Chapter 50: Clock Out and Go Home
"Boss? Boss, what's the situation inside? Need backup?" Hank's anxious voice crackled through the radio on Ron's chest.
Hank had been guarding the back door and only managed to take out one low-level thug so far. Hearing the blasts and gunfire inside the laundromat, he couldn't help but worry about his new boss.
"All good, mostly—" Ron didn't even finish before a thug jumped out from behind a pile of clothes trying to ambush him. Ron smashed him to the ground with the butt of his gun. "Okay, all done. You can come in."
"Wait! You can't do this! Even criminals have rights! I swear, I'll… I'll call the cops!" The thug Ron had at gunpoint stammered in terror, trying to sound threatening but sounding more like a scared puppy.
Call the cops? A drug dealer calling the police? Is this guy some comedian Uncle Chicken hired?
"Call the cops? I am the f**king cops, moron!" Ron barked with a laugh, shoving the barrel of his shotgun straight into the thug's mouth.
"Listen up. I'm looking for the entrance to the drug lab. You've got ten seconds to tell me where it is. Ten, eight, six—"
Ron smirked as he counted down. The thug's eyes went wide with panic.
"Wait! Isn't it supposed to be nine after ten?"
"I like even numbers. You got a problem with that? Four, two…"
Suddenly, Ron wrinkled his nose. A foul stench hit him. He looked down—there was a large wet patch on the thug's pants.
Mouth still full of shotgun barrel, the thug mumbled frantically, "Stop! Stop! I'll tell you! The entrance is in that big washing machine—please don't kill me!"
Ron turned his attention to the oversized washing machine. Even after two barrages, its exterior still looked solid—must've been reinforced with some bulletproof material. Impressive.
He yanked the barrel out of the thug's mouth and nudged him toward the machine with a jab to the back of the head. "Go open it. And don't try anything stupid. Not that I don't trust you—it's just that my trigger finger's kinda twitchy today. You understand~"
Trigger finger, my ass, the thug thought, trembling. He knelt down, pressed something under the washer, and with a click, the front opened to reveal a wide corridor leading underground.
"There's no other exit down there, is there?" asked Hank, who had just entered through the back.
The thug shook his head furiously, like a bobblehead on overdrive. "No! I swear! That's Flynn's lab down there. For secrecy, there's no exit anywhere else!"
Hank stopped Ron, who was about to go in. "Boss, my brother-in-law might be down there. Let me go instead."
Ron nodded and shoved the thug toward the corridor. "Then let him lead the way. If anything seems off, feel free to pull the trigger. Don't worry—just blame it on a 'weapons malfunction.' I'll make sure no one holds it against you."
The thug instantly straightened up, suddenly very well-behaved.
"Atta boy," Ron chuckled, patting his cheek. "Uncle Ron's gun likes good little boys."
Hank shrugged, mimicking Ron's exaggerated nonchalance. Honestly, he didn't know what to make of this boss—dark humor, bad attitude, but... kind of effective?
No accountability, bold moves, generous bonuses—who wouldn't want a boss like that?
Well, maybe Hank was getting ahead of himself. Ten minutes later, he came back upstairs with the thug and a chubby, confused-looking man in tow. Definitely not the guy in the brother-in-law's photo.
"Boss," Hank reported, "we checked the whole place. Didn't find anyone else. This guy's Gail, my brother-in-law's partner. Looks like my brother-in-law had a falling-out with Flynn and didn't show. What now?"
Ron pointed the muzzle at the thug again. "Hey kid, does your boss know what happened here yet?"
"No, I swear! He doesn't know anything. Everything happened too fast. No one had time to report!"
"Perfect," Ron grinned. "Then you're free to go. Tell your boss what happened here. And let him know the IRS wants a word. He should already have a good idea of how much tax he owes. I'm sure Mr. Gail here would be more than happy to share the sales numbers with us. Right?"
Gail, who'd been trembling since he saw the bodies, nodded furiously like a dashboard bobblehead on speed.
Ron glanced at his watch. "Given all this noise, those clowns at the FBI should've caught on by now. Alright boys, we're done here."
---
Fifteen minutes later, Jack finally arrived at the scene. Looking at the blown-up laundromat and the giant IRS stencil painted on the front, he let out a long, pained sigh. Pulling out his phone, he made a call.
"National Guard? Yeah, you don't need to come anymore. It's just the IRS screwing around again. Artillery? I'd love to know where the hell they got it too!"
He paused, then added, "Yes, I'm serious. It's not a terrorist attack…"
---
While Jack was still busy covering Ron's tracks, Ron himself was already back home, lounging comfortably. As for poor Gail—since he wasn't exactly a dangerous threat—Ron and Hank had just tied him up, stuffed him into a laundry sack, and tossed him into the garage at Special Ops HQ. Neither of them brought up untying him.
There was plenty of time later for interrogations and audits. For now, their adorable new guest could enjoy a cozy night tied up.
First things first: Ron had a report to file. Multiple terrorist groups had already come forward claiming credit for the incident, and the Pentagon's phones were ringing off the hook.
Even Ron's shadowy boss, Francis, had called to chew him out.
"Ron, are you brain-dead? Who the hell uses a multi-tube rocket launcher in the city!?"
But once Ron mentioned the potential tax revenue—and a generous "donation" they'd be collecting from the grateful drug lord—Francis' temper vanished.
"Next time, if you're planning something that insane, at least tell the Pentagon. The President thought we were under attack. I barely convinced him it was a training exercise."
"Sure, next time," Ron replied, utterly insincere, as he opened his apartment door.
Inside was a woman. Average body, below-average looks, but exuding pure, unapologetic sultriness. Her eyes locked onto Ron like a predator eyeing prey.
He'd seen that look before, usually from thirsty barflies. But none were as... intense as this one.
"Hi, I'm Christy. What's your name, cowboy~?" she purred, reaching for his chest and pressing her body close.