How Did You Find This Place

Smith left alone. Though they'd known each other only a short time, Russell recognized him as a real man. Reaching out to help a baby with no blood relation, braving fire and water for the woman he loved—you couldn't ask more of a man than that.

As for Smith's request, Russell swore to himself that no matter what, he would return Quintana and the baby to him safe and sound.

Russell drove aimlessly through the suburbs, first filling up the tank, then stopping at a supermarket to buy some baby essentials. Smith was so broke he didn't even have money for diapers, and his weapons and ammo were all scavenged from corpses.

Was this deadbeat really a killer?

"Where do we go now?" Quintana asked uneasily, her mind on Smith.

Russell reassured her, "Anywhere's fine. If you're tired, get some sleep. Maybe when you wake up, Smith will be back."

"But if we just drift around like this, will Smith be able to find us?" Quintana changed the baby's diaper, then picked him up and kissed him.

"Of course. He's a professional, after all..." Russell trailed off, thinking of the unreliable Cross, and found himself at a loss for words.

Quintana caught his hesitation. "Are you sure?"

Russell shrugged. "Just kidding. I left him my phone number earlier. He'll call."

Things weren't looking good for Smith. The severity of the situation had exceeded his expectations.

After parting ways with Russell, he was quickly hunted down by Hammerson Arms Company. The Short Leader was relentless, having failed repeatedly and refusing to stop until he killed Smith with his own hands.

They caused Smith plenty of trouble, but that's all it was—trouble. He managed to shake them off and got in touch with Senator Lattridge.

The senator agreed to meet Smith face-to-face. They met on a plane. The senator wasn't in good shape—gravely ill and on the verge of death. The baby Smith had was his only lifeline.

If things had stopped there, Smith's part would've been over. Handing the baby over to the senator would've been a happy ending for everyone.

Too bad Senator Lattridge was a politician, and a leading Democratic presidential candidate at that. Would a man like that gamble his bright future on Smith?

Of course not!

Senator Lattridge trusted his political instincts more. After learning the safe house was destroyed and all the surrogate mothers were dead, he immediately contacted the Major Shareholder of Hammerson Arms Company to negotiate a settlement. As long as he could recover the surviving baby and secure the presidency, he'd use his power to give Hammerson Arms some favors.

For example, loosening gun control laws so civilians could buy submachine guns for hunting!

As for his own gun control bill and the promises he'd made during his campaign speeches—worthless in the face of power and survival. He tossed them all aside.

Of course, he'd still give speeches and call for gun control. How else would he win votes?

Senator Lattridge had never paid any attention to Smith, writing him off as a lucky nobody with maybe a bit of street smarts. He had the CIA trick Smith onto the plane.

Poor Smith ended up on the plane with the Major Shareholder of Hammerson Arms Company and the stubbornly persistent Short Leader. Smith struck first, taking the senator hostage and successfully retreating into the cargo hold.

"It's useless. We're at 7,000 meters, with over a dozen bodyguards outside. There's nowhere to run!" Senator Lattridge, tied to the door by Smith, pleaded earnestly.

He wasn't afraid of dying. If he died, Smith wouldn't make it either.

"For your own sake, you should think this over. You're clearly skilled. A future president could use a personal bodyguard..."

"Shut up!"

Smith glared at the senator. "This isn't for myself. It's for that woman and the child. If I kill you, no one will come after them anymore."

"What? Are you insane!?"

The senator froze. He could tell Smith wasn't joking, but how could two gutter rats like them be worth his life? It was absurd!

"I'm not insane!" Smith aimed his gun at the senator's head. "Your death will spark public outrage. Your gun control proposal will be backed by an angry populace, Congress will pass your bill, and your dying wish will come true."

Senator Lattridge felt sick after hearing that. He figured Smith must have some serious misconceptions about America.

Gun control was just a slogan—a way for presidential candidates to trick voters. There were too many capitalists in this country making money off weapons. Gun control was never going to happen. Everyone knew it was a joke.

Staring down the dark barrel of the gun, the senator realized if he didn't say something soon, he'd never speak again.

