Chapter 94: Chapter 94

The massive screen flickered, showing ten armored trucks parked in the cavernous underground garage. Dozens of heavily armed security guards spilled out, clutching automatic rifles and fanning out around the vault like a pack of wolves ready to rip apart anything that moved. The trucks’ rear doors swung open, and bank security hauled out massive, gleaming alloy cash crates—custom-made by Stark Industries, heavy as fuck and built to withstand a goddamn explosion. Each crate held exactly ten million dollars. One billion meant a hundred of those bad boys.

Long tables lined with cash-counting machines were set up in front of the vault, each manned by two bank accountants who looked like they’d rather be anywhere else. They fed stack after stack of bills through the machines, verifying every cent with mechanical precision. Once counted, the cash was handed off to security, who carted it into the vault like grim reapers delivering a fortune to its tomb.

Jason’s lips curled into a sly grin. All his paranoid second-guessing had been for nothing. Tony Stark, that arrogant fuck, was so desperate to bait him that he’d gone and livestreamed the whole damn process, proving every single dollar was real. It was almost too good to be true—Stark was practically begging him to take the money. Jason almost felt bad for planning to rip him off. ’Almost.’

The counting finished, and the guards hauled the crates into the vault. The female anchor, trailed by her camera crew and a few stone-faced security goons, strutted inside for a guided tour. The vault was a pristine, blindingly white chamber, its marble tiles and walls gleaming under rows of LED lights that made the place look like a fucking spaceship. But the real showstopper was the center of the room: ten towering stacks of hundred-dollar bills, piled high like monuments to greed. One billion dollars—a fortune 99.99% of the world would never even sniff.

The anchor’s eyes were practically popping out of her head, her voice trembling with excitement. “Oh my God! This is my first time seeing one billion dollars in person, and let me tell you, it’s breathtaking! I don’t know what Jason’s thinking, but right now, I just wanna dive into this mountain of cash and roll around in it!”

The crowd outside the bank, along with millions glued to their TVs, lost their damn minds. Social media exploded, and the air buzzed with raw energy.

“Tony Stark’s got balls of steel and a wallet to match!” One guy shouted.

“Fuck, if I could just grab a handful of that cash, I’d be set for life,” Another muttered.

“Dream on, dumbass. You’d get mowed down by security before you took two steps,” A third scoffed.

“Pfft, you all know how Stark made that money, right?” A woman piped up. “He’s a fucking war profiteer. Every dollar’s soaked in innocent blood.”

“Who gives a shit? Those aren’t American bodies,” Someone shot back.

The argument escalated, voices rising into a chaotic shouting match as the crowd turned on each other, their excitement curdling into petty bickering.

—

After the tour, the anchor stepped out of the vault. Two bank employees heaved the fifty-centimeter-thick vault door shut with a heavy thud. The anchor, sensing a chance to stir the pot, shoved her mic in one of their faces. “Mr. Stark said in his challenge that the vault door would be wide open for Jason Walter. So why the hell are you locking it?”

The employee, clearly prepped for the question, didn’t miss a beat. “The vault door will be opened at midnight tomorrow and stay open for a full twenty-four hours until the following midnight. To prove Mr. Stark’s keeping his word—and to shut down any doubts Jason Walter might have—we’ve got cameras inside the vault streaming live on YouTube, 24/7. No one’s sneaking that cash out.”

The employee walked off, leaving the anchor to face the camera with a grin. She leaned in, her voice taunting. “You hear that, Jason Walter? Stark’s laid it all out for you. He’s kept his end of the deal. So if you’ve got any balls, come and take it!”

—

The broadcast cut to a live feed from inside the vault, showing the cash mountains under stark lighting. With nothing new to gawk at, Jason and Christine started to slip away from the crowd. But just as they pushed through the throng, a woman’s voice cut through the noise, loud and proud.

“My fiancé’s on Stark Industries’ security team. He’s going inside that vault,” She bragged, her tone smug as hell.

Jason and Christine froze, their ears perking up.

Another woman laughed, dripping with sarcasm. “Bullshit. Regular security guards are stuck watching the doors. No way your man’s getting anywhere near the vault.”

“I’m not lying!” The first woman snapped, her voice rising. “My fiancé’s a retired Navy SEAL, handpicked for the elite team. He’s pulling a hundred grand a month!”

“Yeah, right,” The second woman said. “I bet my fiancé’s a Stark Industries shareholder, then.”

“Pfft, look at you, decked out in thrift-store rags. Shareholder? More like a stock market loser.”

“Oh, please, look at your shitty old Ford keys. I’d be embarrassed to drive that junker.”

“Old doesn’t mean bad, you jealous bitch. I love vintage. And I know you’re just mad because my man’s monthly paycheck is more than your man makes in a year.”

“Big deal if he earns more. At least my guy’s not walking into a death trap. I guarantee you, two days from now, your precious fiancé’s gonna get fucked up by Jason. Then you’ll be nothing but used goods.”

“You fucking whore! Call me a bitch one more time! My fiancé’s got a Gulf War medal—he’ll punch Jason’s teeth so far down his throat he’ll be shitting enamel!”

Jason’s eyes locked onto the speaker: a woman with shoulder-length black hair, piercing blue eyes, and a pretty, oval-shaped face twisted with rage. She wore a red tank top, a gray-black checkered miniskirt, and high heels, her figure just shy of stunning.

The two women kept bickering, oblivious to the world. Jason shot Christine a knowing grin, and she nodded, picking up his plan instantly. She slipped through the crowd, muttering, “Sorry, excuse me,” As she brushed past the women. In one smooth move, her hand darted out, planting a tiny signal-emitting bug into the bragging woman’s purse before melting back into the crowd.

They slipped into a quiet alley, and Christine slipped on a discreet earpiece. “The audio’s a bit noisy, but I can make it out,” She said, adjusting the device.

“Good enough,” Jason replied, his voice low and focused. “I’ll keep scouting the area like we planned. You tail her today. If her story checks out, we’ve got our in.”

Christine nodded, and they split up, each moving with purpose.

—

Evening

As dusk settled, Jason hunched over his laptop in the hideout, its screen glowing with handwritten notes and rough sketches. He’d spent the day combing every inch of the bank’s surroundings—main roads, back alleys, sewer entrances, sniper vantage points, and potential cover spots. His head buzzed with details, every angle mapped out like a predator stalking prey.

He fired off a text to Christine from a burner phone: ’Status?’

A minute later, her reply came: ’It’s legit. Meet up.’

’Fuck yeah,’ Jason thought, grinning. “Alright, I’m heading back to grab the crew.”

He sped back back to the hideout, loaded up with weapons and gear, then piled into a car with David and Harley, racing to link up with Christine. The game was on, and Jason was ready to play dirty.

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You can read advance Chapters and view R-18 images of the characters on pat reon page.

pat reon.com/GreenBlue17

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