Mr. Smith

Mr. Smith

After returning to the factory, Cross was in a foul mood and vented by firing wildly at the humanoid targets. He had done everything he could to keep his son away from the whirlpool of assassination, yet Wesley had still been dragged in and fallen into the hands of the brutal Brotherhood.

Whenever he thought of Sloan's sanctimonious face, Cross burned with anger. He worried that Wesley would be abused. What would he do if Sloan used Wesley's life to threaten him...

"You're worried about your son?" Russell walked over to Cross, loaded bullets into a magazine, chambered a round, and began firing at an unhurried pace.

Cross snorted coldly. What a pointless question. What parent could bear to ignore their child's safety?

After emptying the magazine, Russell casually said, "Actually, you don't need to worry. As long as you're alive, Sloan won't know a moment's peace, and your son will have value as a hostage. I'd wager he'll get a beating at most. He won't die."

"I understand all that, but..." Cross let out a dejected sigh. "Wesley. That's my son's name. I abandoned him and his mother when he was still too young to remember. On one hand, I didn't want him harmed by my enemies. On the other..."

Cross trailed off, and Russell picked up for him. "On the other hand, he inherited your bloodline and has the potential to become a top-tier assassin. You didn't want his hands stained with blood. You only wanted him to live as an ordinary person."

Cross shot Russell a troubled look. "How do you know that too?"

Russell shrugged. "You know why. My parents were assassins too, and they didn't want me to follow their old path."

"All right, my head's a mess right now. I almost forgot about that. By the way, your parents did a great job. They really loved you!" As Cross spoke, he thought of himself and Wesley, and his expression darkened again.

"My parents almost succeeded, but then you dragged me into this."

Russell's jab made Cross's old face flush. He opened his mouth, but ultimately didn't dare say anything. No matter what he said, it would have been too hypocritical.

"Don't mope around. Instead of wasting time being a quiet, stubbly uncle, think about how to rescue your son Wesley. If he stays with the Brotherhood, something will go wrong sooner or later."

Cross gave Russell a long look. Perhaps because Wesley was in danger, he lowered his guard around Russell and said frankly, "A long time ago, I began devising an assassination plan against the Brotherhood. If nothing goes wrong, I can wipe out their nest in one stroke."

"Then follow the plan!"

"I want to, but the timing isn't right yet! The Brotherhood still has quite a few core members, and every one of them is a top assassin. Before I deal with them, the plan's chances of success are too low. I don't want to do something meaningless."

"Then Wesley's in for it. Every time you kill a Brotherhood member, Wesley gets fed an oily fish..." Russell was in the middle of his poisonous tongue routine when he saw Cross glaring viciously at him, so he immediately changed his tune. "All right, no happy gay fish. At most, Wesley gets beaten senseless every five minutes, or every morning, you receive one of his spare parts."

"Shut up, or I'll kill you! I swear!"

Russell blinked. "I'll say just one last thing. I promise you'll like this one."

Cross remained expressionless and stared straight at Russell. Completely oblivious, Russell began spoiling the plot—no, explaining his analysis.

"Have you considered another possibility? Wesley inherited your top-assassin bloodline. With some training and a body full of adrenaline, Sloan might use him against you."

"Impossible. I'm Wesley's father. Training Wesley to assassinate me would be too stupid!" Cross rejected the idea without hesitation.

"Precisely because you're Wesley's father, Sloan is even more likely to do it, because you won't be able to shoot Wesley..." Russell met Cross's eyes and shattered his fantasy. "You're Wesley's father, but who knows that? Wesley certainly doesn't. All he knows is that he's never had a father since childhood, isn't that right?"

Cross couldn't refute Russell's words. Unwilling to accept reality, he forcibly argued, "Still impossible. Wesley isn't that stupid!"

Sorry, but your son really was that stupid!

Russell clearly remembered that in the original story, poor Wesley never figured out who his father was. Sloan told him that he was Big Slick's son, that Big Slick had been killed by Cross, and painted Cross as an utterly evil villain. Using Wesley's determination to avenge his father, Sloan trained him into a top assassin capable of standing on his own.

