Chapter 42: Chapter 42

Franklin had driven far enough, his pulse still hammering like a jackhammer in his chest. He pulled the van over in a desolate alley, the kind of place where the city’s filth festered unnoticed. His hands shook as he gripped the detonator, its cold metal grounding him. With a deep breath, he flicked open the safety cap, his thumb hovering over the red button. No turning back now. He pressed it hard, his heart roaring in his ears.

BOOM!

The New York Police Department headquarters erupted in a blinding explosion, a massive fireball swallowing the building’s facade. The deafening blast shattered the morning calm, a sonic punch that rattled windows for blocks. Flames roared with merciless hunger, devouring the first-floor lobby, incinerating everything—people, desks, dreams—in a hellish inferno. The fire surged outward, shattering glass doors and windows, spewing jagged shards onto the streets like a dragon’s breath.

The shockwave was a beast of its own, ripping through the lobby, reducing bodies to a gruesome spray of blood and flesh. A crimson rain fell, splattering the pavement, turning the once-bustling headquarters into a nightmarish slaughterhouse. Charred remains and twisted metal littered the ground, the air thick with the stench of burning flesh and smoke.

A hundred meters away, pedestrians froze, their faces twisted in horror as they turned toward the chaos. The explosion’s roar had drawn their eyes, but the shockwave hit like a freight train, knocking them flat, their screams swallowed by unconsciousness. Even at over two hundred meters, Franklin felt the blast’s wrath—his eardrums throbbed, the ground quaking beneath his boots like the earth itself was screaming.

He stepped out of the van, his eyes locked on the distant inferno. The NYPD headquarters was a blazing monument to his handiwork, flames licking the sky, black smoke billowing like a funeral pyre. The city’s pulse seemed to stop, the air heavy with the weight of what he’d done.

“Holy fucking shit!” A bystander gasped, clutching his phone, hands trembling.

“What the hell happened to the police station?” Another screamed, her voice cracking with panic.

“Another fucking explosion? What’s wrong with this goddamn city?” A man muttered, staring at the smoke coiling into the heavens.

Franklin’s lips curled into a wild grin, his heart swelling with a twisted sense of triumph. He pumped his fist, adrenaline and pride exploding in his chest. He’d fucking done it—blown the NYPD to hell. The feds would have to take notice now. If he kept pushing, kept turning up the heat, maybe, just maybe, Jason would walk free. This was for the boss, for loyalty, for the only family that ever gave a damn about him.

He drove the van deeper into the alley, doused it with gasoline, and lit a match. The flames roared up, consuming every trace of evidence—his fingerprints, the detonator’s casing, the postal uniform. As the fire crackled, he scrawled a note for the feds, a final fuck-you to ensure they knew who was behind this. He tucked it under a brick and vanished into the shadows, his mind already racing toward the next move.

—

Hours Earlier, Long Island Prison

Jason sat strapped to the interrogation chair, a smug grin playing on his lips. His wrists ached from the cuffs, but the pain was nothing compared to the thrill of outsmarting the suits. Just minutes ago, some bald federal bigshot had sat across from him, all bluster and threats, trying to squeeze intel out of him. The poor bastard didn’t know what hit him. Jason unleashed his silver tongue, tearing into the guy with a verbal barrage so brutal the man left red-faced, slamming the door behind him, probably questioning his entire career.

Since getting locked up, Jason had practically lived in this concrete box of an interrogation room. He was a fucking celebrity in New York’s underworld, and the vultures were circling. Every day, forty or fifty people lined up to see him—cops, feds, shrinks, even fame-hungry lawyers itching to make a name for themselves. The brass wanted his secrets, sociologists wanted his childhood sob story, shrinks wanted to dissect his brain, and some sleazy attorney even offered to defend him pro bono, claiming he could get Jason off scot-free. All of them had one thing in common: not one could last thirty minutes against his razor-sharp wit. He’d talk circles around them, leaving them dazed, pissed, or both.

