A dull thud echoed through the deserted underground corridor. Richard's body went limp, crumpling to the ground before he could even groan. He was, at last, completely unconscious. Russell didn't spare him a glance, turning his attention to the front again. As the smoke cleared, the panic-stricken faces of the remaining thugs were revealed.
"Shit, what's going on?!" one barked, glancing up to where Richard had stood.
"There he is! Blast him to the sky!"
The moment he shouted, several submachine guns trained on Russell's position. But as their fingers squeezed the triggers, that infuriating black smoke burst out again. Saints from Saint Seiya never lose to the same trick twice—but these guys are no saints.
This technique will never let you down!
Russell disappeared once more, and the clueless thugs continued to spray bullets blindly into the haze until their magazines ran dry and their guns overheated.
The mingled stink of smoke and gunpowder made it nearly impossible for anyone to keep their eyes open. The sounds of empty magazines being discarded, metal magazines hitting the ground, and spinning wheels tumbling all echoed in rapid succession. Cursing the troublesome man, the thugs scrambled desperately to reload.
In all the major heists I've pulled, this is the first time I've run into someone this bizarre.
Because Moriarty usually kept his distance from the criminal underworld, most gangsters had only heard rumors of him—they had never actually met.
Until today.
When the smoke finally cleared, the hall was empty except for a pile of corpses.
It's always the same.
Brandishing their reloaded guns, the thugs pressed their backs against the door of the warehouse, warily watching every corner where Russell could reappear.
[You have terrified the bandits; your Malice Level increases by 50.]
Notifications chimed in Russell's ear as his lips curled into a slight smirk.
At this moment, he was somewhere no one expected: behind the very door of the warehouse. The door had been forced open, but the bandits had never intended to loot anything within—and no one imagined someone could slip through their ranks and enter right through the back door, in plain sight.
Impossible! And yet, he did it.
The door behind them yawned wide, but none of them dared look back into the darkness. From the crack, a tiny ball rolled out with a soft clattering, drawing everyone's gaze.
And then—familiar black smoke again.
Four sheep bring prosperity!
"Damn!"
All of them shouted profanities, whirled around, and poured concentrated fire through the open doorway.
"How did he get in there?!" someone screamed.
"No one knows! Just pull the trigger!"
[You've enraged the bandits. Their fear has turned to fury. Malice +50]
No one knows how long the rain of bullets lasted, but it finally stopped. The submachine guns glowed red-hot from overuse, and spent shells littered the scorched floor. When the smoke cleared, all that remained was the riddled, wide-open warehouse door. The other side was enveloped in a deathly silence, like the mouth of some predatory beast about to swallow all light and sound.
"Is he… dead?" One thug's voice shook—half from nerves, half from lack of air.
"Maybe he's been ground into mincemeat," another spat as he swapped in his last spare magazine.
"Don't let your guard down!" growled the leader. "He might still be alive!"
"Looking for me?"
Hardly had the words been spoken when a lazy, slightly mocking voice echoed from the rear of the crowd.
Weapons drawn but not yet reloaded, all the bandits spun around. In their field of vision, a black blur stretched and loomed.
Crack!
A cold steel gun smashed into the head of one man, sending him crashing to the floor.
"Shit, where the hell did he come from?" screamed another, scrambling desperately for a fresh magazine—only to find his pocket empty. Before he could react, a hand appeared in front of him, holding a magazine loaded with three bullets.
"Looking for this?" Russell grinned, pressed the magazine into the man's mouth in a flash, and then punched him savagely in the stomach.
Writhing in agony, the man instinctively clamped his jaws shut on the magazine. Suddenly, he felt pressure on top of his head. Russell pressed down hard with his right hand and at the same time drove his knee upward sharply.
Bang!
A sickening crunch of breaking bone. The bandit crumpled, the magazine falling among broken teeth and blood.
[From Jack: Fear + agony, Malice +40]
Not sparing a glance for the ragdoll on the ground, Russell faced the last two survivors.
"Demon…monster…" one thug stammered, backing away in terror.
"No, stay away!" yowled another, waving his empty submachine gun at Russell as if it were a talisman.
"Who sent you to attack Lloyds Bank?" Russell pressed on, drawing closer.
"You… you'll get nothing from me!" screamed one, dropping his gun and charging. But Russell simply stepped aside, dodging with ease. Swinging his shotgun like a golf club, he smashed the man's knee joint.
Snap!
Bone snapped again—not a pleasant sound.
[From Sam: Despair + agony, Malice +40]
The thug screamed inhumanly, stumbling and collapsing. Russell gave him no chance to recover—he spun, gripped the shotgun like a steel bar, and clubbed the man on the back of the head.
"If you won't talk, so be it."
Bang!
One less on the enemy's side.
…