Chapter 5: The Bounty of 250 Million Heads!

"Mr. James!?"

"Who are you!?"

"Jack sends his regards!"

When there's a debt, it has an owner. Death must be clear, and this is the principle that Peter always follows. When he kills, he always announces who the victim's killer is and makes sure the victim dies in a way that leaves no ambiguity. Some crimes are too complex for the law to handle, so it's better to dispense justice at noon when the sun is overhead, without worrying that one's shadow will be misaligned.

Bang...

The man's expression turned to terror, and then his forehead was pierced. Blood and brain matter exploded from the back of his head, spraying everywhere as his legs twitched before collapsing to the ground. He was undoubtedly dead. Peter calmly walked into the high-speed train that was about to depart. Although the alarm sounded, the train still left the station. As he continued forward, some passengers saw the murder and were terrified, but more people just watched in curiosity. He walked past the terrified onlookers and reached the train conductor, who raised both hands in a gesture of understanding. Peter waved his hand, signaling for the conductor not to be afraid—he wouldn't kill anyone unless paid.

"Stop the train!"

"Now!?"

"Guess."

The conductor, surprised, asked the question instinctively as he saw Peter twirling his gun. Quickly, he turned and pulled the brake lever. Peter, relying on his habitual motions, leaned on the handrail, waiting for the train to stop. Once it did, he opened the door and stepped outside, quickly jumping onto the platform. Just a hundred meters away, there was a maintenance passage. He couldn't afford to wait for the next stop; otherwise, he'd be surrounded by the police.

Kicking open an iron door, Peter stepped out, peeled off his clothes and flipped them inside out, changing from gray to black. He tossed the round hat aside and took a baseball cap from inside his jacket. It was the best tool for avoiding surveillance. He climbed the staircase, lifted the manhole cover, and closed it behind him. He adjusted his clothes and walked onto the street.

His DNA didn't seem to be traceable. Since his first crime, no key evidence had linked him to the scene. He knew that his blood and DNA were recorded in hospitals, but there had been no match, which suggested something had changed, possibly due to the system in him. But none of that mattered. Even if he were found, he had solutions. After all, his life was solitary, and he was always careful to ensure no one knew who he had been in contact with.

Walking calmly on the street, he saw a huge billboard flashing advertisements. He bought a hotdog and a soda, watching the police cars speed past, likely heading towards him. He didn't worry. Even when patrolling officers gave him a stern look, he simply smiled and passed by. There was no need to fear; being discreet might actually lead to problems.

His Asian identity often helped him avoid trouble. Although it was due to prejudice and people ignoring him, it worked in his favor. Half an hour later, he bought a new outfit. He had worn the same clothes for three consecutive missions, which was too provocative for the police. He switched to a less noticeable color, making himself appear younger. The cap and mask were purchased online to avoid unnecessary trouble. Now, what color cap should he wear next? He had tried gray, white, black, blue, yellow, green, and purple... nothing seemed new.

"Clock in!"

Peter pushed open the door of the bar and sat in his familiar seat, handing his black card to the server. But this time, the server didn't leave. Instead, she smiled and stood beside him. Morse walked out from the back, dressed casually, and took the card from Peter. After glancing at it, he put it into his pocket and pulled out an envelope, placing it in front of Peter.

"How come it's you on duty today? This doesn't seem like your style."

"Drinking tea every day gets boring. I plan to exercise once a week. Don't underestimate me, kid. My bartending skills have been honed for forty years, far better than those flashy techniques outside. The key is in the taste. Just tell me what you want to drink; today, it's on me!"

Curious, Peter got the answer and couldn't help but disdain. The old man was a pervert, yet for some reason, he had to study tea ceremonies. It was absurd. After the old man explained, Peter responded affirmatively.

"I'll have pearl milk tea, but without the pearls or the milk tea!"

The old man retrieved a revolver from under the bar and slammed it onto the table in front of Peter. Peter leaned back slightly, pretending to be overly scared. The old man roared,

"You want to die!?"