The door creaked open, and Daniel, the prison warden, stormed in, his face dark as a storm cloud. Jason licked his cracked lips, his throat parched from hours of verbal sparring. “Got any water? I’m fucking thirsty.”

Daniel grabbed a paper cup from the table, locked eyes with Jason, and deliberately took a swig. He swished the water around his mouth like a goddamn gargoyle, then spat it back into the cup and shoved it toward Jason’s face. “Here. Drink up, asshole.”

Jason leaned back, his lip curling in disgust. “You’re a real class act, Danny.”

Daniel couldn’t touch him—not with Jason’s injuries still fresh from the arrest. The warden was a sadistic prick, but he wasn’t stupid enough to risk a lawsuit. So he resorted to petty, disgusting shit: spitting in Jason’s food, waking him up at 3 a.m. with bullshit cell checks, anything to make his life hell. It was pathetic, really. Daniel was a thug in a uniform, all muscle and no brains, out of tricks and out of his depth.

The warden’s face twisted with rage. He flung the water in Jason’s face, soaking his shirt, then grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked hard. “You cocky little fuck,” He snarled, his voice dripping with venom. “You think this is your playground? This is Long Island Prison, and I’m the goddamn king here. Every inmate bends the knee to me. I could make you drink my piss, and you’d fucking thank me for it!”

He shoved the interrogation chair back, forcing Jason to stare at the ceiling. Grabbing a towel from his pocket, Daniel draped it over Jason’s face, the fabric heavy with the stench of sweat. He snatched a water jug from the table and started pouring, the stream relentless. “Let’s see how tough you are now, you little shit,” He hissed. “Time for a taste of waterboarding.”

The torture was ancient, perfected over centuries, a favorite of America’s shadier agencies. The water soaked the towel, sealing it to Jason’s face, cutting off his air. It was like drowning on dry land, each gasp pulling in nothing but panic and pain. The CIA’s own stats said 80% of people broke under this shit; the other 20% usually died.

“Grrgh…!” Jason’s body thrashed, his cuffed hands clawing at nothing, his legs kicking wildly. Blood trickled from his nose and mouth, his lungs screaming for air.

After two agonizing minutes, his convulsions grew frantic. At three, his body seized, consciousness slipping. Just as the darkness closed in, Daniel stopped, yanking the chair upright and ripping the towel away. Jason hit the floor, coughing violently, his chest heaving like he was trying to vomit his lungs.

Daniel crouched beside him, his voice low and menacing. “Listen up, you little prick. The next visitor isn’t some pencil-pusher you can mouth off to. You’d better keep that smartass tongue in check and cooperate, or I’ll make sure you drown for real next time.”

He stormed out, barking at the guards to clean up the room. Daniel headed to his office, where a special guest was waiting.

—

Warden’s Office

A woman in a crisp white lab coat sat at the desk, flipping through a file with Jason’s mugshot on the cover. She was stunning—blonde hair cascading over her shoulders, piercing blue eyes framed by black glasses, her figure curved in all the right places. Dr. Harleen Quinzel, New York’s top criminal psychologist and the prison’s go-to consultant for its most deranged inmates. She radiated intelligence, confidence, and a dangerous kind of charm.

Daniel knocked lightly, his heart kicking up a notch as he stepped inside. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Dr. Quinzel.”

Harleen looked up, her smile disarming yet professional. Daniel’s pulse raced; she was the kind of woman who could make a man forget his own name. He cleared his throat, stumbling over his words. “Uh, Harleen… the guy you’re seeing today, he’s just a loudmouth killer. Not worth your time. Maybe pick another inmate? Or, hell, let me take you to lunch instead.”

She stood, her smile turning playful but firm. “Thanks, Daniel, but my job is to talk to patients, not dodge them. And Jason Walter? He’s not just some thug. His chaotic, unpredictable mind is a goldmine for psychology. I want to crack open his head—figuratively, of course—and see what makes him tick.”

Daniel shrugged, disappointment flashing across his face. “You’re one hell of a woman, Harleen. Alright, the room’s ready. Let’s go.”

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