Wesley spent an entire night catching 1,000 rats. In truth, he had done very little; he had merely followed Cross's instructions and bought a huge amount of peanut butter from the supermarket.
Compared to richly flavored cheese, rats preferred peanut butter!
Wesley drove the garbage truck to the City Sewer Outlet. Its cargo bed was covered in peanut butter mixed with special ingredients, drawing the rats in without end.
The special ingredient was Ammonium Nitrate, a colorless, odorless ammonium salt. It was an essential component of military explosives, an extremely insensitive explosive, even less sensitive than the safe explosive C4.
After eating the peanut butter, the rats would, under the high-pressure stimulation of Watch Bombs, transform into fearless peace warriors, shouting "God is greatest!" as they cleansed the Brotherhood's lair.
After Wesley returned, he went straight to take a shower. The stench of peanut butter mixed with the sewers was unbearable, making him want to scrub off his skin.
Russell, Cross, and Fire Fox began strapping equipment onto the rats. They first used a drug to paralyze the little creatures that refused to cooperate, then attached watch-shaped Plastic Explosives to them one by one.
Wesley joined in after his shower. With the four of them working together, they finished everything in under two hours.
All that remained was to wait for the rats to wake up, then drive the garbage truck into the Brotherhood's lair—Textile Factory No. 17!
Cross had prepared for this day for a long time. He took out the blueprints of Textile Factory No. 17 and explained his detailed plan to Russell and the other two.
His preparations were truly thorough. The dense notes and markings on the plans made that obvious. He had specially marked many locations, including Sniper Points and blind spots, structural stress points, the most ideal blast points, and more.
He had even clearly noted which sides were load-bearing walls, which walls could be opened up for bookshelves, and where fountains could be dug.
Fire Fox's expression was not very pleasant because she saw her own bedroom. It was marked as having four load-bearing walls, converted from a restroom on that floor. Even in an earthquake, it would be difficult for it to collapse.
Textile Factory No. 17 was a building from the last century. Its age did not mean it was old or damaged. On the contrary, the factory was extremely sturdy, like a fortress surrounded by high-strength defenses, enough to put many modern buildings to shame.
A thousand rats would have a hard time leveling it, and Cross understood that. The rats' role was to blow up a batch of unlucky bastards and create chaos while they were at it.
Muddy water made it easier to fish!
The Brotherhood had many people. Cross's side had three men and one woman in total. Wiping them all out was unrealistic. Their main targets were leader Sloan and several core members. Without those top assassins, the remaining rabble was nothing to fear.
Since they were attacking the Brotherhood's headquarters, four little pistols obviously would not be enough. Cross opened his arsenal and let Russell and the others arm themselves, free to choose whatever weapons they liked.
Cross traveled light. His task was to snipe every target on the high ground around the textile factory and cover Russell's group as they infiltrated. Therefore, aside from his usual Magnum Little Eagle II, he carried only a customized Sniper Rifle that looked much like an M24.
Fire Fox's beloved modified M1911 had been lost during her fight with Russell. Other guns did not feel right in her hands, so she still chose two M1911 pistols, placing them in holsters beneath her left and right armpits.
Considering the many narrow passages in the factory, she also selected a Submachine Gun and slung it across her back.
Her hand-to-hand fight with Russell had left Fire Fox with quite a few lingering fears. She strapped a long dagger to her calf and put on Knee Pads. Over her black skintight outfit, she wore a Bulletproof Vest, with a Camouflage Combat Suit as the outer layer.
She looked valiant and dashing, like the ultimate uniform fantasy. The sight made Wesley a little hard.
Wesley carried an M9 and a Submachine Gun, along with a Bulletproof Vest and Camouflage Combat Suit. He was dressed exactly like Fire Fox, perhaps because he thought it looked like matching couple outfits.
In reality, Bulletproof Vests were not especially useful in battle. If a bullet hit someone head-on, even if it did not kill them, its kinetic force could still break their tendons and bones. Still, wearing one gave peace of mind; at least they would not become unlucky fools killed by ricochets.
Then Russell made his appearance. He was clad in pitch-black Tactical Gear, wrapped up from head to toe. From his helmet and vest to his Combat Boots, Knee Pads, gloves, gas mask, and Goggles, he had everything.
His left and right holsters held M9s, an M4A1 was slung across his back, and Flashbangs, a dagger, nylon rope, a collapsible baton, a utility pouch, a first aid kit, a magazine pouch, a back waist pack, and a leg pack hung from his waist. A row of grenades lined his chest, while he held a Remington M870 shotgun in both hands.
Cross and the other two stared blankly. Russell was armed to the teeth; he could have been sent straight to a battlefield.
"You... what are you doing?"
Cross swallowed. They were assassins, not special forces. Was there any need to go this far?
Russell removed his helmet, revealing a Black Mask that exposed only his eyes. He shook the M870. "Under a shotgun, all lives are equal!"
"Who the hell asked you that..." Cross was speechless. "What I mean is, we're not going to war. You don't need to dress like this."
"No, this is war!"
Russell shook his head, looking at them as if they had failed to live up to expectations. "You assassination types are full of knightly ideals. I really don't know what to say about you. The Brotherhood won't challenge us one-on-one. They'll swarm us. If we don't bring more equipment, are we supposed to pick up enemy weapons and use those?"
It made a great deal of sense. Fire Fox and Wesley exchanged glances, then both changed into the same gear Russell wore. Sure enough, once they were armed to the teeth, they inexplicably felt a little safer.
Looking at the three black-clad figures standing in a row, Cross helplessly put on a black Bulletproof Vest as well. Now they really looked like a SWAT team.
"If we spray S.W.A.T. in white paint across our backs, do you think Sloan will surrender his weapon when he sees us?"
Russell asked maliciously. Aside from Wesley, who seemed thoughtful, the other two pretended not to hear him.
"Alright, let's talk business. Who's driving the garbage truck?"
The garbage truck was loaded with rats. The Holy War Attack was the first step of the plan and the most important link for everything that followed. Nothing could go wrong.
"Russell, you..."
"Sorry, I just remembered that my Driver's License expires today. As a high-quality driver who obeys traffic laws, I now refuse to drive any vehicle. Not even a bicycle."
Charging on the front line meant being the most likely target of concentrated fire. Russell decisively refused.
Cross rolled his eyes. He did not want to deal with Russell, nor did he want his son taking the risk, so he assigned the task to Fire Fox. She nodded in agreement as if it were just another ordinary mission.
For someone determined to die, whether a mission was dangerous or not held no meaning at all!
Fire Fox was not a fool. Faced with all the evidence Cross had produced, she had realized that Sloan was the true traitor. She also knew that her name had most likely appeared on the Loom.
Her faith had already collapsed. The only reason she had not killed herself was that she still had a useful life to avenge herself on Sloan—and to avenge those innocent dead.
Letting his goddess take risks was not Wesley's style. He volunteered to carry out the mission with Fire Fox. No matter how Cross tried to persuade him, he refused to change his mind.
Was he dead set on it?
No, he was merely fulfilling the duty expected of a simp!
Failure Diary
Sometimes, after racking your brains for hours, coming up with several ideas, you still did worse than someone else's random bullshit writing.
Before you continue