William stood by the French window, looking down at the steel jungle forged by money and sin below.
The apartment was silent, with only Jessica's steady breathing, like a tired lullaby.
The expensive custom suit on the floor was wrinkled like a dried pickle, and the air still carried the lingering scent of whiskey mixed with women's perfume—the smell of a battlefield.
But he had no time for reminiscence.
The chessboard was set, the pieces in place.
Jessica was the "afterhand," a heavy hammer to deal with the unexpected.
Matt was the "eyes and ears," a Sword of Damocles hanging over Kingpin's head.
And he himself was the dealer preparing to swap the bottom card under the table.
Now, he still needed a driver.
A driver crazy enough, reliable enough, and "non-existent" enough.
A tough character who could drive a taxi into Hell and still calmly ask if you wanted to go to the next block.
William took out his phone from the paradox briefcase and scrolled to a number without a name.
He pressed the dial button.
The phone rang for a long time before it was answered, and from the other end came the noisy background of a late-night New York street—police sirens, shouting, and rap music from cheap speakers.
"Hello."
A hoarse, rough voice with a heavy Brooklyn accent spoke, full of impatience.
It was Jack Lockley.
"Good evening, Mr. Lockley."
William's voice was steady and gentle, like a midnight radio host.
"I hope I'm not disturbing your nocturnal work of 'purifying the city.'"
There was a few seconds of silence on the other end, and the background noise seemed to quiet down a bit.
"Speak."
The Knight's voice carried a hint of vigilance.
"I have a job here, a long-distance trip, generous pay, and… a very challenging route."
"I drive a taxi, I don't haul cargo."
The Knight refused curtly.
"Trust me, this cargo, you will definitely be interested in it." William's tone carried a hint of temptation, "The client is a 'decent' businessman, and the cargo consists of several 'art pieces.' Most importantly, there might be an annoying little Hellcat trying to cause trouble."
Silence fell on the other end again.
William could imagine a silent internal meeting being held in that three-person group's conference room.
Sure enough, a few seconds later, the voice on the phone changed. It became gentle and refined, even with a touch of British awkwardness.
"Uh… Hello, Mr. Rodriguez? This is Stephen Grant. Excuse me, the 'art pieces' you mentioned, are they… are they legal? We can't help bad people do bad things, you know, Khonshu will…"
"Mr. Grant, good evening."
William's smile deepened; he liked this channel-switching way of talking, it made him feel like a psychiatrist on rounds.
"Please rest assured, all procedures are complete. You can understand it as a high-end security escort service; we are the underwriters and need an experienced driver to ensure flawless transportation. This is entirely for the purpose of protecting the client's legitimate property safety."
"Oh… Is that so?"
Stephen sounded half-convinced.
"Of course. Think about it, protecting precious cultural heritage, that in itself is a very meaningful thing, isn't it?"
William began to talk nonsense with a straight face.
"…It sounds like it."
Stephen was drawn in.
Just then, a third voice spoke up. Cold, decisive, like a drawn sword.
It was Marc Spector.
"Kingpin." Marc went straight to the point, "The client is Kingpin, right?"
William's smile faded slightly.
Talking to Marc required a different approach than with Jack and Stephen.
"Yes." He admitted frankly, "So the pay is very high. High enough for you to replace everything in that new car, inside and out, with pure gold."
"We don't work for scum like that."
Marc's voice carried a hint of killing intent.
"Don't be so quick to refuse, Marc."
William's tone became serious.
"Hear me out. This time, the one trying to steal something is Hellcat, Patsy Walker. She's got her eyes on a shipment of Kingpin's. My mission is to ensure this shipment is delivered safely. But my goal is to find out what that shipment actually is."
He paused, giving the other party time to think.
"Kingpin and Hellcat, two lunatics fighting over a bomb. I don't care who wins, I only care if that bomb will explode in the city."
"I need a trustworthy person in the driver's seat, someone who can drive like a ghost and, if necessary, use the steering wheel as a battle-axe."
"Someone… who won't be bought by Kingpin, nor swayed by Hellcat's 'justice' slogans."
William looked out the window, his voice low and sincere:
"I need Moon Knight, not Kingpin's driver. After this is done, I'll give you all the information about that shipment, without taking a single penny."
On the other end of the phone, there was a long, dead silence.
William waited patiently.
He was gambling on Marc Spector's warrior's intuition and Khonshu's divine nature, which relished chaos.
Finally, Jack Lockley's gruff voice spoke again, sealing the deal.
"Tomorrow at noon, Hell's Kitchen, Ferguson Pier Warehouse Number Three. Come alone."
"Deal."
William hung up the phone and let out a long sigh of relief.
He felt less like an insurance broker and more like a circus ringmaster, desperately trying to get three lions to jump through the same fiery hoop without biting each other… The next day, Jessica proceeded with William's plan.
Noon, Hell's Kitchen.
The air smelled as usual.
The salty tang of seawater, the stench of dead fish, and the sour smell of industrial waste. The sky was grey, like a dirty, unwashed rag.
William's Audi A8L, like a black swan that had strayed into a slum, stopped smoothly outside the rusty iron gate of Warehouse Number Three.
The place was long abandoned, its walls covered in chaotic graffiti, and broken bottles and used syringes were scattered everywhere on the ground.
A yellow Ford Crown Victoria sat quietly in the shadows, like a lurking Beast in cheap disguise.
William got out of the car and walked towards the taxi.
The window rolled down, revealing Jack Lockley's face, which screamed, "Don't mess with me."
He wore a faded plaid shirt, a greasy flat cap, and had a toothpick in his mouth, his eyes as sharp as an eagle's.
"You're five minutes late," Jack said.
"Traffic, you should understand, the traffic in Hell's Kitchen is more chaotic than your boss's mental state."
William pulled open the passenger door and got in.
There was a faint scent of leather in the car.
"The plan."
Jack was concise, without any wasted words.
William handed over the tablet, which displayed the map of Kingpin's estate and the convoy's route.
He repeated the A/B plan he had told Jessica, word for word.
"A female detective will be responsible for distracting the Hellcat. Your mission is to drive. Depart from the estate garage, follow this route, and deliver the cargo to the designated secret warehouse. Maintain radio silence throughout, unless I contact you."
Jack looked at the route on the screen, his eyes flickering, as if conducting a sand table exercise in his mind.
"What if the female detective fails?" he asked.
"Then activate Plan B." William pointed to the abandoned gas station on the route, "There will be an 'accident' there, enough to attract the Hellcat's attention. All you have to do is floor the accelerator and don't look back."
Jack looked up and glanced at William. His gaze seemed to say, "You're crazier than I am."
"The money?"
"One hundred thousand U.S. dollars. I know you're not short on cash. Half will be deposited into your Swiss bank account after the job is done, and the other half I will exchange for an equivalent amount of Mexican corn tortillas and deliver them to any trash can you designate."
William said with a smile.
Jack's mouth twitched.
He returned the tablet to William and restarted the car.
"Get in your car, Mr. Consultant."
Jack's voice returned to that emotionless tone peculiar to taxi drivers.
"We should go see the client."
William got out of the car and returned to his Audi.
Two cars.
One black, one yellow, one in front, one behind.
Like two ghosts from different Worlds, they silently drove out of this forgotten place, heading towards the pier designated by Kingpin.
The game officially began.
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