Marvel's whitewashing cop, you want me to save the world?

Chapter 134 Eliminating the Weeds at the Root, Human Resources Manager

In just over ten minutes, the black SUV engulfed in flames rolled all the way from Ninth Avenue to the downtown area.

Four tires left four charred streaks on the narrow streets of the financial district.

The three team members, crouching on the roof of the vehicle, firmly gripped the horizontal bar of the luggage rack.

Their bodies swayed slightly with the rise and fall of the vehicle, like three stone statues fixed to the top of the turret.

The SUV stopped in front of the mainland hotel.

Frank pushed open the car door and stepped into the white-lit floor tiles in front of the hotel.

The three team members flipped off the roof of the vehicle, their heels hitting the ground with a crisp, synchronized sound.

The two white waiters at the door, dressed in sharp uniforms, both changed their expressions at the same time.

The one on the left reacted extremely quickly. He pushed open the revolving door behind him, rushed into the hall, and slammed his palm hard on the emergency button on the wall.

A piercing alarm immediately erupted from the depths of the corridor, echoing throughout the entire building.

The waiter on the right went to greet Frank, his right hand on the holster at his waist and his left hand out in front of him.

He made a gesture as if he was trying to stop him, but he didn't dare to actually place his palm on it.

His legs were trembling, and his knees were hitting each other.

Sweat beaded on his forehead, running from his temples to the tip of his chin. His lips trembled several times before he managed to squeeze out a reasonably complete sentence.

"Officer, do you have a search warrant?"

Search warrant.

These three words entered the ears of a citizen squatting in front of a convenience store across the street, eating a hot dog.

He was stunned for a moment, then burst out laughing and spat out all the bread crumbs in his mouth.

Several shop owners who had been hiding behind the glass doors of their shops, peeking around, also grinned.

When did members of Hellsword start needing search warrants?

Hell's Sword never kicks down the doors of ordinary people's homes indiscriminately.

Since its establishment, the complaint hotline has never received a single record of them trespassing on private property.

But wherever the Hellsword Squad sets foot, it's either a gang's drug factory, an underground weapons depot, or a human traffickers' transit point—there are absolutely no exceptions.

So the fact that they are standing in front of the Mainland Hotel says it all.

Across the street, a homeless man wrapped in an old military coat pushed his sleeping bag aside, stood up, and waved his fist in Frank's direction, his voice loud enough to be heard halfway down the street: "I knew this hotel was up to something! What kind of bastards are coming in and out every day? They all have 'I'm not a good person' written all over their faces—look at this, do any decent people live in a place like this?"

Another middle-aged man next to him, who was squatting on a fire hydrant smoking, threw his cigarette butt on the ground, stood up and chimed in: "I saw a guy carrying such a big bag inside a couple of days ago."

It was wrapped in a black cloth, but who wouldn't recognize its outline?

Guns! A whole bunch of guns! Did they really think that just because they covered it with a cloth, no one would know what was inside?

"This place should have been shut down long ago." The young man wiping his mouth at the convenience store entrance nodded vigorously a few times, took out his phone, and started recording at the hotel entrance.

Frank's skull tilted slightly.

The blue light of judgment did not emerge from those still-burning eye sockets.

He simply tilted his head and uttered a single word through clenched teeth.

"roll."

The sound wasn't loud, but it was as if the waiter had been hit head-on by something.

His knees buckled suddenly, and his body fell uncontrollably to his knees.

But in that instant, his hand, which was resting on his waist, suddenly moved.

It's muscle memory, a conditioned reflex developed through years of working in the dark.

When the body loses its balance, the hand instinctively tightens, the fingers gripping the gun handle and pulling it outward.

boom.

His right thigh was pierced by a 9mm bullet, the bullet entering from the outside of his thigh and exiting from the inside, blood splattering in a small fan shape behind him.

Then there was another bang.

The second bullet pierced right through the center of his hand that was holding the gun.

The pistol flew out of his hand, bounced twice on the sidewalk tiles, and slid into the drain grating by the roadside.

