At the entrance to the third-floor corridor, Russell did not rush in. According to Cross, the windows on the third floor had all been sealed off—either covered by curtains or nailed shut with wooden boards.
Cross had not told him nothing. Based on the intelligence he had gathered earlier, and what Fire Fox and Wesley had confirmed, the Butcher's Slaughterhouse was the only way to reach Sloan's hidden office.
As for why the Slaughterhouse was on the third floor rather than beside the second-floor restaurant, that was because the Butcher's Slaughterhouse did not provide meat. It supplied corpses for the Shooting Range next door.
Pig corpses, and human ones...
The Butcher was one of the few knife-wielding assassins in the Brotherhood. He knew the human body inside out, excelled at dissection and torture, and was one of the core members.
Breathing in the heavy scent of blood, Russell caught the pungent smell of formaldehyde. He hated that smell; it always made him think of glass jars and pallid organs.
The corridor was dimly lit. At the end stood a pitch-black room, and the smell came from there.
The Butcher's Slaughterhouse!
Russell pressed himself against the wall. After thinking for a moment, he pulled grenades from his chest rig, removed the safety pins, and threw three in first before tossing in a Flashbang.
When the explosions died down, he did not hear the screams he had expected. Instead, the system informed him that he had encountered the plot character Butcher and gained one lottery draw.
The Butcher was hiding in the dark Slaughterhouse!
"That's so unfair. It makes me look like I'm cheating... Hmm, feels great!"
Russell remarked as he strode into the silent darkness. The black room was like the open maw of a giant beast, swallowing his figure whole.
The room was dark, with faint light coming from the far end. Rows of pork hung from iron hooks in midair. The temperature inside was low, giving the place the creepy atmosphere of a horror movie.
Russell knew that many of those hanging slabs were not pork...
The Butcher was hiding in the darkness, lying prone. His bloated body was pressed tightly against the floor, and his heartbeat was nearly imperceptible. He was a huge, fat man, but that was only on the surface. His fat was evenly distributed, and his limbs were thick and powerful. This was not fat—it was bulk.
Despite weighing nearly three hundred pounds, the Butcher wielded a blade with uncanny mastery. His nimble hands and feet, along with his extraordinary reflexes, put many others to shame. It was a talent, the kind granted by heaven. He had been born to make his living with a knife.
The Butcher had been lying in wait in the Slaughterhouse for a long time. He was used to its darkness. With only the faint light spilling in from both ends of the corridor, he could clearly judge the layout of the entire room: the position of every slab of pork, which hooks hung empty, and Russell's approaching footsteps.
He tightened his grip on the bayonet and stared fixedly at the figure drawing closer. Once Russell came near enough, he was absolutely certain he could drive the bayonet into Russell's heart before Russell could fire.
The Butcher's gift was his body. His explosive power and jumping ability surpassed ordinary human limits, while beneath the bloated fat lay astonishingly powerful muscles.
As Russell drew closer, the Butcher's body tensed as well. His eyes were like a venomous snake flicking its tongue, patiently waiting for prey to enter the trap. The next second, he would bite down on his prey's neck and inject lethal venom.
A little closer... Take one more step, and your body will be mine. I'll run an iron hook through your shoulder blade, then hang you—
Tap! Tap! Tap! Tap!
Russell stopped four meters in front of the Butcher and pulled the trigger on his M4A1. Muzzle flashes lit up the surrounding space, revealing the Butcher's disbelieving face.
Why had this happened?
The bullets tore the Butcher into minced flesh. As his eyes gradually dimmed, he found the reason. In the light of the muzzle flashes, he saw Russell in full gear—especially the small device mounted on his helmet.
External Helmet Thermal Imager!!
Butcher: "..."
Russell switched off the thermal imager and stared speechlessly at the corpse on the floor. Not long after entering, he had spotted a fat man lying prone on the ground. That massive heat source had nearly filled the whole screen.
Amid all that refrigerated meat, the Butcher was the only heat source...
To be honest, Russell had hesitated before firing. He had even considered tossing in another Flashbang to make a bigger show of it. After all, the guy had been lying there for quite a while. It had not been easy.
The Butcher was not at fault. He was an honest man with rigid ideas. In his calculations, Russell should have walked in carrying nothing but a small pistol.
Sloan's office lay ahead, a room surrounded by countless bookshelves. Given the Brotherhood's history, many of the books here were probably quite old. Unfortunately, Sloan had not learned any core values from them. All he had seen was the power of money.
Perhaps he had seen clearly that this was a dog-eat-dog society, which was why he had abandoned his faith, become a hedonist, and turned to chasing dollars.
Sloan, the mission target, was inside. Once he dealt with him, everything would be over. Yet Russell stopped at the entrance. In the original story, Wesley had been surrounded by seven or eight assassins pointing guns at him the moment he entered. If Fire Fox had not sacrificed herself for her faith, he would have been finished.
Russell felt he would fare about the same. More likely, he would get turned into a shredded rag by a barrage of bullets the instant he stepped inside!
"I should've brought some rats with me..."
No rats to scout ahead? No problem. He still had Wesley.
Russell decided to wait for Wesley and Fire Fox. Protecting his own life was one reason; the other was to give Wesley a chance to show off. The goddess he pursued had high standards. Without a chance to act cool and show off, how was he supposed to win her heart?
Wesley did not keep Russell waiting long. After clearing out the second-floor assassins and taking care of the Gunsmith, he and Fire Fox arrived on the third floor.
Seeing Russell's sneaky behavior, Fire Fox snorted disdainfully and stepped into the corridor without hesitation, heading for the office.
Wesley glanced at Russell. He clearly also felt that charging in would probably get them shot, but there could not be a cannon fodder to take bullets missing from beside his goddess. So he jogged after her without hesitation.
Fire Fox suddenly stopped in front of the office. Wesley was following close behind and nearly crashed into her. The moment he stopped, he regretted it.
Why did I stop?
Wesley silently cursed himself for missing the opportunity, only for Fire Fox to turn and kick him squarely in the chest, sending him sprawling onto his back.
After kicking Wesley down, Fire Fox gripped her M1911 tightly in both hands. Her heartbeat accelerated wildly, her eyes blazing as she rushed into the office.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
There had been an ambush waiting inside. The instant Fire Fox charged in, eight assassins who had been waiting for a long time pulled their triggers.
Fire Fox accelerated into the office, threw her body backward, and let her knees touch the marble floor as she slid forward. In slow motion, bullets could be seen cutting through the air, leaving straight trails as they passed over her head.
Coming through unharmed was impossible. Fire Fox had Bullet Time, but the eight assassins were no ordinary opponents. Two of them in particular were core members. Using Bullet Time's predictive ability, they began firing continuously as Fire Fox slid forward.
Fire Fox intercepted bullets with bullets. Fighting two against one put her at a disadvantage, and she was hit in the abdomen and shoulder. The pain nearly made her bite through her teeth, but she rolled beneath a nearby desk.
The assassins raised their guns and aimed at the desk. The two core members flicked their guns, preparing to finish Fire Fox off, but after two gunshots rang out, every one of them was hit in the forehead and collapsed limply to the floor.
It was Wesley!
In slow motion, his features were twisted into a savage grimace. The killing intent in his eyes was as fierce as that of a wild beast ready to devour someone.
After taking out the two core members, he flicked both hands and fired several shots. Without even looking, and without caring whether the remaining assassins were dead, he hurried to Fire Fox's side.
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