The cab driver's goodwill toward the police was nonexistent, a big fat zero. He unleashed a tirade, his voice thick with frustration, calling them incompetent fools who couldn't catch a real criminal if their lives depended on it. All they did was harass honest folks, clogging up the streets and making life harder for everyone. His words dripped with venom, each curse a testament to his disdain for the badge.
The police checkpoint was a slow, agonizing crawl. The taxi sat motionless for a full ten minutes, the driver's grumbling growing quieter as two officers approached, their flashlights cutting through the night. The beam danced across the car, sharp and intrusive.
The driver's complaints stopped dead as an officer rapped on the window. "Sir, identification, please."
Jason and the driver handed over their driver's licenses, the plastic cards passing through the open window. The officer fed the license numbers into a handheld device connected to the NYPD's network, then shone his flashlight into their faces, scrutinizing them to ensure the photos matched. Jason kept his expression neutral, his heart steady despite the scrutiny.
**Beep! Beep!**
The device chirped, and the officer checking Jason's license tensed, his hand drifting to the holster at his hip. "Sir, step out of the vehicle with your hands up. Now."
Jason raised an eyebrow, feigning confusion. "Officer, is there a problem with my ID?"
The cop's grip tightened on his pistol, his voice sharp as a blade. "Hands up, sir!"
"Alright, officer, no need to get heated." Jason complied, stepping out of the cab with his hands raised, then dropping to the ground, lacing his fingers behind his head as instructed.
One officer patted him down with clinical precision, while the other scoured the car's interior and trunk. Their search was thorough, almost obsessive, but they found nothing—no weapons, no contraband, nothing to pin on him. The officer who'd checked his ID relaxed slightly, handing the license back. "Your vehicle has a few outstanding violations. Take care of them next time."
"Thanks, officer," Jason said with a disarming smile, pocketing the license.
"Clear them!" The cop barked, waving the taxi through.
The cab lurched forward, and the driver's complaints resumed, louder now, as if the close call had only fueled his anger. Jason chuckled along, keeping the conversation light, but his hands moved discreetly beneath the seat. With a subtle, forceful tug, he pried open a small gap between the seat and its base. Tucked inside, hidden from prying eyes, was a sleek black Glock 20, fully loaded.
The rest of the drive to Queens was smooth, the city's chaos fading as they left Manhattan behind. Jason stepped out at a sprawling mall, paid the driver, and walked a few hundred meters before hailing another cab. This time, the driver was a young black guy in his twenties, his energy a stark contrast to the grizzled cabbie from before.
"Yo, where are you headed, man?" The driver asked, his voice bright.
"Club on XX Street," Jason replied.
The driver's eyes widened, his brow furrowing. "Whoa, dude, that's deep in the slums. The place is a mess—crappy security, homeless folks everywhere. You sure? I can hook you up with a way better spot."
"Thanks, but I'm meeting a friend," Jason said, brushing off the concern.
The driver shrugged, shaking his head. "Alright, man, your call."
At 8:50 p.m., ten minutes shy of the agreed time, Jason arrived at the Club. The place was a dump, its faded neon sign flickering pathetically, half the letters dead. A sticky puddle of vomit stained the entrance, the sour stench hitting Jason like a punch. He wrinkled his nose, comparing this dive to the upscale clubs he used to frequent. This was a far cry from luxury—a haven for the desperate and broke, where the poor drowned their sorrows in cheap booze and cheaper thrills.
A hulking black bouncer stood at the door, his frame imposing. Spotting Jason, he stepped forward with a grin. "Yo, man, wanna catch a strip show? Just ten bucks."
Jason nodded, slipping him a crumpled bill. The bouncer swung the door open with a theatrical flourish, gesturing him inside.
Despite its rundown exterior, the club was surprisingly spacious, spanning six or seven hundred square meters. The outer edges housed dimly lit booths and a grimy bar counter, while the center featured an oval dance floor. A handful of average-looking strippers writhed on poles, their bodies swaying to pulsing music under flashing, multicolored lights. They moved with practiced sensuality, their curves catching the glow as they worked the crowd.
A ring of small stools surrounded the dance floor, packed with rowdy men waving crumpled bills, desperate for a fleeting moment of attention from the dancers. The club was alive with noise—shouts, laughter, and the thumping bassline blending into a chaotic roar. You had to yell to be heard over the din.
Jason scanned the crowd for Franklin but came up empty. Pulling out his phone, he logged into his burner Facebook account and shot Franklin a message: *"I'm at the club. Where are you at?"*
The reply came quickly: *"Booth straight across from the entrance."*
Jason navigated through the throng, weaving past drunken patrons and leering faces, until he spotted Franklin in a secluded corner booth, nursing a drink. The kid stood out like a sore thumb—green hoodie, gray shorts, white sneakers, and that godawful buzz cut. Even in a packed room, his oddball style made him impossible to miss.
Jason slid into the seat across from him. Franklin looked up, his expression blank, then narrowed his eyes. "Man, what the hell? You're not Jason! You're just screwing with me!"
Without a word, Jason leaned forward, tugging down his collar to reveal a jagged, ugly scar—a bullet wound inches from his heart. It was the only injury he'd ever shared on his main Facebook page, a mark of his survival that had become something of a legend among his followers. Franklin had once reposted the image, calling it "the tattoo of a real man."
Franklin's face shifted through a kaleidoscope of emotions—confusion, realization, shock, and finally, uncontainable excitement. "Holy shit, you're really Jason? But your face—"
Jason raised a finger to his lips, silencing him. "When you've got a $13 million bounty on your head, you learn to cover your tracks."
Franklin's eyes widened as the truth sank in. He shot to his feet, practically vibrating with energy, his words tumbling out in a frantic rush. "Oh my God! I can't believe I'm actually meeting you! Dude, I've been your fan since middle school! All my classmates were obsessed with those jacked-up Hollywood pretty boys, but I knew they were just a bunch of soft-ass posers. You? You're the real deal—clawing your way up from nothing, spilling blood, surviving bullets, walking through a damn warzone of bodies to get where you are."
His excitement veered off-topic, a stream-of-consciousness rant about Jason's exploits. "Man, I'm rambling! Look, I just gotta know—can I join you? Like, be your right-hand man, your partner, whatever you call it?"
Jason's expression hardened, his eyes locking onto Franklin's. "I've got nothing right now—no cash, no guns, no crew. I'm hunted by Kingpin and the feds, with a $13 million price tag. You sure you want in on this?"
Franklin didn't flinch, pounding his chest with conviction. "Being your wingman, fighting by your side—that's been my dream forever. I'd die for it, no question."
Jason studied him, searching for any hint of doubt. Finding none, he nodded. "Alright. As of today, you're my guy."
"YES!" Franklin pumped his fist, nearly clocking a passing stripper in the process.
"Whoa, sorry! My bad!" He stammered, apologizing profusely.
The dancer, a dark-skinned woman with a fiery figure, waved it off with a sultry smile. "No worries, handsome. Wanna private dance? Just $500."
Franklin's face betrayed his interest—her curves were exactly his type—but the price was a gut punch. For a guy whose only income came from petty theft, $500 was a fortune.
Jason caught the hesitation and grinned. He pulled a thick stack of bills from his pocket and tossed it onto the table. "One dancer's no fun. Call your girls over and give my new partner the full show."
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