r18novel Chapter 68 They are dead, and have no heart to distinguish right from wrong.
Chapter 68 They are dead, and have no heart to distinguish right from wrong.
Chapter 68 They are dead, and have no heart to distinguish right from wrong.
The Anvil Security Company building is located at the intersection of West 50th Street and Eighth Avenue.
The exterior walls are gray-blue glass curtain walls, and the revolving doors in the lobby on the first floor are polished to a shine.
As Frank walked through the door, the receptionist looked up at him.
Her gaze lingered for a moment on the white skull on his chest, then she lowered her head to continue answering the phone.
No one stopped them.
He walked down the corridor and pushed open the door to Russell's office.
Billy Russell sat behind his desk, impeccably dressed in a suit, his tie pulled to the top, and the silver buttons on his cuffs engraved with his initials.
When he saw Frank walk in, the corners of his mouth turned up slightly.
"I never expected you to become a policeman. Why don't you come and work with me? You can earn more here."
Russell placed his hands on the desk, tilting his chin slightly towards Frank.
He deliberately avoided looking at the gun at Frank's waist, and also at the skull on Frank's chest that still smelled of gunpowder.
Frank didn't say anything. He walked to the chair two steps away from the desk, sat down, put his hands at his sides, and stared straight at Russell's face.
"Do you know how much we earn per hour? Five hundred dollars an hour, more than a policeman."
Russell leaned back in his swivel chair and tapped his fingers lightly on the armrests.
"Most of the team members are veterans, so you won't feel unfamiliar with them."
He turned his head toward the office area outside the glass window.
The security consultants sitting in those cubicles were all soldiers he had trained in the Marine Corps.
They are now wearing shirts and ties, and there are coffee cups and a family photo on the table.
Frank remained silent, his gaze never leaving Russell's face, not even blinking.
Several of the veterans outside the window had already put down their documents and turned to look at the office through the glass.
Their fingers had somehow found themselves resting on the holsters at their waists.
Russell's lips slowly curled back down.
He slid his right hand off the desk, letting it hang below the surface, his fingers touching the Beretta's handle in the drawer.
He didn't take the gun out; he just rested his finger on it.
"That little pistol under your desk won't do you any good, Russell."
Frank finally spoke.
He glanced at the area under Russell's desk, then raised his hand and placed it on his thigh.
With just this one movement, Russell's entire body of muscles tensed up at the same time.
He pressed his index finger hard on the outside of the Beretta's trigger guard, almost pulling it in completely.
No one knew Frank better than Russell.
On the battlefield, this person can tense all the muscles in their body to their limit, switching from complete stillness to full burst of power in a fraction of a second.
He now has his hands on his thighs, which means he can draw his gun at any moment.
Russell pulled his hand out of the drawer and placed it on the desk.
He leaned back in his chair, his fingers interlaced on his chest, and looked at Frank's face again.
His security company does occasionally take on some shady private jobs.
Private bodyguarding is their main business, but they also handle assassination contracts.
If Frank had approached him for a side job, he wouldn't have looked at him like that.
Unless it's for something else.
Russell narrowed his eyes slightly. If it was that matter—
If Frank really came for that reason—
Then today can't be ended with a conversation.
Frank's gaze swept past Russell's shoulder and across the veterans still looking this way through the glass window.
He lifted his right hand from his thigh, propped it up against his chin, and looked Russell in the eye again, his confusion undisguised.
"You ate with them, Russell."
Frank's voice was very low, and the veterans outside the window couldn't hear it.
"Mary made apple pie herself."
"Lisa is giving you candy."
"Little Frank loves listening to your stories."
He turned his head to the left, then to the right, and his right leg began to shake involuntarily.
He raised his hands to cover his forehead, pressing his palms against his temples.
Why?
Russell's heart pounded in his chest.
So that's what it was all for.
He leaned back completely into his swivel chair, removed his fingers from the desk, and rested them on the armrests.
In that instant, the expression on his face relaxed.
Once you know the result, the fear of waiting disappears, leaving only the result itself.
"What happened to Maria and the children—I am so sorry, Frank."
"But I wasn't involved."
"But you didn't stop it either."
