Chapter 64: Nightclub Brawl
The officers who had been flirting with women in their arms just moments ago now froze in shock. They glanced at each other and quickly realized—their chief was missing. He'd been right there, sitting with a woman in a red dress.
They stood up and began scanning the club, and soon their eyes locked onto the VIP room, guarded by Veron's men. Without needing further prompting from Ron, they instinctively moved toward it—and a scuffle broke out with the gang members.
Veron's men, wary of their opponents being police officers, held back from using deadly force. The clash began as a shoving match.
Watching from the air duct, Ron shook his head.
This won't do at all.
As the saying goes, "A single cowardly soldier is a problem; a whole squad of cowards is a disaster." The cops led by that pathetic chief were just as useless.
Why are you shouting? Just fight already!
"Bunch of wimps," Ron sneered, watching the Miami PD rookies stumble around. "Good thing I came prepared."
He pulled out a small metal tin—a novelty item labeled "摔炮" ("snap pop") in Chinese, which he'd picked up earlier in Chinatown. He flicked one of the tiny fireworks down at the feet of a chubby officer.
BANG!
The loud crack echoed through the narrow corridor like a gunshot.
The startled officer hit the floor, convinced someone had opened fire. Seizing the moment, Ron distorted his voice and shouted:
"Veron's men are shooting! Grab your weapons, boys! Take them out!"
And then, without hesitation, Ron took aim at one of Veron's stunned henchmen—
BANG!
A real gunshot this time. The bullet hit him square between the eyes.
That was the spark.
Both sides panicked and drew their weapons. Gunfire erupted in the tight hallway—"Bang! Bang!"—and several men went down instantly. Some of the smarter ones dragged fallen comrades' bodies over as cover, and the whole corridor descended into chaos.
---
Outside, inside a disguised FBI command van (painted like an ice cream truck), the African-American commander's expression turned stormy as he heard the gunshots in his earpiece. He slammed the table.
"What the hell is Whitworth doing in there?! Who gave him the order to start a firefight with Veron's people?!"
None of the agents dared answer. The atmosphere in the van was tense and suffocating.
At last, one agent mustered the courage to ask,
"Sir, what now? Should we send in the unit and take Veron down?"
A mobile strike team had been stationed nearby for emergencies. The agent was suggesting they deploy it now.
The commander stared at the monitors in silence for several long seconds. Finally, he shook his head.
"No. Not yet. Surround the club and stay alert. Until the critical moment—don't spook the prey."
He hadn't even finished his sentence when the monitor lit up with a new image—
A figure, wearing FBI SWAT gear, darted agilely through the firefight inside the club, returning fire against Veron's men and supporting the cops.
The commander's jaw clenched.
BANG!
Ron shot a gang member peeking from behind a wall, then—without missing a beat—emptied his entire magazine into the corridor, suppressing enemy fire. He reloaded with swift precision and resumed shooting, transforming into a one-man turret.
Despite only using a handgun, his seamless reloads and aggressive shooting made him feel like a mounted machine gun. Veron's men couldn't even lift their heads.
The morale boost from this "FBI SWAT officer" was immediate. The police surged forward, seizing the opening Ron created. Within moments, they breached Veron's defenses.
The commander watching the feed could hardly believe his eyes. His hand trembled as he pointed at the screen:
"I told you to hold the SWAT team back! Whose man is that?!"
The agent responsible for the SWAT unit scrambled to confirm—
But reports came back immediately: None of the team had moved. Everyone was still on standby, just as ordered.
Now all the agents in the van were staring at the monitor in disbelief.
If none of their men had moved…
Then who the hell was that inside the club?
"I… I don't know, sir. All our people are outside. What should we do?"
The commander growled in frustration and stood up.
"What do you think we do?! The guy's already exposed. Mobilize everyone. Veron must NOT be allowed to escape!"
"Yes, sir!" A fully armed FBI assault team began advancing on the nightclub.
On the other side, Ron—who had been directing the police counterattack—heard the FBI SWAT deployment order through the earpiece he used to hack into the FBI's command system. Seizing the moment, he quickly slipped back into a blind spot of the surveillance cameras and, with a grace that belied his solid frame, disappeared into the ventilation duct.
Just like his entrance, he moved like a ghost—silent and invisible.
Meanwhile, the well-trained FBI SWAT team had stormed into the nightclub's main hall and was locked in a brutal firefight with Veron's men on the lower floor.
However, Veron wasn't someone who'd survived in Miami's underworld for years by luck. While his men lacked proper combat training, they made up for it with sheer numbers. They poured out from every corner of the nightclub, making it extremely difficult for the FBI to push forward.
The commander's expression darkened by the second. Unlike his subordinates, he understood that this was not just another raid—this operation was entangled with powerful forces at higher levels, a proxy war between hidden players.
His palms and forehead were slick with sweat.
If the item in Veron's possession fell into the wrong hands, his own career—and maybe his life—would be over.
"Sir, our people are starting to lose ground," one agent said anxiously. "Should we pull some teams from other areas to reinforce?"
As gunfire echoed in the background and tension reached its peak, the commander finally made his decision.
"Pull everyone back from the outer perimeter. Full priority: capture Veron!"
---
Ron, who had been listening in on the FBI's command channel, finally smiled.
His moment had come.
He had already slipped out of the nightclub earlier and was now up on the rooftop, where he'd stripped off the FBI SWAT uniform and left it behind. Only the earpiece remained in place.
"Thanks, Paige," he said softly into the mic. "If it weren't for you, I wouldn't have stood a chance cracking into the FBI's comms network."
A melodious female voice responded, dripping with sass:
"That just means your hacking skills are trash."
"Honestly, I'm not even surprised. Purely by IQ, even Sheldon—yeah, that idiot—is miles ahead of you."
Ron pouted, playing the fool.
"Why compare brains? Come race me in a marathon, swim meet—hell, pick any sport. The two of you combined wouldn't last a lap against me."
"Poor savage," Paige replied mockingly.
"Trying to recover your self-esteem through physical prowess? If we're talking sports, why not compete with a gorilla at the zoo? Do you know the biggest difference between humans and animals?"
Her voice dripped with sarcasm.
"It's intelligence, my dear little dimwit~"
"Okay, okay, timeout!" Ron quickly cut her off. "I'm still in the middle of a mission here. Can you tell me if the FBI's started withdrawing from the slums?"
"Let me check."
There was a brief pause, then Paige replied:
"Yup. They're on the move. If you leave now, you'll probably cross paths with them on Highway 1."
Ron blinked in surprise.
"Check? What do you mean 'check'?"
"Exactly what I said," Paige replied casually.
"I temporarily borrowed a military satellite just now and watched them board their vehicles. Any other questions?"
"…Nope. No questions."
What could Ron even say? For a top-tier hacker who could "borrow" a military satellite at will, all he could do was offer a silent salute in his heart:
> Damn. She's the real deal.
And thank goodness—she was on his side.