Chapter 202: Tanks on Main Street
"Arthur, are you sure these guys are from the assassination company? How come none of them are still breathing?"
Ron asked over the radio. He'd been waiting for them to take each other out before swooping in to grab survivors, only to find they were all toast from the explosion? Could they even call themselves professional assassins?
"This is the most pathetic crew I've ever seen," Arthur said, shaking his head. Back at Blackwater, assassins of this caliber wouldn't even qualify for janitorial duty, let alone field operations.
In the smoking ruins of the house, the Smiths, who had survived the blast, pushed aside the debris covering them and emerged, staring in disbelief at the destruction.
"You two," Ron's voice suddenly called out from behind them, and both immediately went into attack mode. Mr. Smith threw a haymaker straight at his face, while his wife simultaneously aimed a devastating kick at his groin.
Ron immediately sidestepped, dropping to one knee to deflect the wife's attack. He then crossed his arms and caught Mr. Smith's punch. Using the momentum from his sidestep, he pivoted mid-air, taking him down hard.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Smith, having missed her first strike, was about to draw a tactical knife to continue her assault when a Glock was pressed against her temple. Just like that, both were neutralized.
Ron rolled his eyes. Did he look like some kind of pushover? Why did everyone think they could take a shot at him?
"Relax, I'm not here to hurt you. If I really wanted you dead, I would've had a sniper put bullets through your skulls," Ron announced. "Hank, say hello to our lovely Smith family!"
"Bang!" With a sharp crack, the bullet barely grazed Mr. Smith's scalp, punching a hole in the asphalt in front of him. Mr. Smith, who had been struggling, immediately went limp. Ron, satisfied, released his grip.
"Well, if you're not working with those hit men, what do you want from us?"
"Money. Lots of money," Ron said, casually straightening his suit jacket, which had gotten wrinkled from the brief scuffle.
"Let me formally introduce myself—Ron Lee Cooper, Captain of the IRS Criminal Investigation Division Special Operations Team. Do you... no, let me rephrase that... does your organization pay federal taxes?"
"Hahaha, I didn't realize assassination companies had to start paying Uncle Sam too." Mr. Smith felt like he'd just heard the biggest joke of the year.
"Assassins paying taxes? I haven't paid a dime in my life."
He spoke with such pride that Mrs. Smith couldn't help but facepalm. "Why did I fall for such an idiot back then?"
"Perfect, thank you for your honesty, Mr. Smith. Maybe tomorrow you can visit my CPA to calculate your earnings over the years and settle up what you owe the government."
With the admission already on record, it would be foolish to refuse such cooperation, so Ron graciously accepted.
"In these great United States of America, no business operates tax-free, not even contract killers. If you can assist me with the tax investigations of your respective organizations, I will guarantee your future safety, provided you join my team."
The two exchanged glances, their eyes filled with disbelief. They had originally planned to go off-grid after eliminating the hit squad, staying one step ahead of future pursuit. They hadn't expected Ron to solve their biggest problem so casually.
Of course, they hadn't doubted Ron's credibility. Everyone in America knew the power of the IRS.
And just like Arthur had experienced, a chance to go legitimate was a rare and precious opportunity for assassins living in the shadows.
Mrs. Smith immediately grabbed this lifeline and replied urgently: "We're willing to join. How do you plan to protect us? Our former employers are very powerful and will continuously send killers after us. For example, there are three Crown Vics behind you right now. What are you going to do about that?"
Mrs. Smith pointed behind Ron. Three black sedans rounded the corner and were speeding toward them. Ron turned around nonchalantly and made a finger gun gesture.
"Those cars are armored..." Mrs. Smith started to warn him.
Ron made a "boom!" sound with his mouth, mimicking a shot. A tank shell flew from somewhere down the street, striking the middle vehicle dead center.
"BOOM!" The car exploded into a massive fireball, launched into the air. Mrs. Smith's jaw dropped. From across the street, a vintage Sherman tank emerged from behind some landscaping; it had fired the shell.
"What did you say? Something about the cars?" Ron turned back.
"I said the cars are armored..." Mrs. Smith corrected herself mid-sentence: "Actually, never mind."
A string of expletives erupted from the remaining vehicles. The assassins were in complete despair, ready to lose their minds! "We're just hunting down some turncoats, why the hell are there tanks involved?"
But while they cursed, their training kicked in. The remaining two cars immediately executed sharp U-turns, flooring their accelerators and preparing to bug out.
They didn't even consider fighting back.
What a joke! Even if it was a museum piece from World War II, a tank was still a tank! How could any car, no matter how armored, compete with that? It was suicide!
Unfortunately, those few seconds of hesitation were enough for the Sherman's 76mm main gun to reload. The turret rotated with a mechanical whine, immediately training its barrel on another vehicle.
"BOOM!" Another direct hit sent the second car flying through the air in pieces.
The final car managed to accelerate away, screeching around the corner. The tank, having rolled up next to Ron, came to a stop. Its commander's hatch opened, revealing a head of distinguished white hair.
"That was exhilarating! This machine is exactly like the one I operated during my military service."
"As long as you're happy with it, it's yours. If you like it, this tank will be your personal ride from now on. Nobody else drives it except you, Dr. Lecter. Welcome aboard as an official team member."
Ron gestured approvingly. "Don't worry, all the paperwork has been filed with the Pentagon. You can legally operate it on public roads. I'm sure nobody will give you any grief. This beast is enough to teach everyone proper respect for their elders."
A Sherman tank normally has a crew of five, with at least three qualified to operate it. Besides the experienced Hannibal and the veteran who looked like Morgan Freeman, the final crew member was young Carl.
There's nothing wrong with respecting your elders and protecting the young.
"Holy shit!" Mr. Smith cursed for a full minute before finally catching his breath. "You call that a vehicle?! Are you insane? How can you drive that thing through a residential neighborhood? You're definitely going to get complaints!"
(End of chapter)
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