"Off to LA to buy a billion bags and a billion dresses… I'm holding you to that!" Harley's voice dripped with playful mischief.
Jason spun around, his heart skipping a beat. There she was, leaning against the doorframe, wearing nothing but his oversized shirt, which clung to her curves in a way that made his blood race. Her smirk was half-teasing, half-challenging, her eyes glinting with that dangerous, irresistible spark he adored.
He didn't even blush. Instead, he squared his shoulders, his voice booming with mock righteousness. "Damn right, we're buying! Once we hit LA, it's shopping spree central!" Before she could fire back, he lunged at her like a predator pouncing on prey, his grin wicked and unrestrained.
Only the united beat of sex and heart together can create ecstasy. When she closed her eyes she felt he had many hands, which touched her everywhere, and many mouths, which passed so swiftly over her, and with a wolflike sharpness, his teeth sank into her fleshiest parts.
I couldn't get enough of him. I was tired and sore but I didn't care. I didn't want to sleep. I wanted the ache. I wanted him in me, all the time. His weight on top of me. I wanted to squeeze him in further and further. I wanted to watch his face. I wanted his sweat to drop onto me. I wanted to drop mine on him. I got on top of him. I'd never done it before. I couldn't really believe it; I was doing this. I was inventing something. I held him and put him in. He felt deeper in me. I'll never forget it.
---
After a heated morning sex that left them both breathless and tangled in sheets, Jason and Harley finally dragged themselves downstairs to the dining table for breakfast. The aroma of coffee and bacon filled the air, grounding them in the mundane after their wild start to the day.
Over eggs and toast, Jason broke the news to the crew. "Tomorrow, me and Harley are heading to LA."
He explained his reasoning with a calculated calm. The ranch needed a strong presence to keep things in check, and that meant leaving some of his trusted allies behind. Harley was his ride-or-die, but the others had to hold the fort.
Franklin blinked, a knowing grin spreading across his face. "LA, huh? You two lovebirds sneaking off for a honeymoon or what?" His tone was teasing, but there was a glint of genuine curiosity in his eyes.
Jason didn't bother dodging the jab. "Half honeymoon, half hustle," He said bluntly. "I need to make some serious cash in LA." The memory of the system's shop flashed in his mind—hundreds of jaw-dropping superpowers, each one more badass than the last, all taunting him with their unreachable price tags. The thought of staring at those powers, unable to afford even a single one, was like a knife twisting in his gut. He'd never craved money more than he did right now. A billion dollars wasn't just a number—it was the key to godlike power, and he was fucking starving for it.
To get that kind of cash, he'd need to stir up some serious shit. No question about it.
Franklin's grin faded, replaced by a serious frown. "Just the two of you? That's risky as hell, boss. Why not take a few more of us? I swear, we'll stay holed up in a hotel, no trouble. Won't cockblock your honeymoon vibes."
John, sitting across the table, looked up from his plate, his eyes locking onto Jason's. His silence spoke volumes—he was ready to join the mission, no questions asked. The guy was a killer, loyal to the core, and Jason could practically hear his thoughts: 'You need me out there.'
Jason appreciated their concern, but he waved it off with a casual flick of his hand. "Relax, I'm not some dumbass charging in blind. This LA trip is recon first. If it's an easy score, Harley and I will handle it ourselves. If it's looking hairy, I'll call you guys in for backup. No sweat."
His confidence eased their worries, and both men visibly relaxed. John leaned forward, his voice low. "New York's under martial law. How're you even getting out? Wait—Stanfield."
Jason nodded, a sly grin tugging at his lips. "Bingo. Stan's got it all sorted. We're flying out tomorrow on a DEA private jet, straight to LA."
He leaned back in his chair, his tone shifting to business. "I'm guessing we'll be in LA for a while, so you two are in charge here. Keep a tight leash on the Roberts couple and those prisoners. No fuck-ups." He turned to John, his gaze hard. "I've gone over the organization's rulebook and made some changes. From now on, everyone follows it to the letter. Anyone steps out of line, you've got full authority to handle it—up to and including putting a bullet in them."
John's lips curled into a faint, confident smirk. "A few lowlife prisoners won't be a problem."
