Chapter 95: The End and the Time Machine
BANG!
Ron fired six shots in rapid succession. The speed was so fast that it sounded like a single shot. Six bodyguards who had poked their heads out each collapsed with a fresh bullet hole in their skulls.
Two rounds remained in his revolver.
Arthur, eyeing Ron's weapon, couldn't help but comment. Ron noticed and said:
"Smith & Wesson M327. Fires .357 Magnum rounds. Eight-round cylinder. I upgraded it recently—someone said six shots weren't enough. If you like it, I'll get you one."
Arthur shook his head. "Nah. I just don't get why anyone would still use a revolver as their primary weapon. I'll stick with my P226."
"Maybe you should upgrade to a more modern automatic," Ron offered. "It'd let your marksmanship really shine. I mean, revolvers don't have the best gas sealing. You know~"
Now it was Ron's turn to shake his head. Switch to an automatic? Who's going to give me the skills to use it?
Without his revolver-specific perks, there was no point. The stat bonuses might look small, almost negligible—but Ron knew better. Without those bonuses, he wouldn't be able to pull off the rapid-fire stunts he copied from video games.
"You're still young. You don't get it," Ron said, full of veteran swagger. "Convenience is temporary. Style? Style lasts a lifetime."
Arthur was speechless. With this many corpses around... who exactly are you trying to impress with your 'style'?
He did a quick count. "Fifty-four bodies. That means Dean's the only one left."
"Right here," Ron said, dragging Dean out like a sack of potatoes, completely ignoring his pleas. He dumped him at Arthur's feet. "You've got twenty minutes. I want to know where he's stashed all his money. Show me what you've got—I'd rather not have to get my hands dirty every time we need to interrogate someone."
Dean fell to his knees, groveling. "Please! Don't kill me! I have money—so much money! More than you can imagine! Whatever you want, it's yours!"
He might've been a successful businessman, but he was no hardened soul.
"Ten minutes is all I'll need," Arthur said confidently.
Sure enough, ten minutes later, a single gunshot echoed from the office.
Arthur stepped out alone, handing Ron a piece of paper with a location scribbled on it.
"This guy converted all his cash into gold and hid it out here—some run-down place in the middle of nowhere. No guards. It's an old family house. Get this—he buried all the gold inside his father's coffin."
"It's worth about 80 million dollars, not even counting the recent spike in gold prices."
"Nice work." Ron gave him a rare nod of approval. "You and Hank take care of the retrieval. I'm clocking out."
After an exhausting morning of firefights and explosions, Ron was dead tired. He planned to grab a bite, head home, and sleep. He had no interest in personally hauling gold bricks.
As for the possibility of Arthur and Hank running off with the money? Ron wasn't worried in the slightest.
Hank was an honest man, devoted to his wife. There was no way he'd throw away a stable life just to become a fugitive.
Arthur, on the other hand, had always wanted to leave the assassin life. The only reason he hadn't was because of how hard it was to walk away clean. But now, thanks to Ron, not only did he have a way out, he had a new identity—completely laundered.
Only an idiot would take the money and run, with the IRS and half the alphabet soup of federal agencies on their tail.
Not to mention, the two of them working together meant they could keep each other in check.
Ron had zero worries.
Right now, all he wanted was a good night's sleep.
Even if he skipped the food, he had to sleep.
God knows how exhausted he was—he'd been fighting non-stop from last night until midday today.
First against Max...
Then against a bunch of scumbag hitmen who should've gone straight to hell.
Even a perpetual motion machine needs a break once in a while, right?
When Ron finally got home, he ran into a bit of trouble.
The staircase to his apartment was completely blocked—by a large, ornate contraption that looked like it had been ripped straight out of the Victorian era. And the mastermind behind this mess?
His beloved younger brother.
"Push harder, guys! Come on!" Sheldon was shouting from the top of the stairs, while Howard and Raj struggled to shove the massive object upward from below.
"If I push any harder," Howard groaned, "I'm gonna deliver my colon right here."
Ron let out a long-suffering sigh and greeted them:
"Hey, guys."
The two nerds on top reflexively stopped and waved.
"Hey~ Ron!"
That's when the oversized machine slipped and started sliding back down the stairs.
Raj, ever the unpredictable one, leapt out of the way just in time. The contraption nearly crushed Howard—but Ron caught it with one hand just in time.
"Thanks, man," Howard gasped, clutching his chest. "You saved my life."
Ron carefully lowered the contraption onto the steps and looked around with exasperation.
"Okay, what the hell is this? You didn't steal school equipment to turn our home into a lab, did you?"
He narrowed his eyes.
"Because if that's the plan, I'm moving out. I'm not sticking around just to get blown up by one of your weird experiments. You know how annoying it is to climb stairs every day because you guys blew up the elevator? If Mom hadn't asked me to keep an eye on Sheldon, I'd have moved out ages ago."
"I'm an adult," Sheldon huffed. "I don't need your supervision."
Ron smirked.
"Oh? You mean the kind of adult who reads comic books every night? I saw your shampoo. It's branded Skywalker. You know that's a product line made for twelve-year-olds, right?"
"That's conditioner," Sheldon corrected.
Leonard, trying to defuse the situation, jumped in:
"It's a time machine! A replica. From a movie! Nothing dangerous, really."
He looked guilty as hell. And with good reason—despite Sheldon being the usual instigator, it was Leonard who accidentally blew up the elevator.
Ron tilted his head and examined the thing more closely.
"Hmm. I didn't know this thing was operational. Think it can send me back to when I was ten? I'd take a sports almanac with me, bet on every winning game, and buy up all the Google, Apple, and Facebook stock. Right now I could be out on a yacht, fishing with a hundred busty supermodels."
"You're thinking of Back to the Future," Sheldon said, suddenly serious—as he always was when sci-fi accuracy was involved. "Their time machine was a modified DeLorean DMC-12. This is the time machine from the movie The Time Machine."
"Blah blah blah~" Ron mocked, perfectly imitating Sheldon's tone. "So, can it travel through time or not?"
"Of course not. It's just a movie prop replica. Scientifically speaking—"
Before Sheldon could launch into one of his hour-long lectures, Ron cut him off:
"If it doesn't actually work, then I don't care. And I definitely don't need a science seminar on the staircase. So, how about you guys move your little time machine out of the way and let me go home and get some sleep?"
---