Chapter 93: It Was Obviously Me Who Got Here First
"Boss, I don't get it—why do I have to ride in the same car as a killer?!" Hank grumbled from the back seat of the sedan as it rolled toward the suburbs. He was clutching his LG5 sniper grenade launcher like a security blanket.
Ron was behind the wheel, with Arthur sitting up front in the passenger seat.
Ron didn't share Hank's disgust. Hank had been salty ever since Ron shot his way in to save Arthur last time. It wasn't because of Ron's orders against the cult's bodyguards—Hank never minded putting down people with bloody hands. No, Hank just didn't like the idea of teaming up with a professional hitman. In his eyes, killers were the lowest kind of scum. Best-case scenario, both sides wiped each other out.
He never thought he'd be asked to cooperate with one.
"He's an expert infiltrator and now he's our partner," Ron said, meeting Hank's sulky glare in the rearview mirror. "Unless, of course, you think you could sneak into a compound and take down a cult leader as smoothly as he did last time. In that case, I'd be happy to drop him right here."
"I used to be able to," Hank muttered, eyeing the belly that strained against his shirt buttons, the same belly that made squeezing into the car door a challenge. Once upon a time, he'd been the Navy SEALs' top sniper. He'd driven the coolest rides, drunk the hardest liquor, and lived on the edge. Not quite the legend his boss had become—but close enough.
Then retirement happened, and with it, a slow slide into middle-aged spread.
"Sure, Hank. You were the best," Ron said with a grin. "But you've gotta face facts. As the saying goes: time catches up to all of us. Like a buzzsaw."
Arthur, who'd been quietly checking his gun, finally spoke up. "Turn left. The house with the green swing—that's Finch's place."
Finch was Arthur's one link to the assassin agency—the middleman, the fixer, the guy who handled the contracts. Even he didn't know the company's true headquarters. Everything flowed through his agent, who sat on all the sensitive information.
Ron braked at the curb. "Hank, you stay put and keep watch. Arthur and I will go inside."
He knew Hank didn't have the stomach to threaten women and kids. Better to leave him outside before he made things messy.
Hank sulked, nodding with reluctance. In his gut, resentment bubbled: Arthur was stealing his place at Ron's side.
Damn it. I was here first.
Ding-dong.
Ron gave Arthur a nod. Arthur rang the doorbell. A pleasant-looking blonde woman opened the door. Without hesitation, Arthur shoved a pistol in her face and forced her back inside.
"No mercy for the fairer sex, huh?" Ron sighed, stepping in after him and closing the door behind them.
"Morning, Finch."
The man himself came storming in from the hallway, gun in hand. At the sight of his wife and daughter kneeling on the floor with Arthur's pistol leveled at them, his eyes went wide.
"What the hell are you doing?!" Finch roared, swinging his gun between Ron and Arthur. "Let them go!"
Bang!
Ron's shot slapped the weapon out of Finch's hands. "Sorry, pet peeve of mine—I hate it when people aim guns at my head. Didn't anyone ever teach you that's rude?"
He stepped forward, kicked Finch down, and ground his boot into the man's injured hand until he screamed. "I don't think I need to introduce Arthur. You know him already. He works for me now. Which brings us to business: where's Dean?"
The smile on Ron's face was warm, but his actions were cruel enough to freeze Finch's blood.
"I don't know!" Finch spat through the pain.
Arthur moved to act, but Ron waved him off.
"Clearly, Mr. Finch hasn't grasped the situation." Ron picked up Finch's pistol and strolled toward the family. He yanked the girl to her feet and dragged her toward the kitchen. His eyes fell on a heavy-duty meat grinder sitting on the counter. He flipped it on with a whirr.
The sound filled the room like an executioner's drumroll.
Finch's face drained of color. "Don't you touch her! Let her go!"
Ron didn't flinch. He guided the girl's trembling hand toward the grinder's chute. His grin was pure villain. "I'll start with the fingers. Then maybe the arm. How fast you answer depends on how fast I feed her in. Quick enough, and she might keep her bones. Slow, and… well, let's just say she'll have a real hard time clapping at her prom."
He slammed his hand down. Flesh and blood splattered out the other side of the grinder with a squelch. The girl's scream tore through the kitchen.
Finch's eyes went red. "Stop! Please! I'll tell you!"
Ron pressed again, spraying more gore across the counter. The girl shrieked in hysterical terror.
"300 Colby Square! He's there, I swear it! Please let her go!" Finch collapsed to his knees, sobbing.
Ron killed the grinder and released the girl. She bolted to her mother, bawling.
Miraculously, her hand was untouched.
Ron held up a hunk of raw beef he'd palmed earlier, wagging it with a sly grin. "Guess I just ruined dinner. Steak tartare, anyone?"
Finch's wife clutched their daughter, screaming at him: "You monster!"
Ron ignored her, fixing Finch with a cold stare. "Don't relax yet. You know what happens to an agent who leaks. My advice? Book the first flight out, take your family far away, and change your names while you're at it."
He leaned in, voice low. "I'll handle Dean. But when the other hitmen realize you sold him out, they'll come for you. And next time, it won't be me at the door."
(End of Chapter)
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