Jason shifted his focus to Franklin. "John's running point on internal shit. You back him up. If anything goes sideways and you can't handle it, you call me or Stan. Got it?"
"You got it, boss!" Franklin said, his enthusiasm almost infectious.
---
The next day, the sky was a dull, oppressive gray, as if the world was sulking about their departure.
Jason and Harley were up at the crack of dawn, dressing quickly. They wrapped themselves in disguises—baseball caps pulled low, sunglasses hiding their eyes, and masks covering their faces. No chances taken in a city crawling with the military.
Downstairs, they said their goodbyes to John and the others. Franklin, ever the reliable wheelman, slid behind the driver's seat of Roberts' ancient, beat-up car. The engine grumbled to life, and they hit the road, winding through miles of mountain paths until they reached Central Park.
The park was nearly deserted, save for a handful of early-morning joggers braving the chilly air. Franklin circled the area once, his sharp eyes scanning for their contact. Then he spotted him—a burly guy lounging on a park bench, looking like he could bench press a Buick.
"There he is," Franklin said, his voice tinged with surprise. "That's the dude who handed me the C4 in the parking garage."
Jason raised an eyebrow. "What's that?"
Franklin pointed at the man. "That guy on the bench? I know him. He's one of Stan's inner circle."
The trio climbed out of the car and approached. The man looked up, flashed Franklin a nod and a smile, then turned his attention to Jason. "Mr. Walter," He said, his voice smooth but professional. "I'm Director Norman's right-hand man."
"Nice to meet you," Jason replied, keeping it short.
The man gestured toward a secluded corner of the park. "This way. The car's over there."
Jason and Harley followed, while Franklin stayed behind, waving with a grin. "Have fun, boss! Don't do anything I wouldn't do!"
A few hundred meters later, tucked away in a hidden nook of the park, they found a police cruiser emblazoned with the DEA logo. A woman in her mid-thirties, dressed in a crisp DEA uniform, sat in the driver's seat, her expression unreadable.
The contact pulled out two driver's licenses and handed them to Jason. "Stan's got everything covered. This is our makeup artist—someone we trust. We've already forged IDs based on your appearances. She'll handle the disguises."
Jason glanced at the licenses. The photos barely resembled him or Harley—maybe a 30% match at best. He raised an eyebrow, skeptical. "You're telling me makeup can bridge that gap?"
The contact smirked. "You'll see."
The makeup artist was a goddamn wizard. In just fifteen minutes per person, she transformed them. Half an hour later, Jason and Harley looked in the mirror and barely recognized themselves. The resemblance to the ID photos was uncanny—90% or better. Jason couldn't help but whistle in admiration. "Fuck me, you're good."
They slid into the back of the cruiser, and the contact took the wheel. First stop: Midtown Manhattan, where they dropped off the makeup artist at a random subway station. Then they headed straight for the airport.
Even in the early morning, Manhattan's streets were a ghost town compared to their usual chaos. The black-market hustlers and gangbangers who once ruled the corners were gone, replaced by heavily armed SWAT teams and soldiers patrolling with grim efficiency. On the way to the airport, they hit no fewer than ten checkpoints. Despite the DEA logo on the cruiser, every stop involved a thorough inspection—IDs, faces, even the car's undercarriage. Jason remembered how he'd once bluffed his way through a prison checkpoint by posing as a cop. Clearly, the authorities had wised up since then.
Thankfully, Stan's prep work was airtight, and the makeup artist's skills were bulletproof. Jason and Harley passed every check without a hitch, though the delays stretched the trip to a grueling four hours.
Finally, they reached the airport. No security lines for them—the contact drove straight to a private hangar where a sleek, small jet waited. DEA bigwigs like Stanfield didn't waste time with commercial flights. Every state-level bureau kept a few private planes on retainer for their top dogs, and this one was Stan's personal ride.
The contact stepped out, pulling a phone and a credit card from his pocket. "Stan's got you covered," He said, handing them over. "This card's got a $200,000 credit limit. Go wild—it's all on Stan's dime."
Jason let out a barking laugh, his mood lifting. "Well, damn. Tell Stan he's a fucking saint."
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