Chapter 50: Wrapping Up and Heading Home
"Boss, Boss, what the hell's going on in there? You need backup?" Hank's worried voice crackled through the radio on Ron's tactical vest.
Hank had been covering the back exit and had only taken down one dealer's muscle since this whole thing started. Hearing the explosions and gunfire coming from inside the laundromat, he couldn't help but worry about his new boss.
"Don't sweat it, pretty much everything's—" Ron was cut off mid-sentence when some punk tried to jump him from behind a pile of dirty clothes. Ron slammed the guy to the ground with his rifle butt. "All wrapped up now. Come on in."
"Wait, you can't do this! Even criminals got rights, man. I swear to God, I'm calling the cops!" The thug Ron had his gun trained on was scared shitless, trying to sound tough while saying the most pathetic crap imaginable.
A drug dealer threatening to call the cops? What kind of moron did they hire, some reject from a sitcom?
"Call the cops? Buddy, I AM the cops. Who exactly you planning to call?" Ron was barely keeping it together, shoving his shotgun barrel right into the punk's mouth.
"Listen up, dipshit! I'm looking for the entrance to your little cook house. You got ten seconds to spill, or things get messy. Ten... eight... six..." Ron started his countdown with a nasty grin, watching the guy on the ground nearly piss himself.
"Hold up! Don't you go nine after ten?"
"I like even numbers better, got a problem with that? Four... two..." Ron sped up the count. Suddenly he caught a whiff of something nasty. Looking down, he saw a dark wet stain spreading across the guy's jeans.
With the gun barrel still in his mouth, the thug mumbled desperately, "Stop counting! Stop! It's right there, that big washing machine door opens up! Please, man, just let me go!"
Ron turned his attention to the industrial washing machine. Even after getting hit with two rounds of explosives, the thing was still standing strong—probably reinforced with some kind of ballistic plating. Made him respect the engineering, honestly.
Ron pulled the barrel out of the guy's mouth and gestured for him to get up, then pressed the muzzle against the back of his head. "Go open that door for me. And don't try anything cute—this trigger's got a hair-pin sensitivity, if you know what I mean."
"Jesus Christ!" The punk carefully felt around under the washing machine until something clicked. The front panel swung open, revealing a well-lit stairway leading down to a basement operation.
"No other way out of there, right?" Hank asked, having just come in through the back entrance.
The thug shook his head frantically, terrified that any delay might cause an "accidental discharge." "No sir, this is Flynn's entire setup. For security reasons, there's no other exit down there."
Hank stopped Ron, who was about to head down and investigate. "Boss, my brother-in-law might be down there. I think I should handle this part myself."
Ron nodded and shoved the punk forward into the stairwell. "Fair enough. Take this piece of garbage with you. If anything seems off, just put him down. Don't worry about it—equipment malfunction happens all the time. I guarantee you won't catch any heat for it."
Hearing this, the thug straightened up and looked like the most cooperative citizen you'd ever seen.
"That's more like it," Ron patted the guy's cheek approvingly. "You know what? Uncle Ron's guns have a soft spot for well-behaved boys."
Hank just shrugged the way Ron did. He was getting used to working for this boss who had a twisted sense of humor, but honestly? It wasn't the worst gig he'd ever had.
No paperwork, no accountability, decent pay with bonuses—what more could a guy ask for in a boss?
But Hank was clearly getting ahead of himself. A few minutes later, he came back up with the thug and some chubby, nerdy-looking guy who seemed confused and terrified. Ron had seen photos of Hank's brother-in-law, and this definitely wasn't him.
"Boss, we searched the whole basement and didn't find anyone except this guy. This is Gale, my brother-in-law's partner—another chemist. Looks like my brother-in-law had some kind of falling out with Flynn and didn't show up today. What's our next move?"
"Hey, genius!" Ron tapped the punk's head with his gun barrel. "Does your boss know what went down here today?"
"No, I swear on my mother's grave, he doesn't know anything yet! Everything happened so fast, nobody had time to call it in!"
"Perfect," Ron nodded, satisfied. "You're free to go. Tell him exactly what happened here, and make sure he knows the IRS expects full payment of back taxes. He'll know how much he owes. I'm betting this chemist Gale here would be happy to share some insights about the business side of things, right?"
Gale, who'd been shaking like a leaf ever since being dragged upstairs and seeing the bodies scattered around, nodded quickly.
Ron checked his Rolex. "By my calculations, we made enough noise that those FBI desk jockeys should be catching wind of this about now. Time to call it a day."
Fifteen minutes later, Agent Jack finally arrived on scene, staring at the IRS tags spray-painted outside the demolished laundromat. He felt a migraine coming on but pulled out his phone and found a number.
"National Guard? Yeah, stand down. It's just the IRS doing their thing in the city again. Artillery fire? Hell if I know where that maniac got his hands on rocket launchers!
Yeah, I repeat—this is NOT a terrorist attack..."
While Jack was still cleaning up Ron's mess, Ron had already made it home safe and sound. The unfortunate chemist, being completely harmless, got zip-tied by Ron and Hank, stuffed into a laundry bag, and loaded onto their truck back to the Special Operations garage. Neither of them bothered mentioning untying the guy.
They had plenty of time for interrogation and auditing later—might as well let their new friend spend the night getting acquainted with his situation.
The priority was filing a report, because by the time Ron was driving home, half a dozen terrorist organizations had already claimed responsibility for the incident, and the Pentagon's phones were ringing off the hook.
Even Ron's supervisor, Francis, called to ask what kind of brain damage had inspired Ron's "brilliant" decision to use rocket launchers in a residential area.
But when Ron explained the potential tax revenue and political contributions they could squeeze out of one philanthropic drug dealer, Francis's anger evaporated instantly.
"Next time you're planning something this big, give those pencil-pushers at the Pentagon a heads up. I just had President Martinez calling to ask if we were under attack. Lucky I could play it off as an unscheduled training exercise."
"Absolutely, I'll definitely remember that next time," Ron answered without an ounce of sincerity as he pushed open his apartment door.
Inside, a woman with curves in all the right places and looks to match, but with the demeanor of a total seductress, immediately locked onto him with hungry eyes. Ron had seen that look from plenty of women before, but none of them had been quite this... intense.
"Well hello there, sugar. Name's Christine—what do I call you, cowboy?" The woman's hand went straight to Ron's chest as she moved in close.
(End of Chapter)
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