Chapter 56: Is This Disease Contagious?
"How about it? That tax rate's not too high, right?" Ron said with a bright smile.
"As for the taxes you've previously evaded, I think a $10 million fine should cover it. We'll consider the matter closed after that—no further investigation."
Uncle Fried Chicken nearly choked on his own rage.
70%—and that's not high?
That's $70 in taxes for every $100 of income.
At that rate, I might as well be working for you, huh?
But Uncle Fried Chicken didn't argue. He knew there was no room for negotiation here—not with a revolver under the table and a sniper scope aimed at his head from outside.
"No problem," he gritted out, hunched over the table, seriously filling out the tax forms.
He pushed a freshly signed check for $10 million across the table.
"As for the rest of the tax payment, you'll need to wait a few days. The shipments just went out, and I haven't received payment from the dealers yet."
Ron took the check and tax forms without hesitation.
In return, he pulled out a pre-prepared "Tax Payment Adjustment Certificate," signed it with a flourish, and handed it over.
If not for the handgun under the table and the sniper on overwatch, it could've passed for a normal business transaction between two corporate execs.
"Pleasure doing business~" Ron beamed and extended a hand.
He even gave Uncle Fried Chicken's hand a firm shake.
The IRS rewarded up to 30% of recovered taxes as a bonus.
What was 30% of $10 million again? That's right—$3 million.
Just thinking about it made Ron's heart race.
If he moved quickly and bought a few traditional siheyuan courtyards in Beijing before the Olympics, he'd be set for life.
Tsk, tsk. The very idea sent a thrill down his spine—early retirement, financial freedom, no more grind.
Unfortunately, all he could do was daydream. It was still 2007, and while China welcomed foreign investment, it came with strict regulations—mostly limited to tangible industries. Speculative ventures like real estate weren't a sure bet. Ron wasn't sure it would even be legal.
Maybe he should find a specialist to ask...
Still, there was no denying it—robbing drug dealers was the fastest way to get rich. In the blink of an eye, he'd achieved what most people dreamed of: financial freedom.
Pity the money wasn't entirely his.
When Ron first proposed his plan to target drug lords, he was told very clearly:
He'd get full law enforcement authority, and even advance funding and equipment—but none of it was free. Everything had to be repaid—with interest.
Just his weapons stash and office space already racked up a $500,000 debt to IRS headquarters.
Plus, his Special Task Force operated independently. That meant, aside from standard salaries, there was no official budget.
So even though Ron had discretionary control over the funds, a huge chunk would need to go toward maintaining the team—like bonuses for Hank and Andy, or upgrading equipment.
"Working with you people is anything but pleasant," Uncle Fried Chicken muttered, shaking Ron's hand with the enthusiasm of someone touching a dead rat.
He quickly pulled away and wiped his palm with a tissue, as if Ron carried some sort of infectious disease.
Ron didn't mind in the slightest.
After forcing someone into a corner like that, you had to expect a bit of attitude.
Uncle Fried Chicken's face was pale.
The thought of that massive payment he'd just handed over made his heart bleed, but what could he do? Ron had played him like a fiddle today.
---
Ron got back in his car and drove to the rendezvous point to meet up with Hank.
"How'd it go, boss? All smooth?" Hank asked, sitting in the passenger seat.
He was lovingly polishing a newly acquired prize—a Russian-made VSS Vintorez, a suppressed sniper rifle chambered in 9mm.
In video games, it was often seen as a throwaway weapon—barely worth picking up. But in real life, it performed far better.
At ranges up to 400 meters, it could penetrate standard body armor.
With low recoil, easy handling, and excellent concealability, it was a weapon that demanded respect.
"Smooth as butter. What else could he do?" Ron grinned, practically smiling from ear to ear.
But when he caught sight of the rifle in Hank's arms, he frowned slightly.
"Didn't know you were into sniper rifles."
"Of course! I was a sniper during my time in the military, sir," Hank replied proudly.
"Well then, in that case…" Ron rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
"Maybe I can get you something better. We just made a ton of money off Uncle Fried Chicken—pick whatever weapon you want. Don't worry about the budget."
Ron thumped his chest with the confidence of a man swimming in cash.
"Whatever you need, I got you. We're loaded now. No more scrimping!"
He was already planning to replace every computer in the office with the latest high-end models—might even sneak in a few gaming sessions during downtime.
But Hank just shook his head.
"No need. This is all I want."
He gently caressed the sniper rifle in his arms with a tenderness that made Ron wonder if Hank was even half this affectionate with his wife.
"In urban environments, the distance from cover to target rarely exceeds 300 meters. At that range, nothing beats this baby—low recoil, easy to conceal, and if I miss the first shot, I can quickly follow up with a second, even a third."
"Follow-up shots? That sounds like too much work."
Ron scoffed. "Why not just end it in one shot?"
"Because," Hank said plainly, "even the best snipers in the world can't guarantee a perfect hit every time. And I'm not that good—yet."
Ron turned serious. "Wrong. That's your mindset holding you back. Who told you a sniper's job is only complete when the bullet hits the target?"
"Isn't it?" Hank looked genuinely confused. "If you don't hit the target, how do you kill it?"
"Who says you have to hit the target directly?"
Ron's face lit up with a saintly glow, slipping into full preacher mode.
It was time to bestow upon this backward-thinking American the enlightened strategies from the East.
"The goal of sniping is to make sure the target dies, right?"
Hank nodded. "Obviously."
"But who says the bullet has to pierce the target's body for that to happen?"
Hank furrowed his brow. "What other way is there? If you don't hit them, how else do you kill them?"
Ron leaned back and gave a sage-like sigh.
"Your vision is too narrow, my friend. Imagine—if your firepower is strong enough, say, you're using artillery. Even if you don't score a direct hit, if that shell lands near your target, the shockwave and shrapnel will be more than enough to turn them into ground meat.
And the best part? You don't even need pinpoint accuracy!"
Hank's expression started to shift. Ron could see the gears turning.
The heavy firepower virus was spreading.
"…That's really possible?" Hank asked, uncertain. "But… artillery isn't exactly portable."