Ron Donaldo: Rise Of The Apex Don

Chapter 37

The heavy black armored truck was completely silent. 

Silas stared at the dark computer screen. His hands were shaking. He pushed his glasses up his nose. 

"Sir," Silas whispered. "The National Guard is here. The actual military. They have tanks. They have attack helicopters. We cannot fight the United States Army."

Ron stood perfectly still. He looked at the black screen. The Director had played his final card. He had used his massive political power to turn the entire government against Ron. 

Ron was the Apex. He was the Warlord of The Pit. He commanded the forty deadly men of the Iron Legion. But forty men with shotguns could not stop a column of heavy tanks. 

"Silas," Ron said, his voice deep and completely calm. "How long until the military secures the city?"

"The power grid is still down," Silas typed quickly. "The streets are blocked with crashed cars. It will take the military at least twenty-four hours to move their tanks through the city and set up full checkpoints. We have one day before they find us."

"Good," Ron said. He turned to the heavy metal door of the truck. "Tell General Vance to hide the trucks deep in the Blackwood Forest. Tell the Iron Legion to stay completely invisible. We do not fight the soldiers."

"But Sir, what are we going to do?" Silas asked, his voice rising in panic. "The Director won! He framed you again! You are the most wanted terrorist in the world right now!"

Ron stopped at the door. He looked back at his hacker. His blue eyes burned with a cold, terrifying fire. 

"The Director did not win," Ron said softly. "He made a mistake. He thinks I am running away. He thinks I am hiding from the tanks."

"You aren't?" 

"No," Ron said. "I am going to a party."

Twelve hours later, the sun went down over Oakhaven. 

The military had brought massive, loud emergency generators to the center of the city. They restored power to one single building: The Grand Meridian Hotel. 

It was the most expensive hotel in the city. The Director owned it. And tonight, he was throwing a party. 

The news called it the "Recovery Gala." 

The Director invited the richest, most powerful people in Oakhaven. The Mayor was there. The Police Chief was there. Wealthy investors and corrupt judges filled the massive, beautiful ballroom. The room smelled of expensive perfume, fresh lilies, and roasted meat. Crystal chandeliers glowed with bright, warm light. 

The party was designed to send a message to the world. It was designed to say: Sterling Tech is dead, but the powerful people of this city are safe. The terrorist Ron Donaldo is running for his life. We are still the kings. 

The Director stood on a high balcony overlooking the ballroom. He wore a perfect, sharp black tuxedo. His white hair was combed neatly. He held a crystal glass of champagne. He looked down at the Mayor, who was laughing and drinking with a judge. 

The Director smiled. He felt very good. The Warlord was finally beaten. 

Down in the ballroom, waiters wearing crisp white shirts and black bowties walked through the crowd. They carried silver trays filled with beautiful, tiny pieces of food. They carried tall glasses of expensive red wine. 

The Mayor took a piece of food from a passing waiter. "Ah, thank you," the Mayor said happily. He popped the food into his mouth. 

He chewed once. Then twice. 

The Mayor stopped chewing. His face turned pale. He coughed. He quickly spat the food into a white napkin. 

"Disgusting!" the Mayor loudly said. "What is this? It tastes like dirty water and wet cardboard!"

A wealthy investor next to him took a drink of the red wine. He instantly spat the wine all over the clean marble floor. "This is sour! This is completely spoiled!"

All around the ballroom, people began to cough and spit. 

The beautiful, tiny pieces of food on the silver trays were not roasted meat or fancy cheese. They were gray, mushy squares of something terrible. It smelled like old, rotten vegetables and salt. 

It was "Prison Slop." It was the exact same terrible, cheap food that the guards fed the prisoners in Sector 4 of The Pit every single day. 

"Waiters!" the Police Chief yelled angrily, wiping his mouth. "What is the meaning of this? Who cooked this garbage?"

The waiters did not answer. 

Suddenly, all thirty waiters in the room stopped moving. They stood perfectly still. They slowly reached up to their faces. 

In perfect unison, the waiters pulled off their fake faces. They were highly realistic silicone masks. 

Underneath the masks, the faces were hard, scarred, and completely terrifying. 

They were not waiters. They were the men of the Iron Legion. 

The rich guests gasped. Women screamed and dropped their glasses. The Mayor tried to run, but a giant waiter with an eye patch—General Silas Vance—stepped in front of him, blocking the door. 

"Nobody moves," General Vance commanded. His rough voice echoed through the silent ballroom. He did not pull out a gun. He did not need one. His massive size was enough to terrify the Mayor.