Outside New York City, on Interstate 79, Luke and Bob sat in a Jeep Grand Cherokee, waiting for their target.
"Luke, you sure your driving skills are up to this?" Bob asked from the passenger seat. "If you send someone to the ICU, the fallout's gonna be a nightmare to deal with."
"Trust me," Luke replied. "My driving's just as good as my marksmanship."
"For real? If that's true, you're basically a driving god. You've got a knack for this too?" Bob said, half-impressed, half-annoyed.
"Yup. I've always believed in picking up as many skills as I can," Luke said with a shrug.
"Man, that makes me wanna punch you," Bob grumbled. "But seriously, what if Nick's got someone else in the car? Like an assistant or something? He's a big-shot VP, after all."
"Nah, he's alone," Luke said confidently. "He's been secretly bribing Oscar voters. For shady stuff like that, the fewer people who know, the better. He's not dumb enough to leave loose ends."
"Alright, your plan's so reckless it'd sound insane coming from anyone else," Bob said. "But with you? I'm somehow convinced it'll work."
Deep down, Bob knew why. He'd worked with Luke on countless films, watching him pull off death-defying stunts and turn impossible situations into miracles. Over time, Bob had developed an almost blind faith in him. If Luke set his mind to something, no matter how crazy it sounded, it'd happen.
That kind of trust was built on Luke's track record of skill and success.
"Target's here!" Bob said, peering through binoculars.
A sleek black Maserati Quattroporte rolled by, its streamlined body, flashy red interior, and iconic trident badge screaming understated swagger.
You could tell a lot about a person by their car. Stereotypes exist for a reason, and big data tends to back them up. Like how BMW drivers often get a bad rap for being reckless, Mercedes owners come off as tacky businessmen who think they're cultured, or Cadillac drivers… well, let's just say they love their spa days.
Nick, with his Maserati, was the type who loved to show off but played it cool on the surface. Guys like that usually crumbled under pressure, too spineless to hold their ground.
"Hold on tight. We're moving. The hunt's on!" Luke said, flooring the gas to tail the Maserati.
He'd chosen the Grand Cherokee for its raw power and hefty weight—perfect for an SUV that could dominate a sedan. His goal was to flip Nick's Maserati without causing a catastrophic rollover that'd crush the car and injure him too badly.
An SUV's durability made it the smart choice. It was like a martial arts master wielding a heavy weapon with finesse—easier to dial back the force when you've got the upper hand.
Nick, oblivious to the tail, was cruising toward an Oscar voter's house, a briefcase with $500,000 in cash riding shotgun. His job was to bribe the guy to sway his vote. The thought of that greedy voter demanding every penny made Nick's stomach churn—he'd only pocket $200,000 for himself.
Damn, that's greedy, he thought. Kickbacks were just part of the game, though.
Nick had an $8 million budget from his company for this, with about $2 million for himself—a nice side hustle. He wasn't thrilled, but the job had to be done. He couldn't do without these greedy voters.
In 2003, the Oscars had just over 3,000 voting members, mostly older white men. Nick didn't need to bribe them all—just a few key "nodes" with enough clout to sway others. Today's target could influence about 100 votes.
Over the next two decades, the Academy would balloon to around 10,000 members, pulling in voters from all over the world, diversifying the pool and shaking up the awards. But that was a problem for future Nick. For now, the old-boy network ruled, and it didn't affect his plans.
Lost in thought, Nick didn't notice the Grand Cherokee pulling up beside him, trying to cut into his lane.
"Damn redneck!" Nick muttered, laying on the horn. "Trying to steal my lane?"
He couldn't see who was driving through the tinted windows, but he pictured some rude, flannel-wearing hick.
Vroom!
The Jeep surged forward, overtaking him and boxing him in.
"Damn it! What a lowlife!" Nick cursed, swerving to pass. But the Jeep's driver was uncanny, anticipating his every move and blocking him like a pro.
"Alright, you've pissed me off!" Nick growled, slamming the gas. If it meant rear-ending the guy, so be it—he'd teach this jerk a lesson.
The Maserati's engine roared as it sped up, aiming for the Jeep's bumper.
But then, the Jeep pulled off a slick 360-degree drift, spinning in place before slamming its front end into the Maserati's left front wheel.
Boom!
The impact was deafening. Nick felt like he'd crashed into a concrete barrier. His car lurched, flipping onto its side in a shower of sparks and screeching metal.
The airbag deployed, smacking him in the face like a heavyweight's punch. Combined with the crash's force, Nick blacked out.