Chapter 56: This Disease is Contagious
"How's that? Pretty steep tax rate, right? As for all those back taxes you've been dodging, I think a penalty of $10 million should cover it, and we promise not to dig any deeper."
The Chicken Man was practically seething.
70%—wasn't that steep? Paying $70 in taxes out of every $100 earned was basically working as a government employee! But Fring had no intention of haggling with Ron, because he knew there was no reasoning with this lunatic.
"Fine." The Chicken Man leaned across the table and began carefully filling out the tax form. "Here's a check for $10 million, but you'll have to wait a few days for this quarter's tax payment. My product just shipped to various distribution points, and I haven't collected payment yet."
Fring handed both the completed tax form and freshly signed check to Ron. Ron graciously produced a tax compliance certificate he'd prepared in advance, signed his name with a flourish, and handed it over.
If it weren't for Ron's revolver under the table and Hank positioned with a sniper rifle in the distance, the entire exchange would have looked like a legitimate business transaction.
"Pleasure doing business!" Ron flashed a satisfied grin and reached out to shake the Chicken Man's hand. The IRS recovery bonus was 30% of collected taxes.
What's 30% of $10 million? A cool three million dollars! With that kind of money, he could buy a few rental properties in prime DC real estate before the next housing boom...
Man, just thinking about it got him excited. He'd never have to worry about money again for the rest of his life.
Unfortunately, this fantasy would have to wait. It was 2007, and while the real estate market was hot, he'd need to be strategic about where to invest. Maybe some properties near the upcoming infrastructure projects, or get in early on some gentrifying neighborhoods.
He should probably consult a financial advisor.
As expected, targeting drug dealers was the fastest path to wealth. Financial independence achieved in one afternoon.
Unfortunately, the money wasn't entirely his. When Ron had pitched his plan to take down drug operations, headquarters had told him they'd grant him maximum operational authority and provide initial funding and equipment support, but none of it was free—he'd have to pay it all back, with interest.
The combined rent for Ron's safe house and office space was costing IRS headquarters $500,000. Furthermore, since Ron's special operations unit worked independently, it had no budget beyond the salaries of all team members.
This meant that while Ron could use the money as he saw fit, a significant portion would have to be reserved for operational expenses, like bonuses for Hank and Andy, plus equipment purchases.
"Working with you people is absolutely disgusting." The Chicken Man's hand barely touched Ron's before he quickly pulled away and wiped it with a napkin, as if he'd just touched something contaminated.
Ron didn't seem bothered. He'd backed the guy into a corner—wasn't he allowed to show a little attitude?
Fring's expression was murderous. Thinking about the money he'd just handed over made his heart bleed. But there was nothing he could do. Who told him to let Ron get the upper hand today?
Ron returned to his car and drove to the predetermined rendezvous point with Hank, picked him up, and drove off.
"How'd it go, boss? Everything smooth?" Hank asked casually from the passenger seat, lovingly cleaning his newly acquired trophy. It was a Russian-made VSS silenced sniper rifle, chambered in 9mm subsonic rounds.
It was a common designated marksman rifle in video games—the kind of weapon most players would skip over given the choice—but in real life, it was far more effective than its gaming reputation suggested.
It could easily penetrate standard body armor at 400 meters. Combined with its low recoil, portability, and stealth capabilities, it was a formidable weapon system.
"Of course it went smooth—what else was he gonna do?" Ron's grin stretched from ear to ear. But seeing the rifle in Hank's arms made his brow furrow slightly. "So you're into sniper rifles?"
"Absolutely. I was a designated marksman in the Rangers, sir," Hank said proudly.
"Well, in that case, maybe I can help you get something more suitable. I just secured a major windfall from our Chicken Man friend. Just tell me what weapon you want—don't worry about the cost!"
Ron promised with a chest-thumping gesture. Money made everything possible. He was already planning to upgrade all the office computers to top-of-the-line gaming rigs for downtime entertainment.
"No thanks, this is all I need." Hank caressed the sniper rifle in his arms with such tenderness that Ron doubted he'd ever touched his wife so gently.
"In urban environments, the distance from concealment to target is usually under 300 meters. At that range, nothing beats this little beauty. It's concealable, has minimal recoil, and if you miss your first shot, you can always take a second, or even a third."
"A second shot? That sounds like a hassle." Ron said dismissively. "Why not just make sure the first one counts?"
"Even the best marksman can't guarantee a perfect shot every time, and I'm not quite at that elite level yet," Hank admitted honestly.
Ron shook his head disapprovingly. "No, that's just limited thinking. Who told you a sniper attack is only successful if you hit the target?"
"Isn't it?" Hank asked, confused. "If we don't hit the target, how do we accomplish the mission of eliminating the threat?"
"Why not?" Ron's face took on an almost evangelical glow as he entered teaching mode. He wanted to share some advanced tactical concepts to educate traditionally-minded Americans like Hank.
"The purpose of sniping is to eliminate the target, right?"
Hank nodded. Obviously.
"But who said you can only accomplish that when the bullet physically enters the target's body?"
"Then what other methods are there?" Hank looked genuinely puzzled. What else could you do if you didn't hit the target?
"You're thinking too small," Ron sighed, shaking his head. "Have you ever considered that with sufficient firepower—like explosive ordnance—even if you don't score a direct hit, the blast radius and shrapnel damage would be enough to eliminate the target? You wouldn't even need pinpoint accuracy!"
Well, the philosophy of "insufficient firepower" was definitely contagious, spreading from person to person. Hank was currently being infected by Ron's tactical doctrine.
Hank's expression wavered uncertainly. "Is that really viable? But weapons like that don't seem very portable, do they?"
(End of Chapter)
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