"Oh my..."
Johnny collapsed onto his bed, feeling utterly content.
He had been out for half a month and hadn't returned home, leaving a thick layer of dust everywhere.
However, this time Johnny didn't clean it himself. Instead, he directly called a cleaning company to handle everything, inside and out. It took nearly an hour before he could step into the house.
He didn't allow the cleaning company into some key areas, only a superficial cleaning.
But even that was enough.
To be honest, the Old Lady had been good enough to him. Not to mention the two years of unpaid rent, the rent itself was so ridiculously low that he could afford it with just a little effort, and now he wasn't short on money.
Hmm, he still needed to buy a property; otherwise, some things would remain inconvenient.
In the afternoon, Johnny went out again, preparing to purchase a property in New York.
After more than four hours of viewing, choosing, and selecting properties, he ultimately bought nothing. Nothing caught his eye.
On the way back, Johnny kept thinking, he had always been alone, relying on the help of friends or his master's connections. Shouldn't he form his own team?
He couldn't be all-encompassing by himself.
Many things couldn't be considered so comprehensively, but with a team, it would be different. Everyone could remind and complement each other. Moreover, in terms of intelligence, Johnny was almost behind everyone.
If it weren't for Veronica, his intelligence capabilities would be practically useless.
Constantly relying on Veronica's intelligence wasn't ideal. His master's connections and favors were almost used up by him.
At the very least, he needed his own intelligence network.
Always charging in alone, without intelligence support, was too miserable.
"I need teammates! I need a team!"
Especially after his time with the The Expendables, this feeling became even more pronounced.
But the current problem was that to build a team, he needed people. The money issue could be resolved for now; over 20 million was enough for the initial stages.
However, suitable people were the hardest to find. Even though he knew so many people, probably not many would genuinely be willing to form a team with him.
They were all assassins, and their earning capabilities weren't bad. Although their strengths varied, being subservient wasn't their only option.
Johnny wasn't even willing to join other people's teams, let alone others, unless absolutely necessary.
Shaking his head to get rid of this annoying problem, he decided not to rush.
Driving on a road in Brooklyn, Johnny was slightly distracted when suddenly, he saw a dark shadow flash in front of him. He quickly slammed on the brakes.
The tires screeched against the ground, emitting a harsh "Screech—" sound, accompanied by puffs of blue smoke.
The camaro lurched forward another three or four meters before coming to a steady stop.
In front of the car's bumper was a slightly disheveled man, dressed like a homeless person, with curly hair matted in clumps on his head.
Johnny opened the car door and got out, walking up to the homeless man. He pulled him to the side of the road, "It's you again. Do you want to die?!"
However, Johnny felt a slight sense of familiarity with this guy. Wasn't this the guy he almost hit three months ago?
How did he become so disheveled now?
More importantly, Johnny kept feeling that this guy looked familiar, but he couldn't remember who he was.
But the disheveled man in front of him, upon seeing Johnny, a glint of shrewdness flashed in his eyes.
The man took a half-step back, his gaze cutting across Johnny's shoulder like a surgical knife.
"The suit tailoring is Savile Row's old craftsmanship," Sherlock said, rubbing his reddened arm, his tone calm, "but the armpits are sewn with three layers of Kevlar fiber, a custom model with a thickness of 1.2 millimeters."
Johnny froze, his fingers unconsciously touching his waist.
The man stared at his suit's front placket: "The button spacing is off; there's an extra 0.5 inches of reinforcement stitching between the second and third buttons, to prevent buttons from flying off during a fight."
He squatted down, his fingertips brushing Johnny's pant leg, where half a dark brown mark was stained. "Blood, dried for at least six hours, with a slightly acidic pH value. It's human blood."
Johnny watched the strange man squatting on the ground, examining his entire body like a hunting dog, and felt a slightly uncomfortable sensation.
As for the bloodstain, he had just returned from Mexico and hadn't had time to change his clothes yet.
The man stood up, patted the dust off his pant leg, and his gaze swept over Johnny's wrist. He paused and narrowed his eyes.
"Is the watch on your wrist an Omega Seamaster? Hmm, no, this style is different from a genuine Omega Seamaster. This is a custom-modified Omega Seamaster. There are scratches on it, indicating traces left by scrapes or fights. As far as I know, this type of watch is only available in one place..."
Johnny's pupils contracted slightly.
The man continued, "Your hair is neither short nor long. This isn't fashion; it's for convenience when wearing a tactical hood. And..."
He reached out and tugged at the hem of Johnny's suit. "The edge of the bulletproof vest is exposed. It's Kevlar, protects against 9mm Pistol rounds, but not 5.7mm."
"Enough."
Johnny suddenly gripped his wrist, with astonishing force.
But the man smiled, and his other hand brushed past Johnny's armpit, where there was a noticeable bulge—the edge of a holster's Velcro. "Armpit holster, dual Pistol setup, FN57 on the left, glock 19 on the right, right?"
He tapped the holster position with his knuckles, "The leather is high-density nylon, tactical-grade, with anti-slip rubber edges. Used for at least 3 days?"
"You..." The man's Adam's apple bobbed, his voice softening, "You must be an assassin, aren't you?"
The man looked up, his gaze piercing through the messy hair covering his eyes, towards Johnny.
"To be honest, I'm very curious, what kind of experience caused such a great change in you within three months?"
Johnny cautiously retreated three steps, his right hand already reaching for the glock 19 under his armpit.
"Who are you?"
"From your accent, you are not American, but British, with a strong London accent. Yet you have been here in Brooklyn for three months. If you are specifically waiting for me here, then I think you might have waited for the wrong person."
Johnny's tone was calm, but his eyes became extremely dangerous.
The man merely gently raised his hand, indicating he had no ill intent. "Apologies, I merely analyzed you out of habit. There's no need to be so tense."
"As for why I've been here so long, it's because I wanted to find a place where no one knew me to clear my head."
Johnny's suspicious gaze swept over his body—disheveled and a bit dirty, yet still retaining an air of elegance. Although he hadn't showered or changed clothes in a long time, one could still sense that his previous life was extremely affluent.
"So, is your vacation over?"
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