The newly created Little Red Bird flew back and forth through the sky, constantly weaving through the clouds. Its body kept growing larger until, before long, the clouds looked like cotton stuffed into a bird's nest—the Blackheart Cotton kind.
Its power could also be felt rapidly increasing. It only needed a little more time to complete the handover.
"'Killing' isn't a good word. It's too violent and too dark." Mouse nodded approvingly at Deathstroke's suggestion, but he had his own opinions on the details. After exhaling a puff of smoke, he looked up at the sky as though reminiscing. "Back in my day, we usually said 'take care of it' or 'handle it.' Doesn't that sound much more refined?"
Capitalists, old-money families, and politicians were different from gangsters. Their leaders generally did not get blood on their hands. They only paid money and hired someone to solve the problem, which was why they made up the Mercenaries' primary customer base.
Just like in Su Ming's previous life—some coal bosses and real estate tycoons had made their fortunes in ways that were anything but clean. Who would believe their hands were spotless? Not even someone thinking with their toes would believe that.
But no matter how they arranged for their subordinates to get things done, the dirty work never touched the bosses. It was the same logic as later companies or certain organizations blaming everything on temporary workers whenever something went wrong.
"Close enough, heh heh. We all know what we mean." Deadpool slung an arm around Mouse's shoulders, waggled his eyebrows at him, and quietly asked, "Just give us a name, and Cousin and I will take care of the rest."
"This isn't the place to talk. Let's leave first." After glancing once more at the red bird flying overhead,