The heavy truck, loaded with 52 high-end motorcycles, thundered down the suburban highway at 100 km/h, its engine a low, relentless growl. Trailing far behind, a sleek Honda S2000 kept pace, its headlights slicing through the darkness, staying just out of sight.
[Ding! Mission Triggered: [Speed Heist]. Reward: 1000 Villain Points.]
[Mission Brief: As a true villain, you can't let this opportunity slip. Eliminate the Speed Freaks and seize their hard-stolen motorcycles.]
Franklin gripped the steering wheel with one hand, his eyes flicking to Jason. "Boss, when do we make our move?"
Jason reached into the backseat, pulling out an M4A1 carbine, its matte black finish absorbing the dim light. "Now. Traffic's light out here. Once we hit the freeway, it'll be too crowded—too many eyes."
He rose slightly from his seat, bracing the rifle's barrel against the S2000's windshield. The open convertible gave him a clear shot. "Keep the car steady."
Franklin's hands tightened on the wheel, minimizing the vehicle's sway as they closed the gap to the truck. Jason squinted, his Firearms Mastery (Level 5) honing his focus to a razor's edge. He zeroed in on the truck's rear tire.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Three precise shots rang out, the muzzle flash briefly illuminating the night. The truck's tire exploded, rubber shredding as the vehicle lurched violently, swerving across the lane.
Screech!
The brakes screamed, tires smoking as the truck veered to the right and ground to a halt on the shoulder. Jason stowed the rifle. "Slow down. Ease up on them."
Franklin tapped the brakes, the S2000 gliding closer at a cautious pace.
Inside the truck's cab, two Speed Freaks jumped out, shotguns clutched tightly, their faces twisted with frustration. "Shit! We got a flat," One growled, kicking the ruined tire.
The driver, a wiry man with a mohawk, spat on the ground. "There's a jack and spare in the back. Hurry up—we can't afford to be late."
These guys were no amateurs. The Speed Freaks lived for machines, and they swapped the tire with practiced efficiency, finishing in under five minutes.
As they worked, Franklin pulled the S2000 alongside, slow and nonthreatening. Jason leaned out, his voice casual. "Hey, fellas. Need a hand?"
The driver shot him a venomous glare, gripping his shotgun tighter. "Piss off! Mind your own damn business."
Jason flashed an awkward grin, sinking back into his seat. The moment the two turned away, he reached into the center console, pulling out his Glock 20. Before they could react, he fired.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Bullets tore through their elbows, shattering bone and lodging in muscle. The shotguns clattered to the asphalt as the men screamed, their arms useless.
"Fuck!" The mohawked driver cursed, stumbling toward the darkness.
Jason raised his pistol, cool and deliberate, and fired a single shot. The bullet punched through the man's skull, and he collapsed face-first, blood pooling beneath him.
[Ding! Eliminated 1 Speed Freak. Gained 100 Villain Points. Current Progress: 1915/4000]
The surviving driver froze, his bravado gone, and dropped to his knees, hands raised. "Please, man, don't kill me!"
Jason stepped out of the car, his expression unreadable. He glanced at Franklin. "Have you ever spilled blood before?"
Franklin shook his head, his throat tight. By "spilled blood," Jason meant killing.
"You're in the game now," Jason said. "If you haven't taken a life, you'll never grow into this world. He's yours."
Franklin's face twisted, a mix of nerves and determination. Jason raised an eyebrow, his tone mocking. "Scared?"
Franklin threw up his hands, exasperated. "Boss, at least give me a gun!"
Jason smirked, pulling a military-grade dagger from his pocket and tossing it to him. "Guns are too clean. This is personal. Get to it."
Franklin caught the blade, its edge glinting coldly under the moonlight. He took a deep breath, psyching himself up, then kicked the driver to the ground. With a grunt, he drove the dagger into the man's back, piercing his heart.
"Argh!" The driver thrashed, his screams raw and guttural, blood bubbling from his mouth.
Franklin straddled him, yanking the blade free and plunging it into the man's neck. Again and again—seven brutal stabs, each one tearing through flesh and sinew until the head nearly separated from the body. Blood gushed, soaking the asphalt in a dark, glistening pool. The driver's struggles faded, his body going limp.
[Ding! Ally 'Franklin Clinton' eliminated 1 Speed Freak. Gained 100 Villain Points. Current Progress: 2015/4000]
Jason's theory was confirmed: his ally's kills fed directly into his Villain Points. The same would likely apply to Reputation. A useful perk.
Franklin stood, his face splattered with blood, his chest heaving. Jason studied him, his voice calm but chilling. "Sloppy work. Like some street punk. Practice more."
The cold critique sent a shiver down Franklin's spine, but there was no time to dwell. They dragged the bodies into the roadside brush, the grass swallowing their forms. Franklin took the wheel of the truck, while Jason followed in the S2000, keeping a 700-meter distance to avoid suspicion.
As he drove, Jason closed the convertible's roof and dialed Morgan, the phone pressed to his ear.
"Hey, Mr. $15 Million!" Morgan's voice was smug. "How's life treatin' ya?"
Jason leaned back, shrugging. "Not bad. You?"
Morgan chuckled. "Thanks to you, the underworld's in a panic. Every gang's stockin' up—pistols, rifles, machine guns, grenades, mines, body armor. My sales have tripled."
"Congrats," Jason said dryly. "I've got business for you."
"What kind?"
"A batch of high-end motorcycles."
"Sweet Jesus," Morgan gasped. "Don't tell me it's the Speed Freaks' haul."
Jason grinned. Morgan wasn't just a gunrunner—he dealt in intel, too. "You're sharp for a black-market hustler."
"Jason, you really plannin' to wipe out every gang in New York?"
"I don't care about the gangs," Jason said. "I care about cash. Whoever's got something valuable, I'm coming for it. That includes you."
"Goddamn, you're insane," Morgan muttered. Without Kingpin's leash, Jason was a predator unleashed—wounded, ravenous, and ready to tear through anyone. The city's balance of power was teetering.
Morgan sighed, his voice heavy. "I'm too old for this shit. I just wanna do business in peace. You sellin' or what?"
"Fifty-two bikes, valued at $5 million," Jason said, inflating the price. "Name your offer."
Morgan laughed, sly and knowing. "Tryin' to fleece me, huh? My intel says those bikes are worth $4 million, tops."
Jason feigned ignorance. "Is that so? My appraiser must've screwed up. Call it $4 million, for old times' sake."
Morgan didn't haggle further. Business was business—start high, settle low. "$1 million."
"What the fuck?" Jason's blood boiled. "Half's the rule for hot goods, you old bastard. Think I'm some rookie you can lowball? Or do you see me as easy prey now?"
Morgan's tone was measured. "Half's the rule, sure, but these are Speed Freaks' bikes. If I take 'em, I'm picking a fight with them. If anyone traces this back to me, I'm screwed."
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