a bone or two. Otherwise, maybe buy her a copy of The Return of the Condor Heroes—she'll need to learn how to conquer life with just one arm."
Without warning, Ron slammed his hand down.
VRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!
The grinder screamed. The girl shrieked in terror as a burst of red pulp sprayed from the machine, splattering across her clothes like a horror scene come to life.
"STOP! LET HER GO!" Finch roared, eyes bloodshot with panic.
But Ron simply pressed her arm down a little further. The girl was now screaming hysterically, her upper body soaked in gore.
"300 Colby Square!" Finch collapsed to the ground, sobbing. "I swear, he's there! Please, let her go!"
Ron and Arthur exchanged a glance. A nod. He was telling the truth.
Satisfied, Ron switched off the machine and released the girl's hand. She scrambled to her mother, who wrapped her in trembling arms.
Miraculously, the girl's hand was completely unharmed.
Ron grinned like a mischievous kid who just pulled off the ultimate prank. He held up a bloody chunk of raw beef he'd secretly palmed earlier.
"Oops. Sorry—I may have just ruined your steak," he said, entirely unapologetic. "But if you're open to trying something new, I'd recommend beef and scallion dumplings."
He winked. "I swear on my love life, they're delicious."
The mother wept uncontrollably, holding her daughter. "God… you monster!"
Ron didn't react. His gaze remained fixed on Finch, who had just begun to breathe again.
"Too early to relax," Ron warned. "I think you know what's going to happen next."
He leaned in, voice low and cold.
"So here's my advice: book the earliest flight out of town. Take your whole family. When you get back—if you get back—change your address. Better yet, change your names."
"I'll wipe Dean's operation off the map," Ron continued, "but a broker who leaks intel? Every assassin agency in the world will come hunting for you."