The members of the Hellsword squad wouldn't give him any chance to fire.

Frank pushed open the revolving door.

The door slowly turned behind him, making a dull metallic scraping sound.

He walked through the dark red carpeted corridor toward the reception desk at the far end of the hall.

The soles of the boots sank into the carpet with each step, leaving a shallow, charred mark when lifted.

Charon stood behind the reception desk, his hands clasped in front of him, his back straight, his eyes calmly fixed on Frank's skull.

His voice was as steady as his posture, polite but not servile, as if he were entertaining a VIP who had made an appointment in advance.

"It's been a long time, Mr. Frank. How can I help you?"

He didn't reach out to press any alarm buttons, didn't take a single step back, and didn't even glance at the assassins who might rush out at any moment on either side of the corridor.

He just stared straight into Frank's eyes, at the two dark blue flames within them.

He looked at it for a second, then two seconds, then looked away, bowed slightly, and waited for the other person's reply.

Frank's jaw moved.

Click click.

Where is Winston?

Charon picked up the old-fashioned telephone receiver from the table, dialed an internal number, and held the receiver to his ear.

When the call connected, his voice remained calm and polite.

"Mr. Frank would like to see you, sir."

He hung up the phone, walked around from behind the front desk, stood at the edge of the corridor, and extended his right hand in a gesture to guide the way into the lobby.

"This way, please."

Frank did not follow immediately.

He turned his head and said a sentence to the three team members behind him, his tone no different from when he gave the order on the riverbank a while ago.

"Get rid of all the rats in the hotel."

Charon paused for a fleeting moment.

His guiding hand was still suspended in mid-air, and his expression remained unchanged.

But his Adam's apple bobbed up and down several times.

As the head of reception at the Mainland Hotel, he was well aware of the hotel's rules: no member was allowed to commit any act of killing within the building.

This is an ironclad rule written on the first page of the hotel's charter, the underlying foundation upon which all gold coin transactions and protection mechanisms operate.

If anyone violates this rule, all twelve elders at the high table are obligated to take action to punish them.

His lips parted slightly, and the words were almost rolling off the tip of his tongue.

Then he closed his mouth again and swallowed the words back.

Because he suddenly realized that the person behind him wasn't there to follow the rules.

These so-called rules had no binding force on him whatsoever.

Frank walked past him, the skull not turning, his voice low, each word like a bullet being loaded into a magazine and pushed into a gun barrel.

"You're smart. If you had said anything nonsense about the rules just now, you'd be dead by now."

Charon didn't reply, but simply pulled his hand back from mid-air, crossed it in front of him again, and then started walking.

He walked half a step ahead of Frank, maintaining a leading posture, his pace neither fast nor slow, his leather shoes making almost no sound on the carpet.

The two walked through the lobby and turned into the corridor leading to the manager's office.

Suddenly, a burst of gunfire erupted behind me.

Those were three members of the Hellsword team, positioned in the direction of the hall, beginning to clear out the assassins who were still hesitating whether to draw their guns.

Gunshots came from the entrance of the corridor. After the high-frequency sharpness was absorbed by the walls and carpet, only muffled and continuous thuds remained.

The rhythm was steady and efficient, without the slightest sign of chaos.

Frank did not turn around.

The voice of the vengeful spirit in his mind grew louder and sharper.

It was as if someone had placed two loudspeakers at maximum volume inside his skull, each repeatedly playing the same word.

This building has housed far too many killers; every wall, every inch of carpet, and every gleaming chair back is stained with an indelible stench of blood.

The spirit of vengeance was so excited in this environment that it almost went out of control, howling in waves that made Frank's temples throb.

He reached out, his five fingers cupping his still-burning skull face, and wiped it from his forehead down to his chin.

The flames gradually died out in his palm, the bones were covered by flesh and blood again, and the skin spread down from the hairline, filling the eye sockets and sealing the gaps between the teeth.

A moment later, he revealed his tough, masculine face again, his brows furrowed, his lips turned down, and his expression even more somber than usual.

He really wanted to wipe out all the killers in this building.

