Chapter 29: Chapter 29

Jason rolled his shoulders, wincing slightly but brushing it off. “I’ve been bleeding and breaking bones since I joined this game. It’s as routine as eating or drinking. This scratch won’t stop me from gutting that old hag.”

Stan nodded, respecting his resolve. “Alright, boss. I’ll set it up.” He headed for the door but paused, glancing back. “Oh, and this place is a DEA safehouse. You’re good here. As long as this idiot—” He jerked a thumb at Franklin—”Doesn’t do something stupid, no one’s dumb enough to come after the DEA.”

Franklin’s face darkened, and he flipped Stan the bird. “Fuck you!”

Stan chuckled, shaking his head, and walked out.

“Boss,” Franklin said, turning to Jason, “Since we’ve got a big night ahead, you should rest. I’ll whip up some lunch.”

He helped Jason into the bedroom, settling him onto the bed before heading to the kitchen, the clatter of pots soon filling the apartment. After a quick meal, Jason killed the lights and crashed, conserving energy for the fight to come.

—

The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in bruised shades of purple. Jason woke, his face less pale, the rest having worked wonders. He stepped into the living room to find Stan, decked out in a DEA uniform, glaring at Franklin across the coffee table. The tension was thick, but Stan’s eyes lit up when he saw Jason. “Yo, boss. Gear’s here.” He pointed to a duffel bag on the floor. “SWAT kit and weapons. Suit up, and we’re good to go.”

Jason didn’t waste words. He grabbed the bag, disappeared into the bedroom, and emerged two minutes later transformed—a faceless SWAT operative, clad in black tactical gear, his features hidden behind a balaclava. Franklin’s eyes widened, a mix of awe and unease. “Shit, boss. I know it’s you, but this getup’s got me shook. Am I allergic to cops or something?”

Stan snorted, cutting. “That’s not allergies. That’s you being a coward.”

They piled into a DEA cruiser parked outside the apartment, its lights flashing as the siren wailed, cutting through the city toward the DEA headquarters.

[Ding! Mission Triggered: [Villain’s Vengeance]. Reward: 2000 Villain Points.]

[Mission Details: As a true villain, revenge is non-negotiable. Destroy Madame Gao’s factory and make her pay for her foolishness.]

—

Jason had always believed in instincts, like how mice fear cats. Sitting in the cop car, he felt it—a creeping unease, like ants crawling under his skin. When they pulled into the DEA headquarters, a towering fortress spanning over 5,000 square meters, his nerves screamed. Every corner of the building radiated authority, from its sleek glass facade to the armed guards patrolling the perimeter. His outlaw heart rebelled against the place.

Stan parked in the underground garage and noticed Jason’s tension. “Relax, boss. You’re my personally appointed operative. Nobody’s touching you here.”

Jason blinked, the realization hitting like a shot. ’Right. This is my playground now.’ The fear ebbed, his confidence surging. “Let’s do this.”

—

DEA Headquarters, Sublevel Two.

Once a parking garage, the space had been converted into a command center for the DEA’s special operations team. A square conference table sat at the heart, surrounded by twenty-plus computer monitors forming a surveillance network, tracking every road and alley near Gao’s drug factory. Twenty armored SWAT vans lined the walls, each flanked by five heavily armed operatives, their gear clinking softly.

Stan’s deputy, a wiry man with sharp eyes, approached as they stepped off the elevator. “Stan, everyone’s ready. Just waiting on you.” His gaze flicked to Jason, sizing him up. “Who’s this?”

“John, my special consultant,” Stan said smoothly, sidestepping further questions. “Perimeter secured?”

“Locked down three hours ago,” The deputy replied.

“Any movement from the factory?”

“They’re bunkering up. Gao’s goons have been piling in since noon—over 200 now, and no one’s leaving.”

Stan smirked. “Idiots think numbers make them safe. What about the military?”

“Just got word. Three transport choppers are airborne. ETA twenty minutes.”

“Good. You stay here, handle external surveillance. I’m leading the ground op.” Stan’s voice was steel. “Let’s roll.”

The order echoed, and a hundred SWAT operatives scrambled into the vans. Engines roared, the convoy thundering out of the garage. Stan led Jason to the elevator, ascending to the roof where a DEA helicopter waited, its blades already spinning. They boarded, and the chopper lifted off, slicing through the night toward Hell’s Kitchen.

Jason stared out the window, the city sprawling below, a mix of awe and clarity settling in. Gangs were just street rats playing tough. In the face of the government’s war machine, even the most vicious kingpins were nothing but meat on the slab.

—

Manhattan, Hell’s Kitchen, Gao’s drug factory.

Madame Gao sat in her plush office chair, her brow furrowed, eyes half-closed. Ever since her call with Jason, a gnawing dread had taken root, like a demon’s gaze boring into her from the shadows. To quell it, she’d summoned every armed thug in her network to the factory—hundreds of soldiers, ready to crush any threat.

But the fear didn’t fade. It grew, clawing at her insides.

Who could inspire this kind of dread? Kingpin? No. His empire depended on her supply lines and connections. Without her, he’d never have claimed New York’s throne. That mutual reliance let her push him around, and he had no choice but to take it.

If not Kingpin, then who? Surely not Jason. Gao laughed at the thought. A hotheaded thug with a gun, nothing more than a roach in her world. If he dared show his face here, he’d be crushed without mercy.

Still, her mind churned, no answers surfacing. A dull ache pulsed at her temples. Rubbing them, she stood, stepping out to clear her head.

The factory hummed with activity, rows of Chinese workers processing premium Mexican cannabis—the best in the city. Gao’s product dominated eighty percent of New York’s market, demand outstripping supply. She watched the assembly line, her empire’s heart, and felt a flicker of pride.

“Madame,” Her trusted follower, a lean man with hard eyes, approached. “Why pull everyone in? Because of Jason? He’s too busy dodging cops to come here and die.”

“Partly,” Gao said, her voice distant. “But it’s more than that.”

The man frowned. “If not Jason, then who’s got you spooked?”

Before she could answer, a deafening roar split the air—propellers, churning like a storm overhead.

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