Chapter Seventy-Two: The Perfect Partnership

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“Wait!” The bodyguard called out to the clown.

He watched as the clown stopped and stood to the side, glanced at him in confusion, then slowly opened the pizza box. There was indeed pizza inside, but in the center sat a bomb.

“It’s a bomb—” the man shouted sharply.

With a thunderous boom, the bomb exploded just as he cried out, flipping the front door and tearing apart the unlucky souls standing nearby.

“Attack—there’s been an attack here—” whistles rang out, and men carrying guns rushed over.

During the explosion, the clown vanished, hiding somewhere unseen. After the blast, he suddenly emerged from the darkness of the shattered doorway, drawing a pistol from his waist.

Bang! He shot down the first man who charged too aggressively, then rolled over, picked up the fallen man's gun, and began firing at those rushing toward him.

Such a carefully planned ambush always catches the enemy off guard at the start.

“Damn it, who’s trying to raid us?” Inside, a thin man in his fifties, surrounded by a crowd, shouted in fury—this was Kirill Grasimov, the head of the Russian mob.

“No idea, boss, aside from explosions and gunfire, we know nothing,” one of his underbosses replied, licking his lips nervously. “Maybe you should hide in the basement for now.”

“Damn it, hide for what?” Kirill Grasimov roared angrily, grabbing an automatic rifle from a nearby bodyguard, ready to charge out, but several underbosses restrained him.

“Boss, the gunfire is still intense!” One of them looked around nervously, stepped in front of Kirill, and suddenly felt a sharp pain in his chest. He reached out to touch it.

A handful of blood dripped from his palm.

He didn’t even have time to cry out before he collapsed limply.

“Damn—” a voice from the tree cursed quietly, then raised a rifle and continued aiming.

“There’s a sniper—” another bodyguard shouted, trying to shield Kirill Grasimov, but soon a bullet pierced the back of his head, and he dropped silently to the ground.

The rest were terrified, flattening themselves to the floor, not daring to move.

“Lights, turn off the lights!” Kirill Grasimov whispered urgently to a bodyguard by the wall. “Shut off those damn lights, damn it!”

The bodyguard jolted, scrambled to his feet to reach the lights, but as he rose, his head slammed against the wall, bounced back, and he collapsed. His neck had been shot; blood spurted from the wound, his body convulsing—he would not survive.

“Oh God, let’s rush outside together. If we make it to the basement, we’ll be safe!” One underboss suggested desperately, staring at Kirill Grasimov lying on the floor.

With a crash, someone from outside stumbled through the glass door, shattering it. He staggered drunkenly for a few steps, opened his mouth, and spewed blood, then collapsed.

The gunman on the roof seemed to spot the sniper’s position. He aimed, but before he could get a good look, a grenade flew up, landing at his feet.

“Son of a bitch—” he cursed, and then—boom—the grenade exploded.

The clown burst through the hole created by the blast, continuing his deadly work.

“Looks exhilarating,” the sniper dressed as a clown hiding in the tree exclaimed enviously, then continued to block the mob boss’s escape.

Now, they were trapped in the brightly lit hall, turned into live targets. No one dared move; anyone who did was met by bullets, each fatal.

“The enemy has a sniper—” a bodyguard said, panicking, turning to Kirill Grasimov.

“Oh, ****, don’t we know that? Say something useful—” Kirill Grasimov cursed fiercely, “Anything useful, there’s always something to bargain with, as long as the price is right.”

The bodyguard hesitated.

“Find something white to hold up, hurry!” Kirill Grasimov shouted at him.

The bodyguard nodded, his face pale, trembling as he removed his pants, then raised a pair of white underwear, shouting, “Don’t shoot—” as he slowly crawled up.

Before he could finish, his head was struck as if by a heavy blow, his neck went limp, and his head slumped to the side—a bullet had found its mark.

“Damn it, bastards, they want to wipe us out completely.” Kirill Grasimov suddenly erupted in rage; clearly, negotiations were off the table.

The gunfire outside dwindled to sporadic shots.

One clown raised a rifle, shot a bodyguard, changed magazines, and strode toward the hall. Outside, it was eerily silent, with bodies scattered everywhere.

The clown’s footsteps, though slow, echoed in the hall, striking fear into the hearts of those lying on the floor.

“A clown, a clown—” Seeing the clown enter, Kirill Grasimov grew hysterical, trying to rise and question him.

“Don’t move, boss—” a bodyguard tried to stop him, but before he finished, Kirill Grasimov’s head burst like a bloody flower, the whole skull shattered like a rotten watermelon—a bullet had ended him.

“Don’t kill us—” a terrified underboss pleaded with the clown, his voice trembling like a broken tape. “Everything was Grasimov’s fault, we were only following orders… it’s not worth killing us, really… our lives are like ants…” He was so scared he even wet himself.

The clown smiled silently. Suddenly, something dropped from the wide sleeve of his costume, hitting the floor with a dull thud. He stepped back, pressed a button on the wall.

At once, the glass walls around the hall shut, as did the doors. The survivors frantically pressed buttons inside, but nothing worked; they could only rise and scream at the clown, or beg and cry. Some fired at the glass walls and doors, but the bulletproof glass they had installed for their own safety was not so easily broken.

Everyone inside the hall screamed in despair, some kneeling in prayer, hoping for God’s forgiveness before death.

It was a Russian-made incendiary grenade, apparently one they had hidden in the basement. This was the Angel of Death; they'd never before felt such terror from it, having always used it to instill fear in others.

The clown made an “O” gesture with his hand, then skipped away. Outside, a car waited; another clown sat in the back, fingers flying over a laptop. When the two clowns boarded, he made the same “O” sign.

Boom—the villa exploded, quickly engulfed in flames.

The car slipped away silently as the explosion echoed. Much later, the sound of ambulances and fire engines could be heard.

The car sped on, reaching Paso City from San Diego in just five hours, then was abandoned in the river.

The Russian mob in Paso City was now on high alert.

Everyone was anxious—they’d received the news. Their headquarters in San Diego had been destroyed, completely wiped out, not a single survivor.

Those who attacked them left no evidence, nothing but fire to obliterate the scene. Nothing remained.

By six in the morning, the Mustang was already racing back to Abilene town.

The three clowns had removed their masks.

“Why not just wipe out those Russian bastards in Paso City?” Tim was elated, in great spirits. “It felt like playing with toys.”

“There’s no need to deal with those scum here,” Qiu Fengyu smiled. “Everything needs moderation. If we take out the Russian mob in Paso City, we’ll be directly implicated. Think, guys—their headquarters is gone. The other gangs they used to oppress in Paso City won’t let this go, right? Their good days are over. Even without us, someone will take care of them.”

“And I, boss—I’ve already altered the surveillance in Paso City and San Diego. I guarantee, according to Paso City’s cameras, we never had time to go to San Diego, since we were gambling at the casino the whole time.” Davis chuckled, then turned to Tim. “That’s the real key to keeping us safe.”

Tim didn’t argue, just gave him the finger, making Qiu Fengyu burst out laughing.