Read Novel Full Chapter 561: Always in Such a Rush
Chapter 561: Always in Such a Rush
The crunch of crushed slate came to an abrupt halt.
Behind Karl, the eight hitmen locked into position, forming a tight semicircle that cut off the garden path. Two gun barrels settled in his peripheral vision, angled directly at his chest and neck. The message was unmistakable: twitch, and you die.
Karl stood rigid beside the balustrade, the bottle slick in his grip, a cold bead of sweat rolling down the back of his neck.
’I should have run.’ A wave of bitter frustration burned in his gut.
The second he felt that hostile pressure in the air, he should have cleared the railing and gambled his life on the treeline below. Broken bones, maybe, but he would have lived. Instead, he had hesitated like an amateur. He had actually convinced himself the old bastard had a way out, an ace up his sleeve to flip the board.
And now, the trap was shut. Two barrels were leveled dead at his head, killing any thought of a move before it could start.
The young man pushed through his line of killers, dangling a heavy pistol loosely at his side with smug, cocky swagger. When his gaze settled on Karl, catching the mercenary’s frozen frame and the quiet panic in his eyes, his sneer broke into a cruel, triumphant grin.
He liked what he saw. To him, the hired muscle looked terrified... and fear meant order had finally been restored.
Then his eyes drifted past Karl, locking onto Raymond Cole.
The smile on the young man’s face faltered.
Cole hadn’t turned around. He hadn’t even flinched. The old man simply stood with his elbows resting against the wet stone balustrade, swirling his drink against the cliffside wind, gazing out at the neon grid of the city as if he were taking an evening stroll in his private garden.
That silence... that absolute lack of panic... instantly grated on the young man’s nerves. A spoiled ego couldn’t stomach being ignored, especially by a washed-up relic who had just dragged his name through the dirt in front of half the city’s elite.
"Still playing the tough guy, aren’t you?" he sneered, closing the distance until he was barely ten paces away, the pistol swinging loosely in his grip. "Or are you thinking about jumping off that ledge to get away from me?"
He barked out a harsh, mocking laugh.
"Go ahead! Take the dive, old bastard! It’ll save my boys the trouble of burning powder on you!"
A ripple of low chuckles broke out among the line of hitmen behind him.
"Boss, I don’t think he’s jumping anywhere," one of the shooters called out, a smug grin spreading across his scarred face. "Look at him. The old fuck is so terrified seeing eight guns on him, he can’t even twitch a muscle. Probably praying that if he stands still, we won’t notice him."
The young man laughed aloud.
To him, that was the only explanation that made sense. Nobody, no matter how tough they pretended to be, could stand in front of eight loaded guns without freezing in sheer terror. This wasn’t poise; it was an old man paralyzed by his own cowardice.
"Where did all that fire go?" the young man called out, stepping closer, gesturing with the muzzle of his gun. "You looked pretty damn brave down on the dance floor. Grabbing my woman’s hand, acting like you were still somebody in this city."
He spat onto the wet gravel, his eyes flashing with cruel satisfaction.
"Turn around, get on your knees, and apologize for putting your dirty hands on her. Beg for your life like a dog, and maybe... just maybe, I won’t toss you off this cliff. Maybe I’ll just break your hands and legs, leave you in the gutter, and let you spend the rest of your miserable days crawling like a cripple."
Right on cue, the only answer from the edge of the terrace was the soft, deliberate clink of ice swirling inside Raymond Cole’s crystal glass.
Slowly, without a hint of urgency, Raymond Cole turned around.
He leaned his lower back comfortably against the stone railing, resting one elbow on the cold granite. He didn’t look like a ruined tycoon cornered by eight elite killers. He looked like a retired gentleman who had just been interrupted during a pleasant stroll by an ill-mannered stray dog.
The faint crinkles around his eyes deepened, not with fear, but with open, genuine amusement.
"Ah... this younger generation," Cole sighed, shaking his head with a soft, paternal click of his tongue. "Always in such a rush. So impulsive. Not an ounce of manners left to show your elders."
A quiet, gravelly chuckle rumbled in his chest, entirely indifferent to the eight loaded muzzles leveled in his direction.
"Back in my day, a boy wouldn’t dare interrupt a grown man’s drink unless he was begging for a thrashing from his father."
The young man’s smirk stiffened, the blood rushing to his ears. "You senile old fuck—"
"Still..." Cole cut him off effortlessly, raising a weathered finger as a faint, nostalgic glint lit up his gaze. "I will give credit where credit is due. You have exceptional taste, boy. Truly exceptional."
Cole paused, swirling the last amber finger of liquor in his glass. A slow, dreamy half-smile curved on his lips, as if he were savoring a fond memory rather than standing in a textbook kill box.
"That woman... she was really something else," Cole said softly, his voice thick with fond reminiscence. "Her hands... boneless, like warm silk. And when I drew her in close, the way she simply melted right into my chest... the gentle shiver in her breath against my neck..."
Beside him, Karl’s heart nearly stopped.
’Is this old bastard trying to get us killed?’
Karl stared at Cole in sheer disbelief. They were surrounded, outnumbered, standing on the lip of a three-hundred-foot drop, and Cole was casually pouring fuel on the fire... deliberately driving an armed, unstable brat out of his mind.
Cole didn’t spare Karl a glance. Keeping his amused gaze locked squarely on the young man’s twitching, reddening face, the old man tossed his head back.
He downed the remaining whiskey in one unbroken, swallow.
Clink.
He set the empty glass down onto the stone balustrade with a crisp, hollow ring, exhaling a slow, satisfied breath into the chill of the night.
"Ah... wonderful," Cole murmured, wiping a drop of liquor from his lip with the back of his thumb. "A rare woman indeed. You should have spent your time courting her properly instead of chasing an old man like me through the dark."
The words struck like a slap across the face.
"Shut your fucking mouth!" the young man snarled, taking an aggressive step forward, the muzzle of his pistol jerking upward.
Cole didn’t flinch. Instead, his brow arched with mild, mocking realization. A soft, pitying chuckle slipped from his throat.
"Ah... so she rejected you," Cole said, nodding slowly to himself as if solving a trivial riddle. "I see. I see. Well, as expected, really. One shouldn’t dream about reaching for things so far out of their depth. A woman with that kind of fire was never going to waste her breath on a spoiled brat playing dress-up in his family’s name."
Cole tilted his head, his gaze sweeping over the young man with pure, grandfatherly pity that burned hotter than any curse.
"A stray dog shouldn’t covet silk, boy. You never had a chance."
Every shred of the young man’s composure shattered. To be humiliated in the ballroom was one thing... to be stripped bare, mocked, and pitied in front of eight hardened killers he had hired to project his power was unbearable. Blood rushed to his head, turning his neck a mottled, violent red.
"Kill him?" The young man’s voice cracked, vibrating with hysterical, unhinged venom. "No! Don’t shoot him yet!"
He jabbed his gun violently toward Cole, his knuckles trembling with fury.
"Break his legs! Tear that fucking tongue out of his mouth! I want him on his knees, choking on his own blood before he goes over that railing! Rip it out!"