"Any bigger jobs lately? I'm running low on money."

It seemed that Ed's medical fees weren't going to be enough. Originally, Peter thought earning three million would be enough, but now it seemed like things weren't so simple. No one knew what illness Ed had. Helpless, Peter asked the old man. His concessions had reached their limit, and he couldn't keep lowering them. But if someone really wanted him to kill Jin Bing, should he do it?

At the very least, he needed one hundred million. Otherwise, killing Jin Bing would be too much of a loss...

"The thirty thousand is the biggest offer. Your requests are too specific. Every time you kill a villain, you ruin the lives of good people. I sometimes really wonder if you're helping good people or just torturing them!"

Morse had never fully understood Peter. A year ago, Peter suddenly appeared in front of him, asking if he could make money. When Morse asked what he could do, Peter answered, "Kill people." So Morse let him leave. Peter then killed four of Morse's retired Marine bodyguards and asked how much his life was worth. Morse offered him ten thousand, and Peter became his intermediary. Although Peter likely knew about Morse's background, at that time, Morse at least understood his purpose. Now...

"I help them solve problems so they can live without worries. Isn't it fair for them to pay for that? I won't kill anyone for just a dollar, nor do I do it for fun!"

Peter's tone was filled with disdain, mocking the so-called heroes. Since World War II, there had been many heroes, with the most famous being Captain America, wearing a blue and white striped suit. But in the end, he sacrificed himself in the ice, and now, he was likely still snoring in his grave. The rest were all selfish people who couldn't even reach the high stage of morality.

"You little brat. I can't argue with you. You're my trump card. No one is clean when dealing with real big shots. Your existence has become a deterrent. I envy your age. When I was young, I..."

"It's fine. I'm leaving!"

Morse started his boasting spree, as if showing off holding a watermelon knife in front of a professional killer was some honor. Peter got up, ignored him, counted the money, and was about to leave. The old man gritted his teeth, glaring at Peter's back and cursing.

"You little bastard... One of these days, I'll shoot you!"

The familiar harsh words made Peter think the old man was just venting. Just then, the TV, which should have been airing a variety show, was suddenly interrupted. A news anchor appeared.

"Now, we interrupt for breaking news. Tony Stark, the chairman of Stark Industries, was attacked by terrorists yesterday afternoon around 2 PM in the Mesopotamian Plain. He has been captured. Rumors say the terrorists demanded a ransom of one billion and required Stark to hand over three types of ballistic missile technology in exchange for his safe release. Vice Chairman Obadiah Stane has just attended a press conference, formally rejecting the terrorists' unreasonable demands but offering to exchange a certain amount of money for Stark's release. He also issued a stern warning—if Tony Stark dies, Stark Industries will retaliate against the terrorists in every possible way..."

"Peter, do you remember the deal I mentioned last time?"

The news made Peter reflect. If he remembered correctly, this was around the time Iron Man was going to rise. Should he get involved? Stark was incredibly wealthy. No matter how you earned money, asking Stark directly was the fastest way. But how should he approach this matter?

"One hundred million?"

"Two hundred and fifty million!"

The old man's voice startled Peter. He thought he was still talking about Jin Bing's head price. Looking up, the old man saw Stark's photo on the news. Peter laughed and pointed at the screen, asking in return,

"You want me to kill him!?"

Two hundred and fifty million for Stark's head? That was a fortune! With this money, his daily expenses of thirty thousand would be covered. Wow... His math wasn't very good, but this life would be carefree.

"Bring his head back, you get seventy percent!"

The old man's words made Peter think of someone else—Pepper Potts, Stark's little secretary. If he asked her for money, rescuing Stark would be easy, and getting a few million or even tens of millions wouldn't be a problem. But would she have that much money? Right now, she wasn't even his girlfriend—just a secretary. Still, this idea might be worth a try.

"I have a better way to make money!"

"Oh?!"

"This time, I'll take it all!"

"Get lost, you little brat! You don't know how to respect your elders, you punk!"