Chapter 211: The Gunmen

Henry sat on the ground, grinning after having performed one play and watched another. But laughter alone grows fainter over time; emotions always settle eventually.

He spun around sharply, facing the gunmen who had just attacked him—all now standing around him—and asked: "Aren't you going to chase that black fatso? You know full well I'm unarmed and alone—I can't stop you."

"Oh, your words are flawless." One of the gunmen stepped forward; his voice stirred a sense of familiarity in Henry.

Upon closer recollection, he remembered: over a year ago, when he'd worked as a black-suited bouncer at a mansion banquet, a group of gunmen had stormed in. One seasoned shooter had dragged out the target and put him down—this very man was speaking now.

So these people were from the Continental Hotel again? When Tony Stark and Alex Hart had their secret meeting in the study, Henry had overheard every word—hence his guess at their origin.

But so what? When it was time to play dumb, he'd still act the part. Henry feigned confusion, tugging at his shredded clothes: "Look, I've got holes all over me—I'm the victim. I have nothing to do with you."

"Huh." A low chuckle. Yet beside this aging gunman stood two odd figures.

One revealed a green-faced, fanged visage, his face stretched beyond human limits—as if about to lunge onto Henry.

The other's arms shimmered with white light, gradually hardening into solid substance.

But the lead gunman halted them, crouching before Henry: "You should know, we were supposed to attack yesterday. Our employer ordered every person in this house killed—none spared."

"But we got word you'd joined the senator's camp, so we delayed a day for extra preparation. Now it seems things turned out differently than anyone expected."

"So," Henry looked at the two men who showed no sign of stopping, "they're your 'preparation'?"

One looked like a vampire, the other a mutant. Did the Continental Hotel recruit such people? Then again, no rule said the Continental Hotel had to be purely human…

The old gunman curiously asked: "Are they useful?"

"I don't know. I'm curious too," Henry countered. "If you fail your employer's objective, what will you do?"

"You're not the primary target. At minimum, we must contain you."

"Then if your main target escaped, doesn't that mean I've fulfilled my role as a protector?" Henry tried to excuse himself.

The old gunman stood up. "Heh. The ones storming the backyard are from the Russian mob—Barbaryaga's among them. If that black man wants to survive, he'd need to beg the X-Men for help."

"But if this kind of gunfight happened in New York, and the senator could contact the X-Men, it'd be more useful than calling 911. But this is Los Angeles, on the West Coast—by the time the X-Men arrive, he'll be dead and cold."

"Then should I rejoice for you—or pity the senator?"

"If you're worried someone recorded this or might use your testimony in court, now's the time to fake tears for that black senator. That's how you show you're not with us."

Hearing this, Henry knew his earlier act had been seen through. He feigned no embarrassment and asked: "Can I go home now? In this outfit, I'll catch a chill in this weather."

Henry's fingers poked through the holes in his clothes, playing the innocent.

The old gunman shrugged helplessly. "Didn't I say? The employer wants everyone here dead—none spared. Your case is unusual; you seem to want to stay neutral, and I'm not even sure I can kill you."

"So we'll take you with us to meet the hotel manager. Let her decide how to handle this outcome. I think that's better for you than us issuing a kill order without restraint."

Henry rose, clad in tattered pants and shirt, and said: "So you mean, only by coming with you to that hotel can this be resolved?"

"The Los Angeles Continental Hotel—the only assassin sanctuary on the West Coast," the old gunman said, studying the young man. "You can refuse. But then we'll carry out our employer's original order. You know that."

The old gunman's oily nature was now fully exposed—he was clearly matching Henry's act of feigned ignorance with his own.

One person acting dumb can claim it's just for amusement. But if two are acting, the game never ends.

Henry had no patience for this evenly matched duel. "Fine, I'll go with you—I'm unarmed and can't resist. But can you find me some pants? Showing up at the hotel like this isn't polite. I don't want the concierge throwing me out."

Though Henry himself was bulletproof, his clothes weren't. The gunmen had fired wildly—didn't care where they hit, as long as they hit someone.

Henry had just lain there, screaming in pain as bullets struck him, not deliberately controlling where he took hits—so now, though not naked, he risked exposing himself.

He only realized this now, upon standing. Had his pride been thinner, he'd be crouching like a Miss, covering his private parts in shame.

The old gunman saw this unseemly sight too—but he didn't let Henry go inside for clothes. Instead, he took off his suit jacket and tossed it at Henry. "Here, borrow it. Remember to return it."

Henry took the jacket, feeling its unusual weight. "What fabric is this? So heavy."

"Kevlar fiber. Standard handguns can't penetrate it."

"Oh, bulletproof." The Continental Hotel's trademark—bulletproof suits. Every man should own one. Even Henry had considered it.

No choice: he was bulletproof, but his clothes weren't. Survive the bullets, die from social death—better to have just died outright.

Henry didn't use the suit jacket to cover himself. Instead, he tied his ruined shirt around his waist to conceal the indecent parts—his back was still mostly intact and served as adequate cover.

Then he put on the suit jacket, so he wouldn't be half-naked running around in this damned winter.

The old gunman was quite pleased with Henry's choice. Had Henry used the jacket to cover himself, he'd have considered discarding it immediately.

In fact, after lending it out, he'd already regretted it. Fortunately, Henry hadn't done that.

He addressed everyone: "Let's go. Back to the hotel for the bounty. Leave the cleanup to the aftermath team."

Someone said: "The target hasn't been taken yet."

As soon as he spoke, the distant gunfire fell silent—then came three sharp, consecutive shots: "Bang! Bang! Bang!"

The old gunman chuckled: "You youngsters don't know what 'Barbaryaga' means when it comes to the Russian mob, do you?"

Now no one doubted the old gunman's order. They all holstered their weapons and turned back.

(End of Chapter)