Ready to Set Off

Wesley spent the entire night catching a thousand rats. He didn't actually do much—just followed Cross's instructions and bought a ton of peanut butter from the supermarket.

Compared to fancy cheese, rats prefer peanut butter!

Wesley drove the garbage truck to the city sewer outlet, the bed lined with peanut butter laced with special ingredients, luring the rats in endlessly.

The special ingredient was ammonium nitrate, a colorless, odorless ammonium salt, a staple in military explosives—extremely insensitive, even more so than C4.

After eating the peanut butter, the rats, under the high-voltage stimulation of the watch bombs, would transform into fearless Peace Warriors, shouting "Allahu Akbar" and cleansing the Brotherhood's lair.

Wesley went straight to shower after returning. The stench of peanut butter mixed with sewer fumes was so repulsive it made him want to scrub his skin off.

Russell, Cross, and Fire Fox started rigging the rats with gear. They first numbed the unwilling little creatures with a chemical solution, then strapped watch-shaped plastic explosives onto each one.

After his shower, Wesley joined in. The four of them worked efficiently and finished everything in under two hours.

Next, they just had to wait for the rats to wake up, then drive the garbage truck into the Brotherhood's lair—Textile Factory No. 17!

Cross had been preparing for this day for a long time. He pulled out the blueprints for Textile Factory No. 17 and laid out his detailed plan to Russell and the others.

His preparation was thorough—you could tell from the dense notes and markings on the blueprints. He'd highlighted many spots, including sniper points and blind spots, structural stress points, and the most ideal blast points.

He even annotated which walls were load-bearing, which could have a bookshelf installed, and where a fountain could be dug, all crystal clear.

Fire Fox's expression soured when she saw her bedroom marked as surrounded by load-bearing walls, converted from a floor-level restroom—so sturdy that even an earthquake would struggle to collapse it.

Textile Factory No. 17 was a building from the last century. Its age didn't mean decay or damage; on the contrary, the factory was rock-solid, like a fortress ringed with high walls, putting many modern buildings to shame.

A thousand rats couldn't level it, and Cross knew that. Their role was to blow up a batch of unlucky bastards and stir up chaos.

Muddy waters make for easy fishing!

The Brotherhood had plenty of manpower. Cross's side had three men and one woman total—killing them all was unrealistic. The main targets were leader Sloan and a few core members. Without those top-tier killers, the leftover trash wouldn't be a threat.

Since they were storming the Brotherhood's stronghold, four little handguns wouldn't cut it. Cross opened his arsenal and let Russell and the others gear up, picking whatever weapons they liked.

Cross went light. His job was to snipe every high point in the factory, covering Russell's team's infiltration, so aside from his usual Magnum Little Eagle II, he only brought a custom sniper rifle that looked a lot like an M24.

Fire Fox's beloved modified M1911 had been lost in her fight with Russell. Other guns didn't feel right, so she still chose two M1911s, holstered under each armpit.

Considering the factory's many narrow passages, she also grabbed a submachine gun and slung it over her back.

Her hand-to-hand fight with Russell had left her with plenty of trauma. She strapped a long dagger to her calf and put on knee pads. Over her black bodysuit, she wore a bulletproof vest, and over that, a camouflage combat suit.

She looked sharp, almost like a uniform fetish—Wesley felt a bit stiff.

Wesley went with an M9 plus submachine gun, bulletproof vest, and camouflage combat suit, dressed exactly like Fire Fox. Maybe he thought it looked like matching outfits.

In truth, bulletproof vests weren't much use in a fight. If you took a bullet head-on, you'd either die from the shot or have your bones shattered by the kinetic impact. But wearing one gave peace of mind—at least you wouldn't be some unlucky bastard killed by a ricochet.

Then Russell stepped out. He was decked out in all-black tactical gear, wrapped from head to toe—helmet, vest, combat boots, knee pads, gloves, gas mask, goggles, the works.

Two holsters held M9s, an M4A1 was slung on his back, and his belt carried flashbangs, a dagger, nylon rope, a collapsible baton, a utility pouch, a first aid kit, magazine pouches, a back waist pack, a leg pack, a row of grenades on his chest, and in both hands, a Remington M870 shotgun.

Cross and the others stared. Russell was armed to the teeth—he could've been heading to a battlefield.

"You... what the hell are you doing?"

Cross swallowed. They were assassins, not special forces. Was this overkill?

Russell took off his helmet, revealing a black mask with only his eyes showing. He shook the M870: "Under the shotgun, all are equal!"

"Who the hell asked you that..." Cross was speechless. "I mean, we're not going to war. You don't need to dress like that."

"No, this is war!"

Russell shook his head, disappointed. "You assassination types are full of chivalric ideals. I don't know what to say. The Brotherhood won't duel us one-on-one—they'll swarm us. If I don't bring extra gear, am I supposed to pick up enemy weapons?"

That made sense. Fire Fox and Wesley exchanged glances and swapped to Russell's gear. Strangely, after loading up, they felt a bit more secure.

Seeing the three black-clad figures standing in a row, Cross reluctantly changed into a black bulletproof vest too. Now they really looked like SWAT.

"If we spray-painted 'S.W.A.T.' in white on our backs, would Sloan surrender on sight?"

Russell asked with malicious intent, but aside from Wesley looking thoughtful, the other two pretended not to hear.

"Alright, let's talk business. Who's driving the garbage truck?"

The truck was loaded with rats. The Holy War Attack was the first step of the plan and the most critical part—it couldn't go wrong.

"Russell, you—"

"Sorry, I just remembered my driver's license expired today. As a law-abiding, high-quality driver, I refuse to operate any vehicle right now—not even a bicycle."

Being on the front line meant the highest chance of getting focused down. Russell flatly refused.

Cross rolled his eyes, didn't want to argue with Russell, and didn't want to risk his own son. So he assigned the task to Fire Fox, who nodded in agreement, as if it were just another routine job.

To someone who had already accepted death, whether a mission was dangerous or not meant nothing!

Fire Fox wasn't stupid. Faced with the evidence Cross had laid out, she realized Sloan was the real traitor and that her name was likely on the loom.

Her faith had crumbled. The only reason she hadn't killed herself was to take revenge on Sloan and avenge the innocent dead.

Letting a woman take the risk wasn't Wesley's style. He volunteered to go with Fire Fox, insisting despite Cross's objections.

A stubborn mule?

No, he was just fulfilling his duty as a simp.

Failure Diary

Sometimes you rack your brain for hours, only to end up with worse results than some random hack job.