Chapter 3: Chapter 3

Jason secured the heavy ballistic vest, its weight pressing against his broad shoulders. He clipped two MK3A2 grenades to the chest straps, their cold metal surfaces glinting faintly in the dim bedroom light. With practiced efficiency, he stuffed magazines into his tactical belt, each one loaded to capacity. He flicked the safeties off the Benelli M4 Super 90 shotgun, Colt M4A1 carbine, and twin Beretta M9 pistols, the metallic clicks echoing in the tense silence. His fingers moved with the precision of a man who’d done this a hundred times, muscle memory guiding him through the chaos threatening to erupt.

He unzipped the bulging black duffel bag, revealing stacks of crisp, green cash—$530,000 in total, a fortune amassed through years of blood, sweat, and betrayal. Like most in the underworld, Jason preferred hard currency over bank accounts. First, his money was dirty, too tainted to withstand an IRS audit. Second, if the cops ever froze his accounts, every dollar he’d clawed from the streets would vanish into their coffers. The cash was his lifeline, his insurance against a world that could turn on him in an instant.

But lugging a bag stuffed with half a million dollars while fleeing for his life was a fool’s errand. His jaw tightened, a flicker of hesitation crossing his scarred face. Then, with a decisive grunt, he opened the system interface, its glowing transparent screen hovering before his eyes like a digital specter. He converted the entire haul into system points, watching the numbers tick up.

[Ding! Points conversion successful. Current balance: 53 points!]

He tossed the now-empty duffel aside, its fabric crumpling against the hardwood floor. Grabbing the 80-meter rappelling rope—its coiled weight heavy in his arms—he strode to the balcony. The city’s pulse thrummed below, Manhattan’s neon glow casting jagged shadows across his face. He secured the rope’s carabiner to the balcony’s sturdiest railing, testing it with a firm tug. With a flick of his wrist, he sent the rope cascading down the building’s side, its length calculated to deliver him safely to the ground—not a meter more, not a meter less.

Boom!

A deafening crash shook the apartment, the sound of the Russian mafia breaching the outer door. Dust and plaster rained from the ceiling, and Jason’s pulse spiked, adrenaline flooding his veins like liquid fire.

He darted to the bedroom door, dropping into a crouch. With a steady hand, he eased the door open a crack, just enough to peer into the haze-filled living room. The air was thick with the acrid scent of gunpowder and the faint metallic tang of fear.

Another boom reverberated, shaking loose a cloud of drywall dust. The apartment’s reinforced door held for a moment longer before splintering under a third, brutal kick, fragments scattering across the floor like shattered bones.

Seven or eight masked Russian mafia thugs stormed in, their automatic rifles sweeping the room with lethal intent. Their heavy boots crunched over debris, their breath visible in the smoky air.

Jason yanked the pin from a grenade, its weight familiar in his calloused hand. “Fire in the hole!” He bellowed, lobbing it into the cluster of intruders with a pitcher’s precision.

The grenade rolled to a stop at their feet.

“Oh, shit!” One of them shouted, voice muffled by his mask.

Boom!

A blinding flash erupted, the explosion tearing through the group. Three men were blasted backward, their bodies crumpling like ragdolls. Blood and severed limbs painted the living room in gruesome streaks of crimson. The sprinkler system screeched to life, dousing the room in a cold, relentless downpour, turning the chaos into a sodden, slippery mess.

[Ding! Eliminated three mafia members. Gained 300 Villain Points. Current progress: 320/1000.]

[Ding! Injured two mafia members. Gained 100 Villain Points. Current progress: 420/1000.]

One grenade, three dead, two wounded—not bad for a single toss. But only 100 points per kill? Since when was life so cheap? Jason’s lip curled in disdain at the system’s stingy rewards.

“Jason, you can’t escape! Surrender!” The voice outside was thick with a Russian accent, unmistakably Vladimir, the elder of the two brothers.

“Wanna bet? I’ll get out of here, and I’ll wager your left nut on it!” Jason shouted, his hands already moving. He rigged the second grenade as a booby trap, securing it to the bedroom doorframe with a tripwire. He left the door slightly ajar, a tempting lure for the next unlucky bastard to barge in.

