Chapter 21: Chapter 21

Jason’s tone was dead serious, and Wesley could feel the weight of it through the phone. His voice trembled with unease. “What the hell are you planning? I’m warning you, I won’t spill a damn thing about Kingpin! Do whatever you want with that video and recording!”

Jason chuckled, the sound low and menacing. “I’m jealous, Wesley. Kingpin’s got himself a loyal lapdog. But relax—I’m not coming for him yet. What I need is intel on the Speed Freaks.”

“The Speed Freaks?” Wesley’s confusion was palpable. “You don’t have any beef with them, do you?”

“Not yet,” Jason said coolly. “But I need cash. Word is, they jacked a haul of high-end motorcycles, planning to smuggle them to South America for a fat payday.”

Wesley’s voice sharpened with interest. “So, you’re after the bikes?”

“Nah,” Jason sneered. “I’m after the money.”

“And why the hell would I help you?” Wesley shot back.

“Kingpin’s got his grand vision of ’cleaning up’ Hell’s Kitchen, right? Purging New York of its filth? The Speed Freaks are on his hit list. You and them are bound to clash eventually. Giving me their info is just helping Kingpin’s cause.”

“No way!” Wesley snapped. “Things are different now. Every gang in New York’s united against you.”

“Cut the bullshit,” Jason growled. “Trade me the Speed Freaks’ info for your dirty little secrets. That’s my final offer. Otherwise, you’ll be rotting in a cell for the rest of your miserable life.”

With that, Jason hung up, the line going dead with a soft click. Wesley was a smart guy. He’d make the right call.

—

Back in the kitchen, Jason polished off his breakfast, the bacon’s smoky flavor lingering on his tongue. His phone buzzed with a new message from Wesley—a single address and a terse warning: “Jason, here’s the location. Keep your word. This is the last time I helped you. Next time we meet, you’re a dead man.”

Jason smirked, his eyes glinting with disdain. ’Yeah, Wesley. Next time, it’s your funeral.’

The address was unfamiliar, tucked away in a corner of the Bronx. He handed the phone to Franklin. “Know this place?”

Franklin glanced at the screen. “Yeah, that’s up north in the Bronx. Nothing but abandoned factories out there.”

A derelict factory—perfect for stashing stolen goods. Jason nodded. “That’s the Speed Freaks’ hideout. They’ve got a stash of high-end bikes we’re gonna liberate.”

Franklin’s eyes lit up. Money meant freedom—freedom from Denise’s nagging, from living under her roof like a stray dog. He wanted out, wanted a big house, a real life. “Boss, what do I need to prep?”

“Guns are at my safehouse,” Jason said. “We’ll also need a car, but not yours—too risky, the cops might trace it.”

“Stealing a ride? Easy,” Franklin said, grinning.

“And disguise yourself,” Jason added. “My bounty just spiked. One slip, and every gangbanger and hitman in the city’ll be on us.”

“How much now?” Franklin asked, curiosity piqued.

Jason’s voice was grim. “All the gangs in New York pooled their cash. $15 million.”

Franklin’s jaw dropped. “What?! Boss, you got that many enemies in the underworld?”

Jason leaned back, his gaze distant. “I’m an old hand in this game. I’ve seen and done it all—watched New York’s gangs rise and fall for over a decade. I know every major player, every dirty deed they’ve pulled. If the cops nab me and I talk, it’s a goddamn apocalypse for the underworld. A tens of thousand gang members would go down. That’s why they’re desperate to kill me before the feds get their hands on me.”

Franklin’s face grew solemn, the gravity of the situation sinking in. A bounty tied to the survival of tens of thousands—it was no wonder the gangs were rabid. “Alright, boss. I’ll be careful.”

“Let’s split up,” Jason said. “You grab a car. I’ll take your Challenger to the safehouse for the guns. Meet me at the parking lot three kilometers from here.”

—

Jason drove the Challenger to his Queens safehouse, retrieving a small arsenal of firearms, their cold steel a familiar comfort. By dusk, he pulled into the designated parking lot, waiting under the dim glow of a flickering streetlight.

Right on cue, a sleek Honda S2000 convertible rolled in, its engine purring softly. Franklin stepped out, looking smug. Jason raised an eyebrow. “No trouble?”

Franklin shook his head, grinning. “Smooth as butter.”

“Then let’s move.” Jason grabbed the guns from the Challenger and tossed a pistol to Franklin. “You know how to shoot?”

Franklin scratched his neck, sheepish. “I can shoot, but my aim’s trash.”

Jason shrugged. A good shot was forged in a hail of bullets, and Franklin, scraping by on petty theft, didn’t have the cash to burn on target practice. No matter—their goal was theft, not a bloodbath. If shooting was needed, Jason’s Firearms Mastery (Level 5) would handle it. Franklin just had to drive like a demon.

They piled into the S2000, Franklin’s excitement palpable. “Boss, I hit the jackpot with this one.”

Jason glanced at the car, unimpressed. “It’s just a beat-up Honda.”

Franklin’s face turned deadly serious, like Jason had insulted his mother. “This ain’t just a Honda. This is an S2000, the king of roadsters. Number one in my book, no contest.”

As they sped toward the Bronx, Franklin launched into a passionate monologue about the S2000’s engineering—its high-revving engine, its perfect balance, its raw driving feel. Jason tuned him out, his mind elsewhere. To him, cars were tools for getting around or impressing women, nothing more.

A kilometer from the target, Franklin veered into the maze of abandoned factories, stashing the car in a shadowed corner. They grabbed their weapons and moved silently toward the hideout, their footsteps muffled in the dark.

A low rumble broke the silence—a heavy truck with a shipping container trundled past. Jason’s lips curled into a predatory smile. ’Talk about perfect timing.’ That truck was undoubtedly hauling the Speed Freaks’ stolen bikes.

“Follow it,” he whispered.

Under the cover of night, they crept closer to the factory. Most of the sprawling complex was dark, swallowed by decay, but one building glowed faintly, its lights spilling into the gloom. A dozen burly men, dressed in gaudy punk-meets-cyberpunk outfits, lounged on motorcycles, smoking and laughing. The truck pulled up, swung around, and backed toward the factory’s entrance, lowering its ramp.

The Speed Freaks flicked their cigarettes away and got to work, riding high-end bikes from the warehouse into the container. Jason counted—52 motorcycles, their sleek frames gleaming under the harsh lights.

“Franklin, you know cars. Can you ballpark the value of those bikes?”

“Gimme a sec.” Franklin crouched, scratching numbers into the dust-covered concrete with his finger.

Jason stared, incredulous. “You can’t do that in your head?”

“Boss, I ain’t Chinese,” Franklin muttered, his focus unbroken.

After five minutes of scribbling—and two restarts due to miscalculations—Franklin looked up. “Fifty-two bikes, worth about $4 million.”

“You sure?” Jason asked, skeptical of his math skills.

“Dead sure.”

Jason’s eyes gleamed. “Perfect. Even on the black market, we’ll clear half that.”

The Speed Freaks secured the bikes in the container, and one of their own climbed aboard to ride shotgun. The truck rumbled to life, pulling onto the main road. Jason and Franklin slipped back to the S2000, waiting until the truck was nearly out of sight before tailing it at a safe distance.

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