Chapter 272: Political Deal
Ron had assumed that an arms dealer of such high standing would be tougher than your average scumbag, but he was dead wrong. Dunning's reaction was even more pathetic than most.
Marvin had just pulled out a pair of trauma shears and aimed them at his crotch, but before he could make the first cut, Dunning began thrashing around. "Stop! For the love of God, stop!"
"How rich! An arms dealer who peddles death worldwide and personally lobbies for wars still believes in the Almighty," Ron mocked, crouching in front of Dunning. "Don't you realize that if God really existed, He'd fast-track you straight to Hell?"
Marvin continued his work, the shears slicing through Dunning's tactical pants.
"Enough!" Dunning was so terrified that tears streamed down his face. "I'll tell you everything! We extracted a young Army lieutenant—the son of the late Senator James Stanton!"
"Robert Stanton?" Frank grabbed Marvin's wrist. "The current Vice President of the United States?"
"Shit! We're screwed now," Joe muttered.
Ron suddenly rabbit-punched Dunning in the base of the skull. The aging arms dealer couldn't possibly withstand Ron's blow and immediately went limp.
After carefully checking that Dunning was truly unconscious, Ron pulled off his helmet and tossed it in the snow. "Not necessarily. This could be our lucky break."
"Lucky break? How the hell is that possible? Robert Stanton is the Vice President now! He's the one who put the kill order on us!" Frank protested, his voice shaking.
"You need to understand something, Frank—the higher up the food chain you climb, the more enemies you collect. Maybe one of his rivals is willing to clean up our mess for us."
Ron's tone was loaded with implication.
"Whatever scheme you're cooking up, we need to bug out now, boss," Joe urged, checking his tactical watch.
"Relax, we've still got five minutes. Plenty of time to leave a little calling card for our esteemed Mr. Dunning." Ron's mischievous side kicked into overdrive. He pulled a tattoo gun from his kit and handed it to Marvin. "Marvin, you any good with artwork?"
Marvin was puzzled by Ron's random question but nodded uncertainly.
"Perfect. Go ahead and finish cutting those pants open and ink a nice little elephant on him. Make sure to work with the natural contours of the canvas, if you catch my drift."
In Washington, D.C., prominent Democratic Congressman Francis Underwood sat by the fireplace in his Georgetown townhouse, strategizing his campaign moves for the upcoming election cycle.
His relationship with the current president had hit rock bottom, and he was planning his next power play. While a direct shot at the presidency seemed unlikely, positions like Secretary of State or Vice President were definitely in play.
He just needed the right catalyst, and just as he was contemplating how to manufacture one, his secure phone rang.
Francis frowned slightly, but when he saw Ron's name on the encrypted caller ID, his expression softened.
"Ron, I'm hoping you've got some Christmas presents for me."
"Absolutely, sir." Frank and the others consciously stepped away from the high-level political discussion. "I've got some career-ending dirt on your competition, Robert Stanton. Interested?"
"Tell me what you need," Francis said, cutting straight to business.
"I'm planning to crash Robert Stanton's fundraising gala, and I need someone to help me penetrate their security protocols. Also, if things get a little too explosive..."
"I can guarantee you'll walk away clean," Francis interrupted before Ron could finish. "But first, I need to know this investment is worth my time, or what dividends I can expect."
The essence of politics is quid pro quo, a principle perfectly illustrated in the conversation between Ron and Francis.
"How about one disgraced vice president and a network of dirty arms dealers? But I want their asset forfeiture proceeds. After all, I've got a whole crew to keep fed."
"Done deal," Francis agreed without hesitation. "Keep up the excellent work, Ron. You're proving quite valuable. I'll be waiting for your good news."
Francis maintained his measured tone, but the moment the call ended, he pumped his fist triumphantly in his study.
"How'd it go, boss? Did you find our guardian angel?" Joe asked anxiously as soon as Ron hung up, with Frank and Marvin gathering around.
"All set. Next stop, Chicago. But this time, we don't need to skulk around in the shadows. We can even bring in some additional firepower."
With Francis backing their play, Ron immediately began mobilizing for the big leagues.
...
Chicago—a city famous for its NBA franchise, but for locals, even more notorious than the Bulls are the entrenched organized crime families and a mayor's office that's been passed down like a hereditary monarchy since the city's founding.
This metropolis once rivaled New York, and while it's not exactly Detroit-level decline, it seems almost quaint compared to other cities that shared its golden age.
Drugs and violence are steadily becoming the city's new calling cards.
So when two limited-edition supercars rolled into the rough streets of the South Side, they inevitably drew attention from the local residents.
Some even reached for concealed firearms, but before they could make any moves, the throaty roar of high-performance engines echoed through the neighborhood.
Several more vehicles pulled into this typically deserted back alley. Multiple armed men and women emerged, all carrying serious hardware and looking like they meant business.
This immediately dampened the local Chicago hospitality committee's enthusiasm for throwing their new visitors a traditional Windy City welcome party.
"Ron send you here too? Jesus Christ, your face makes me want to commit violence. Ever consider plastic surgery to make yourself less punchable?"
A muscular bald black man climbed out of the lead supercar. It was Roman, who immediately started jawing at Arthur.
Arthur's features bore an unfortunate resemblance to a certain international terrorist he'd once tangled with. It was understandable why Roman felt that way, but Arthur wasn't about to tolerate his motor mouth. "Alternatively, I could remove your eyeballs and relocate them to your rectum. That way, you won't see anything offensive ever again."
"Oh! You want some education from Professor Roman, you prissy English boy?" Roman raised his fists in mock intimidation. "You think we couldn't stomp you into the pavement?"
(End of Chapter)
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