Half an hour later, the heavy iron door to the room creaked open once more.
The first to enter was a figure clad in black-and-red spandex, a tight-fitting suit stretched over his lean frame, a mask covering his face entirely except for two large eye patches that flexed with every expression. He strolled in confidently, dragging behind him a thick rope.
At the end of that rope was another person, tightly bound, stumbling forward with each tug. A plastic grocery bag with holes poked out for the eyes covered the captive's head, completing the bizarre and undignified scene.
The man in the bodysuit, unmistakably Wade Wilson, waved to the occupants inside. "Hey there! Looks like someone forgot to invite me to the party. Hope you don't mind—I brought a plus one."
Vladimir, flanked by his heavily armed Russian enforcers, stepped forward and eyed Wade cautiously. "You the one who turned in my bounty?"
Wade puffed up proudly, tugging the rope so the captive was dragged a step forward. "Look at you, all scary boss man vibes. Yep, that's me. Four million bucks, right? I brought you the guy with the price tag on his head!"
Behind Vladimir, Wesley's sharp gaze scanned the scene. A seasoned handler with a mind like a steel trap, he instantly sensed something off. His voice was calm but probing. "You're saying this is the wanted man? How exactly did you confirm that?"
Wade didn't miss a beat. "Ah, a story for the ages. So, I was walking down the street, enjoying the greasy bliss of a Mexican chicken wrap. Suddenly—bam!—my stomach did the samba. I ran to the nearest toilet, burst in, and there he was! Pooping! With that face and this beard!"
Vladimir groaned. "Skip the nonsense."
"Fine, fine." Wade rolled his eyes behind his mask. "I spotted him. He matched the wanted poster. So I did what any red-blooded merc would do—I tied him up and brought him right to your doorstep."
As he spoke, Wade theatrically yanked the bag off the captive's head.
Underneath the improvised mask was none other than Lu Chuang—or rather, Robert, disguised in a fake beard and thick glasses. He looked completely unbothered, blinking around the room like he'd just woken from a nap.
The atmosphere shifted immediately.
Wesley's jaw clenched, his mind already connecting dots.
Vladimir narrowed his eyes. "You brought me… an Asian man in glasses and a fake beard."
"Yes," Wade said, spreading his arms. "You're welcome."
"You expect me to believe this is the one who tore through our men like they were paper dolls?"
"Oh, come on," Wade huffed. "He even confessed! Right, Robert?"
Wade jabbed Robert in the ribs. Without hesitation, Robert coughed theatrically and said, "Yes, yes! It was me! Your incredible observation and razor-sharp deduction skills exposed me. I am indeed the man worth four million dollars!"
He raised his chin defiantly. "Let me go now, and when I'm worth a hundred million, I'll make you one of my crew."
A beat of stunned silence passed.
Wesley slowly turned his head. Vladimir's expression had gone from skeptical to murderous.
Frank, still chained and battered nearby, blinked slowly and sighed through his broken nose. His ribs ached, but his brain hurt more. What was happening? Had Robert really just… sold himself out?
Yes. Yes, he had.
Frank knew this guy wasn't your average soldier, but he hadn't expected him to throw himself into the fire just to mess with their heads. The disguise wasn't even good! It was like watching someone walk into a lion's den and challenge the lion to a dance-off.
This was less infiltration and more performance art.
Still, Frank held on to a thin strand of hope. The gangsters didn't know this was the real attacker. They needed more proof than a goofy confession and a rope.
And indeed, Vladimir was thinking the same. He barked an order in Russian, and one of his men—the same brute who had chased Robert across Midtown weeks ago—stepped forward.
Vladimir gestured toward the captive. "You saw him. You chased him. Is this the same guy?"
The Russian squinted, leaned in… and then his face lit up.
"Yes! That's him!" he said excitedly, pointing at Robert's fake beard. "I remember the beard!"
Frank's face hit his bloody palm. This man had been conned by a party-store disguise.
Wesley rubbed the bridge of his nose. This was spiraling out of control.
"You're seriously going to believe this guy?" he muttered.
Vladimir didn't respond right away. He simply walked over to Robert, circled him slowly, then turned back to Wade.
"You want four million for this?"
"Yep."
"You'll get two."
"What?" Wade protested. "You're not haggling over a corpse on Craigslist! This guy is prime target material. Four million was your offer!"
Vladimir raised an eyebrow. "Two. Or nothing."
Robert sighed loudly. "Unbelievable. I deliver myself to your door, and this is how you negotiate?"
Frank, bleeding and beaten, looked up with a sarcastic laugh. "You delivered yourself?"
Wade scratched his chin. "Well, to be fair, it was his idea."
Vladimir turned away, motioning for his men to take Robert. "Throw him in with the other one. I want to know everything—how they met, where they operate from, who else is helping them."
As the guards closed in, Robert raised his hands. "Woah, woah! At least let me keep the plastic bag. It's part of my identity now."
"Shut up," one guard growled, slamming the butt of his rifle into Robert's back.
Robert stumbled but smirked. "That's one star for customer service."
He and Frank were chained side by side now, two criminals in the eyes of the Ross Gang—but only one of them had gotten here on purpose.
Frank leaned over and whispered, "What the hell are you doing here?"
Robert grinned. "Saving your sorry ass, obviously."
"You got caught."
"Nope," Robert said. "I got delivered."
Frank stared at him, then shook his head and muttered, "You're insane."
"I know," Robert said cheerfully. "But at least now we're in the same room."
------------
Visit our Patreon for more:
patreon.com/Samurai492