At that thought, Russell suddenly froze, because the one who had killed Big Slick now wasn't Cross... it was him!

Holy shit, I became Wesley's father's killer!?

Russell was completely dumbfounded. When he had killed Big Slick before, he hadn't considered this. But thinking back on it now, that really was the fucking truth.

The thought of becoming the chosen one's father's killer filled Russell with a faint ache in his balls. This fate was leaving him no way out!

"If they really train Wesley into an assassin, that would be terrible. I don't want him to follow my old path, but he still... This damned fate." Cross was sorrowful and downcast. Perhaps because he had such confidence in his own strength, it never occurred to him that his son might threaten his life.

Russell decisively cut in. "Destroy the Brotherhood, and maybe you'll be able to live like normal people!"

"It won't be that easy. Assassins aren't janitors. It's not like you can just change jobs whenever you want..."

"If you don't do it, you'll definitely fail. If you do, there's still a chance. For your son's sake, you should fight for it." Russell spoke with a stern face. For my life, you should fight for it.

Cross was stunned. After a long while, he smiled. "You're right. I should fight for it. Fate isn't always set in stone."

Seeing Cross renewed with spirit, Russell nodded in satisfaction. With Cross, this cannon fodder, out front drawing fire, his sense of security surged. "Next, let's start training. I want to learn some new skills. Your long-range sniping is pretty good. When we counterattack the Brotherhood headquarters, I can cover you from ten kilometers away!"

"Sorry, the plan has been disrupted. I don't have time to train you now. In the coming days, I need to speed up my purge of Brotherhood members. The more I kill, the safer Wesley will be."

Russell panicked. "Then what about me? You're not planning to have a rookie like me cover you from ten kilometers away, are you?"

Believe it or not, I'll blow your damn head off!

"Don't worry. Although I can't train you, I know someone quite capable. I'll ask him to help train you." Cross picked up a sticky note and scribbled rapidly. Soon, he handed Russell an address.

Russell had a rough guess. In the original story, Cross hadn't fought the Brotherhood alone. He had a reliable partner, the Old Man who provided him with custom bullets.

Old Man was just an outward appearance. Anyone who could carve patterns into bullet heads had to be extraordinary. For all anyone knew, he might have been the world's number one assassin thirty years ago!

Thinking this, Russell happily accepted the note. A string of addresses was written on it, along with a name.

"Mr. Smith!" Russell raised a brow. "Who is he, your Robin?"

The moment he saw that name, Russell thought of the Smiths. Which raised a question: what was the relationship between Fire Fox and this Mr. Smith?

"He's a shooting buddy I met when I used to work. He won the national shooting championship at ten years old. His marksmanship is superb; he can truly hit every shot. If he hadn't been recruited by the military and signed a confidentiality agreement, he'd have become an Olympic champion long ago!"

"He worked in the military?"

"No. Like me, he changed careers and became an assassin."

Duke pondered for a moment. "Is he handsome?"

Cross stared at Russell with a strange expression, silently taking two steps back. Thinking of the oily fish Russell had mentioned earlier, his eyes instantly filled with wariness.

"Dammit, what's with that look?" Russell realized his words sounded ambiguous and changed the question. "Fine, my mistake. Let me ask again. Is his wife pretty?"

Cross's expression became even stranger. What exactly was Russell trying to do?

"Please, can you stop imagining things? I don't mean it like that. And answer my question. It's important."

"As far as I know, he's a single, poor bastard. He's thirty and still doesn't have a wife. Hell, he doesn't even have a girlfriend!" Cross chuckled twice and continued, "Any other questions?"

"Yes! Where did you used to work?"

"IRS!"

Russell was instantly filled with respect. No wonder Cross was so formidable. Before becoming an assassin, he had already been a big shot.

Please support me, you poor bastards! I'm not picky—any kind of vote will do!