Four motorcycles remained, with two men dismounting from each, leaving Ron facing eight opponents total. However, the earlier barrage of gunfire at Ron's car had depleted all their ammunition. Seeing Ron emerge from the smoke, they panicked and scrambled to reload their weapons.
But it was too late. They were now sitting ducks.
"Bang, bang, bang!" Six shots rang out. Ron fired three rapid double-tap bursts, releasing six bullets. Three bikers collapsed, each hit twice—one in the chest, one in the head—leaving them no chance of survival.
Double tap is a shooting technique used by special operations forces worldwide. It involves hitting the same target twice in quick succession to neutralize an opponent.
The first shot targets the torso, ensuring a hit. The second shot targets the head or heart, ensuring a kill.
"¡Maldita sea!" The remaining biker shouted something in Spanish that Ron couldn't quite catch, but he recognized the accent—Latino gang members. Ron couldn't help but smirk. So these were local cholos! They had finally finished reloading and aimed their guns at Ron again.
But Ron had already used the cover of his gunfire to close the distance, grabbing one biker's gun hand and ducking behind him as a human shield, preventing his companions from firing immediately.
The panicked biker pulled his trigger, only to be redirected by Ron's powerful grip, mowing down his own teammates.
With two sharp clicks, the Uzi's magazine was finally empty. Ron wasted no time, driving his shoulder into the last remaining biker, sending him crashing to the ground. Without even looking back, he fired two shots over his shoulder, finishing him off.
It might sound lengthy, but from the moment Ron rolled out of his car to neutralizing the entire enemy force, less than a minute had passed.
"Please, mercy, let me go..." A lone survivor from the group caught in the crossfire kept begging for his life as he slowly crawled backward on the ground, his eyes filled with terror as he stared at the approaching Ron.
"With skills this pathetic, you actually thought you could be hitmen? You're seriously overestimating yourselves!" Ron sighed, then with a cruel smile, stepped hard on the biker's leg, which had been wounded by his own teammate's submachine gun. "Tell me, who sent you to kill me? Answer honestly, and maybe I'll let you live."
"Ahhh!" The biker screamed as his already injured leg was further damaged.
As Ron asked this question, he'd already considered countless possibilities. Maybe Andy's case had been exposed and the forces behind the warden were trying to retrieve the ledger, or perhaps the drug organization he was investigating had noticed they were being targeted and sent someone to eliminate him.
So many people wanted him dead, yet here he was, still breathing. Honestly though, this gang was the most incompetent group of assassins he'd ever encountered.
Ron had never seen such a sloppy hit job. It looked like amateur hour—some low-level street gang operation thrown together at the last minute.
Just look at how pathetic they were. Right at the start, when two motorcycles tried to box him in, he took out one immediately, sending both riders flying into a wall where their heads exploded like watermelons, blood spraying everywhere.
Then his car killed another one, he shot three more, and the remaining unlucky bastards got taken out by their own teammates. Ron figured even if he'd recruited some internet keyboard warriors and given them a basic tactical plan, they couldn't have failed this spectacularly.
"It was Miguel! Miguel spotted your car. He said you were one of Toretto's crew and wanted to kill you to send Toretto a message. It was all his idea. Please don't kill me, please..."
The biker pleaded, but Ron remained unmoved.
"Miguel?" Ron's face showed confusion. "Who the hell is Miguel?"
He couldn't remember ever crossing paths with anyone named Miguel. Then again, he'd pissed off so many people he might have forgotten.
"The guy you killed first." The biker pointed to the "corpse" that Ron's car had pinned against the telephone pole. Ron could even see it twitching slightly.
"What a pain in the ass! Making the paramedics work overtime. I'd better put him out of his misery," Ron said, raising his gun and firing another shot.
"Bang!" A bloody hole appeared in Miguel's head. Finally, no more wasted medical resources. To the surviving biker, this action was like witnessing a demon from hell.
The biker, who had been wailing, immediately fell silent, terrified that making noise would get him killed too. Ron observed the biker's horrified expression with satisfaction. After being properly intimidated, it was time for the truth to come out.
"So you weren't sent by drug dealers or anyone else? You're trying to kill me just to send Toretto a message? If you've got beef with him, go settle it with him. Why come after me?!"
