Chapter 86: Chapter 86

Jason shoved the sedan’s door open, stepping out onto a carpet of spent shell casings that clinked and crunched under his boots like broken glass. The air was thick with the choking stench of gunpowder, blood, and death, a miasma that clung to the back of his throat. The desolate road to South LA’s outskirts had been transformed into a nightmarish slaughterhouse, a sea of crimson-soaked asphalt littered with mangled corpses and shattered armor. The rising sun cast long, grotesque shadows, turning the scene into a tableau of hell itself—limbs torn asunder, entrails glistening, skulls split open like overripe fruit. It was a vision that would break most men, but Jason’s pulse stayed steady, his face a mask of cold indifference.

Rhodes stumbled out of the car behind him, his bloodied leg dragging, his face pale as ash. The acrid reek of blood and viscera hit him like a sledgehammer, his stomach lurching violently. He clapped a hand over his mouth, gagging, his eyes watering as he fought the urge to vomit. Even for a seasoned soldier who’d seen combat, this was beyond comprehension—a slaughter so brutal, so absolute, it shredded the edges of his sanity. Body parts were strewn across the road like grotesque confetti, some still twitching in the morning heat. A severed hand clutched a rifle, its fingers frozen in a death grip. Rhodes’ knees buckled, his mind screaming, ’This isn’t war. This is fucking annihilation.’

Jason glanced back at him, his lips curling into a sneer. “What’s the matter, Colonel? Thought you Air Force types had stronger stomachs. This all it takes to make you puke?” His tone was mocking, dripping with disdain. ’Fucking officer, crumbling at a little gore.’ In Jason’s world, weakness was a death sentence, and Rhodes was teetering on the edge.

Harley bounded down from the SWAT van, her boots splashing in a pool of blood. Her face was flushed, eyes wild with exhilaration, her blonde ponytail swinging as she practically danced toward Jason. “Honeeeeey!” She squealed, her voice a mix of adrenaline and glee. “That was a fucking blast!” She mimed firing the heavy machine gun, her body vibrating with energy, as if the act of mowing down dozens of cops had been the thrill of a lifetime. ’Goddamn, that gun was fucking’ She thought, still high on the chaos. “Boss, their aim—it’s you, isn’t it? You juiced us up, didn’t you?”

David approached, his twin Glocks holstered, his expression a mix of curiosity and suspicion. He’d seen Harley and Christine in action, their hands moving with a precision that rivaled his own. But their soft, unscarred palms told a different story—those weren’t the hands of lifelong shooters. ’No way they’re that good naturally,’ He thought, his eyes narrowing as he studied Jason. “Boss, what’s the deal? Those two were dropping bodies like they’ve been at it for years. That your doing?”

Jason’s grin was sly, his silence speaking volumes. He gave a single nod, letting the mystery hang in the air. David’s jaw tightened, a storm of emotions flickering across his face—admiration, envy, and a flicker of doubt. ’Three years I spent crawling through hell, bleeding for every shot, and he just… hands out god-tier skills like candy?’

Christine joined them, her SG1 sniper rifle slung over her shoulder, her movements graceful but weary. The hilltop sniping had been a masterclass in precision, but even she looked shaken by the sheer scale of the carnage. She met Jason’s gaze, her eyes still wide with awe from the system’s infusion of skill. ’He’s not human,’ She thought, a shiver running down her spine. ’He’s something else entirely.’

Jason jerked his thumb toward the sedan. “Time to move,” He said, his voice calm but firm. He turned to Rhodes, who was still fighting the urge to retch. “Hey, don’t forget my message for Stark. I want him shitting bricks every time he steps outside.” With that, he slid into the driver’s seat, spun the wheel, and floored the gas, the sedan peeling out toward the South LA suburbs. Driving back into the city with this much heat was suicide—they’d need to hole up somewhere remote, swap disguises, and let Christine’s contacts arrange a pickup. The world was closing in, but Jason wasn’t done playing his game.

—

As the sedan’s taillights vanished into the haze, Rhodes’ composure shattered. He collapsed to his knees, the blood-soaked ground soaking through his uniform. “Fuck…” He choked, his stomach heaving. Vomit erupted, a vile mix of bile and half-digested breakfast splattering across the asphalt. He wiped his mouth with a trembling forearm, his breath ragged, then crawled to a nearby SWAT officer’s corpse. The man’s lifeless eyes stared skyward, a bullet hole in his forehead like a third eye. Rhodes fumbled for the officer’s radio, his blood-slick fingers shaking as he dialed his superior.

At LAPD headquarters, the conference room was a pressure cooker of dread. The three big shots—LAPD chief, FBI bureau head, and military general—sat in tense silence, their earlier smugness long gone. Minutes ago, the second SWAT team had gone radio silent, a chilling echo of the first team’s fate. The air felt thick, suffocating, as if the room itself knew something catastrophic was coming.

’Ring!’

The general’s phone shattered the silence, the shrill tone making all three men flinch. He snatched it up, his voice tight with hope. “Rhodes! Talk to me—what’s the situation?”

