Capítulo 83: Chapter 83: Making Money is Never Easy
Jack's heart sank as he watched Mesia fall into the hands of the enemy. What alarmed him even more was the bald man in the elevator sporting a red tie. A bald head, a black suit, and a red tie—it was hard not to draw ominous conclusions from such a combination, even if the face wasn't familiar. He wasn't particularly handsome; in fact, he was rather unattractive. But the overall getup screamed trouble.
"John, keep an eye on which floor the elevator stops at. I'll take the stairs. Radio me with the floor number," Jack shouted back to John as he dashed towards the stairwell, leaving John by the elevator.
If the people in the elevator were indeed the type of hitmen Jack feared, the situation could turn ugly quickly. Whether it was a bizarre crossover where a game world had blended into reality or just a live-action adaptation of some game, John, an ordinary cop, wouldn't stand a chance against these near-superhuman adversaries. Only Jack, armed with his System-enhanced abilities, stood a chance against such formidable foes. He raced down the stairs, pondering this, when John's voice crackled over the radio, though slightly unclear.
"Jack, the elevator stopped at the basement level."
"Is that the parking garage?" Jack paused, worried about losing signal if he continued too far.
"Uh, let me check... No, it's the morgue. Jack, be careful. I'm heading down now."
"Call for backup. You'd better bring plenty of reinforcements."
Jack's voice betrayed a hint of nervousness. His steps became slightly more frantic. Although a staunch atheist and not afraid of ghosts, horror movies had always been his Achilles' heel. The thought of wandering into a creepy morgue wasn't comforting. Ironically, while people said watching horror films could make girls jump into your arms, Jack felt he might be the one jumping into someone else's.
As Jack pushed through the heavy iron door, a chilling coolness enveloped him. Glock in hand, he crept forward under the dim flicker of aged fluorescent lights.
Why do morgues insist on using such dim, old-fashioned fluorescent lights? And why must at least one or two tubes always flicker incessantly? The eerie atmosphere was off the charts.
Jack moved forward cautiously, heart pounding. Never had he hated his heightened senses from the System as much as he did now. The buzzing flicker of the lights, the faint hum of an old exhaust fan spinning feebly, and the faint odor of formaldehyde mixed with the subtle stench of decay—it was all overwhelming. His adrenaline was surging; he wondered if he should visit Zoey tonight. But no, their date wasn't due yet.
Those assassins were too professional. The way they handled the ICU transfer and the smooth conversation with the "nurse" were far beyond the clumsy goons he had encountered earlier at the motel. Jack prided himself on his caution, but he had still been duped. It was time to reflect—recent success had perhaps made him a bit complacent.
With a sharp crunch, Jack's foot hit some broken glass as he was about to turn a corner. Glancing up, he saw a half-shattered fluorescent tube above. His instincts flared, and he dropped to a crouch just in time.
A silent, lethal kick came flying from the darkness, aimed right at his midsection. Then came a flurry of knees and elbows, targeting his abdomen, belly, and chest, culminating in a final strike toward his vulnerable throat.
Wham! The female nurse's elbow stopped just short of Jack's throat, her slender forearm gripped tightly by Jack's large hand.
"My turn now?" Jack snarled, the initial fear replaced by a grim determination. Holding his Glock in his left hand, he had anticipated the final, deadly blow, having preemptively ducked. His training with the accountant had taught him well—he was no longer the feeble, barely-fit individual he once was. His muscles had grown strong, providing a formidable defense against such attacks.
The nurse—or rather, the female assassin—had delivered several fierce blows to his chest and abdomen, but they barely phased him. Instead of dodging, Jack had endured them, predicting her final strike and countering it. The hits had hurt, but not enough to slow him down or make him drop his Glock.
With a swift, silent knee strike aimed at her groin, Jack incapacitated her. She crumpled to the ground without a sound. It turned out that not only men were vulnerable to a well-aimed strike to the crotch—women were, too.
After securing the handcuffs on the now-unconscious female assassin, Jack felt his earlier fear melt away. His priority was now rescuing Mesia. No demon or ghost could stand between him and his reward. He was already imagining the size of the fridge he'd buy for his kitchen with the bonus money.
Jack pressed on, gun drawn, senses sharp. He carefully hugged the walls as he advanced, finally catching some movement in the coroner's office ahead.
Peeking inside, Jack's heart finally steadied. In the dimly lit room, amidst the stainless steel autopsy tables, the bald man stood with his back to Jack, a circular bone saw in hand, clearly threatening Mesia.
Jack's tension dissipated as he noted the lack of a barcode on the back of the bald man's head. This wasn't the formidable hitman he feared.
"Tell me the password, or I'll start with your ear, then your fingers."
"Drop that tool, or I won't hesitate to blow your shiny head off!" Jack announced, stepping through the coroner's office door into the adjoining autopsy room.
The bald man scoffed and pressed the buzzing bone saw closer to Mesia's carotid artery.
"Drop your gun, or you'll only get a corpse."
Jack almost laughed out loud. Here's a fun fact: a circular saw designed for cutting plaster and bone moves in a back-and-forth motion. It could handle hard materials but was pretty ineffective against soft skin. Even if the guy pressed it down, it would leave no more than a red mark on Mesia's neck.
Opting not to educate the assassin on these details, Jack calmly ejected the magazine from his Glock and placed it on a nearby stainless steel autopsy table. Adopting a boxing stance, he provocatively beckoned the bald man with his free hand.
The bald man grinned maliciously, set down the buzzing saw, and slowly stripped off his black suit jacket. He loosened his red tie, cracked his neck, and flexed, emitting a series of popping sounds.
Though roughly the same height as Jack, the man's frame was much more imposing. The shirt beneath his suit was so tightly stretched by his muscles that the buttons seemed ready to burst off.
"Did your mom feed you protein shakes instead of milk as a baby?" Jack taunted, feigning nervousness as he backed up a couple of steps. His real aim was to lure the guy away from the unconscious Mesia.
The bald man's grin widened as he approached, ready for a fight.
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