One head after another, bound by an iron chain, judged by a single glance, burned to ashes and thrown into hell.

But after working as a policeman with Li En for so long, he realized one thing: killing more low-level hitmen wouldn't solve the problem; it was just treating the symptoms, not the root cause.

To cut the weeds, you must pull them out by the roots.

Now that the decision has been made to take action against this assassin group that has spread all over the world, simply eliminating those scattered individuals who accept missions in hotel lobbies is far from enough.

The key is those who never show their faces, those guys sitting at the high tables.

The very structure behind the scenes that sets the rules, distributes coins, and extracts commissions from every commission must be uprooted.

Charon stopped at the door of the manager's office and pushed open the heavy wooden door.

"Please come in, Mr. Frank."

Frank stepped across the threshold.

Winston sat behind the dark wood desk, leaning back in his chair, a cigar between his left and right hands.

His right hand was positioned just below the desk, completely hidden by the partition on the front of the desk.

Frank walked nonchalantly to the table, glanced down at its thickness and the position of the backboard, then looked up and met Winston's gaze.

His tone was even more casual than when he spoke at the front desk, as if he were chatting about the weather tonight.

"To be honest, I doubt even a ballistic missile could kill me. You can try it and see if that specially made large-caliber gun under the table works."

Winston's lips twitched twice.

What do you mean by "unkillable by ballistic missiles"? That person isn't even human.

He loosened his fingers from under the table, took a deep breath, and lifted his hands from behind the partition, placing them flat on the table with his fingers spread and palms facing down.

He believed it, at least 80% of it.

Because of that assassin who once set up a sniper rifle on the rooftop of a building across the river.

After witnessing the entire massacre on the riverbank tonight, he fled the United States overnight and his whereabouts remain unknown.

To emerge unscathed from such a barrage of fire is something no human can withstand.

Conventional weapons were useless, specialized weapons were useless, and the large-caliber pistol under the table was even less likely to be of any use.

Winston didn't say a word.

He reached into the drawer next to him and took out several thick, leather-covered notebooks.

One book after another was placed on the table, the movements unhurried and deliberate, just as relaxed as when organizing member files.

Amid the dull thud of notebooks falling onto the desk, the gunfire outside the office door continued.

Occasionally, between the continuous gunfire, one could hear a few short screams and muffled thuds as bodies crashed into tables and chairs.

After Winston put all the notebooks away, he crossed his arms again in front of him, leaned back in his chair, and waited quietly.

Circumstances dictate actions, and Winston never needed anyone to teach him how to behave according to this rule.

When facing a stronger opponent, adopt the humblest posture, offer them what they want, and then quietly wait for them to make a decision.

This is why he has been able to survive in the position of hotel manager in mainland China until now.

Frank picked up the documents on the table and casually opened one of them.

The list is densely packed; each page is a killer's file.

The list includes their code name, active area, number of completed tasks, total reward, and the rating assigned to them by the High Table.

He then pulled a metal object that looked somewhat like a watch from his back pocket and pressed his finger on the sensor button on the side.

The dial of that "watch" was illuminated by a very faint green fluorescent glow.

He aligned the watch face with the notebook and turned the pages one by one.

Each page stops at the green indicator light on the side of the dial, flashes once, and then turns to the next page.

In the Umbrella School of Cyber ​​Security Lab, hundreds of new data entries simultaneously popped up on several touchscreens in front of Barron.

His fingers flew across the touchscreen keyboard, analyzing, categorizing, and cross-referencing the original files that had leaked from the mainland hotel.

This data was then fed into the global tracking model he had been building for a long time.

About ten minutes later, Frank finished turning the last page.

The watch-like object emitted a very short vibration.

He pressed the answer button on the side.

"The location of the high table has been found."

Barron's voice came from the watch speaker, carrying an excitement fueled by caffeine and adrenaline, but the underlying fatigue was almost impossible to suppress.

"Send it to me, and I'll make them all disappear today."

There was a very brief silence on the other end of the watch, then Barron's voice rang out again, his tone tinged with helplessness.