Frank jumped up, his chair crashing to the ground behind him, the back of the chair slamming against the filing cabinet with a loud thud.
He braced his hands on the edge of the desk and leaned forward.
Outside the window, a dozen security personnel simultaneously drew their pistols, aiming the muzzles at Frank's back through the glass.
The office was quiet, except for Frank's long-suppressed roar, which still buzzed in the air.
Russell reached up and rubbed his chin, his fingers scraping back and forth on the stubble.
He did not respond to Frank's roar.
Frank was right; he did know.
He already knew about the trap in Central Park.
To be precise, it's Project Hellhound.
He knew someone was going to assassinate Frank in front of the amusement park; the gang party that day had been staged, and snipers had already set up their guns on the roof.
He did nothing and let Frank lead his family inside.
"Why? You could have saved them!"
Frank slammed his hands on the desk, causing the coffee cup on the table to jump up and overturn, spilling the dark brown liquid onto the contract Russell had just signed.
"Why, Russell?!"
Russell sprang up from his chair, stuck out his finger and poked Frank's nose, his fingertip trembling slightly in the air.
His entire face turned bright red, and his eyes looked like they were about to bulge out of their sockets.
"It's all because of you! You were the only one who didn't fit in back in Afghanistan!"
He waved his other hand out the window, his palm sweeping over the veterans who were still pointing their guns at the office.
"We're all risking our lives for our country! What's wrong with making a little money? Only you—"
He took two steps forward, touched Frank's chest with his finger, and pressed his fingertip against the white paint on the skull.
"You're amazing, you're noble, you're righteous, you're the captain."
"But our brothers need to eat! Our brothers also have families to support!"
"Those guys who lost legs or went blind on the battlefield, and were carried back to veterans' hospitals to die—"
"Who cares whether they live or die!"
He turned his back to Frank, walked to the French windows, braced his hands on the window frame, and the muscles of his back bulged and then subsided beneath the fabric of his suit.
He continued yelling at his reflection in the glass.
"If you don't want to participate, that's fine; it's your personal choice."
"But why did you collect that evidence?"
"Do you know that if those things are handed over, all the brothers will go to jail!"
He turned around abruptly, pointing his finger at Frank again.
"Of course I know! That's why I only submitted a report; the evidence was destroyed long ago!"
Frank lifted his hands off the desk, stood up straight, and his chest heaved violently.
The capillaries under the skin were all congested with blood, spreading from the collarbone all the way to the base of the ears, turning the entire face a dark red.
"Are you all idiots? What use are you now that you've returned from Afghanistan?"
"Those people at the top turn on you faster than flipping through a book. If we didn't have those incriminating evidence against you, you would have all been wiped out long ago!"
'
"In battle, the first thing you need to do is find a way to escape. You've even forgotten such a basic thing!"
The moment his roar was forced out from his lungs, Russell froze on the spot.
The veterans outside the window were also stunned.
Everyone loosened their grip on the gun handles.
Russell's lips moved, his fingers still hovering in mid-air, the fingertips no longer pointing at Frank, but bending back weakly.
"Impossible, absolutely impossible!"
He roared out those words with all his might, the last syllable of his voice broken and incoherent.
He ignored the trap for the sake of all his brothers.
Frank's collected evidence includes: heroin smuggling, illegal assassinations, trilateral trade, and equipment trafficking.
If exposed, everyone involved will face at least a 50-year prison sentence.
If Frank hadn't died, this evidence would have been discovered sooner or later.
He chose to remain silent in order to protect everyone.
But now Frank says the evidence was destroyed long ago and he never intended to betray anyone.
Russell suddenly drew his pistol from his back waist and pointed it at Frank's forehead.
His fingers were trembling, and the muzzle of the gun was swinging from side to side along the aiming line.
"You're a liar!"
"Me? A liar?" Frank stood still, facing the gun barrel without flinching or even reaching for the gun at his waist.
He stared into Russell's eyes, and the corner of his mouth twitched to one side.
Russell's hand gripping the gun trembled even more violently, and the hands of the veterans outside the window were also shaking.
Because everyone knows one thing—Frank Castle never lies.
He would rather say nothing than lie.
