Chapter 345: What a Stroke of Luck!
Ron's memory restoration technique was indeed very effective. Immediately, Detective Stiles remembered that he had about $50,000 in drug trafficking income that he hadn't reported.
Of course, Ron didn't make things difficult for him, only charging him 50% personal income tax plus a 49% "voluntary cooperation fee." Aside from that, the upright and honest Special Agent Ron didn't charge Detective Stiles a single extra penny.
After dealing with this dirty cop, Ron refocused his attention on the arrogant woman from before, smiling pleasantly. The woman felt a chill run down her spine, and even a warm sensation between her legs; she was terrified.
"Don't come any closer! What are you doing?! I'm a prosecutor, you can't do this to me!" The woman retreated in terror, but after only two steps, she bumped into Hobbs and was then tossed back like a rag doll.
Ron was thoroughly enjoying himself, his villainous performance even more addictive. He decided to imitate the bad guys in movies, licking his lips in a predatory manner and leering at the woman. "You know," he said, "people like us who work in the shadows have no principles. I suggest you cooperate, or I can't guarantee what will happen next."
With that, Ron unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt, pulling down the collar to reveal part of his muscular chest.
At this point, according to typical movie tropes, the woman should have acted fearful or panicked. But to Ron's surprise, the female prosecutor didn't continue to show fear. Instead, she suddenly began excitedly eyeing Ron and Hobbs's muscular chests, licking her lips.
"Hell yes! Who wants to go first? Or should we make it a party?" The woman excitedly tore open her blouse, revealing a generous expanse of cleavage at the neckline, her hungry gaze sweeping over Ron as if she wanted to eat him alive.
Ron had no doubt that if there were a hotel room nearby, she would immediately drag them there. He'd almost forgotten that this was the sexually liberated United States, and his looks... well, without exaggeration, were comparable to a young Brad Pitt; he was practically a walking thirst trap.
With his looks, using sexual assault as a threat was hard to call intimidation or punishment; at the very least, judging from the female prosecutor's reaction, she was definitely DTF.
"Nobody's having sex with you! You thirsty cougar! Confess to accepting bribes, or I'll make sure you get the same treatment as Stiles!" Ron angrily threw a notebook at the female prosecutor: "Now, write down your contact list and all your bribery records!"
Hobbs, behind the female prosecutor, was shaking uncontrollably, trying to suppress his laughter. Ron glared at him furiously, but Hobbs was already immune to it.
Ron's tax collection work went very smoothly, but to his frustration, none of the people he caught had the Golden Circle brand. According to the female prosecutor, they were just outside contractors to the Golden Circle organization; only the hitmen she hired—the two cops who died—were considered insiders.
Of course, it wasn't all for nothing; Ron had at least added several substantial sums to his quarterly revenue.
Just as Ron was getting frustrated with the lack of further leads on the Golden Circle, in London, England, the missile defense system, normally under military control, suddenly went completely haywire and collapsed.
To the horror of the technicians, dozens of short-range missiles, seemingly hijacked by unknown actors, streaked across the night sky, leaving long vapor trails, and precisely struck the secret headquarters of all the Kingsman agents.
"Boom!" The British public witnessed a spectacular fireworks display, but buried within these fireworks were Britain's most elite intelligence operatives: the Kingsman.
Meanwhile, Mycroft Holmes, who was overseeing this elite force and holding a virtual meeting using VR headsets, watched helplessly as the virtual avatars in front of him disappeared one by one. It wasn't until an hour later that he received confirmation that all the senior agents had been eliminated.
"Who did this! I need to know who the hell did this!" Even the usually calm and collected Mycroft couldn't help but slam his fist on the desk in rage. "How dare they launch missiles on British soil! Who is responsible?! This is challenging the sovereignty of the United Kingdom! This is an act of war! Who is it?!"
"I... I don't know, sir. Our intelligence network is completely paralyzed. We know nothing right now." The assistant trembled as Mycroft threw objects at him, not daring to even breathe, let alone pick them up.
After a long while, Mycroft finally finished venting: "Okay, how many agents have we lost in total? Are there any survivors?"
"Currently, all of the senior Kingsman agents, except for Agent Eggsy and Merlin who are on vacation, have been eliminated..." The assistant glanced at Mycroft, and after confirming that he had no intention of continuing to throw things, he continued, "The Statesman operatives in the United States were unaffected because the data wasn't stored together. Do you think we should activate the Doomsday Protocol?"
"Ha, the Doomsday Protocol?" Mycroft couldn't help but scoff: "This was originally designed as a contingency plan to deal with a catastrophic terrorist attack, and now we're forced to use it against a bunch of unknown players. It's absurd!"
"Then we won't activate the Doomsday Protocol?" the assistant asked cautiously.
"Not use it? If we don't, then go ahead and find these bastards yourself!" Mycroft glared at his subordinate. "Tell Eggsy and Merlin to open the Doomsday Vault."
"Yes, sir. I'm going right now."
"Wait!" The assistant was about to leave when Mycroft stopped him again. "Before they go, I should find them backup."
Mycroft picked up his phone, hesitated for a moment, and finally dialed Ron's number. At that moment, Ron was drinking happily with Hobbs, celebrating the windfall he had made that day.
"HELLO, Mycroft, what's up?"
"I have bad news for you, Ron," Mycroft said gravely. "Our senior agents were all eliminated by missile attacks from unidentified hostiles a few hours ago."
"What a stroke of luck?!" Ron couldn't help but burst out laughing. "Wait, didn't you say you had bad news? What is it?"
Mycroft took two deep breaths to calm himself. Talking to Ron was incredibly exhausting; he felt like every phone call with Ron shortened his lifespan by ten years.
"Here's the bad news. Listen carefully—if these people can target us, they can target you too. I think we need to coordinate our response..."
(End of Chapter)
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