Chapter 66: The Cleanup
"He's on the roof—he's coming down! Take him out!"
One of Verone's thugs spotted Ron's silhouette descending and swung his rifle toward him, but before he could even pull the trigger, Ron riddled him with bullets. The man collapsed in a twitching heap.
But even in death, he managed to alert the others.
Two more thugs scrambled to the windows, raising their rifles to return fire. But the moment Ron's boots hit the ground, he fired instinctively—two short bursts, one toward the door, one toward the window—without even aiming.
The suppressive fire was so relentless the gunmen couldn't even lift their heads, leaving them ducked and dazed.
Four men. Four rifles.
And all of them were being pinned down by one guy with a handgun. Anyone hearing about it would think it was pure fiction.
Don't let action movies fool you—handguns and rifles are worlds apart. It's not just about size.
Rifles hit harder, shoot faster, and aim straighter.
Take the AK-47, the favorite toy of gangs and warlords. Its rate of fire? 600 rounds per minute.
Most pistols? Maybe 300 rounds a minute on a good day—half the speed and none of the punch.
And yet… Ron had them all under control.
That was partly due to his terrifying marksmanship—but also thanks to the odd, unregistered firearm left behind by Yuri.
The Beretta M93R—officially a handgun, but in reality a baby submachine gun. In burst mode, it fired three-round bursts at 1100 rounds per minute. With a 20-round mag, it felt like holding a cheat code in your hand.
"Is this what having infinite ammo feels like?" Ron thought, grinning like a kid in an arcade.
Can't blame him for being so giddy.
Ron had spent his whole life using revolvers under old man Jack's tutelage—classic guns built for precision, not speed.
This was the first time he'd held something with this much firepower in a small frame.
It felt amazing.
But… the results were disappointing.
Aside from the idiot who stood there and got shredded before he could react, all of Ron's shots had missed.
"Tch. Guess it's not that great after all."
He was starting to miss his trusty revolvers—especially with the sharpshooter trait that enhanced his precision.
"Rat-tat-tat!"
While Ron was swapping mags, the thugs inside took the opportunity to unleash a spray of bullets from their rifles.
But their aim?
Pitiful.
Ron didn't even bother dodging. He stood casually in the open, arms spread mockingly, a smug smirk on his face. Bullets sliced through the air around him, whistling past harmlessly.
Then, he raised a middle finger toward the window.
"Trash."
Honestly, what kind of combat ability could you expect from guys working for Verone—a crime boss known more for money than muscle? These guys were barely above street punks. They were even worse than the Korean gang Ron had beaten up earlier.
At least they had earned their scars with blood and steel.
Ron pulled the pin on a tear gas grenade and lobbed it through the window.
Fssshhh—
Smoke poured out instantly, filling the room in seconds. Unsurprisingly, none of the thugs inside had gas masks.
"Cough! Cough! We surrender! Don't shoot!"
Choking and panicked, the gangsters stumbled out of the building, falling over themselves to get away from the gas.
But Ron had already reloaded. He stood waiting calmly, gun raised.
Even if this hadn't been a covert mission, Ron had no habit of taking prisoners.
He met their desperate eyes with cold finality.
"Sorry—surrender's not an option. Goodbye, gentlemen."
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Three shots. Three bodies hit the ground, still and silent.
---
"Finally done. Man, what a long night..."
Ron did a quick headcount. Four down inside the main house. Three in each of the side houses via grenade launcher. Ten in total—perfect match with the intel.
And through it all, the surrounding slum remained dead silent, as if the whole neighborhood was pretending to sleep through it.
Ron glanced around and muttered,
"Cowardly leeches… every last one of them."
But there was no anger in his voice—on the contrary, he seemed delighted.
"Now comes the fun part: loot box opening time! Let's see what surprises are waiting inside~"
Like a stage actor delivering his final bow, Ron drove the car up to the house, gestured dramatically to the shadows around him, and gave a gentleman's bow.
Then he turned and sauntered through the door.
As Ron turned back toward the house, the corners of his mouth lifted in a noticeable smirk.
Unlike the earlier dead silence, he now clearly heard a restless stir from the nearby buildings.
Heh. I'm not afraid of you coming for it—I'm afraid you won't.
If you all just sit tight and play dead, then who am I supposed to pin this on?
A few minutes later, Ron strolled out of the house carrying two large bags stuffed with cash.
How did everyone know what was in the bags?
Well, that might have something to do with the fact that the zippers were deliberately left wide open, revealing stacks of fresh green dollar bills glittering under the flickering streetlight—damaged earlier by Ron's own grenade.
It was like watching a supermodel strut naked in front of a bunch of starving wolves just released from ten years in solitary.
From every cracked window and shattered pane, pairs of glowing green eyes peered out, wide with hunger and greed.
If it hadn't been for the fact that Ron had just single-handedly taken out the entire Verone gang, someone would've made a move already.
"Bunch of mutts," Ron scoffed inwardly.
He tossed the money bags casually onto the car—didn't even bother closing the doors—then turned back into the house.
When he emerged again, he had two more bags.
Then again. And again. Three trips in total.
Six bulging duffel bags of cash, all in $100 bills.
The sight of so much money—so raw and tangible—was almost unbearable.
The green in their eyes turned red, the kind of red that speaks of desperation and madness.
It was as if the thinnest thread of reason held them back—and it was about to snap.
Ron decided to help it along.
Smiling, he pulled one of the money bags from the car and tossed it back into the house—loudly, for everyone to hear.
Then, with a flourish, he took another bag and threw it open into the air.
Cash exploded into the night sky, fluttering like confetti in a twisted celebration.
A rain of money showered the slum, and a unified gasp of "Ohhh!" erupted from the buildings.
Still, not one person stepped outside.
"Honestly, watching you all cower like this is kind of pathetic," Ron called out loud enough for the whole slum to hear.
"The money's right here. If you want to get rich—go for it."
And with that, he jumped into the car, slammed the door, and drove off with four out of six bags in tow.
It didn't take long.
As soon as his taillights disappeared into the distance, a thunderous stampede broke out.
Doors flew open. Shadows turned into sprinting figures.
Everyone charged toward the house like animals set loose—scrambling to snatch the "sweet little darlings" Ron had left behind.
In seconds, the footrace turned into fistfights.
Fistfights turned into all-out brawls.
And then, someone—no one knows who—fired the first shot.
Just like that, the entire slum descended into chaos.
Blood sprayed. Screams echoed.
The neighborhood had become a full-blown battlefield of flesh and fury.
Meanwhile, Ron's car had only driven a short distance before coming to a stop.
He sat in silence, watching the scene unfold in his rearview mirror.
And for some reason, a quote from a philosopher came to mind:
> "When the brave are enraged, they raise their blades against the strong.
When the cowardly are enraged, they raise their blades against the weak."