This is their understanding after spending time with him in the Afghan desert, crouching in trenches together, enduring mortar fire together, and dragging their comrade's body out of an overturned Humvee.
He's not a fraud, he never has been.
Frank's chest heaved gradually slowed down. He glanced down at the overturned chair on the floor, then at Russell's still trembling gun barrel, and lowered his voice back to its usual volume.
"Russell, give me a name."
"The revenge for Mary and the others must be taken."
The office remained quiet for a long time.
The red and blue light from the neon lights outside the window seeped in through the gaps in the blinds, casting parallel dark lines on Russell's profile.
He lowered the muzzle of the gun, pulled his finger out of the trigger guard, and let it hang at his side.
He didn't look at Frank, but stared at a corner of a contract paper soaked in coffee on the floor, and uttered a few syllables softly.
"William Rollins."
"That CIA?" Frank had always known about what the military was doing in Afghanistan.
But he never knew who was in charge of these things.
"Yes." Russell walked to the door, put his hand on the doorknob, and pulled it open.
His back was to Frank, his shoulders were trembling slightly, and he didn't turn around.
He took a deep breath and squeezed out the last bit of air from his chest.
"I'm sorry, I can't let you go to him."
The moment the words left his mouth, the veteran outside the window pulled the trigger.
The glass shattered, and shards flew onto the office carpet.
Frank's body had already moved before the gun went off.
He rolled to the side, simultaneously drawing two grenades from his waist with his right hand. As he rolled, his thumb released the safety catch, and his index finger hooked the pin, flinging the grenades out through the window opening.
Two grenades traced parallel arcs in the air, bounced once on the tabletop in the cubicle, and rolled into the area where the veterans were standing. Boom! The two explosions overlapped.
A blast of air, carrying shards of glass and the remains of office chairs, poured into the office through the windows, simultaneously activating the fire sprinkler system on the ceiling, sending a curtain of icy water crashing down from mid-air.
Frank pulled out his pistol from his lower back, stood up, and two bursts of blood appeared simultaneously on his shoulder and right leg.
Outside the window, two veterans who hadn't been knocked down by the grenade were aiming at him through the spray of water, their still-smoking gun barrels raised.
He didn't look at the wound; the muzzle of the gun moved sideways.
bang bang.
Two bullets pierced through the broken window frame and struck the two men between the eyebrows.
The body slid down the cubicle partition, knocking over a row of monitors and several mugs.
He wiped the water from the corner of his eye with his left hand and continued walking forward, pausing for half a second on each fallen veteran to confirm that he had been shot in the head before moving away.
Less than a minute.
All fifteen veterans on that floor died.
He caught a glimpse of Russell's back as he disappeared down the stairs.
He took the last grenade from his waist, pulled the safety pin, and threw it into the stairwell.
The projectile bounced off the floor tiles and rolled down the steps.
Boom! The staircase exploded in two, steel bars pierced through the concrete debris, and rubble fell on the spot where Russell had just collapsed, burying him halfway up.
Russell struggled to his feet from the rubble, his right trouser leg torn in several places by shards of debris, blood trickling down his calf.
He leaned against the wall and walked down the stairs. He had only taken a few steps when he heard the sound of combat boots stepping on broken bricks behind him.
He turned around, placed his left hand on the wall, and drew his pistol with his right.
boom.
A bullet struck the back of his hand, piercing through the metacarpal bone and exiting between his fingers, sending the gun flying.
Russell screamed, lost his balance, and slid down onto the stairwell wall.
He pressed his left hand firmly against the bullet hole on his right hand, which was still gushing blood, and looked up at the figure standing at the top of the stairs.
Frank stood on the edge of the broken staircase, his shoes sinking into the broken bricks and cement slag.
Water continued to pour down from the ceiling sprinklers, drenching his head.
He dragged his still-bleeding right leg to Russell's table and looked down at Russell.
"Frank, I didn't harm them!"
Russell's back was pressed against the wall, his left hand resting on his right.
"I didn't kill them!"
"Ah, I know."
Frank raised the gun and aimed it at Russell's forehead.
Water dripped down his wrists, down the barrel of the gun, and onto Russell's knees.
"But they are already dead."
"I have no interest in distinguishing right from wrong."
boom.
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