Ron felt a surge of irritation.
"We already blew up Toretto's car, but Miguel said that wasn't enough. We had to kill one of his guys..." At this point, even the dumbest biker realized that someone with skills like Ron's couldn't possibly be just one of Toretto's crew.
Ron didn't dwell on the logical flaws. Instead, he became curious and continued questioning: "So what exactly went down between you and Toretto? Care to share the details?
Of course, if you don't feel like talking, I won't force you. I'll even give you a parting gift. How's that? Am I not a gentleman?"
With that, Ron aimed his Glock back at the biker's head, making him break out in a cold sweat. The nature of the "gift" was crystal clear.
Desperate to save his life, the biker immediately spilled everything he knew: "Toretto owed Miguel money and promised to pay him back with 'merchandise,' but it's been two weeks since the last delivery, and the final shipment still hasn't shown up..."
So after all this, it was Toretto causing the trouble. Ron rubbed his temples, feeling a headache coming on as memories from his previous life surfaced. He remembered this scenario.
It was after a street race, when Toretto and O'Connor got kidnapped by an Asian gang and taken to some place with a Buddha statue. When Ron had watched the movie, he'd assumed it was happening in Chinatown with Chinese gangs.
Now it seemed Toretto had actually been dealing with Latinos.
So that Latino guy with all the surveillance equipment in his house, whom O'Connor later busted, wasn't innocent after all—he was actually conducting illegal business with Toretto.
The only difference was that Toretto's crew handled the actual work, while this Latino gang was responsible for moving the stolen merchandise.
As for why they later let the Latino gang slide and went after Toretto's crew instead, well, this is America—anything's possible when the FBI needs to make their numbers.
Ron instantly pieced together the entire situation from the biker's information, combined with his own memories. This explained the explosion. Toretto must be involved, and he probably wasn't dead since the gang needed to keep him working.
Ron was completely baffled. How could Toretto, with that smooth bald head of his, come up with such a bone-headed scheme?
"Where's your base of operations?"
"In the warehouse next to the community center in East LA. All our unsold merchandise is stored there!"
Ron nodded. "So your gang set up a black market to fence stolen goods, and you even established your warehouse next to a community center. Here's my question: are you paying taxes on this business?"
"Taxes?" Do black markets pay taxes? The biker was confused but shook his head firmly.
Ron finally smiled—looked like he'd have something to do tonight.
The biker on the ground was shaking but didn't dare make any sudden moves, afraid of being misunderstood. Ron's lightning-fast takedown had left deep psychological scars, and he could only beg: "Can you let me go?"
Ron grinned: "One last question. Answer it correctly and you can walk away. Ready?"
The biker nodded frantically.
"As you can see, I have great respect for American history, especially our founding fathers. But I've always wondered about something: which state was George Washington from? Can you tell me?"
Ron asked, looking at the biker with a friendly smile.
As he posed this question, the fear on the biker's face disappeared, replaced by sudden confidence. "Of course Washington was from Mexico! And not just him—the real founders of American civilization were..."
"Bang!" A muzzle flash from Ron's gun pierced the biker's temple, and he collapsed before finishing his sentence.
"Wrong answer! Washington was from Virginia, you moron. I hate people who don't know basic American history!" Ron spun the Glock around his finger before sliding it back into his waistband. He pulled out his phone and called his FBI contact.
"FBI cleanup crew, come and collect!"
Ron's cryptic words immediately gave Jack a bad feeling. "Ron, where are you? What happened?"
"Nothing major. Just got ambushed by some clueless Latino gangsters at the intersection of XXX Street. Could you please handle the body removal?" Ron said casually as he dragged a long case from his car's trunk.
"Also, there might be a few more bodies in East LA soon. Please clean those up too. Thanks!"
"Wait," Jack bolted upright in bed, his drowsiness instantly vanishing: "What are you planning to do?! Let me remind you—this is Los Angeles! The second largest city in the United States! This isn't some lawless frontier!"
"Lawless?" Ron opened the case and looked at the equipment inside with a satisfied smile: "I'm just going to work. For an IRS agent, there's nothing more important than collecting taxes."
(End of Chapter)
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