As a seasoned politician, Senator Lattridge trusted his silver tongue. He'd even been trained by the CIA on how to handle kidnappings. Analyzing Smith's thought process, he put on his official campaign face.

"Go ahead, shoot! I hope my death can restore some dignity to this country. The people deserve a safe environment to live in, and my death will be the stepping stone to overturning the tyranny of guns..."

Senator Lattridge squared his shoulders, putting on a fearless front with a touch of heroic resolve. Inside, though, he was smug. Smith was just some lowlife thug from the bottom rung. He'd surely be impressed by the senator's integrity. And since he was a presidential candidate, maybe Smith would even bow down and become his loyal follower.

With that thought, Senator Lattridge nodded solemnly. "Go on, shoot! I'm rea—"

Bang!

Smith blew Senator Lattridge's head off with one shot. "Idiot. You think I'm stupid?"

The gunshot alerted everyone on the plane. Realizing the senator was dead, they started frantically battering the cargo door. But the senator's corpse was wedged right against it, blocking their entry unless they wanted to mutilate the body.

Having killed a future president, Smith began his escape. He found a parachute and jumped from 7,000 meters.

The enraged bodyguards grabbed parachutes and jumped after him. With the senator dead, their careers were finished. They wanted to kill Smith to redeem themselves.

A fierce gunfight broke out in midair among over a dozen men...

Screech!

Tires scraped against the ground as Russell stopped the Ford and looked at the abandoned factory ahead. The area was wide open, with no tall buildings or bushes for cover, so there was no risk of snipers. Protecting Quintana and the baby would be easier.

"We'll wait here for Smith's news. I have a feeling he'll call soon."

Russell said it reassuringly. He didn't have any feeling at all—he only dared to guarantee it because he knew Smith was the protagonist. Based on years of watching movies, endings were usually happy. Even in tragedies, the hero died in the heroine's arms.

Russell parked the car in the warehouse, found a concealed spot for Quintana to hide, and crouched in another location himself, scanning for any suspicious figures approaching.

Soon, Russell heard the whistling of objects falling from high altitude. He looked up and froze—no suspicious people on the ground, but plenty in the sky.

Men in Black, each wearing a parachute, dropped like dumplings from the heavens. They didn't deploy their chutes, landing in all sorts of flashy poses, then splattered into little pancakes. The nearest one landed less than ten meters from Russell, the impact making his heart pound.

"Buddy, look at my hand. How many fingers?"

"Say it with me: two!"

No reply. Probably dead. Russell sprinted into a nearby iron door—getting crushed to death would be a joke.

Five minutes later, a pristine white parachute drifted down slowly, landing about 500 meters from Russell. The figure spotted the abandoned factory and staggered over.

Russell gripped his M9 tightly, waiting until the person got close before snapping off a shot... but didn't fire. It was Smith.

Smith saw Russell, gave a bitter smile, clutched his wounded shoulder, and collapsed straight forward. In the recent aerial battle, he'd been unluckily hit and was at his last gasp.

Russell dashed over, helped him up, and said in disbelief, "Damn it, how the hell did you find this place?"

"Heh, wanna learn? It'll cost you!"

Russell: "..."

Money's no issue, but with behavior like that, Cross loses face!

Blood gushed from between Smith's fingers. His face was nearly drained of color, weak as could be, as Russell supported him into the factory.

By the time Russell set Smith down, the latter had fallen unconscious. Russell checked him—Smith had been shot in the right arm. Luckily, the bullet hadn't hit bone, just a graze that tore away some flesh.

Still, if the bleeding wasn't stopped soon, Smith would die.

Russell only had a 'Blood Sucking Bandage' on hand, useless for this. He grabbed some clean water from the car, cleaned the wound simply, tore off his sleeve, and bound Smith's injured arm.

Quintana heard the commotion outside, saw it was Smith, and hurried over holding the baby. The moment she saw Smith wounded, tears streamed down her face. Russell confirmed Smith wasn't in critical danger, settled him in the passenger seat, and prepared to drive off.

The engine roared to life again. Russell floored the gas, and the Ford shot toward the factory gate—only to return thirty seconds later at even greater speed.

They were surrounded. Four armored SWAT vehicles blocked the way.

S.W.A.T!!!

Begging for support!