Marvel Saiyans - Chapter 8

“Hey, you guys are…”

Outside the garage door, two gunmen armed with rifles looked warily at the van that had stopped at the entrance.

“Bang! Bang!”

The gunshots, muffled by silencers, rang out, and the two gunmen were shot in the forehead, falling to the ground without a sound. Alejandro held his pistols, slightly tilted them, and shot three more gunmen inside the guard booth. After holstering his guns, he pulled out an M40A3 sniper rifle from the back seat, a military version of the Remington 700, modified with a heavy stainless steel barrel.

He planned to climb onto the roof of the garage to snipe at gunmen in blind spots and monitor the surroundings for any reinforcements from the Reyes Group.

Broly, carrying his rifle, swaggered to the entrance of the garage.

Inside the garage, a group of women were making drugs in deplorable working conditions. The Reyes Group had not provided any protective gear; the hot air, toxic acid mist, choking smoke, and flickering high-pressure sodium lights harmed their health.

These women, prisoners of the factory, had been trafficked from various places by the Reyes, working day and night. The longest-serving had not seen the sun for three years; others had been there longer but had been “disposed of” by the staff due to illness.

A few gunmen supervised their work to prevent them from secretly consuming the finished product. Due to their prolonged exposure in the drug factory, nearly all of them were addicted.

The other gunmen were in three garage offices, mostly wearing floral shirts, some shirtless, showing off tattoos on their arms. The air conditioning was on full blast in the offices, where the gunmen were drinking chilled whiskey, smoking cigars, and playing cards with rolls of dollars on the table.

“Boom!”

An unstoppable force yanked the iron door from its frame, sending it flying into a gunman, smashing him against the wall.

Broly walked in, and the gunmen, startled by the sudden intrusion, were thrown into disarray.

One gunman tried to grab a pistol from the card table to shoot, but before he could pull the trigger, he was struck in the chest with a punch. The sound of his ribs cracking was followed by a deep indentation in his chest, his organs reduced to mush.

He moved forward, taking down more than ten gunmen in two seconds with his punches.

Some quick-reacting gunmen finally drew their pistols and rifles to shoot back, but Broly lifted his rifle and exchanged fire with them.

Gunfire erupted in the office like popping beans, whistling bullets piercing tables and chairs, creating holes, while the whiskey flowed freely and pieces of cards and dollars flew through the air.

Soon, the gunfire abruptly quieted down.

Accompanied by glass bottles being crushed underfoot and scraping against the floor tiles, Broly, holding a bottle of whiskey, walked out of the office. His clothes had four or five bullet holes, but the skin beneath only showed small blood spots, the bullets nearly unable to penetrate his skin.

He had tested beforehand that, as long as bullets from rifles and pistols firing standard ammunition didn’t hit vital areas, they were more painful than harmful. Among light weapons, only high-energy sniper rifles and machine guns could pose a threat to him.

Still, he tried to avoid getting hit by bullets because it hurt. Pain made him angry, and his fighting power began to soar.

“Who’s there? Who is the enemy?”

The gunfire in the office alerted the other office gunmen, who, sensing a threat, asked in the direction of Broly.

“Bang!”

A gunman who quietly pulled the pin of a hand grenade was suddenly shot in the head from the rooftop, his brain splattering as the grenade rolled onto the ground. The remaining gunmen hurried out of the office, only to be shot down by Broly just a few steps away. He was like a hunter during rabbit season, picking off these wildly scrambling gunmen, occasionally swinging his rifle like a baseball bat to smash those who tried to rush him.

“Boring.”

Broly put away his rifle, somewhat bored. As a legendary Super Saiyan, a continuous stream of new power surged deep within his body, making him even more robust.

Facing such gunmen no longer brought him any joy in battle.

?Ding, congratulations, host, for leveling up to level five, gaining one skill point?

?Ding, Hundred Man Slash, a successful Saiyan must have blood-stained hands, the host’s cumulative kill count exceeds one hundred, awarding twenty revival points, congratulations host on acquiring the skill Oolong Transformation Technique?

???

Broly looked puzzled. This transformation technique, which only lasted five minutes, was rather embarrassing.

Alejandro, with a sniper rifle on his back, slid down from the roof using a rope. He flicked open the door to the office, glanced at the scene inside, and then looked at the scattered bodies on the floor.

“This scene is too much for me to handle alone.”

A smirk tugged at his lips as he saw several bodies that had been punched through, with flesh and organs scattered all around. After hesitating, he pulled out an old mobile phone and made a call.

“This is Alejandro. We have a party of eighty here. We need your cleanup crew on site,” he sent the GPS coordinates over.

Alejandro explained to Broly.

“This is a team that specializes in cleaning up after assassins. They are very professional and discreet.”

“What about those women?” Broly said, “I only kill warriors, not civilians.”

“We had our faces covered, and they saw nothing. But letting them go outright means certain death for them. Better to hand them over to the Mexican police afterward.”

Alejandro hesitated for a moment before saying this. He herded the terrified women into the garage’s kitchen and locked the door.

They didn’t wait long before they heard the sound of helicopter blades beating the air. A medium-sized transport plane landed on the dirt road outside the garage. A dozen people, still wearing jackets despite the heat, disembarked from the plane, carrying large and small bags of professional tools.

“Alejandro, it’s been a long time since you contacted us.”

An elderly man with graying hair wearing a stylish leather jacket doffed his hat to Alejandro.

“When working for SHIELD, I didn’t need to pay for cleanup.”

Alejandro said somewhat painfully.

“SHIELD doesn’t clean up as neatly as we do, Alejandro.”

The old man snapped his fingers to signal his men to start working. Faced with a scene not caused by ordinary people, their expressions didn’t change much.

“Honestly, if I were in the canned goods business, I’d have made a fortune by now.”

He looked at the bodies scattered all around and whistled.

The remains, fragments of viscera, and broken bones were swept into body bags, bullets embedded in the walls were extracted with tweezers, and spent shell casings were swept into a pile. Fingerprints and bloodstains were sprayed with professional cleaning spray and wiped away.

It wasn’t long before rolls of bodies, taped up with duct tape, were loaded onto the plane.

Alejandro painfully pulled two rolls of gold coins from his pocket and handed them to the old man.

“Feel free to call me next time.”

The old man flicked his cigarette, took the gold coins, and stylishly boarded the plane.

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