“FUCK YOU, Jason! You’re dead!” That was Anatoly, Vladimir’s younger, hotter-headed brother, his voice dripping with venom.

A year ago, the Vladimir brothers and their crew of Russian hitmen had crossed the ocean to Hell’s Kitchen. New to the scene, they had no turf, no connections, no resources. They’d pledged loyalty to Kingpin, taking on his dirtiest jobs—murder, smuggling, extortion—to carve out a living. But their skills didn’t match their egos. They were troublemakers, always stirring shit. A pound of vodka, and they’d scream Kingpin’s real name to his face. Two pounds, and they’d shove a gun in Jason’s mouth, laughing like lunatics.

Among Kingpin’s allies, the Russians were the least disciplined, a thorn in his side. Sending them after Jason was a calculated move—Kingpin’s way of killing two birds with one stone. Eliminate his disloyal lieutenant and weaken the troublesome Russians in one stroke. That fat bastard was sharper than he looked, his mind as deadly as his fists.

Outside, Anatoly’s rage boiled over, Jason’s taunts pushing him to the brink. “Brother, let me blow this motherfucker to hell!” He roared, hoisting an RPG, its sleek, deadly form gleaming under the streetlights filtering through the shattered windows.

Vladimir grabbed his arm, voice low and urgent. “No! The kingpin said we take him alive. Only then do we get the territory.”

He turned back to the door, shouting, “Jason, drop your weapons and come out! I swear on God, we won’t kill you!”

Silence.

“Jason, you hear me?”

“Jason!”

No response.

Half a minute earlier, Jason had finished rigging the booby trap. He slipped on tactical gloves and a black balaclava, the fabric clinging to his sweat-slicked face. With a final glance at the bedroom—its overturned mattress, scattered sheets, and lingering scent of Vanessa’s perfume—he vaulted over the balcony railing and began his descent.

The explosion from the apartment had ripped through the quiet Manhattan night, drawing a crowd of onlookers below. They craned their necks, murmuring about a gas leak, their faces illuminated by the flickering glow of the burning building. But when Jason appeared, masked and armed, rappelling down the skyscraper with a shotgun and carbine slung across his back, the crowd’s confusion turned to panic.

“Oh my God!”

“What the hell is happening?”

“Call 911!”

The onlookers erupted into chaos. Some scattered, fleeing the scene. Others fumbled for their phones, dialing emergency services with trembling hands. A few, thrill-seekers or wannabe journalists, raised cameras and camcorders, eager to capture the spectacle unfolding above.

Another explosion rocked the apartment, the booby trap claiming its victim.

[Ding! Eliminated one mafia member. Gained 100 Villain Points. Current progress: 520/1000.]

“Tch, just one?” Jason muttered, frowning. The trap’s kill count was underwhelming, but that wasn’t the point. It had bought him a precious minute, and he was now less than forty meters from the ground.

Still too high for a safe landing. He needed more time.

His mind raced as he gripped the rope with one hand, the other drawing a Beretta M9 from its holster. He continued his descent, eyes locked on the balcony above, gun raised and steady despite the sway of the rope.

Seconds later, a dark figure appeared at the railing, peering down. Jason halted, his left hand clamping the rope to steady himself, his right aligning the pistol’s sights.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Three shots rang out, sharp and precise. A scream echoed from the balcony, and the figure vanished.

[Ding! Injured one mafia member. Gained 20 Villain Points. Current progress: 540/1000.]

Only 20 points? A graze, maybe? Jason clicked his tongue, disappointed but not surprised. Single-handed shooting while dangling forty meters up wasn’t exactly a sniper’s dream. Hitting a moving target from below was a feat in itself. The shots had done their job—no one else dared poke their head out.

He seized the moment, rappelling faster, the rope burning against his gloves. The ground was now less than twenty meters away, the city’s cacophony—honking cars, distant sirens, and the crowd’s shouts—growing louder with every second.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep