Chapter 66: Endgame
"There's a guy on the roof, he's coming down—kill him!" The thugs from Verone's crew spotted the figure above, and just as they swung their weapons toward him, before they could even fire, Ron riddled them with bullets, dropping them where they stood.
However, this gave away his position to their backup inside. Two gangsters positioned their rifles at the windows, and just as they were about to give Ron a taste of his own medicine, Ron, almost the instant he hit the ground, relied on his combat experience and—without even looking—fired two sustained bursts at the doorway and window frame.
Once again, the two men inside were pinned down so hard they couldn't even lift their heads, questioning their life choices.
Four guys, four rifles, getting suppressed by one man with a handgun. Nobody would believe it if they hadn't seen it themselves.
Don't let all those action movies fool you into thinking there's no difference between pistols and rifles except size. The gap is enormous, starting with ammunition power.
Rate of fire and accuracy are in completely different leagues!
Take the AK-47, every street thug's favorite. Its cyclic rate is 600 rounds per minute, while your average pistol only manages about 300 rounds per minute—night and day difference.
And that's not even considering the difference in stopping power!
But Ron was dominating. Besides his exceptional marksmanship, the unregistered piece Yuri had left him played a major role.
The Beretta 93R—they call it a "pistol" but it's basically a submachine gun. In full-auto burst mode, this monster fires 1,100 rounds per minute with three-shot bursts, easily handling a 20-round magazine. Ron, used to five- or six-shot cylinders, couldn't help but grin with delight.
Is this what having unlimited ammo feels like?
Don't judge Ron for being impressed. He'd been trained by Old Man Jack on various revolvers since day one, always prioritizing precision shooting.
Even regular pistols felt sluggish to him. This was his first time using a handgun with such a high rate of fire—practically submachine gun territory.
But while it was thrilling, the results were somewhat disappointing. Besides the moron who got shredded by Ron's opening salvo, every single shot had found its mark.
"Tsk, guess it wasn't that useful after all." After assessing his performance, Ron found himself missing his revolver, enhanced by his "Marksman" ability.
"Rat-a-tat-tat..."
Taking advantage of Ron's reload, the survivors inside unleashed a barrage. But their accuracy was pathetic! Ron didn't even bother taking cover. With a mocking smile, he spread his arms wide toward the building. Bullets whistled past Ron's ears, but not one connected. Ron flipped off the room: "Amateurs!"
It was obvious that thugs working for a non-combatant boss like Verone couldn't be worth much. At best, they looked intimidating. They weren't even as competent as the Korean gangsters Ron had dismantled.
At least those guys could actually fight.
Ron pulled a smoke grenade and lobbed it through the window. With a hiss, thick gray smoke filled the entire room. Obviously, the gangsters hadn't prepared anything like gas masks.
"cough We surrender! Don't shoot!" The thugs came stumbling out of the room, hacking and wheezing, while Ron already had a fresh magazine locked and loaded.
This wasn't a stealth operation, and even under normal circumstances, Ron didn't make a habit of leaving witnesses.
Under the gangsters' terrified stares, Ron raised his pistol: "Sorry, boys, but I don't accept surrenders. Farewell, gentlemen!"
"Bang, bang, bang!" Three shots rang out, and three lifeless bodies hit the pavement.
"Finally finished! What a long night this has been!" Ron tallied his results. In the end, he'd eliminated four men in this building, and three each in the left and right structures with grenades, for a total of ten—matching the intelligence exactly.
And throughout the entire firefight, the surrounding project buildings seemed completely dead, not a sound.
"What a bunch of beaten-down cowards!" Ron muttered, though without resentment—only satisfaction. "Now it's time to open these mystery boxes. Let's witness this magical moment together!"
Like an actor taking his final bow, Ron gestured to his surroundings, then elegantly bowed before turning and entering the building.
A faint smile crossed his face as he turned. In stark contrast to the previous silence, Ron could clearly hear stirring from the surrounding apartments.
"I'm not worried about you looting, I'm worried about you not moving. You've all been so well-behaved—who am I supposed to blame for this mess?"
Moments later, Ron emerged carrying two large duffel bags full of cash.
How did everyone know it was money? Because the zippers were wide open. Glowing green Benjamins flickered under the damaged streetlight that had been hit by Ron's grenade.
Like a naked supermodel hiding from a sex offender fresh out of a ten-year stretch, Ron felt like the eyes in every project window were glowing green!
If it weren't for the fact that he'd just single-handedly wiped out Verone's entire crew, someone would've already rushed out to rob him.
"Bunch of vultures!" Ron thought contemptuously, carelessly tossing the cash into his car without even closing the door. He then went back inside and emerged with two more bags of money!
This cycle repeated three times, and everyone watched as Ron hauled out six large bags of bills—all hundreds.
The green paper was so mesmerizing that it turned the eyes in every window from green to red, ready to devour at any moment. Only a single thread of self-preservation held them back.
Ron decided to push them over the edge. Right in front of everyone, he grabbed one money-filled bag from his car, hurled it back into the building, then threw another bag high into the air.
A shower of green hundreds rained down from above. The project residents had never witnessed such a spectacle, and they all let out a collective gasp!
But still, nobody dared leave their apartments.
"Honestly, I feel bad for you all being such cowards. The money's right there. If you want to get rich, just go grab it!" Ron shouted into the projects, got in his car, and peeled out with his four remaining bags of cash.
The instant his taillights disappeared, the projects erupted in thunderous footsteps. Everyone poured from their apartments, frantically racing toward the target building, determined to snatch those tempting green treasures before anyone else.
Soon, the mad dash turned into shoving, the shoving into fistfights. Finally, someone fired the first shot, and the small housing project became a bloody battleground.
Ron drove a short distance and stopped. Watching the vicious combat in his rearview mirror, he suddenly remembered something an American philosopher once said:
"The ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of comfort and convenience, but where he stands at times of challenge and controversy."
(End of chapter)
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