A/N:- Last day to donate power stones before it reset.
With the tasks assigned, Stanfield grabbed his gear and bolted out the door, leaving a tense silence in his wake. Franklin, who hadn't been given a specific role yet, felt a jolt of panic. 'Is the boss cutting me out?' His heart raced, sweat beading on his brow as he turned to Jason. "Boss, what about me? What's my job?"
Jason fixed him with a steady, no-nonsense stare. "Same as last time, Franklin. Steal a car."
His tone was dead serious, eyes boring into Franklin's. "And for fuck's sake, don't leave any trace this time. No sloppy bullshit."
Franklin exhaled, relief washing over him as he nodded grimly. "You got it, boss. No fucking mistakes this time, I swear."
He threw on his jacket and slipped out into the fading daylight, determination etched into every step. Alone now, Jason rolled up his sleeve, inspecting the jagged scar on his right arm where a throwing knife had torn through weeks ago. Thanks to the system's attribute points boosting his recovery, the wound had mostly healed—scar tissue knitting together, leaving only a faint ache. He flexed his arm, testing its strength. 'Good enough to fuck some shit up,' he thought with a smirk.
He strode into the bedroom, pulling on a sleek black bulletproof vest that hugged his frame like a second skin. His fingers moved with practiced precision, checking his arsenal—pistols, spare mags, a tactical knife, and a couple of grenades for good measure. Everything was in order. He sank onto the bed, his mind razor-sharp, adrenaline simmering just beneath the surface.
'Fisk, you bastard. This is where your empire starts to bleed.'
---
Three hours later, Franklin was back, grinning like a kid who'd just pulled off the heist of the century. He'd nabbed a nondescript Ford sedan—boring, reliable, the kind of car that blended into every street in America. To throw off any future police investigation, he'd ditched his usual finesse, deliberately scratching up the lock with a screwdriver to make it look like the work of some amateur punk. In a city like New York, car thieves were a dime a dozen—let the cops waste their time chasing ghosts.
Jason hefted a duffel bag stuffed with weapons and climbed into the passenger seat. "Drive to the outskirts," He ordered. "We wait for Stan's signal."
Franklin nodded, easing the car onto the road, the city's neon glow fading into the dark, sprawling suburbs. Time crawled by, each minute heavier than the last, until the sky deepened to a bruised purple. Finally, Jason's phone buzzed with Stanfield's call.
"Jason, eyes on the target," Stanfield's voice crackled through. "Fisk's crew just rolled out from their Hell's Kitchen HQ. One heavy-duty truck with a shipping container, four escort vehicles, twenty-two gangbangers total."
Jason's lips curled into a grim smile. "Got it. Start your end of the op."
He hung up and shot Franklin a look. Franklin gunned the engine, the Ford roaring toward their ambush point.
At the same time, a DEA-armed helicopter lifted off from the agency's rooftop helipad, its blades slicing through the night air. Stanfield was aboard, flanked by four of his most trusted men—crooked cops, each as dirty as he was. One of them, a wiry guy with a permanent sneer, leaned forward. "Stan, who the fuck are we hitting with anti-tank mines and C4? That's some heavy shit."
Stanfield stared out the window, the glittering lights of New York shrinking below. "A real piece of shit," He said, his voice low and vicious. "Badder than you or me."
The guy chuckled, letting it drop. These men were Stanfield's inner circle, scum who'd done things that would make even hardened criminals flinch. Embezzlement, extortion, evidence tampering—some had rap sheets longer than Stanfield's, the kind of filth that could be executed without a trial. He kept them close for one reason: they were loyal to his side hustles, skimming off the DEA's operations for their own profit. In this game, you only trusted those who were neck-deep in the same shit as you.
The chopper screamed through the night, reaching the ambush site in just twenty minutes. Stanfield leaned into the cockpit, barking at the pilot. "Fire up the thermal imaging and sweep every inch of those hills. Miss anything, and we're fucked."
The pilot flashed an "OK" sign, flipping on the thermal night vision and beginning a meticulous scan of the thirty-kilometer radius. The hills were barren, barely a shrub in sight—just flat, desolate terrain. If anyone was hiding out there, the heat signatures would light up like a Christmas tree.
The chopper circled for a solid half-hour, the thermal screen showing nothing but cold, empty ground. One of Stanfield's men yawned, annoyed. "Stan, we've been at this forever. No one's out here. These are Fisk's goons, not fucking Navy SEALs. If they were hiding, we'd have seen them by now. Let's head back."
Stanfield lowered his binoculars, ready to call it quits, when the pilot's voice cut through. "Got something! Suspicious heat signature."
Stanfield's gut tightened. 'An ambush? Fuck.' He leaned into the cockpit, eyes locked on the screen. Two humanoid heat signatures glowed—one on top of the other, merged in a way that left little to the imagination.
The pilot burst out laughing. "Jesus Christ, it's freezing out here, and these two are fucking in the dirt? A motel room's like fifty bucks!"
Stanfield smirked, tension draining. "You dumbass, it's called romance."
He ordered the pilot to swing over the main road to Baltimore and drop the weapons crate—loaded with the mines and C4, plus a signal transmitter—at the designated spot. With a dull thud, the crate hit the ground. Stanfield dialed Jason. "Area's clear. Just a couple of horny idiots banging in the bushes. No ambush. You're good to go."
"The gear?" Jason asked.
"Dropped. Signal code's coming to your phone now."
"Nice work. Go home and catch some sleep."
Stanfield sent the code, then signaled the pilot to head back to New York. The chopper roared into the night, leaving the desolate hills behind.
---
An hour later, Franklin pulled up to the drop site. Jason grabbed his duffel and hopped out, pointing to a low hill about three kilometers away. "That's the highest point around. Park there, keep eyes on the New York approach. The second you see that convoy, you call me."
"Got it, boss. Stay sharp," Franklin said, spinning the wheel and peeling off toward the hill.
Jason pulled out his phone, using the signal code to locate the weapons crate. He hauled out the anti-tank mines and C4, his movements quick and precise. Everything was set. Now it was just a waiting game.
Franklin crouched on the hill, binoculars pressed to his eyes, scanning the dark horizon. Thirty minutes later, he spotted headlights—a convoy rolling fast from New York. He dialed Jason. "They're coming. Move!"
Jason vaulted over the highway guardrail, activated the mines, and placed them strategically on the road. He sprinted a hundred meters away, crouching behind a boulder, his thumb hovering over the detonator. His pulse pounded in his ears as he watched the convoy approach—two Cadillacs in front, the massive truck hauling the container a hundred meters behind, and two more Cadillacs bringing up the rear.
He counted the seconds, eyes locked on the lead vehicles. When the first two Cadillacs were less than ten Meters from the mines, he slammed his thumb down on the detonator.
A split-second delay, then—BOOM!
The night exploded into blinding fireballs, the shockwave rattling the hills. The lead Cadillacs were obliterated, flipped into the air like toys, their frames consumed by roaring flames. Twisted metal and burning flesh filled the air, the stench of gasoline and charred bodies cutting through the cold.
[Ding! Eliminated ten gang members. Gained 1000 villain points. Current progress: 5915/5000]
[Ding! Congratulations, host has reached level 6. Rewarded 10 attribute points. Current progress: 915/6000]
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