Chapter 67: Chapter 67

“Wait!” Jason’s voice cut through the tension, stopping Christine in her tracks.

He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. “This Avril chick… she’s really loaded, right?”

Christine paused, turning back with a smirk that oozed confidence. “Loaded? The woman’s a goddamn cash machine. Every album she drops hits number one on Billboard. You think someone like that’s scraping by?”

Jason fell silent, mulling it over. It made sense—a pop star of Avril’s caliber was swimming in money. Her tours sold out stadiums, her merch flew off shelves, and her face was plastered on every magazine from here to Tokyo. Poor wasn’t exactly in her vocabulary.

Still, a nagging doubt gnawed at him. Avril was Harley’s idol, and pulling off a stunt like this without her buy-in could torch their relationship. He turned to her, his voice cautious. “Harley, what do you think about this? Be straight with me. It’s your call. If you’re not cool with kidnapping Avril, I’ll find another way to score cash. Plenty of fish in the sea.”

Harley’s eyes lit up like a kid on Christmas morning, her face practically glowing with excitement. She looked like she’d just discovered a secret treasure map. “What?” Jason asked, thrown off by her reaction.

“I’m saying, what’s your take on snatching Avril?” He pressed. “No bullshit. I don’t care if we nix this plan—I’ll figure out something else.”

Harley nodded so fast her head might’ve come loose, her grin wide and unhinged. “It’s a fucking great idea! I’m in!”

Jason’s jaw dropped, his brain struggling to catch up. “Hold up. Isn’t Avril your fucking idol? And you’re cool with this?”

Harley laughed, her voice bubbling with a mix of mischief and adoration. “Oh, she’s totally my idol. Every time she plays New York, I’m there. I’d save up half a month’s pay just to get tickets, but I could never snag front-row seats. Always stuck in the nosebleeds, staring at the back of some asshole’s head.”

She leaned in, her eyes glinting with a fangirl’s fervor. “But if we kidnap her? I’d have her all to myself. She’d be singing just for me, every damn day. I could pick the songs, skip the ones I don’t like. It’d be like my own private concert. How fucking cool would that be?”

Jason stared at her, dumbfounded, his emotions a tangled mess of amusement, disbelief, and a touch of unease. ’This woman’s unhinged,’ he thought. Harley wasn’t just a fan—she was the goddamn queen of obsessive stans. The title “Ultimate Fangirl” might as well be tattooed on her forehead.

He turned back to Christine, shrugging. “Well, if Harley’s on board, I’m good. Let’s do it.”

Christine’s lips curled into a sly smile, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “Aw, look at you, all considerate of her feelings. How sweet.”

Jason ignored the jab. “What do you bring to the table? Lay it out. Anything I need, as long as it’s in your power.”

He didn’t miss a beat, rattling off his list with the precision of a man who’d planned heists in his sleep. “I need an SUV, two silenced pistols, two sets of disguises, two sets of surveillance gear, two pairs of handcuffs, a bottle of ether, and a Swiss bank account—untraceable.”

Christine nodded, unfazed. “Easy enough. Anything else?”

“That’s it for now,” Jason said.

“Then kick back and enjoy your little LA vacation,” She replied, slipping her trench coat back on. “I’ll ping you the second I’ve got Avril’s whereabouts.” With that, she strode out, her exit as dramatic as her entrance, leaving a faint trail of cigarette smoke in her wake.

—

For the next few days, Jason and Harley dove headfirst into their impromptu Los Angeles honeymoon. They hit every hotspot the city had to offer—Venice Beach, where they strolled along the boardwalk, Harley’s laughter mixing with the crash of waves; Disneyland, where she dragged him onto every ride, her screams of delight echoing through the park; Universal Studios, where they wandered through movie sets, Harley geeking out over every detail; and the Griffith Observatory, where they gazed at the stars, her hand warm in his. Jason even splurged on tickets to a Lakers game at the Staples Center, the roar of the crowd washing over them as they forgot, for a moment, the chaos they’d left behind. It was a rare slice of freedom, a chance to just be—two lovers stealing time in a world that wanted them caged.

Five days later, a text from Christine snapped them back to reality. She wanted to meet at an abandoned factory on the outskirts of LA. Vacation mode was over; it was time to get to work.

To cover their tracks, they took no chances. They hopped between seven different taxis, zigzagging through the city, then trekked several kilometers on foot to reach the rendezvous point. By the time they arrived at the factory, the sun was high, and the air was thick with the scent of rust and decay.

A Mercedes G-Class SUV sat parked at the entrance, its front grille fitted with a beefy crash bar. As they approached, a hulking figure in black sunglasses stepped out, his frame so massive he looked like he could bench press the damn car. ’One of Christine’s goons,’ Jason thought, sizing him up. ’Guy looks like a fucking tank.’

“You Jason Walter and Harleen Quinzel?” The man asked, his voice gruff.

They nodded, keeping their distance, hands ready to move if things went south.

“Name’s Vodka,” He said, gesturing to the SUV. “Boss sent me to deliver your gear. This Mercedes? Frame number’s scrubbed, plates are fake. Cops won’t trace it.”

He popped the trunk, revealing a neatly arranged arsenal. “Two sets of clothes, two silenced pistols, two surveillance kits, two pairs of handcuffs, a bottle of ether, and a high-strength nylon rope.”

Jason’s eyes narrowed. “That’s it?”

Vodka nodded. “That’s it.”

Jason’s face darkened, his voice sharp. “What the fuck’s your boss playing at? She promised a Swiss bank account. No account, no deal. I’m not doing this shit blind.”

Vodka stared at him, his expression unreadable behind the sunglasses. Then, out of nowhere, his lips curled into a sultry, almost feminine smile that sent a shiver of unease down Jason’s spine. ’What the actual fuck?’ Both he and Harley froze, goosebumps prickling their skin. ’This guy’s got issues.’

Vodka reached up, his fingers grazing Jason’s forehead in a playful tap. “Still the same greedy bastard, huh?”

“You motherf—” Jason’s temper flared, his fist clenching as he prepared to rearrange the guy’s face.

But before he could swing, Vodka’s hand shot to his face, tearing off a hyper-realistic mask. In an instant, Christine’s stunning features emerged, her beauty as disarming as ever. She tossed her hair with a flourish, smirking. “Well? Compared to your bargain-bin disguise, my work’s a masterpiece, isn’t it?”

Jason and Harley stood dumbfounded, mouths agape. ’A fucking shapeshifter.’ Christine had always been a chameleon, but this was next-level. She’d honed her craft under a legendary Japanese magician, mastering the art of disguise. It wasn’t just makeup—she sculpted plaster molds of faces, crafted silicone masks, and fine-tuned every detail until the result was indistinguishable from the real thing. Depending on her skill, a mask could take hours or days, but Christine? She could churn out a perfect doppelgänger in two hours flat.

“The Swiss account’s ready,” She said, pulling out her phone. “I even threw in a million bucks to sweeten the deal. You owe me, big time.” She sent him the account details, and Jason logged into the bank’s site, confirming the seven-figure balance with a satisfied nod.

“This is more like it,” He said, pocketing the phone. He pulled up the system interface in his mind, his eyes gleaming as he converted the million dollars into points.

[Points: 0 → 100,000]

[Available Wealth for Recharge: $1,000,000 → $0]

’Now that’s secure,’ He thought. Money in the bank was one thing, but points in the system? That was untouchable.

“Alright,” He said, turning to Christine. “We’re good to go.”

She grabbed a bag of disguise tools from the SUV, her smile wicked. “Then sit your asses down. Time for a makeover.”

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