Chapter 93: What Is Art?
"I really thought you were going to shove that girl's hand into the meat grinder," Arthur said, eyeing Ron with a look that could only be described as admiration—which made Ron's scalp tingle.
What the hell? Is this guy… into me? All I did was use the same scare tactic he would've used!
"Come on," Ron scoffed. "Interrogation is always part bluff, part intimidation. As long as you scare them enough, you can get them to confess everything—including when they started peeking at the neighbor in the shower as a kid. That's standard IRS protocol."
He smirked. "I just didn't expect the meat grinder to be that effective."
In the backseat, poor Hank had no clue what they were talking about. If he had a soul from China, he'd probably be humming: "I should be under the car… not in it~"
---
Colby Square, Building No. 300 was a tall office tower. Ron parked across the street in a nearby garage. As they exited, Arthur offered a plan.
"I'll call Dean and trace the signal through this building's tower. Once I locate his office, we can move in."
"Nah," Ron waved him off and popped the trunk. "Too complicated. Hank, bring these two cases up to the rooftop, open them once you're there, and wait for further orders. You're on overwatch."
He turned to Arthur. "You and I? We're taking the elevator and going straight in. Guns blazing."
"You're insane!" Arthur snapped. "Do you have any idea how many men Dean has? We need a carefully orchestrated plan. Something surgical—maybe ambush his convoy en route, use large vehicles to split their formation—"
Arthur kept ranting, the longest Ron had ever heard him speak. Usually the guy was all ice and silence, but now that Ron's reckless plan was out in the open, he couldn't hold back anymore.
Ron raised a finger to his lips. "Shhh. Relax. Let's not forget—helping you get revenge is just a bonus. My real mission is to obtain Dean's financial records and transaction logs. Priorities, my dear Agent Arthur."
Arthur refused to back down. "Do I need to remind you he has at least 50 highly trained assassins acting as bodyguards?"
Ron smirked, holding his phone up to Arthur's face. "Actually, I'm way ahead of you. He's currently in Office E on the 23rd floor. Including the lounge and a few other suites they've rented, there are exactly 54 guards stationed around him."
He flicked through surveillance feeds on his phone.
"They're heavily armed with FN P90s—first-gen models from the 1991 production batch. Powerful little beasts… though they have a minor flaw. Occasional jamming issues."
On the screen, crystal-clear surveillance footage showed every corridor and room. Ron tapped and scrolled through views like he was holding blueprints to the building itself.
Arthur's jaw dropped. "How did you get this?!"
"If you mean the live feed," Ron said smugly, "my tech-savvy girlfriend just hacked into the building's security system."
"And if you're talking about the weapon models and batch numbers? Let's just say I have a very well-informed arms dealer friend. All of Dean's weapons came from him."
At last, Arthur surrendered. "Fine. You're the boss."
---
Ten minutes later, Ron used his federal authority to issue a building-wide evacuation order through the property management company. Every floor except the assassin agency's was cleared out.
Huffing and puffing, Hank dragged the heavy cases up to the rooftop. Following Ron's instructions, he opened them—only to find the most bizarre contents imaginable.
"…Boss?" he radioed in. "Are you sure you gave me the right boxes? These things look like my nephew's Christmas presents—remote-control helicopters with four rotors. They look like some kind of multi-headed flying monster."
Hank unpacked the contents of the cases. In front of him were seven drones—one large, six small.
"I'm positive I brought the right stuff," Ron's voice crackled through his earpiece. "Don't underestimate those things. In the future, these little guys will change the face of warfare."
---
Meanwhile, Ron and Arthur had taken the elevator to the 24th floor. Once they exited into the emergency stairwell, Ron immediately notified the building's management to shut down all elevator access.
"How's the view from your position?" he asked Hank. "Can you see Dean's office?"
"Clear as day," Hank replied enthusiastically. "Want me to take him out with one shot?"
He had just mounted a grenade-launching sniper rifle and was dying to test it in a real firefight.
"No," Ron said sharply. "I need Dean alive—to tell me where the hell he's hiding the money. That bastard has less than fifty grand total in all his known accounts. He has to be hiding the real stash somewhere else."
"As you wish, boss," Hank said, sticking his tongue out as he re-aimed at a nearby room. "Can I start now?"
"Go."
With that single command ringing in his headset, Hank gently squeezed the trigger.
Thump.
A 40mm grenade whooshed out of the launcher, smashed through the office tower's glass, and landed inside the security guard breakroom.
BOOM!
The high-explosive grenade detonated. On Ron's phone, the surveillance feed burst into fire and static. When the smoke cleared, not a single soul remained alive in that room.
Across the street, Hank's adrenaline was surging. He was ecstatic, almost giddy.
Boss wasn't lying—this thing is freakin' awesome!
---
"What the hell's going on?!" Dean shouted, ducking under his desk and yelling toward the door. "Is that you, Arthur, you son of a bitch?! Kill him! Kill—"
BOOM!
The second grenade crashed through another office's window and slammed into the wall. This time, it blew the entire wall apart.
Just then, Dean's phone vibrated. A message from Arthur flashed on the screen, quoting a classic line from the state governor:
"I'm back."
Ron grinned. Perfect delivery. Full marks for dramatic flair.
---
Dean, now thoroughly rattled by two consecutive explosions, shouted frantically to his bodyguards. "It's Arthur! He's in the building! Get me out of here, NOW!"
But the guards were still stunned from the attack—unable to organize themselves—when the remaining six drones on the rooftop sprang to life.
With a synchronized whir, their rotors spun up and the heavy-bodied drones lifted off. Hank stared in awe as they soared through the sky, effortlessly crossing the 300-meter gap between buildings.
They entered the shattered office windows in a tight formation, zipped through the blown-apart rooms, and moved into the corridor like a small army.
None of the hired assassins had ever seen anything like it. For a moment, they were so stunned they forgot to fire.
Then, from the tiny speakers on the drones, Ron's voice boomed:
"Gentlemen… do you know what art is?"