Chapter 344: The IRS's Model Worker
For Ron, tailing a Los Angeles detective was incredibly easy. Compared to the Deckard Shaw brothers, this guy's counter-surveillance skills were practically amateur hour.
He only needed to wait casually at the exit, and after the detective left, he could follow from a safe distance. Ron could even predict the detective's approximate destination based on his route and have Hobbs set up there in advance.
Ron was a very patient hunter, but Hobbs was getting antsy.
"I don't get it—what are we waiting for? I could go down there right now and beat that dirty cop into the ground, then throw his ass in federal prison for life!"
"Patience, Hobbs, patience. I've told you before, the most important thing in our line of work is patience," Ron calmly sipped his Coke, then took a big bite of the delicious fried chicken. The savory aroma of the drumstick exploded on Ron's taste buds, which had just been awakened by the soda. Ron closed his eyes contentedly:
"He wouldn't drive all the way out to this dump for nothing, and he's obviously waiting for someone. We should at least know who he's meeting, and then catch them red-handed, right? Shh—someone's coming."
Ron pointed down, and right below the abandoned factory where they were staking out, a woman in a business suit walked into the dead end.
"She looks like some lost soccer mom. Are you sure she's connected to the drug case?" Hobbs looked skeptical, and even almost drew his weapon when Stiles and his crew showed up, but thankfully Ron held him back.
"How long are you going to make me wait?! Stiles? We don't have time." The woman started complaining as soon as she arrived.
"What are you worried about? We've almost eliminated all the witnesses. Sure, there was one kid who got pulled out by some asshole in a suit, but we'll track him down soon enough."
"That's what I'm worried about! You moron, he's been compromised!" The woman said in a condescending tone, "He witnessed the whole thing, maybe more. I told you weeks ago that you had to neutralize him! I've even lined up a hitman for you. Don't drag your feet any longer."
"How much time do we have?"
"24 to 48 hours max. I'm guessing he'll go to the DA's office soon. I can handle the paperwork, but you have to deal with the witness, tonight."
Hobbs looked like he'd been sucker-punched, while Ron was full of sarcasm: "So, still think she's just a lost soccer mom?"
"I should lock her and that piece of shit cop up together!" Hobbs's voice was a little too loud, finally alerting the two people talking below.
"Who? Who's up there?!" Stiles and his officers pointed their service weapons at the ceiling. Even Hobbs's "soccer mom" looked up in panic. This was their carefully chosen meeting spot; nobody had been here since the factory shut down. Had they been made?
But the only answer was gunfire.
"Bang bang bang..."
Ron and Hobbs fired simultaneously from two directions as they rappelled down their lines. Their expert marksmanship accurately shot the pistols right out of everyone's hands.
Well... except for the two unlucky bastards Hobbs was covering who caught rounds in the wrist.
"I win this round. I told you before, you should practice your marksmanship more, instead of hooking up with your daughter's classmates' moms all day. Women slow down your draw, Hobbs."
Ron blew imaginary smoke from his barrel, twirled his revolver in the air, and holstered it. If he had lit a cigarette then, he would have looked like a classic Western gunslinger.
Unfortunately, Ron rather incongruously pulled out a lollipop, tore off the wrapper, and popped it into his mouth, creating a somewhat ridiculous scene.
"Who the hell are you?!" Detective Stiles' voice trembled slightly. He swore that in all his years on the force, he had never witnessed such insane marksmanship.
Moving at high speed, every shot only disarmed the weapon without causing injury, even from seventy feet away—it seemed impossible. Hobbs's accidental hits to the hand were normal; Ron's precision was simply superhuman.
The weirdest thing was that he was using a revolver that had been phased out decades ago.
"IRS Criminal Investigation Division Special Agent Ron Lee Cooper and his unnamed associate at your service, provided you've paid your taxes," Ron said with the tax man's signature business smile. "As a model employee of the IRS, I think it's necessary to ask again—ladies and gentlemen, have you paid your taxes?"
Hobbs's eye twitched, but he managed to keep his mouth shut. For the sake of a major case that could lead to a promotion, he'd play second fiddle for a while.
Hearing Ron introduce himself, Stiles, who had been tense, breathed a sigh of relief: "I've paid my taxes! I've filed on time every year before April 15th! I have documentation to prove it. You can't treat us like this!"
"Is that right?" Ron didn't slow down; instead, he picked up his pace and, just as he reached Stiles, suddenly kicked him in the knee, sending him crashing to his knees. His officers were about to intervene when Hobbs aimed his weapon upward, and they immediately froze.
Ron leaned down, his expression still pleasant but now somewhat menacing, and continued: "But are you absolutely certain you haven't hidden some of your income? Like the drug trafficking portion? Let me take a guess how much extra cash this side hustle nets you each month? $100K? Or $200K?"
"I... I don't know what you're talking about," Stiles chose to play dumb.
"Is that so?" Ron continued in an icy tone, "Looks like I need to help jog your memory."
"Bam!" Ron suddenly stood up, raised his knee, and swiftly pressed his right hand against the back of Stiles's head. Stiles's face made immediate contact with Ron's knee, but that wasn't all.
Ron's right leg, which had just struck Stiles, didn't pull back; instead, it continued rising until his foot pointed toward the ceiling before slamming down hard, directly onto Stiles's skull.
"Crack!" Stiles's head, after the knee strike, made brutal contact with the concrete floor. The two impacts left his face covered in horrific blood, and his officers behind him were paralyzed with fear.
As cops, they'd seen plenty of violent criminals, but they'd never encountered anyone like Ron—smiling while simultaneously delivering brutal violence. This wasn't just ruthless; this guy was a total psycho!
"Dear Detective Stiles, has your memory improved yet?" Ron grabbed Stiles by the hair, lifted him off the ground, and asked again, staring him directly in the face.
(End of Chapter)
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