My Realistic Adult Game
Chapter 79 - 44: I’ll Give You One Minute—Threaten Me Another Way (2)

Chapter 79: Chapter 44: I’ll Give You One Minute—Threaten Me Another Way (2)

"Who are you?"

"Kenny Clark?" The man looked up at me, seemingly confirming my identity.

"It’s me. You’re not Haitians." These two guys were typical Latin mixed race. They had black or brown hair, no African heritage.

"You’re dead." The man coldly stared at my cheek.

I stepped forward, grabbing his hair, "Many people say that, but in the end, I’m still alive. Who are you? Why are you at my house? You’re not Costa Ricans."

"You took something from our boss."

"What?" I was curious. But soon, I understood, "Are you talking about Kelly and Ella?" As an ordinary gang member, I’ve been trying to live without provoking other gangs. Except for the Costa Ricans, my only enemy is Howard.

Damn Sofia.

I remained calm. Now, I must know who my enemies are.

"That’s our boss’s property. Howard was childhood friends with our boss, so our boss lent him two important assets. Now Howard is dead, and the boss needs to take back his assets."

"Who is your boss?"

Hearing my question, the man smiled, "You’re not qualified to meet the boss. Our boss is waiting for you on a yacht by the seaside."

"Address."

The man handed me a phone, with coordinates on it.

"Kenny, you’d better come with us. Otherwise, your family will disappear."

Bam!

I raised my arm and pulled the trigger.

The man looked at me in disbelief. I actually shot, without hesitation.

The bullet pierced through his forehead, exited the back of his head, and the ground was stained with blood as he collapsed.

"Never mention my family. Never. Even if it’s the devil, I’ll blow his head off!"

Picking up the phone, I made a call.

"Hey, man." Amir’s voice came through the line.

"Help me get in touch with old Jack, tell him my apartment needs a funeral service."

Poof, Amir spat out milk as he was having breakfast.

Old Jack, the guy who runs a shady business.

In movies, there’s often a type of person whose job is to clean up scenes, collect bodies, or handle corpses, erasing traces from the site.

Eliminating evidence, turning murder into disappearance, they are the cleaners.

However, we prefer to call them hyenas or vultures.

Hyenas are scavengers that handle corpses, nature’s best janitors.

Old Jack is a famous cleaner in Miami.

Unlike movie cleaners, he doesn’t run some plumbing or pest control company, but a funeral company.

Unlike in movies, where it’s overly complicated for artistic purposes, disassembling, packaging, and taking away on-site.

That’s merely a screenwriter’s imagination because doing so is inefficient.

Disassembling a body and cleaning blood stains are complex and time-consuming tasks, which only increase the chance of exposure.

Old Jack’s method is simpler, taking orders, transporting bodies, cremating, and then burying in his private cemetery. No one will know where the guy is because he’s turned to ash buried in the ground.

Some might question me, transporting bodies could easily be discovered by the police.

What if a funeral company uses a coffin for transport?

The chance of police checking a normal funeral vehicle is low.

So, they’re more efficient than movie cleaners.

"How many?" Amir asked how many people were dead.

"Two transactions."

Two people? Amir held his head, it was early morning, and I’d already killed two people.

"Alright, man, ten thousand dollars."

"Come to my apartment, wait for old Jack. I need to go out and do something."

"Hey man, what are you going to do?"

"Make the trouble disappear from this world."

"Fack!" Amir knew I had run into trouble. He immediately left home.

Upon reaching the apartment, I was sitting on the couch smoking.

Looking at the messy apartment, Amir held his hair, "Fack. How did no one notice? This place is a battlefield."

"I turned on the TV, max volume. No one noticed. They’d just think I was watching TV. Here’s twenty thousand dollars, repair the couch and walls. Also, the bedroom door—this is a rental."

"Alright, man, who did this?"

I shook my head. They weren’t Miami gangsters; I didn’t recognize them.

Kelly and Ella came from Colombian smugglers. They must be with Colombian drug lords or Mafia-like organizations.

I’ve got a big problem on my hands.

"I must go."

"Man, need help?"

I shook my head, "Stay here and handle this."

"Alright, be careful, man. I don’t want to lose you."

I bumped fists with Amir, "I’ll handle it."

Leaving the apartment, I followed the man’s phone coordinates to the dock by the sea.

Ahead was a small yacht.

Four guys were on it, wearing brightly colored beach shirts and shorts.

When they saw me, the guy at the helm, wearing a leather cowboy hat, frowned, a cigar clenched between his teeth as he looked at me in disapproval.

I boarded the deck.

Four bodyguards found the Glock on me.

The yacht left the dock.

I stood on the deck, surrounded by four guys staring intently at me.

The guy above, with the cigar in his mouth, sailed the boat.

After half an hour, the yacht shut off its motor, silently floating on the sea.