"These guys are scattered all over the world. One of them is even squatting on the south side of Mount Everest, near a supply station. You definitely can't finish dealing with them in one night. Let's clean up the whole United States first."

"Okay." Frank hung up the call, put his watch back in his pocket, then looked up at Winston in front of him and opened his mouth slightly.

"You're a smart person too, what are you planning to do next?"

Winston shrugged and put his hands together.

His back was lifted off the chair back, and his body leaned forward slightly.

His face wore an expression that was hard to decipher—whether it was a bitter smile or self-mockery.

"Although there's never been such a thing as 'retirement' in mainland hotels before—I think I deserve a retirement package, don't I?"

"No, you can't retire."

Frank returned the statement to the island cleanly and decisively, leaving no room for negotiation or bargaining.

Winston wasn't angry.

He slowly stood up, patted his hands lightly on the front of his suit jacket twice to straighten the hem, and then turned around and walked towards the wine cellar in the corner.

His steps were steady as he pulled an unlabeled crystal glass bottle from under the bottle, containing an amber-colored liquid.

He then took out two short-stemmed glasses and placed them on the tray. He poured half a finger's width of wine into one of the glasses, tightened the cork again, and pushed the tray back into place.

His entire routine was as composed and refined as when he entertained distinguished guests.

Not a single step was interrupted or trembled because of Frank's earlier statement that he could not retire.

He picked up the stemmed glass, turned to face Frank, and raised it to chest height.

"At least—please don't send me to hell."

"Wait until I finish this cup before you start."

He tilted his head back and downed the wine in his glass in one gulp, showing the bottom of the glass to Frank before placing it under the documents next to him.

He placed the empty glass firmly, turned around to face Frank again, took a breath, and spoke in a calm voice.

"Charon has never done anything too outrageous."

"The worst thing he ever did in his life was probably adding too much sugar to my coffee."

"If possible—please don't send him to hell."

Winston was not lying.

Charon was indeed raised by him, having followed him since his teens.

His main job is to manage the office, receive visiting members, and shield him from unwanted phone calls.

He had hardly ever touched a gun; there were no calluses on his palms, and no dark bruises on his wrists from repeated impacts from recoil.

"You possess exceptional management skills."

Frank's voice came from behind him, his tone unchanged.

"Starting today, you are joining Umbrella Corporation as the Human Resources Manager."

"If you don't want to, then leave."

Winston whirled around, his eyes wide, staring at Frank's expressionless face for several seconds. "You—"

"Aren't you going to kill me?"

"You really want me to kill you?" Frank asked rhetorically, his tone even carrying a hint of slight confusion.

Winston stood there, stunned.

Then his shoulders suddenly slumped down, as if he had been released from a state of tension that had been hanging for a long time.

He turned around, picked up the bottle of amber wine again, poured half a finger's width of it into the glass, and gulped it down.

He stood there holding the empty cup, frowning, and remained silent for a long time.

Then he put the glass down, raised his head again, and the expression on his face was no longer the tragic one he had when he raised his glass to say goodbye.

That was the calm that came after I came to my senses and thought about the whole thing from beginning to end.

"I do."

His voice wasn't loud, but he spoke very steadily.

"I, Winston, am willing to serve as the Human Resources Manager at Umbrella Corporation."

Frank took the watch-like object out of his pocket, placed it on the desk, nodded to him, and then turned and walked towards the door.

He pushed open the office door and met Charon's gaze as he stood quietly waiting outside. He slightly tilted his chin.

Charon immediately pushed open the door and strode into the manager's office.

The moment the door closed behind Frank, flames surged from the soles of his feet, climbed up his calves to his knees, across his waist and abdomen, and engulfed his chest.

Finally, along the neck and cheeks, the entire head was once again swallowed up in that dark red, high-temperature halo.

His footsteps became heavy and powerful again, the soles of his boots leaving a charred footprint with each step on the corridor carpet.

The Hell Punisher reappeared, heading towards the guest room floors of the Continental Hotel that had not yet been cleaned.