The sudden, violent knock on the door froze everyone inside the frozen Warehouse.
The transaction had been going smoothly a minute ago—money counted, drugs inspected, everything business as usual.
Now?
Weapons were instantly raised.
The Russian enforcers and the local gangsters in charge of the warehouse glared at each other suspiciously, trying to confirm if this was a setup.
The answer was clear from their mutual confusion: it wasn't.
The Russian leader, a burly man who looked like he could bench-press a small car, was the first to recover.
He barked a command, and every gun in the room swiveled toward the iron door.
"Who's there?!" he demanded in a guttural accent.
A calm voice drifted through the steel.
"Just a passerby."
Passerby?
No one believed that for a second.
Gangs don't have casual visitors. Not here. Not during a drug deal.
"Who the hell are you?!" the Russian barked again, fingers tightening around the trigger of his AK.
Inside the warehouse, the atmosphere grew even more tense. A single twitch could unleash a hurricane of bullets.
The voice outside responded with mock cheerfulness:
"Can't we just sit down and talk like civilized people?"
"Talk to your mother! Get the hell outta here if you don't wanna die!" someone shouted from inside.
"Yeah, scram!" another added.
The iron door creaked as it slowly swung open.
All eyes snapped toward it.
And then—they saw him.
Robert stepped casually into the warehouse, smiling as if he'd just stumbled into a party.
He wore a heavy jacket over his clothes—and strapped to that jacket, glinting under the flickering light, was a belt crammed with C4 explosives.
Tiny red lights blinked steadily in rhythm, and a soft, rhythmic beeping echoed through the room.
The mercenaries' fingers froze over their triggers.
Even the bravest gangster among them felt his mouth go dry.
Nobody dared shoot.
Nobody even dared breathe too loudly.
Because if that bomb was real—and Robert's confident swagger suggested it definitely was—any sudden move could turn the entire building into a smoking crater.
The Russian leader broke the silence first.
He swallowed hard, stepped forward with forced bravado, and said, "We are the Ross gang. You know what that means?"
Robert didn't answer right away.
Instead, he calmly stepped inside the warehouse... and, to everyone's horror, turned around and locked the iron door behind him with a soft clink.
He was sealing himself in—with them.
There was no longer any doubt: the man was insane.
Even the most hardened criminals felt a chill.
Robert turned back around, still smiling, and addressed the room.
"Let's all just sit down and talk, yeah?"
Talk?
With this madman?
Dream on.
"Who are you?! What do you want?!" the Russian leader barked again, more cautious now.
"I already told you," Robert said cheerfully. "Just a passerby."
He spread his arms wide. "Really. I was just out for a walk, saw the light on, thought I'd say hi."
Around the room, gangsters' faces twisted into expressions of pure disbelief.
Robert tilted his head thoughtfully, then added:
"Oh, and by the way—little heads-up—if my heart rate goes over 120?"
He tapped the blinking C4 on his chest.
"Boom."
For a heartbeat, the warehouse was dead silent.
Then the realization hit.
Heartbeat-triggered detonation.
In other words—if they scared him, if they stressed him out even a little too much—
Everyone would die.
"PUT DOWN YOUR GUNS!" the warehouse boss shrieked, nearly tripping over his own feet to lower his weapon.
One by one, the gangsters obeyed, dropping rifles and pistols onto the floor with loud clatters.
Sweat poured down their faces.
Even the burly Russian swallowed hard and forced an awkward grin.
"You're right," he said, his voice a little too high. "We should talk. Very calmly. Hey—someone get the gentleman a coffee!"
The warehouse boss twitched. It was his building, damn it, but he didn't dare argue.
He stumbled off to fetch a cup.
Meanwhile, Robert swaggered across the room, humming under his breath, and pulled out a chair at the metal table in the center.
He gestured politely. "Come on, sit down. Let's all relax."
If a stranger had walked in at that moment, they might've thought it was a negotiation between three rival crime syndicates.
Not one lunatic holding everyone hostage with homemade explosives.
The warehouse boss returned with a steaming cup of coffee, trembling so hard half the cup sloshed out.
Robert accepted it graciously.
"Thank you," he said. Then he took a casual sip and winced. "Ugh. Needs sugar."
He set the cup down and grinned.
"So. Business."
The warehouse boss tried to reason with him. "Brother... uh, why not take the bomb off first, yeah? No need for... tension. Makes it hard to talk."
Robert's smile widened.
"You're questioning my craftsmanship?" he said, feigning offense.
"This trigger system is a masterpiece! Took me days to set the heart-rate sensor properly. You think it's easy?"
At the same time, the red lights on his chest began flashing faster, and the beeping grew frantic.
Panic rippled through the gangsters like a tidal wave.
Half of them dropped to the floor instantly, clutching their heads.
Even the Russian leader flinched.
"NO NO NO—calm down! Calm down!" the warehouse boss shouted, his voice cracking.
"We didn't mean it! It's a great bomb! Truly a work of art!"
Robert pretended to calm himself, took a deep breath, and the beeping finally slowed back to normal.
The entire room exhaled in relief.
At that moment, every man present realized something terrifying:
They weren't in control.
Not the Russians.
Not the warehouse crew.
Not the men with guns and knives.
The man in control... was the madman strapped to a bomb, sipping coffee and humming to himself like this was Sunday brun
ch.
And they were utterly, helplessly trapped.
----------------------------
Visit our Patreon for more:
patreon.com/Samurai492