Billionaire in Kingsman with a Marvel System

"Sorry, sir, but there isn't enough information to confirm that it's the recently deceased Mrs. M," Sunday responded.

Since there wasn't much time, William didn't blame Sunday. "Where's the person on the other end of the call?"

"In a fragrant port in Asia," Sunday replied.

Damn, this was the first time someone had taken the initiative to approach him. Knowing that there was a group of unknown individuals watching him from the shadows made William both uneasy and angry.

He ordered Sunday, "Find out everything you can. I don't care about the process, only the results. You have my permission to use any means necessary."

"Understood, sir. The task is recorded and will be executed. Calculations are in progress... Calculation resources insufficient. Beginning to allocate idle resources in Boston. Allocation in progress. Calculations estimated to take three days."

Annoyed by the noise, William lightly tapped his earpiece and said, "Quiet down."

To investigate this mysterious organization, Sunday silently commandeered all available processing resources in Boston, causing many servers and machines that were turned off at night to power up on their own.

The realization that an unknown organization was trying to get close to him heightened William's sense of danger. The thrill he had felt about the Russian mob situation was gone.

Since Pushkin's top enforcer had arrived in Boston, his defense back home would be weakened.

After thinking it over, he called McCall, who answered quickly. "Good evening, Mr. Devonshire."

"Good evening, McCall. I have some bad news. I've just learned that the five people you eliminated the other day weren't just drug runners. They were secretly working for Pushkin, a Russian oligarch with a base on the East Coast of the USA.

Half an hour ago, a plane from Russia landed in Boston with a man named Ted Renzen. His mission is to investigate the deaths of those five drug runners. In two hours, another plane will head back to Russia. I'll take care of Renzen. Your mission is to go to Russia and eliminate Pushkin. Only by taking out the man behind all this can we put an end to it.

When you arrive in Russia, a four-man team will support you. How you take out Pushkin is up to you, but my only requirement is that it's clean."

"Understood," McCall replied without hesitation. He knew that as long as the man behind it all was alive, the problem wouldn't go away.

With the way the Russian mob operated, they wouldn't stop hunting him until he was dead, and everyone connected to him would be at risk.

After quickly packing a few changes of clothes, McCall took a cab to a private airport in the suburbs, following the instructions in a text message.

Wearing a mask and a baseball cap, he gave the pilot the passphrase. Once confirmed, the pilot didn't ask any questions, simply saying, "Please follow me, sir. The plane is ready. The flight will take about nine and a half hours."

"Thank you," McCall replied. He had flown to Moscow before and knew that although Boston and Moscow seemed far apart on the map, the straight-line distance was only about 1,800 kilometers. Flying north over the Bering Strait would save a lot of time.

After seeing McCall off, William took the elevator down to the underground parking garage, where he rode his Ducati R6 to a warehouse where prop money was stored. He scanned the entire warehouse with his mental power, and finding nothing unusual, he changed into black night gear, donned gloves and a mask, and grabbed a dozen paper cutters. He then opened a portal and stepped into an air duct leading to Pushkin's money storage warehouse.

Crawling through the duct, William ignored the money in the warehouse. His priority was to eliminate the guards so they wouldn't interrupt him while he moved the cash.

With his mental power scanning the area, William quickly assessed his surroundings.

It was nighttime, and only the guards were present in the warehouse. The workers who counted and sorted the money had all gone home, which suited William just fine.

He opened the door to the money room, and before the four guards outside could react, their heads were pierced by flying blades.

With Sunday having infiltrated the warehouse's mainframe and disabled the cameras, William strolled through the facility. Any guard who came within 50 meters of him was taken out by flying blades before they could even react.

Ten minutes later, William snapped the neck of the last guard, who had been sleeping. There were no surprises; all the guards were eliminated quietly.

William opened a portal and tossed all the dead guards into a mine in Oxford used for disposing of trash. He then pulled out a hose and washed away the bloodstains on the floor.

This was to make it look like the guards had stolen the money themselves. As long as no bodies were found, everyone would assume that the guards had made off with the cash. After all, moving such a large amount of money without an inside man would be impossible. A billion dollars in $100 bills weighs over a ton.

No one would believe that someone could steal such a large sum of money silently.

Thanks to Sunday's reminders, William left no traces.

After spending more than an hour cleaning up the blood and other evidence, William finally entered the money storage room, his heart racing with excitement.

It was a veritable mountain of money. It took him a few minutes to calm down. He threw down an open bag of cash and began transporting all the money bags to the prop money warehouse through the portal.

Then came the tedious task of replacing the real money with fake bills, bag by bag.

By the time the job was done, it was already past 5 AM.

Damn, I'm exhausted, William thought as he sat on the mountain of real money, holding his head, dizzy from overusing his mental power.

Sunday reported, "Sir, if the $100 and $50 bills weren't mixed, the total here is $630 million in cash."

That was better than expected. It wasn't as much as he had hoped, but getting $630 million for free made William very happy.

After resting and recovering some of his mental strength, he breathed a heavy sigh of relief and joked, "I must be the most expensive mover in the world."

"Sorry, sir, not 'must be,' but 'definitely.' You are the most expensive mover," Sunday quipped, a rare moment of humor.

"Haha," William laughed, but then he looked at the small mountain of money beneath him and frowned. "It's a good thing I don't have to haul the money in and out of the bags anymore. With the storage space, I can move it all in about ten trips.

A billion dollars takes up about 1.5 cubic meters." After resting for half an hour, William started moving the money. He filled his storage space, opened a portal to the vault in Oxford, and piled the cash on top of the gold bars stored there. After about ten trips, he finally transported all the money to the castle in Oxford.

Returning to Boston, he set up an electrical short-circuit mechanism according to Sunday's instructions.

Sunday estimated that in about 43 hours, at around midnight the day after tomorrow, the circuit would short, causing sparks to ignite the paint, which would then spread to the prop money piles. The warehouse, with its open vents, would burn like a furnace.

Since the road to the warehouse was blocked by shipping containers, the fire trucks wouldn't be able to get close. In less than two hours, all the money would be burned to ashes.

With the guards missing, the money burned, and the warehouse rented under a fake identity by Sunday online, there would be no leads, even if someone got suspicious.

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