After lunch, the four of them sprawled across the plush leather sofas in the villa's lounge, the air thick with the rich, earthy aroma of freshly ground coffee brewed by Mrs. Robert. The carved wooden tea table between them held steaming mugs, the dark liquid swirling with faint wisps of steam that caught the afternoon light streaming through the windows.
The massive flat-screen TV blared in the background, the news anchor's voice sharp and urgent as he recounted the previous night's bloodbath. His words were punctuated by a chilling image projected on the screen—a grotesque mural painted on a prison wall: a leering, blood-dripping clown, its jagged grin smeared in crimson.
"Pretty fucking impressive, right?" Harley chirped, her voice brimming with pride, her eyes gleaming like a kid showing off a gold-starred school project. She'd intended to paint a simple clown face, but the fresh, uncoagulated blood had run in thick, viscous streaks, transforming the image into something far more sinister—a nightmarish visage that seemed to pulse with malevolent life.
The grotesque artwork had sparked endless debate. Who was its creator? What did it symbolize? The police and media were obsessed, dissecting every detail. Some called it the deranged scribbling of a lunatic. Others saw it as a bold middle finger from the escaped prisoners to the authorities. The prevailing theory, though, was darker: this was the calling card of a new criminal organization, its members drawn from the ranks of the escaped convicts.
But who led this shadowy group? What was their endgame? The cops and reporters were grasping at straws, their endless speculation little more than wild guesses. The truth would only come when the fugitives were caught—if they ever were.
Harley basked in the chaos her artwork had unleashed, her lips curling into a wicked smirk as she sipped her coffee, her bare legs stretched out on the sofa, brushing against Jason's thigh in a way that sent a spark of heat through him.
The broadcast shifted to a live feed from the Drug Enforcement Agency's headquarters. There, seated at a polished desk, was Stanfield, clad in a crisp police uniform, his face a mask of stern authority as he fielded questions from a gaggle of reporters. Long Island Prison had been overseen by four agencies, but with the warden, Daniel, killed by Jason, and two other directors forced to resign in disgrace, Stanfield alone had emerged unscathed—a shining beacon in a sea of corruption.
To the public, he was a hero, a no-nonsense crusader who'd earned his stripes with real results, not just empty promises funded by taxpayer dollars. His steely demeanor and fiery anti-drug rhetoric played well on camera, but to Jason and his crew, it was fucking hilarious—a performance so over-the-top it bordered on caricature.
The anchor cut back to the studio, practically vibrating with excitement as he detailed the DEA's latest triumph. They'd gunned down hundreds of drug traffickers, seized tons of drugs, and captured a notorious Mexican cartel leader, crippling New York's underground drug network. Most shocking of all, they'd exposed Kingpin, the city's elusive crime lord, whose empire had long seemed untouchable. At the New York port, they'd uncovered seventeen shipping containers stuffed with over a billion dollars' worth of drugs—a record-breaking bust that cemented the DEA's legacy.
Though Kingpin had met his end in a hail of bullets during a gang shootout, the DEA's role in dismantling his operation earned them nationwide acclaim. Compared to the other bumbling law enforcement agencies, the DEA looked like fucking saints, a beacon of justice in a corrupt system.
To quell public outrage and shore up political support, the President announced a rare honor: Stanfield would receive the Medal of Honor, the first time it had ever been awarded to a non-military law enforcement officer. The room erupted in a mix of snorts and laughter as the news sank in.
Jason's phone buzzed, cutting through the noise. He glanced at the screen, a smirk tugging at his lips as he saw the caller ID: Stanfield, the DEA's golden boy. He answered, setting the phone on speaker and placing it on the table, letting the group eavesdrop.
"Hey! Are you watching the news?" Stanfield's voice crackled with barely contained glee. "Holy shit, the President's pinning a fucking Medal of Honor on me! I'm about to be the first non-soldier in history to get one!"
Franklin's face twisted with envy, his voice dripping with venom as he leaned toward the phone. "You fucking junkie! The President giving you a medal is a goddamn travesty!"
Stanfield's laugh boomed through the speaker, rich and mocking. "Oh, Franklin, you're just jealous as hell!"