Rhodes swallowed hard, his throat dry, his voice barely above a whisper. “They’re dead. The whole team… all of them.”

The general’s hand shook, the phone slipping from his grip and clattering to the table. The other two froze, their faces draining of color. ’All of them?’ The words echoed in their minds, a death knell for their careers, their reputations, their sanity. Two hundred men—elite operatives, the best of the best—gone in a matter of minutes. It wasn’t just a failure; it was a fucking apocalypse.

—

Half an hour later, the second wave of responders arrived, a convoy of grim-faced officers and medics braced for the worst. But nothing could have prepared them for the reality. The road was a slaughterhouse, a 300-meter stretch of asphalt painted red with blood, littered with over two hundred corpses. Severed limbs, shattered skulls, and spilled organs created a grotesque mosaic, the air heavy with the coppery stench of death. Several officers stumbled to the roadside, vomiting uncontrollably, their training no match for the horror. Even the seasoned medics, used to gang wars and accidents, stood frozen, their faces pale as they tried to process the carnage.

The three arrived shortly after, their expressions grim as they stepped out of their armored SUV. The LAPD chief’s jaw clenched, his eyes scanning the bodies with a mix of rage and disbelief. The FBI head’s hands trembled, his mind racing with the political fallout. The general, usually stoic, felt his stomach twist as he surveyed the devastation. ’This isn’t a crime scene,’ He thought. ’It’s a fucking war zone.’

It took minutes for the team to acclimate, donning masks to block the stench as they began the grim task of cataloging the dead. “Where’s Rhodes?” The general barked, his voice hoarse.

“Over there, sir!” A subordinate called, pointing to a boulder where Rhodes sat, surrounded by a scattering of cigarette butts. His uniform was soaked in blood, his face hollow, his eyes staring into nothing. He looked like a man who’d seen the devil and lived to regret it.

The three approached slowly, their steps heavy with dread. The general clapped a hand on Rhodes’ shoulder, his voice softer now. “You okay, son?”

Rhodes didn’t respond, his gaze fixed on some unseen point in the distance. The general sighed, his heart heavy. He’d seen that look before—shell shock, the kind that broke soldiers. ’He’s seen too much,’ He thought. ’We’ll have to pull him from duty, get him a shrink, maybe save what’s left of him.’ If Rhodes couldn’t claw his way out of this trauma, his career was over.

“Jason!” Rhodes suddenly rasped, his voice cutting through the silence. His eyes flared with a mix of fury and resolve, the spark of the future War Machine reigniting. “It was Jason Walter. He’s behind this.”

The three froze, exchanging stunned glances. The LAPD chief leaned forward, his voice low and urgent. “You’re saying ’Jason Walter’? The guy who broke out of Long Island Prison?”

Rhodes nodded, his jaw tight with anger. “That’s him. He admitted it.”

The general’s face hardened, his mind racing. “Colonel James Rhodes, are you prepared to stand by that statement? This is serious. If Walter’s involved, it’s a catastrophe.”

The implications were staggering. If Jason, the man who’d humiliated the NYPD and forced a presidential manhunt, was behind this, heads would roll. New York’s brass, still scrambling to save face after his escape, would face a reckoning. Careers would end, budgets would be slashed, and the public would lose their minds. This wasn’t just a crime; it was a national embarrassment.

Rhodes hesitated, his mind replaying the encounter. He took a shaky breath and laid it out—every detail, from Jason’s disguised face to his chilling threats against Stark. “He looked like an old man, maybe fifty,” Rhodes said. “But his voice… it was younger. He was hiding it, but I could tell. He’s not some geezer. He’s in his twenties, like the reports said.”

The big shots exchanged uneasy looks. Disguise? ’Fucking makeup artistry now?’ The FBI head frowned, his mind churning. “You’re suggesting he’s using some kind of advanced disguise tech?”

Rhodes shrugged, wincing as his wounds throbbed. “I don’t know. But if you want proof, get Stark. He’s got the ransom call recording. Run it through your techs—they’ll confirm it’s him.”

The idea of disguise tech wasn’t new, but pulling it off convincingly enough to fool a trained officer like Rhodes? That was next-level. The case was spiraling into something bigger, stranger, and far more dangerous than they’d imagined. The three fell silent, their faces grim. Nearly two hundred dead—SWAT, FBI, military—meant this was beyond their pay grade. One wrong move, and their careers would be buried alongside the bodies.

The general’s voice was ice. “This stays locked down. Not a word to anyone without my direct order. Understood?”

Rhodes nodded, his expression weary but resolute. He knew the stakes. Leaking this to the press would ignite a firestorm—public panic, congressional hearings, maybe even martial law. “I get it, sir,” He said. “I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

“Good,” The general said. “Now get to a hospital. Those wounds need attention before they kill you.”

As the three piled back into their SUV, the weight of the disaster settled over them like a shroud. They’d report to the higher-ups, but deep down, they knew the truth: Jason wasn’t just a criminal. He was a fucking phantom, and they were out of their depth.

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