Chapter 63: Ron's Plan
With the immediate threat gone, Ron didn't release Monica right away. From her angle, she couldn't see much anyway—so he decided to have a little fun.
Leaning in close to her ear, he whispered, "Play along."
Then he kissed her—deeply.
Five minutes later, Monica gently pushed him away, her expression half-exasperated, half-amused.
"Alright, is that enough? Or can we finally talk business?"
As she spoke, she gestured toward the car's side mirror. From her position, it gave her a clear view of what was behind them. So… she'd been playing along the whole time?
Ron smirked inwardly, impressed. But he'd had enough fun. Business came first. There would be time for games later—after the mission.
"I just got here, so I'm still catching up. Do you have a plan?"
"You're late," Monica said, adjusting her disheveled clothing. "Veron's been looking for drivers. I just planted two FBI agents in the operation—they've already been selected."
"Let me guess," Ron said with a grin. "Detective O'Connor and the smooth-talking Black kid?"
Monica's shocked expression was all the confirmation he needed.
"I wasn't planning on driving for Veron anyway," Ron continued. "Not really my style. Besides—" He pointed upward. "The boss is getting impatient. I want to wrap this up fast. Ideally, within two days."
"Impossible," Monica shot back, staring at him like he was insane. "Do you have any idea how cautious that man is? You're an outsider. You couldn't get near him even if you tried."
"Who said I need to get close?" Ron replied coolly.
He walked over to the trunk of the car Yuri had left him, popped it open, and inspected the gear inside. A pleased nod. Yuri knew him well.
"So what's your plan?" Monica asked.
Ron's tone turned serious. "First, I need you to confirm something for me—where exactly is Veron keeping the evidence?"
Monica didn't hesitate. "It's hidden in the wall of a small shack in a coastal slum. Kept alongside his money. There are about ten men stationed there to guard it. More importantly, the FBI suspects something about that place—but they're not ready to make a move yet. They don't want to spook him."
"If you hadn't shown up and stirred the pot," she added, "he probably would've moved everything out by the end of the week."
At the mention of "money," Ron noticed a flash in Monica's eyes.
He paused to think. Something felt off.
According to the original plan, even Monica shouldn't know about that stash. In the end, Veron was supposed to send two trusted men—and an unlucky duo—to retrieve the money during his escape.
So why did Monica already know?
As if reading his mind, Monica suddenly leaned in, wrapping her arms around Ron's neck. With a mischievous twinkle in her eye, she whispered, "Wondering why I didn't tell that idiot from the FBI? Think about it—what's in it for me if I do? Don't forget, we're on the same side."
Ron instantly understood. She wanted a piece of the pie.
No wonder she'd kept quiet.
Well, what else could he expect from a woman who could tame a mob boss?
Still, he didn't mind cutting her in. The money was a bonus anyway—never part of the mission.
"Alright," Ron said with a grin. "Looks like we need a plan…"
After discussing the plan with Ron, Monica returned to Veron's side. She couldn't stay away too long without raising suspicion. Meanwhile, Ron had obtained Veron's complete schedule from her, which made planning his next move significantly easier.
A direct assault on Veron's hideout?
That would be the simplest solution—and the dumbest.
Ron was confident he could take out ten gang members on his own. But his real objective wasn't the money—it was the evidence. If the FBI caught wind of his actions during the operation, not only would it be difficult to smuggle the evidence away under their noses, but he himself would be exposed.
And that was something Ron could not allow.
He needed to extract both the money and the evidence—cleanly, quietly, and without leaving the faintest trace of his involvement.
Oddly enough, the biggest threat to his mission wasn't Veron's henchmen—it was the FBI.
Which is why Ron came up with a brilliant plan.
---
That night, Veron threw a lavish party at Oasis, one of Miami's most famous nightclubs, to entertain his loyal crew. The FBI agents watching his every move had, of course, infiltrated the place through various means.
But it wasn't just Veron's gang and the FBI in attendance.
There was also a third group—one that had been swinging between both sides like a pendulum: the local police, bought off by Veron and now riddled with corruption. They, too, were on the guest list.
From the rooftop of the building opposite the club, Ron observed the scene through binoculars. He didn't move until he spotted the bumbling Detective O'Connor and his clueless Black partner chatting with the club's security guards. Then, finally, he smiled.
"All the actors are in place. Time to start the show."
With that, Ron pulled down his mask and rappelled smoothly down the side of the building. He was now fully dressed in an FBI SWAT uniform.
---
Inside the club, Veron was conducting a far more sinister performance of his own.
He held a blowtorch in hand, slowly heating a metal bucket—a large rat trapped inside—placed upside down on the bare stomach of a fat, terrified man tied to a table.
The man was a local police chief—once on Veron's payroll, now assigned by the FBI to watch over Veron's assets. When Veron demanded he pull his men back, the man refused.
So Veron decided to make an example of him, right in front of the two new recruits.
"I'm a cop, Veron! You can't do this to me!" the man screamed. "If anything happens to me, every cop outside will come down on you!"
From inside the bucket, the rat squeaked and clawed at the metal, the sounds echoing eerily.
Veron didn't flinch.
He calmly turned on the torch and aimed it at the bucket.
"Listen," he said coldly. "When it gets too hot in there, the rat's going to panic. It'll want out. And since the bucket's sealed… it'll have to dig."
He leaned in, voice dark.
"Wanna guess where it'll dig?"
The man's eyes went wide with horror. He tried to scream, but a henchman clamped a hand over his mouth. He squirmed helplessly.
"It's biting me!" the man managed to yell during a brief gap—but his voice was drowned out by the blaring club music outside.
Veron gave a nod, and the man's mouth was gagged again.
The bucket began to glow red from the heat. The rat inside stopped squealing. That wasn't a good sign—it meant it was now digging.
"Tell your men to back off!" Veron growled.
"Call them off!"
---
Meanwhile, Ron had already made his way inside the club through the ventilation system.
The officers the police chief had brought with him were in the lounge, laughing and gambling with Veron's "hostesses," completely unaware that their superior was currently being tortured in the back room.
Ron peeked through the vent, smirking as he looked at the drunken, off-duty cops.
Then he yelled out:
"Veron's men just took the chief! Grab your gear—we're getting him back!"