Franklin's face flushed red, and he unleashed a string of expletives, cursing Stanfield's name with creative ferocity. John, less familiar with Stanfield, just chuckled quietly, staying out of the fray. Harley, meanwhile, leaned in, her voice sultry and teasing. "Stan, when's the ceremony? After you get that shiny medal, let me borrow it for a few days. It'd look killer with my new skirt."
Stanfield's laughter died abruptly, replaced by a nervous stammer. "Uh, Harley, you know I can't do that. They'd lock me up faster than you can say 'fashion accessory.'"
He quickly changed the subject, his tone shifting to business. "Boss, with Kingpin out of the picture, New York's underworld is in chaos. The whole damn city's up for grabs. Are you interested in stepping up, becoming the new king?"
Jason's eyes narrowed, his voice low and deliberate. "Fuck yeah, I'm interested. The black market in New York pulls in billions every year. That kind of money? I've been drooling over it for years."
"But," He added, leaning back, his fingers drumming on the armrest, "This is a shitstorm waiting to happen. The city's on lockdown, emergency measures in place. I heard on the news they're even bringing in the military to back up the cops. Jumping into the fray now would be like painting a target on our backs."
Stanfield's voice was smooth, persuasive. "Sure, it's risky, but risk comes with reward. And with me covering your ass from the inside, the odds are in your favor. Here's the deal: just this morning, a dozen out-of-town gangs—over a thousand players—rolled into New York, ready to carve up the territory. Time's money, boss. If you sit on your hands, waiting for the heat to die down, the cake'll be sliced up before you get a bite."
Jason's lips curled into a predatory grin, his voice dripping with confidence. "Stan, you're preaching to the choir, but here's the thing: in this game, strength is everything. Let those wannabe gangsters fight over the scraps. When they're done, I'll swoop in and take the whole fucking plate."
Harley's eyes lit up, her cheeks flushing with excitement, her body practically vibrating with admiration. "Goddamn, that's hot," She purred, her voice low and suggestive. Franklin and John exchanged glances, their own expressions a mix of awe and adrenaline. That kind of raw, unapologetic ambition was why they followed Jason.
Stanfield's voice carried a note of respect. "Alright, man, I trust your call. You're playing the long game, and it's probably the smart move. I'll keep you posted—any news, you'll hear it first."
"Sounds good," Jason said. "Go get ready for your big moment, hero."
He hung up, standing slowly and stretching, his muscles flexing under the tailored suit. Stepping outside, he inhaled deeply, the crisp, clean air of the valley filling his lungs. The sky was a flawless blue, dotted with lazy clouds drifting in the gentle breeze. Towering trees swayed softly, their leaves whispering secrets, while the distant calls of birds and the low bleating of grazing livestock painted a scene of idyllic calm.
For years, Jason's life in the underworld had kept him on a razor's edge, his nerves frayed from constant vigilance. A man could only take so much before he snapped. Back then, survival meant shouldering every burden alone, no matter how heavy. But now? The ranch was a fortress, hidden from the world, a safe haven where the cops wouldn't find them—not yet.
He could afford to let his guard down, if only for a moment. Here, surrounded by nature's embrace and Harley's intoxicating presence, he could indulge in the simple pleasures of a pastoral life, even if just for a little while.
"Let's go riding!" Harley's voice broke through his thoughts, vibrant and full of life. She burst out of the villa, decked out in tight, professional riding gear that hugged her curves like a second skin, her eyes sparkling with mischief. As a brilliant criminal psychologist, she'd spent years navigating the twisted minds of deranged inmates, a job that left her drained and craving moments of freedom like this. The ranch, with its open fields and untamed beauty, was her escape as much as his.
"Hell yeah," Jason said, his voice low and warm as he took her hand, their fingers intertwining with an ease that felt dangerously intimate.
---
Meanwhile, in New York…
The city was a powder keg. The prison break had sent shockwaves through every level of society, and the public's anger was a living, breathing thing. Protests swelled outside government buildings, with citizens decrying the incompetence that had let hundreds of dangerous criminals slip through their fingers. The families of the slain guards—seven hundred lives lost in a single night—stood at the forefront, their grief fueling demands for justice and reparations.
The media frenzy only amplified the chaos, with every channel looping footage of the blood-drenched clown mural, its dripping maw a symbol of the city's failure. Speculation ran rampant, but no one had answers—only fear and outrage.
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